Some of you know that my hubby and I are Catholic. It’s wonderfully convenient to share my life with someone who shares the faith in which I was raised. I’d love to say, that at the tender age of 21, marrying a Catholic was high on my list of priorities, but that would be a lie.

I’m not sure exactly what qualities I thought the ideal mate required, but hair that “feathered” perfectly, and above-average intelligence must’ve been #s 1 and 2. I don’t remember any other requirements, but surely there were some…The good news is that, I went to high school and college in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where you couldn’t throw a rock and not hit a Catholic, so that part worked out without a sliver of wisdom on my part.

After we were married, we were transferred around in an area that is commonly referred to as The Bible Belt. When we moved to Oklahoma, (arguably the very buckle of the belt) I wanted to socialize with my neighbors – “The Protestants”.

The Protestants supplemented their Sunday morning Sabbath obligations with something called Weekly Bible Study. I was confused as to why anyone would voluntarily pursue church-related activities on a weekday, but all my new friends attended, they served Coffee, Banana Bread and they offered a Nursery. They had me at “refreshments” and “child-care.”

One of the very first Bible Studies I enrolled in, was a study on Marriage. At this point, we had been married about 7 years. We were groovin along pretty well, yet, this was the very first time I had ever been exposed to some of the basic biblical principles, of Christian faith, regarding marriage. As an Old-School Cradle Catholic, my husband was somewhat dubious about, what he referred to as, “the whole bible study thing,” but, when I began to share with him what I was learning, he couldn’t jump aboard fast enough… They had him at “Submission.”

My, how he supported this new chapter in my spiritual development! His personal favorite, was when I studied The Proverbs 31 Woman. Proverbs 31 is the part of Scripture that describes the PERFECT WOMAN in the Eyes of God (and my spouse).   If you haven’t had a chance to do a bible study on Proverbs 31, at the very least peruse this chapter on your own.

This woman is nothing short of amazing. She is described as, “working vigorously” to “feed and clothe her family and servants.” She is “respected at the city gates” and her “lamp does not go out at night”. Her “worth is greater than rubies and pearls” and she, “does her husband good all the days of his life!”

According to The Word, she “eats not of the bread of idleness.” (Banana Bread = okay) She is awake weaving cloth, long after her servants, husband and kids are fast asleep, and then awakens before the entire household at dawn. She is organized, industrious and capable; definitely setting the bar high for the rest of us gals.

If you can’t actually BE this woman, at least be her next-door neighbor…

As it so happened, the very period of my life that I was learning about these biblical principles, coincided with the years that I was home with my first two small children. This is when another thought simultaneously started creeping across the horizon of my awareness. I started to observe that, from pregnancy, all the way through the late toddler years, Mothers seemed to receive a “Get Out Of Jail Free Card” on just about everything!!

I remember the phrase, “bless your heart” was directed towards me on a daily basis during those years…

And I Liked it.

It was as though people simply expected me to be overwhelmed, tardy, disheveled and disorganized. I started to conclude, that, while I had been habitually screwing-up any manner of things my entire life, people were suddenly indulgent and sympathetic, because they assumed small children had derailed my better efforts.

That’s when a plan started to emerge – It was imperative that I prolong this undeserved mercy for as long as humanly possible; I needed to drag out the baby/toddler years.

And – the only way I could imagine to do this, was to keep having children.

After a while, my biological clock was destined to catch up with my plan.   Lamentably, my kids grew up and started doing self-sufficient things – like sleeping through the night, driving cars and going to college, making it harder and harder to get a hall pass these days.

It’s time to emulate the Proverbs 31 woman.

As the dutiful spouse, my husband certainly does his part to help and encourage my personal evolvement, by constantly pointing out that I could do more laundry, make dinner more often and concentrate more effort into doing him well all the days of his life. The only problem is he favors a pretty literal interpretation of this particular scripture – while my feeling, is that this scripture was written over 2000 years ago and is meant as more of a “General Guideline,” for today’s modern wives and mothers.

With that said, however, I might be persuaded to meet him half-way to a more literal interpretation, were he to agree to provide me with the SERVANTS they keep mentioning in this Proverb.

It’s the utter lack of servants that has been my problem all these years..I really could have amazed and astonished, if only I’d had a couple of servants.

Bless My Heart!

I know it’s generally considered taboo, but we went ahead and got the Christmas tree out of the attic BEFORE Thanksgiving this year.

I initiated this task a little prematurely, largely because My hubby happened to be home that morning, and was, seemingly, in a compliant mood. Complimentary Marriage Tip: Always strike while the iron is hot!

Every year, I dread asking him to get the tree and the ornaments out of the attic because of all the surliness, complaining, and overall “put-outedness” he displays.

My man acts as though, I single-handedly, invented the entire concept of Christmas, as an excuse to spend extra money and create extra work for him. The fact that I happen to embrace this holiday with a joyful attitude, does not make it my personal brain-child.

Furthermore, I find this insinuation somewhat perplexing, as I have run across old Blanchard family photographs, depicting the Blanchards enjoying a myriad of Yule Tide activities, long before I came on the scene with my mandatory merry-making ways…

Little Jimmy clearly embracing Christmas- years before we met…

Not to mention, with the exception of some minimal heavy-lifting, MOST of the work ensuring that our children’s every Magical Christmas Memory is met or exceeded each year, falls on me, not him.

