Here's Your Sign!

I have always hated the country comedian who does the stand up act, "Here's your sign!" Ugh, blatant stupidity, I thought. Who really needs to be reminded of the redneck folks one runs into at convenience stores or chances a mishap with by shopping too late at night at Wal-Mart. As soon as his face crossed my TV, my fingers hit the remote. Unfortunately, and it's taking alot for me to admit this, I had my own "Here's your sign" moment just last week. It's not the redneck edition, it's the mother's edition, but I felt the same when I got my sign.

One of my favorite Y members had taken my whole family out to lunch and we were chatting away with him and his lady friend as the dishes were cleared from our table. The boys were making laps around the dessert bar, eyeing whatever it was they hadn't already tasted and indulging Tate in one more round of red jello. All was well, or so I thought, until the three of them rounded the corner and the blood disappeared from my face. Standing in front of our table with a Cheshire cat grin was Tanner, only to be upstaged by Tate sitting in the WHEELCHAIR (!!!!) Tanner was pushing. Tate was ecstatic and Tanner the proud brother, earning his babysitting badge. Oh, Lord, help me disappear into nothing amid this lunchtime crowd!

And there it was: Here's your sign! You know it's time to leave, lunch is definitely over, when your children highjack a wheelchair and make laps around a restaurant. Billy's eyes met mine, horror being passed back and forth. Dine and dash crossed my mind. Politeness and good manners were quickly replaced with humility and bowed heads as we grabbed bags and sippy cups and made our way to the door, stopping only to return the wheelchair from where it had been "borrowed."

Every parent knows that obtaining that title means that life is always unpredictable, that the picnic you packed all night for can be cut short by a chipped tooth on the monkey bars. That the trip to the county fair ends abruptly because someone forgot to restock the diaper bag. That the REALLY good Mexican meal you have been craving ALL DAY may never get past chips and salsa because SOMEONE didn't nap well that day. Kids change everything and now, much to my chagrin, give us our very own "signs."

Here, just a few of the "Here's Your Sign" mommy moments I've been dealt:

When the player with the jersey sporting your last name has a seat and begins playing in the dirt, here's your sign: soccer season is over!

When the recently potty-trained fan drops his drawers just minutes before the spring game and shows the booster club president what he's learned, here's your sign: Daddy will give you the play by play when he gets home.

When an otherwise well-behaved toddler can't keep his hands off a little girl's sparkly ponytail holder, here's your sign: put down that dumbbell, your workout at the gym is over.

When the circular clothes rack at your favorite boutique suddenly tips to its side, showering the floor with expensive blouses, here's your sign: You REALLY thought you could shop with little boys in tow?????

Funny, all my signs seem to pretty much point to the same thing: run, get out as fast as you can. And don't come back until you're driving a sports car that is child-seat free, and there's not a package of wet wipes in your purse.

Television Today

Wow! Long time, no blog. Nothing really sparking my interest lately, or maybe it's just that I've had too much laundry, too much homework, and too much other stuff to do so the blog gets the back seat. Well, I'm back and (hopefully) better than ever. I should probably be ashamed to say that it's taken a television show to get me writing again, but these days trashy TV shows ARE news, so I'm right there with the mainstream media, and i guess I'm in good company.

Surprise, surprise, loyal readers; The Bachelor holds the top spot for the "are you kidding me" in TV watching. I love a good Bachelor episode, really I do. I'm still tuning in every Monday to see how far the girls will go to prove their love for this man they've just met, but who proved already on national TV that he's what my husband would call a DB. And really, what's not to love about a bunch of back-stabbing girls in bikinis, drinking cocktails by the pool every afternoon, and skydiving their way to a love that lasts a lifetime? What I ABSOLUTELY cannot tolerate anymore, though, is these supposedly educated girls and their HORRIBLE use of grammar. No, Michelle there isn't something "between Brad and I" because "I" is not an objective pronoun. Perhaps you meant to tell the camera that there is something special "between Brad and me" (see, me IS an objective case pronoun) so even if there isn't anything special, at least you can prove to all us viewers at home that you passed 7th grade English.