And it all starts with the the Christmas Tree…

A few years ago, we decided it was time to invest in one of those Pricey Pre-lit Christmas Trees. We figured we were due for an upgrade, and had come far enough in life that we deserved not to have to hassle with the annual tedium of light stringing. I was fully on board, because it would undoubtedly involve less Husband-stress, which is always a holiday goal. So, yesterday, m hubby hoisted the 2 year old tree out of the attic, connected the three sections, plugged it in and, Ta-da!! about 17 of the 1200 lights shown brightly!!

Fa la la la la la la la Fail!                 (Big jimmy not embracing Christmas)

Now, this not a widely publicized fact, but, apparently, investing hundreds of dollars in a pre-lit Christmas tree and having the lights blow out a year or two later, is the most common cause of divorce in this country. (Im not sure why they erroneously insist on blaming sex and children…)

I actually remember, when we bought the tree, admiring how intricately each and every light was painstakingly woven in and around every branch and evergreen finger. I gave fleeting consideration to the thought, that we would have a big problem if the lights ever blew out. I reassured myself that they must obviously use very high quality light bulbs to ensure the life of the tree and prevent against this disaster…

I’m sure, at the very moment I was thinking this, someone, somewhere, in an Indonesian Christmas Tree Factory must’ve been laughing hysterically.

Initially, I didn’t panic when the tree didn’t light up, because The Hubs can fix almost anything. Recently, my dishwasher broke, and a few short hours after telling me, “It looks like you’re going to need a new dishwasher,” he had it humming along like brand new.

So, quite optimistically, I said, “Fix it!”

He tinkered around for a few minutes, checking the connections, etc and said, “I don’t think this can be fixed...”

Undaunted, I said, “okay…fix it, PRETTY PLEASE!”

“How would you suggest I do that?”

“Jiggle something,” I helpfully suggested.

And this is where we parted ways that day, both physically and metaphorically. “These lights are blown,” he said, stubbornly, and then suggested that it really wasn’t a Big Deal, and left for work.

Clearly, He just doesn’t give a crap about Christmas. He views the world very black and white and prioritizes things he sternly and strictly refers to as, “The Basics Of Life,” such as food and shelter etc…

Essential as those pursuits may be, I am obviously the only one in this relationship that understands the inordinate value of a Beautiful Christmas Tree…

So, I was left with a few options:

1. Buy a new tree (no way!)
2. Pretend Christmas lights don’t matter to all of Mankind (they do!)
3. Buy new lights and drape them over the burnt-out lights, pretending that the dead lights are invisible to the naked eye (they aren’t!)
4. Cut each and every light and wire out of the tree and then re-string with new lights

(I can and I will!)

But, I went a little Edward Scissor-Hands, and 7 hours later, while I may not have personally invented this holiday, I may just have been The First Woman Ever to PRUNE an Artificial Tree -saving both marriage AND Christmas for generations to come!

Single-handedly Saving Christmas!

With Thanksgiving swiftly approaching, I’m spending an outrageous amount of time on Pinterest. If you’re unfamiliar with this enormously popular app, google it and have a look. It’s sort’ve a modern-day version of the “Quilting Bee,” harkening back to a time when women used to sit around advising other women on how to run their lives and homes, with efficiency and creativity.

Pinterest is like your Mom, both of your Grandmothers and all your Aunts got together and threw a gigantic Family Reunion in Cyberspace. There are recipes, decorating ideas, and tips on what to eat and how to exercise. You can log on to Pinterest if you need to tie a pretty bow on a package, lattice a pie crust, organize your linen cabinet or whip up a smoothie.

The ideas on things to do with a leftover Mason Jar, is reason alone to get lost on this website. Thanks to Pinterest, the humble Mason jar isn’t just for Vegetables and Moonshine anymore!! (For the record, I really don’t believe these “pinteresters” have all these empty Mason jars lying around their cozy-country homes; they’re out buying them by the crate-load at Walmart…) Undoubtedly, the “Mason Jar Craze – 2014” has caused the sales of Mason jars to skyrocket, triggering a surge in Mason Jar stock on Wall Street, ensuring a very Merry Christmas this year, for a host of wealthy Jar-Makers and their heirs!

Pinterest revives the Mason Jar Market

But, back when I was growing up, we didn’t have Pinterest, we just had our Mamas…

My Mom, Doris, was a (p)interesting woman, way back when the Internet was just a twinkle in some Nerd’s eye. She was the End-All/Be-All arbiter of creativity and pizazz in her considerable sphere of influence. Admittedly, without the help of social media, her range was limited to her friends, offspring and acquaintances, but she was quick with the advice and managed to get her ideas out there, nonetheless.

Doris: NEED A QUICK, HEALTHY, ECONOMICAL MEAL?

“Brown 1 pound of ground beef, while you simultaneously follow the directions on a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Then, when no one is looking, mix the two together! The kids will wolf this down and come back for seconds!”

(I actually get physically ill just thinking about this Meal Prep Tip. Not because I was so culinarily sophisticated that I didn’t appreciate this dinner, but, because some chic named Betty Crocker, poached this idea and called it “Hamburger Helper,” making millions off of my own mother’s brilliance. We knew intuitively, even back then, that Doris was far too generous in sharing her ideas with everyone and their cousin. Something like this was bound to happen. Kissing my Trust Fund goodbye)

Doris: HATE TO TOSS OUT ALL THOSE GREETING CARDS?

“Who wants to throw away all those beautiful Birthday and Christmas cards we receive in the mail? Just cut around the lovely design on the front of the card, in whatever shape works, punch a hole in it and VOILA! You have a darling gift tag – you can now write your message on the back and attach to a package!”

(This was years before anyone ever used the word “re-cycle” and decades before the term “re-purpose”! The Depression-era generation did stuff like this, because they quite literally couldn’t bear to throw anything away..)

Make your own gift tags out of last year’s Greeting Cards!!

Doris: QUICK SALAD DRESSING?

“Who doesn’t have ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise on hand? Just mix those all together! Add a little pickle relish if you have some, but that step is optional. This dressing never fails to please the family, when generously ladled over a head of Iceberg!”

(No need to make the Kraft family any richer by buying their Thousand Island Dressing, for Pete’s sake-We are already buying their Macaroni.)

Doris: LAST MINUTE SNACK FOR GIRL A SCOUT MEETING?

“Take one container of Cool Whip and divide into 3 bowls. Add a few tablespoons of liqueurs (left over from your own Adult Christmas Party) to each bowl. Creme de Menthe makes a festive green mint dip! Creme de Cacao will turn your Cool Whip into a Chocolate Sensation! And who doesn’t love Kahlua mixed with cream? Serve these as “dips” with Vanilla Wafers!!”

(This actually happened. She forgot to bake/buy something, when it was my turn to furnish snacks for my Brownie meeting one January afternoon, and “improvised” by serving Alcohol to Minors… I couldn’t have been prouder of my innovative and creative ‘Cookie Dips.’   It was the 70s – no one thought a thing of it and no one was arrested!)

Reminiscing about how talented my mother was in the pre-Pinterest era, has left me inspired for Thanksgiving… I now have all the motivation that I need to go spray paint some Mason Jars, to use as candles for my Thanksgiving Tablescape, and assemble that tiresome Cream of Mushroom Green Bean Casserole!

I’m sure somewhere in this country, next week, some families by the name of Kraft, Crocker and Campbell will all join hands, bow their heads and Give Thanks for Doris and all the other Pinteresting Pioneers who made them the Macaroni Millionaires they are today.

The two of us in simpler times…when carol was doing his laundry

I really think, from a public image standpoint, Jimmy has fared pretty well in my blogs, to date. It should be apparent that he is the Heartthrob of Many….

My Mom ( see blog #13)
My Sister-Wife, Hazel (see blog# 12)
Me (see the Hickey blog # 10)

A little background- As some may know, Jimmy is in the restaurant business, so it should come as no surprise that we met while working our way through college as a cook and a waitress. We were both 18. Jimmy dated every girl that worked at “The Sizzler,” before he asked me out. I waited patiently for my turn, which was fine, as I was busy planning our wedding.

Been planning this wedding since before the first date!

As in every partnership, there are ongoing issues that need to be hammered out and negotiated almost daily…

Maybe it’s the cradle-Catholicism or maybe it was just inevitable, but I notice, that when communicating his “concerns,” Jimmy tends to opt for the Martyr Method. This involves prefacing every complaint with a personal disclaimer.

PREFACE #1: “I HATE TO COMPLAIN, BUT…”

This is how Jimmy lets me know it’s time to go to the Dry Cleaners or perform other sundry tasks, in which, by his estimation, I’ve fallen behind.

(We have had an ongoing problem with dry cleaning since Day 2 of our marriage. It would’ve been Day 1, but nothing was dirty on the first day. His mom sent him with clean clothes.)

When he leads with, “I hate to complain, but…”
I typically respond with, “Seriously, you hate to complain??? because, WOW- you are pretty adept at complaining. People usually aren’t quite so proficient at doing the things they genuinely loathe!”

It’s not that I don’t think I should pick up the dry cleaning, it’s the least I can do- But I’m certainly not buying that he hates to complain…

PREFACE #2: “I’VE ONLY EVER ASKED YOU FOR ONE THING!”

This is another popular way Jimmy initiates a grievance. He then inserts the ONE THING he happens to want right at THAT particular moment.