OK-- this might be THE worst, most hideous misuse of pronoun for the sake of sounding intelligent and in love. "The other girls have no idea how serious Brad and I's relationship is." OMG-- did she really use an apostrophe s with I? Brad and I's? In what state is that acceptable? I is NOT, I repeat, NOT a possessive pronoun-- never has been, never will be. How about Brad's and my relationship? Can we at least try that for the sake of all the youngsters out there watching who will swear after their next English exam that "I's" is correct because they said it on the Bachelor. After delighting in all the drama of first loves, extravagant date nights, and challenges from the hubby and me to trade in that helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon with a Friday night hour-long wait at Applebee's, the English teacher in me still finishes each episode with Brad with a huge headache (and a blog). Sorry all you bubbly, bright ad execs, public relations directors, and yes, even the dentist, I lost all confidence in your work skills when you made I possessive.

The Bachelor isn't my only beef with TV shows, cable and/or network. Perusing Dr. Phil's latest trainwreck, how desperate are these people for his "opinion" that they sit on the stage and take verbal beatings from the man whose catch phrases aren't catchy anymore? And seriously Dr. Phil, the series on the Real Housewives of Dr. Phil? Do you really expect us to believe you have the best interest of these women at heart and not some serious ratings akin to the Real Housewives of New Jersey? We may not all use proper grammar, but we are smart enough to figure that one out.

And finally, when did the "kids" channels go all crazy on me? Why, when I'm allowing my children to watch a TV show on ABC Family, family mind you, do I see an advertisement for a movie called The Roommate? This movie looks anything like "family" material; and then a show premieres for "Pretty Little Liars" that they don't HAVE to go to the movies to see. They can tune in RIGHT THERE on their very own bunk beds and be exposed to what looks like a lot of "adult" material. Heck, they could just stay up and watch The Bachelor with me and see too much affection, lies, backstabbing, and tons of crying. And that's on the free channel! I've said it before and I'll say it again: if it weren't for college football, I think there would be no TV's in our house.

SnowStorm 2011: One Week Later

Wow! The snowstorm of 2011 really shook our little world, considering that, as many folks have pointed out, we have insufficient preparations for anything of this magnitude in our wonderful South. Not enough salt, not enough plow trucks, not enough sand, not enough common sense apparently. However, most people i talked to chose to make the best of the situation and engaged in daily sledding, movie watching, indulgent cooking and eating (since most of us were spared the loss of electricity), and family bonding.

Uh, about that. I am the first to say that I LOVE my family, but this last week or so of no school and limited travel really has me thinking that NO family should spend that amount of time together in one isolated location. Looking back at it now, one week later, i have proof that too much snow can wreak havoc on a family home and the relationships of the people who occupy it.

First of all, anyone heard the saying, "Happy wife, Happy Life"? During Snowstorm 2011 my pantry was rearranged and purged, my spice cabinet reorganized, and I'm missing a very large Ficus tree in my entry way. WTH? oh,and an entire bag of pink and red m&m's!!!!! Coach is a GREAT guy, one of my favorites, but his place is definitely not the house, unless it has the word field in front of it.

I've done approximately 1 million loads of laundry and yes i'm sure of that number. My washing machine and dryer began to conspire against me on day two, but i managed to outwit them. Also, I'm missing several sets of winter mittens and gloves and one very cute cheerleading ear warmer.

Tanner is now an expert in EVERY one of our Wii sports games, and i can only watch so much "fake" bowling and tennis until i can muster no more "Wow, good Job"s.

I have run the dishwasher more times than i can imagine, and i know that sounds whiny because atleast i'm not hand washing, but i think everyone will agree, unloading the dishwasher is THE WORST CHORE EVER!!!!! And of course, i'm the only one who thinks it's a must. The rest of my crew would happily pick and choose utensils from the dishwasher based on sight/smell.

Sadly, i must wrap this up with Tate, who, when Daddy got a chance to escape the house, got his first haircut. i was not privy to this little plan, and why Daddy thought that snowstorm 2011 was the right time to make a life-changing move like that, i have no idea. Not only has Daddy left his mark on my little man, but somewhere in the madness that was cabin fever, the big boys taught Tate to dance, specifically, my innocent little angel will now drop his hands to his knees and bounce to the lyrics, "Bottoms up, bottoms up!"