“I’ve only ever asked you for ONE THING and that’s some clean underwear when I open my underwear drawer”

“I’ve only ever asked you for ONE THING and that’s to not be late for church”

“I’ve only ever asked you for ONE THING and that’s, don’t drive around with the gas tank on Empty”

That’s 3 things right there…

PREFACE # 3: “I HATE TO TELL YOU THIS, BUT…”
(Sometimes Jimmy finds himself to be in the delicate position of being the Bearer-of-Bad-News)

“I hate to tell you this, but we are out of milk”

“I hate to tell you this, but your car needs new tires”

“I hate to tell you this, but the dog threw up on your brand new comforter”

“I hate to tell you this, but I weighed at the gym this morning and our scales are 6lbs under”

The truth is, I see through all of these, because, I happen to be a SEASONED EXPERT at breaking bad news to one’s mate. When you are despondent over having to deliver a crippling blow to your spouse’s otherwise happy day, it sounds more like this…

“Hey Honey – how was your day? Tommy was lead scorer in his basketball game this afternoon, I swung by the liquor store and got you that vodka you favor, and…you know that dumb ‘Arm Thingamabob’ that goes down when a train is coming? Well that thing went down right on the top of my car this morning!!! It left a wee gouge.  It’s so tiny – you probably wouldn’t even noticed if I hadn’t mentioned it!

Want me to shake up some martinis?”

The considerate spouse will just tell it like it is, and chase the bad news with a cocktail!

Hope this makes up for everything!

One of the biggest challenges that every mother faces, is knowing how much free rein to give her children. How much independence is prudent at each age and stage of development? As conventional wisdom knows, every child is different. It seems as though, there are certain children who never let their mother out of their sight and no matter how much “Cling Free” you spray on yourself, these offspring stay overly-attached. But, there is, inevitably, one child in every family, that seems to seek any and every opportunity to shake -off the shackles of their mother, and strike out on their own prematurely. In our family, that child is Alex….

Like all my babies, Alex was in no special hurry to join our family . I didn’t think that much of it at the time. 10 days after her due date, they went in after her. She emerged dazed and confused. But to be fair, it was probably all the Demerol they gave me, crossing the placenta. As I, too, was dazed and confused, for a few years…

When Alex was 3, (By then, I thought I had my wits about me) we lost her at Chuck E Cheese. We took our eyes off of her for one second and she was gone in a flash. After we searched the premises high and low, we contacted the Manager and he put the place on “lock down”. That’s the Chuck E Cheese version of an Amber Alert. No one can enter or exit the establishment, until the missing child is located. By this point, we were frantic, to say the least. We had really scoured the place. At some point, while employees, managers and other parents were searching for the 2nd and 3rd time, in all the areas we had previously looked, Jimmy decided to expand the dragnet to include the private birthday party rooms. He carefully scanned the faces of all the happy little Party Guests sitting at the long rows of tables, enjoying their pizza and birthday cake, until he found Alex’s face. There she was, sitting by the birthday girl, wearing a cone-shaped party hat, tooting on her little party favor, joyfully celebrating the birthday of a TOTAL STRANGER. We didn’t know whether we wanted to hug or strangle the party child’s mother, who, handed her a goodie bag and assured us that they had “really enjoyed having her!”

(Parenting tip: If a random toddler shows up uninvited to your child’s party, someone, somewhere is probably searching for her!)

When Alex was 9 years old, a friend and I took our kids on a “Mother-Kids Road Trip/Adventure.” We thought it would be educational for the children, if we took a detour over to see the Hoover Dam. We had heard how extremely dangerous the Dam area was and had agreed to be hyper-vigilant with the kids, due to the unprotected, steep drop-offs. While I took the two older kids to gaze out over the miles of breath-taking, treacherous beauty, holding tightly to the hoods of their jackets, my friend took her daughter and Alex to the Port-a-Potties set up nearby. After everyone had “done their thing,” we drove at a snail’s pace in heavy traffic down the winding mountain road. About 15 minutes had passed by, when my oldest child noticed her sister was missing.

(Parenting tip: Always take a “Head-Count”or employ the fail-proof “Buddy System” if you:

A. Have more than one child
B. Have more than one thing on your mind
C. Have noticed your child is pre-disposed to WANDERLUST)

It took us an unbearable amount of time to get back up the mountain in heavy tourist traffic, to find Alex shivering, crying and mildly traumatized, still sitting in front of the Dam Port-a-Potties. I thought I would never recover from that incident and have, perhaps, overcompensated a bit in my parenting style, as I made a vow to myself, that I would never lose Alex again!!

Which explains why last Friday night was so exceptionally traumatic for me…

Jimmy and I were sound asleep when my cell phone rang at 1:30 am. As every parent knows, any phone call in the wee hours of the night is rarely good tidings. The caller was Alex’s boyfriend, who, “didn’t want to alarm me” (TOO LATE – I am awake and alarmed) He went on to explain that somehow Alex had gotten separated from their friend-group around midnight and he hadn’t seen her since. The “Buddy System” had failed us. I was immediately beside myself to think my little girl was wandering the streets of New York City, all alone and not answering her cell phone. (Jimmy and I were understandably never in favor of Alex going off to law school in New York City. But, because, at age 25, she is by legal definition, an adult, we found that we couldn’t forbid it.) A few minutes of sleuthing confirmed that Alex’s cell phone was left at her apartment, which explained why she wasn’t answering. I couldn’t decide if that made me feel better or worse. I immediately called the police. Perhaps I’ve watched too much “Law and Order SVU,” but I launched my own concurrent investigation “Law and Order SCU” (Silly Children’s Unit) In a moment of inspired maternal brilliance, I logged onto our bank’s website to see if it could help me track Alex’s whereabouts…

(Parenting tip: No matter what age your children are, always keep their debit cards linked to your bank account. You’ll be surprised at how easily you can track their every move, through timed and dated debit card transactions!!)

I was instantly relieved to see that she had purchased a subway ticket shortly after she went missing, and then, because she got lost in New York’s complicated subway system, a transaction 30 minutes later, showed a payment to a taxi cab company for a ride home. She was found within the hour!!

(Parenting tip: “It’s so damn easy, when your feelings are such, to overprotect her, to love her too much – hold on loosely, but don’t let go, if you cling too tightly, you’re gonna lose control…” Sound parenting advice from 38 Special in 1981, still applicable today!)

“The weekend at the college didn’t turn out like you planned, the things that pass for knowledge I can’t understand…” (Steely Dan – 1972)

Last Friday afternoon, when we got ready to depart for “Arkansas-Alabama Weekend” at the University of Arkansas, Jimmy pulled out his laptop and settled into the passenger seat, casually saying, “You drive!”

I was miffed.

“I hadn’t planned on driving,” I responded.

“Neither had I!”

I ended up driving because he trumped me with the “work excuse“. But, I thought to myself, ‘No Matter- this won’t last long...

I had a plan.

We have been together since we were 17, as such, we employ some very “sibling-esque” approaches to Conflict Resolution. These solutions resemble the sophomoric ways a brother and sister would solve an issue, much more than a committed mature adult couple.

We have something that resembles a ‘Peace Accord’ in effect.  In dates way back to the early 80s and clearly stipulates, “Whomever is driving the vehicle at the present time, retains full control of the radio and the temperature of said vehicle.”

So, I cranked the heat up, (Jimmy HATES to be hot) and turned the radio dial to Christian Talk Radio. I knew it wouldn’t be long until he started craving both AC and AC/DC, but I was wrong.

All I can say, is that he would’ve made an excellent POW during one of the wars, as I was never able to “break him” and ended up driving us all the way to Fayetteville.

To amuse myself while driving, I planned my “Game Day Ensemble” in my head. I was a little distracted thinking about my limited fashion options. For starters,  I don’t own a lot of Arkansas-red clothing; as a Red-head, I was brought up believing that red garments clash with orange hair.

And, secondly, the Razorbacks really need a textile! At some point during the Bear Bryant years, the University of Alabama adopted the houndstooth fabric as their “signature fabric”.  The Alabama fans sport this print in everything from baseball caps to rain galoshes.

I was pondering the notion of a Paisley Pig or Herringbone Hog, and apparently failed to notice the “check tire pressure” light when it came on, at some crucial moment in the journey…

As we were checking into our hotel, I was preoccupied catching up with texts, (because – driving) when I overheard Jimmy having a discussion with the hotel clerk.

“Will you be selling those tomorrow?”

Hotel Clerk- “That depends on whether we sell them all today, Sir…”

Looking up from my phone, to see what they were discussing, I saw on the check-in counter, a basket full of hideous red plastic ponchos, with a sign attached that said,

Arkansas Razorback Rain Ponchos -$5

Fashion dilemma solved!

Now, if Jimmy balked at spending $400 money on a dog, you can just imagine how recalcitrant he is going to be to buy a poncho, on the off-chance someone else is going to be selling them cheaper somewhere else.  I can also tell he is thinking that it’s quite possible the weatherman is wrong and there isn’t actually a 95% chance of rain. What if we spend that money and don’t end up needing those ponchos?

He’s planning to sleep on this decision. So, exhibiting the financial recklessness he so often accuses me of, I boldly, with wanton disregard for our financial future, shelled out $10 for 2 ponchos.

The next morning, when it was time to leave for the football game, Jimmy reclaimed his manhood and got back in the driver’s seat. We had barely driven out of the hotel parking lot, when we noticed the flat tire. He spent the next two hours changing the flat, getting the tire repaired and cussing up a storm, (no pun intended) in the aforementioned rain.

But, honestly, you never heard such language.

While not necessarily wanting to exacerbate our delicate and trying circumstances, I couldn’t resist noting a few things out loud:

1. 4 hours of Christian radio the day before didn’t improved your attitude in the least

And…

2. Aren’t you glad I bought us those ugly rain ponchos?

“Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, hold the touchdown!”

Its the end of the 4th quarter, we are losing the football game, but not by much. The Coach calls an obscure play, “The Wedge”. While it sounds like a salad to you, you know its a football play, because your son has talked about it. They’ve gone over it in practice. The Quarterback hands off the ball to your son, to run it in, for the greatly needed 6 points!! YOUR SON!!! The fans (parents and grandparents, all) are cheering from the bleachers! A win against the Middle School down the block is within our grasp! Because YOUR SON has the ball. The very ball he has never touched in the 6 years of playing football, except to snap it to a boy named SOMEONE ELSE’S SON… The ball your Other Son never touched in HIS 9 years of playing football, except when he tackled the boy who did have the ball, also named SOMEONE ELSE’S SON, and then deftly handed it to the Referee after the whistle.