I could go on, but the most dramatic relationship change happened between Tate and the Coach. Apparently, Tate is quite keen on this man who has been around EVERY MINUTE of EVERY DAY since it snowed. The man who has basically been mostly a nighttime fixture since his birth is now Tate's favorite person. Dadd-ee, Dadd-ee, he repeats, and really, what man can turn a deaf ear to that cry? So maybe a little bit of good did come from 10 days trapped together.

Now if I could just find those gloves; with all this global warming, snowstorm 2011 part 2 could be right around the corner.

If I were the Bachelorette. . .

I'm going to blame this one on the cabin fever after being snowed in for 2 days and expecting another one tomorrow.

OK. My name is Jennifer and I watch the Bachelor. Like admitting that i occasionally watch Dr.Phil, it took alot to say that,but i'm ready to let the world know. I started off as a Bachelor/Bachelorette watcher for the first few years, then with the studpidity that followed i dropped off. I can't really explain why, but I'm a watcher again and i'm going to be proud of it(atleast for this blog anyway).

Because of the BCS game on Monday, I had to DVR the lastest episode of the show and i watched it today while the baby napped and the big boys played in the snow. You have to do it that way these days, considering that this particular series features a vampire (vampiress??), a manscaper (who proudly showed off her trade), and more plastic chests than i could keep track of. Of course, some sweet Southern Belles also completed the picture (thank God for Belles), and your general list of crazies and girls i WOULD NOT approach in a dark alley.

But seriously, my heart breaks for these girls, some so desperate that their pity shows in every little side speech they give.(That boy is mine! they've got a fight on their hands if they think i'm letting him go, etc). I can't even imagine what their Visa bills look like, maxed out at boutiques and jewelry stores, hoping their purchases will appeal to the handsome bachelor.It can't be easy to compete with 24 other girls for one (always) rich, (always) handsome man; even high school had better odds than that, and we didn't have cocktail parties at the end of each day.

The group dates are pretty painful to watch, what with one girl stealing kisses while the others look on, followed by catty remarks about how tacky it was to watch; meanwhile all of us watching know that she's just pi**ed because she didn't think to do it first. Then there's the awful moment when he picks ONE girl to give out the date rose to and then (GASP), he does it in front of the others while they sit watching in their string bikinis. Talk about feeling exposed!

But by far, the moment we all wait for and pop the popcorn for is the the . . . rose ceremony, or as Chris Harrsion says, "The most dramatic rose ceremony yet."
After i watched and my stomach churned for even the girls who were picked, i've come up with some advice for those who didn't make the final cut.

1. While standing and waiting, don't look mad, especially if there are still like 12 roses left. It WON'T get his attention to look evil. The camera sees it, but probably not the bachelor.

2. When he does call your name, don't say somthing stupid, like "Just almost gave me a heart attack," or "this is better than a Christmas gift." it's not cute and you're just being mean to the others not yet called.

3. Wear a dress that fits. If you don't get called, it just looks even more awkward walking off adjusting your dress and holding it up with one hand and wiping your tears with the other. And if you do get called, it's hard to toast your champagne while again holding your strapless dress at the top.

4. And pleeeeeaaaaassseeee, if you are NOT one of the lucky ones, when you leave the mansion, don't have a pity party in the beautiful garden. "Guess i'm just meant to be alone," or "I'm the worst dater ever" or "why don't they like me?" It's already sooo sad, and your chances to be the next Bachelorette just went out the window.

5. Finally, no matter how hard it hurts, no matter how ridiculous you acted to get his attention at a cocktail party, no matter how mad you are that that credit card bill is going to be waiting for you when you get home, DON'T CRY!!!!! Bite your cheek, pull your hair, think about puppies and Hawaiian vacations, but please don't cry. YOu'll only regret it when the show airs and you've already forgotten Brad What's-his-name. Just DON"T CRY.

We'll still have Bachelor-watching parties, water cooler talks, and great entertainment without all this and the girls who don't become Mrs. BAchelor will leave the mansion in that black limousine with atleast some of their dignity.

it's the coaches' wife's life

Welcome to my world, it's a heckuva life,
dreaming of verticals and fast forty times.
Sweating in the stands and chasing babies on the track
Waiting for the players, giving pats on the back.