Two things I’ve never quite understood – Football and Women who Understand Football. There are basically two types of women in the United States. Women who understand football and women who don’t understand football. My entire family falls in to the latter group. In fact, we have actually gone out-of -our-way in recent years to get at least a remedial knowledge of the sport, so that we can enjoy time with the men in our lives who live, eat and breathe football. I didn’t approach anything that even resembled caring about football until my sons started playing. Bear in mind, at this point, I had been a Mother for almost 20 years and a Person for 40….

I would go to the little boys’ games and ask Jimmy a million annoying questions. These were questions about the very basics of the game, but laced in to those questions was an undertone of concern, as it started to become apparent that MY SONS weren’t getting their turn with the ball. It just didn’t seem like “sharing nicely,” which had been emphasized over and over in my house full of women and girls. It sure seemed like my boys were having fun tackling the boys that did have the ball, but, it seemed to me, it would be more fair, if they tackled the boy with the ball, that it should then, logically, be their turn to run for a touchdown… But no, there they were tackling again. And what about that boy who catches the ball? It would be fun to be his mother. As the Quarterback throws the ball, and it spirals through the air to HER SON, everyone’s heart stops beating for a moment…and then….he catches it!! First Down!!!

About that time, in my boy’s football careers, as I was starting to put it all together, I started noticing a few other things. There seemed to be a group of Dads, who drove their kids to football practice and stayed. They weren’t actually Coaches, but admittedly, it was hard to tell at first, because they dressed in team colors, wore a team ball cap and ran up and down the field yelling and red-faced spittle-screaming at their son and everyone else’s, too. In an on-going effort to explain this phenomenon to Jimmy, I coined the term “DADVOCATES”. It seemed to me that these Dads had made it their business to help the Coach decide who got to play each and every position. This appeared to be done, before practice, during practice and over a beer after practice, at Buffalo Wild Wings. I beseeched and beseeched Jimmy to get on board with the New World Order for today’s young athlete and go dadvocate for our boys. But, Jimmy would not be budged from his position (pun intended) that he better served our family’s needs by going to his paying job.

Jimmy – “I’m not pandering to those coaches. Our boys are either going to make their bones on their own, or they’re not!”

Me- “Okay Don Corleone” (Seriously? Pandering? Make their bones? Am I married to the Mob? I’m trying to get a football position, not a Consigliere!!)

So, I did for my sons what any Red Blooded American Mother would do. I bought a push-up bra and stayed at those practices my damn self. And, I think it helped. All-in-all, the boys have both had pretty distinguished runs at the sport of football. As their Sports Agent, who doesn’t really speak the language of football, I never got them any “touch” on the ball, but they contributed well in a variety of other positions. Which takes us back to last night…

Picture the beautiful October evening, you drop your surly, hormonal son off at the gate, so you can go park the car.

You say to him in your chirpiest cheerleader-mom voice, “Have fun!!”

As he struggles with his pads he says, “It won’t be fun, I’m sick of football!”

You respond, “It’s the second-to-the-last game, GO MAKE IT FUN!!”

‘ It hasn’t been easy always being the positive one,’ you think to yourself, as you navigate a parking space. You should probably leave a little early, during the 4th quarter, and run through Braum’s drive-through to get him some dinner. He’s always too keyed-up to eat before a game and ravenous after!!

So…it’s about 9 pm, the sun has set in a beautiful Oklahoma sky, the stadium lights are shining on the field, the parents are on their feet; Hell, even the grandparents are on their feet. YOUR SON is running toward the end-zone!!! It’s the very moment you dreamed of ever since the sonogram first showed a you a boy-part. The announcer shouts, “TOUCHDOWN!!! CHEYENNE!!! WITH TOMMY BLANCHARD ON THE CARRY!!” Where are you?

….In the drive-thru at Braums.

“I’ll take the Bag-o-burgers, please, No lettuce, no tomato, no touchdown.”

The Good Times were Rolling 2-ply (inside and outside)

Remember the story about that little girl, Goldilocks, who theoretically trespassed on the private property of those 3 bears, while they were away, unmaking all their beds and eating all their porridge? And, remember how that Mama Bear came home and knew instinctively that there had been some unauthorized crap going on in her house while she was gone? Well, the longer I’m a mother, and the more I really think about that story, the less plausible it seems….Do we really think some Random-Little-Blonde-Girl wreaked all that havoc on her own? Or- Isn’t it more likely that those idiot bears left their Teenaged-Son-Bear home unsupervised? I’m betting, that just like me, Mrs. Bear arrived home, after a lovely weekend and bearly had time to set down her purse and overnight bag, before she noticed the tell-tale signs that something was amiss.

A more believable story: Once upon a time there was a family…. A Mom, A Dad and 3 little Girls. Were these girls drama? Of course they were! Did they cry over spilt milk? Every stinkin’ day! But -they were clean little darlings, who prissed  about wearing coordinated outfits and following rules. But, they didn’t like football and they didn’t watch Zombie shows on Netflix and they couldn’t carry on the family name, so the father told the mother, “We are missing some people – our family lacks testosterone.” And so, just like that – they added some boys.

At first, the boys were no problem at all. But, they learned to walk fast, talk loudly and throw things… No matter though because their sisters were bossy little tattle-tales by nature, and helped the mother keep the bros in line throughout the early years. All went smoothly, until the girls grew up and moved out of the house. The parents soon found that, if they wanted to go absolutely anywhere together, there would be no one home to supervise the boys – also known as “holding the fort down”.

And that is when the Goldilocks story started to unravel a bit for me…

We took a risk, this past weekend, when we decided to go to The University of Arkansas to visit our daughter  for “Dad’s Day.” Obviously, it’s no problem to prevail upon a friend or two to keep our middle-schooler while we’re gone.  And, actually, it’s not really a problem to have the teenager bunk over at a friend’s house either. The problem arises, when ALL THE OTHER HIGHSCHOOLERS find out that ANYONE ELSE’S parents are out of town, they immediately spread the word, “Let The Good Times Roll!!”

We farmed our 14 year old son out and made arrangements for our 17 year old, but in my gut, I knew, this was not sufficient damage control. We’d no sooner crossed the Arkansas-Oklahoma state line, when I received a text from the mother of a high-school girl, asking if I was home, as her daughter and several friends were looking forward to a lovely evening at my house. Needless to say, those young ladies never made it over here this weekend…

Friday night passed without incident, as we proactively asked another Dad to patrol the premises. A quick “drive by” was all that was required. The following night was a different story, however. Like an errant stone rolling down a hill, by Saturday night, this one had gathered some moss. The good news had spread, through the Teenager-Underground-Railroad, that the Blanchard Parents were out of town!! By the time our friend made his rounds, The Good Times were definitely Rolling! As we heard it, our friend, walked right in, and, without so much as a “last call,” had the place cleared out in no time.

Thus, the only issues I actually had to deal with when we got home, were some minor casualties.  The first thing I noticed as I walked in the door, was a plant knocked over…

Me -“Why is my plant knocked over?”

Boy- “I think that was already like that before you left!”

Me- “That’s right Son, I went out of town and disregarded a plant the size of a small tree, tipped over on its side, because that’s who I am – I’m literally that CHILL”

He then changes the subject by complimenting me on my RENT-A-DAD program, sarcastically adding , “thanks for trusting me by the way! ”

I explained it like this, “James” I said, “If I were a Farmer, I’d know Farmer-type stuff. I’d seek out the experiences, wisdom and advice of my fellow farmers on when to plant and when to harvest. Likewise, were I a Hairstylist, I’d know all the new products with which to color your hair. I’d spend my spare time hanging out, with other hairstylists discussing the latest trends and styling tools. I’m in the Mom-business, Son, and when I spend time with other mothers, we ‘talk shop,’ and its widely agreed upon by me and my Colleagues that, as a general rule, we don’t trust anyone whose age ends in the word, ‘teen’…”

“So, I think I’ve seen everything that there is to see downstairs, and I’m about to mosey on upstairs…. I’m going to give you a 5 minute head start; I strongly suggest you get up there and make sure there isn’t any porridge mess, or EVEN WORSE: a Random-Little-Blonde-Girl!!

My Mom
(I’m not the only one with an IPad)

My 75 year old mother just pulled out of my driveway this morning, headed back to Texas, after a short visit here…

The great thing about Mom, is that she doesn’t arrive with an expectation to be entertained. Coming here is a pseudo-business trip for her, so there’s no need to wine and dine her. I’ve come to realize that, while Mom allows her children to live out in the world on their own, she really believes that she is the Chief Operating Officer of this corporation we call a family. She works exhaustively while she is here evaluating our operation; she probably writes the trip off on her taxes. She rides alongside me as I run my errands and perform my daily activities, offering an Audible-Audit with suggestions on how to improve our overall functionality. We are graded on categories ranging from primarily minor issues, such as profitability (“Why do you buy straws at the grocery store when you can simply grab a handful at Subway?”) to potentially major and life-threatening, (Good parents don’t let their children play football!!!) Here are just a few of the oversights from this week, in which we fell well below the expectations of CORPORATE…

DRIVERS ED GRADE: FAIL

Just because YOU are behind the wheel of the car, and, at a glance, appear to be the driver, one must understand that if Mom is anywhere in the car, SHE is the actual driver. Doris is the original Siri and and in most cases puts Siri to shame. She doesn’t have to hide in your cell phone like a coward to tell you which way to turn. She’s an “upgrade” in that she also tells you WHEN to turn your blinker on, WHEN to execute the turn, WHERE to park once you’ve mastered the turn sequence, and how close to get to the other cars around you.  She expresses white-knuckles-on-the-dashboard concern each and every time I pull into my garage (a relatively unchallenging maneuver that I manage to perform successfully several times a day, even when she isn’t in town.) As we are driving down the road, she will often shriek loudly if another car gets within several hundred feet of us, I’m sure that’s to check my responses and reflexes. “Driving Miss Doris” is truly an interactive experience and definitely not for the easily intimidated.