Falling to sleep with Tony Franklin in my ear,
We're dropping the Wing T and using his gear.
Running the spread and it's changing our game,
If i start screaming "Trips", please, i'm not to blame.

It's the coaches' wife life, rah! rah!
It's the coaches' wife life. ree! ree!

Rolling into the fieldhouse at six thir tay,
Bringing supper to the coaches cause they work on Sun-Day.
Watching film and drawing plays, and watching film again,
Maybe they'll be home tonight by nine, maybe ten.

Feed the kids at 6 and reheat the stuff at eight
Doing phone interviews on our dinner date.
Kids keep calling us and No, they're not ours--
"Can you move me to receiver, Coach, I'm gonna be a star!"

It's the coaches' wife's life, 4th and 10,
It's the coaches' wife's life, let's do it again.

The kids get special prizes every time that Daddy's late
T'shirts, athletic tape, leftover food is great.
Riding the tractor, rolling dummies down the hill,
Coaches kids are used to the cheapest of thrills.

It's the coaches' wife's life, punt and pray
It's the coaches' wife's life, day to day.

Praying every Friday,and wishing for a win
the pressure's always there and i'm only a fan.
Reading the papers, hope the sports guy was cool.
Help us out, dude, we're an up-and-coming school.

My fridge is a shrine to the teens in red and black,
My cupboards are stacked in case the players attack.
The closets are stocked with every shirt you can imagine,
My favorite one reminds us to "Eat, Pray, Win!"

Heading to the banquet, it's the end of the year.
Walk in 15 minutes late, and what do I hear?
A bouquet of roses and a shout out to me,
10 weeks of heaven's worth it, cause they're so pretty!

the coaches' wife's life, playoff hopes,
the coaches' wife's life, there's always next year!

Senior Night

"No scores are known?
Then look down field,
There in the twilight sky the numbers run and blink
And total up the years;
Our Sons this day are grown."
Ray Bradbury

Senior Night. Hard to believe another season has come and now is almost gone. Certainly things aren't ending the way we hoped they would. If most of us (even the wives;)had our way, we'd be playing next Friday, and the next, and on into December, and Christmas shopping would take a back seat to playoffs; and Senior Night would be just a small step in closing things down. But things don't always play out the way we wish, and tonight ends what for some parents and players began 10 or 12 years ago: 40 pound linebackers swallowed by shoulder pads intended to protect them; awkward quarterbacks with tiny arms looking for open receivers who aren't quite sure what route to run; and little boys on the sidelines who have more interest in mud puddles than pile-ons. Things have certainly changed. Forty pounds linebackers are now vicious assassins with 5 o'clock shadows, and the little boys who played in the mud watch the game eagerly for their sign to run in.

I watch these boys, who were freshmen when we got here, taller, stronger, and so much different in just four years. The high school freshmen are now soon-to-be college freshmen and their priorities and goals will change and they will leave all of this behind and take with them what they need to know to be as successful after high school as they were in high school. When I see them, that's exactly what I see, success. Good grades, talented musicians, skilled athletes, responsible teenagers who are role-models to the kids who wear their jerseys on Friday nights.

No one promised them a 10-0 season, no one promised them a play-off appearance or a scholarship with their name in the paper. Unlike rec league, there's no trophy at the end of the season for every kid on the team. But they played the game anyway, practicing in the scorching heat, lining up in the coldest of rains, and limping through a play to get the first down. Sometimes they get what they deserve and sometimes they don't. When they don't it's easy to point fingers, assign blame, and dig up excuses. It's easier, though, to look at what they are promised and what they leave with once the scoreboard turns off and the stadium lights go dark.

They leave with friends, teammates who can only understand what it's like to win a game no one thought you would win. Teammates who know what it's like to stop a ranked team on 4th and 5 when everyone thought they'd score. Teammates who feel the pain of a loss no one was prepared for. Teammates who share the same locker room stories, road trip stories, and inside jokes that no one else would appreciate.

They leave with a work ethic that says you don't quit when things get tough or don't turn out the way you want. They leave with the discipline of pressing on when things aren't going your way and people aren't on your side. It's tough to play a game when the crowd isn't cheering for you. It's the same in life. That's what they leave with.

What's really important, though, is what they leave behind. Tonight is senior night, the time to celebrate what these players have accomplished and part of what they accomplish will be what they have taught the underclassmen. If next year's team can say that their determination, their pride for their team, their hard work came from watching their senior leaders, then that's a legacy.

"What was less is now, incredibly, more!
Man, then, is the thing
That teaches zeros how to cling together and add up!
The cup stood empty?
WEll, now, look!
A brimming cup."

Coach Enters Chili Cook-Off, or that man is in my kitchen!!

Fall is one of my favorite times of the year, next to summer of course. Nothing, not even Christmas, beats sun, sand, beach, pool, etc. Fall brings football, Halloween, the half-marathon, and plenty of other fun things, so I get excited at the first sign of school buses and falling leaves. This year our church held a fall festival the day of Halloween and one of the events of the day was a Chili Cook-Off. Well, coach wouldn't be working that day, so he decided he would enter a chili of his own to be judged. Now, let me just preface the remainder of the blog with this: the man doesn't cook. Occasionally, he will throw steaks on the grill, or fry an egg sandwich out of desperation; but really that's the extent of it. It's no flaw in his character, he is simply a busy man with a stay-at-home wife to do such things.

So let's set the stage. The day before the festival, Coach presents to me a grocery list of all the things he will need to buy for his never-before-made chili. In all seriousness, he is prepared to buy approximately 20 items, 15 of which I tell him we already have in the pantry, you know, the things we women folk call "staples." I whittle his list down to a mere $10, and once he returns he is ready to cook. One would think that this being "his idea" and "his chili" would mean that i just sit back and watch the Ole Miss game while he stands over a hot stove, stirring and chopping. One would be wrong.

His first mistake is to open the cabinet doors looking for the necessary pots and pans. Did I mention that this is "my kitchen?" With a toddler in the house, there is a definite method to the madness that is my kitchen. One cabinet holds only things that are safe for Tate to pull out, rearrange, or sit in. Other cabinet doors, the ones with child safety locks on them, are a bit more tricky. His first choice of cabinet was one of the locked ones. Things get a little hectic sometimes, what with trying to unload a dishwasher with a baby sitting on the door, and then pulling out the things i have just put in a cabinet. So most unloading moments go something like this: Baby sitting on dishwasher door, steak knife in hand, me grabbing pots and pans and throwing them, thrusting them, stacking them, and shoving them into whatever opened door is available. Then securing baby latch lock just seconds before baby reaches cabinet doors to undo all that hard work. Occasionally there is an errant handle sticking out but somehow i've managed to afix the baby lock and all is well in the world for the moment. (Knife has been wrestled from toddler and placed in its official place).

So when Coach opens, rather roughly, the baby-locked cabinet and pots, pans, and skillets come flying out to his feet, he is not a happy cook. This is my cue to return to the kitchen and aid in whatever way as to keep him from using language that would make Ozzy Osbourne proud. Need I remind everyone that frustration does not make for a happy cook, can I get a witness ladies? So once Coach has his things in place and I have been assigned my duties (it's a no-go on the Ole Miss game by this point) of cutting onions, bell peppers, garlic, and the other mystery ingredients that will make this a shoo-in to win, it's time to clean all of these things: knives, cutting boards, separate bowls for each ingredient until it's time to combine them. He did it just like Rachel Ray and all those other "professional" chefs who cook for a living, and have SOMEONE ELSE clean up for them. He was enjoying this a little too much.

Fast forward a couple of hours and I'm back in the kitchen, my kitchen remember, and I'm taste-testing, oohing and aahing over this chili he's created. Now I don't mean to sound bitter, because it was pretty good. But just for fun I'd like to see him create Chili (or anything for that matter) with a baby in a high chair, begging for something in baby talk, a 9 year old at the table doing 4th grade math, and another who wants to read to me while I'm cooking so he can get outside and play. NOW, make me some chili, Coach. And while you're at it, throw some cornbread in the oven to go with it.

Whew! All I can say is that the Chili was really good, but unfortunately, "our" chili as he agreed to call it, did not win the cook-off, and he took it a little hard; losing is never fun, no matter what the competition. But I think we both learned a lot from this weekend. For him, church cook-offs are not region games; they're meant to be fun. For me, come hell or highwater, do whatever it takes to keep that man out of my kitchen unless he is unloading take-out bags.

I Love You, Coach!