CHILD PROTECTION/CHILD ENDANGERMENT GRADE: NEEDS IMPROVEMENT

In addition to our typical schedule of football practice & games, basketball practice & games, carpool, groceries and other Mommy Minutia, this week provided the added challenge of an MRI on my son’s recent football injury, along with the requisite orthopedic consultations and discussions about whether or not to have a surgery, which would allow him to continue to play football in his Senior year. This afforded Mom the opportunity to assess our competence during a real- life “parenting dilemma” and grade us on our overall handling of this situation. We seemed to score slightly better here, than in the driving category, but that’s because My husband was involved, which I’m sure falsely inflated my score… (Mom is enamored with Jimmy and it’s quite obvious that somewhere through the years, her memory twisted around and she genuinely thinks she raised HIM and didn’t meet ME until our wedding) Every conversation we had about the pros and cons of the shoulder surgery, prompted Grandma to shake her head in disappointment and offer Pearls of Wisdom, such as, “If he injures himself again, he won’t do well on the ACT and get into a good college!” Rebuttals such as, “Grandma, his shoulder doesn’t affect his brain functioning” were dismissed as excuses and further evidence of weak and inept parenting skills.

HOME SECURITY GRADE: FAIL

There was a ton of controversy a while back over security at the White House, culminating with the resignation of Julia Pierson, Director of the Secret Service. They simply had the wrong person in charge. If you really want to keep the White House safe, fire all those Secret Service Agents and hire a widow in her 70s- like Mom. She is positively convinced that someone is attempting to break into our home, all day, every day. To steal exactly what, she won’t say. She was appalled by our constant breeches of security. She kept telling me to lock the doors and finally I said, (exasperated) “But Mom, Tommy is out on the driveway shooting baskets – won’t we then be, in effect, locking him out there with all the Bad Guys???” ( I should get a few points added back into my Child Protection /Child Endangerment category for this vigilant maternal observation!)

Yesterday, I took the trash can out to the street and was literally locked out of my house, when I attempted to re-enter just 2 short minutes later. I stood there knocking on my OWN door and ringing my OWN doorbell. Eventually, she came to the door and yelled in a terrified voice, ” WHO IS IT?” To which I respond (admittedly agitated). “It’s Me, Mom, your daughter, The Homeowner”. She let me in…

I can’t imagine how difficult it must’ve been for her to leave here this morning; abandoning her grandchildren to be recklessly driven around to football games, whilst people are breaking into our home stealing our belongings. But, alas, she can’t spend all her time in Oklahoma…. I have a sister in Dallas and a brother in Louisiana, who must be doing God-Only-Knows-What down there to their kids, homes and cars. I wonder if I should call them and tell the to lock their doors?

Adoption day – likely stoned on Benadryl

Sooner or later I was bound to blog about the adversarial relationship I have with my dog. Recent events prompt me to do so at this time.

It seems that Hazel “made a break for it,” as my son so eloquently stated it, last Sunday. Apparently, when The Hubs took Hazel along to pick up our son  from a sleepover, Hazel jumped out of the window of his moving vehicle! Visibly shaken, my guys rescued her and brought her home, relaying the entire story to me.

I instantly saw this as the shameless ploy for attention that it so obviously was. But- before I attempt to explain our relationship, let me explain how we came to have Hazel in the first place….

We weren’t really in the market for a dog when we got Hazel. Have you ever bought anything you didn’t need because you couldn’t resist a BARGAIN??? The simple explanation is that we were trying to help our daughter get a small “apartment sized companion.” One Saturday morning, we went around to local pet stores; my spouse, (who rarely shops for anything) was appalled at the prices they were charging for puppies.

In my husband’s  experience, you don’t PAY for a dog, you are doing the world a FAVOR by taking a dog off of someone else’s hands. Anyway, we saw these two adorable Chihuahuas in a small cage at Rich People’s Pet Store. There was a sign above them that said, “Chihuahuas – $400”.

My husband can read, however, he said to the clerk, “how much for one of these Chihuahuas?”

The clerk, looked dispassionately over at the sign, and responded, “$400.”

My husband can also do math, but his next question was, “How much if we take them both?”

The clerk nodded over at the sign and responded, “$800.”

The Hubs was incredulous. He said later, “There has to be a Chihuahua Rescue somewhere in this city!”

Fast forward a month or two: We were driving home from church and as we passed Petsmart, I read a sign aloud, “Chihuahua Rescue -here today!” If I had been staring out of the other window, I would have read, “Milk on sale at Braums, $3.50 a gallon!” But, alas, fate was not my friend that day….

The Hubs (whose love for being right is second only to his love of a bargain) said, “I knew it!” and whipped the car into the parking lot. Before you could say, “think this through,” we were holding the little Mexi-mix and picking out a name. There was about 24 hours of joy knowing how we “put one over” on Rich People’s Pet Store. We showed them all right! We got 4 1/2 pounds of LIVING HELL absolutely free!!

Throughout the adoption process, that morning, she was a docile, grateful and timid little creature, shivering and humble. I have since come to believe that they must dope those dogs up on Benadryl, because within 24 hours of bringing her into our home, she bore no resemblance to her pre-adoptive self. When the drugs wore off, the REAL HAZEL emerged….

Much to the consternation of all my friends, who insisted that I would grow more and more attached to her with each passing day, that is not the case…Hazel and I have a complicated relationship. Have you ever watched the show “Sister Wives” and puzzled over how two alpha-females can live under the same roof, and remarkably BOTH believe that THEY have the upper-hand?

While it’s true that there were many years that I pined for a “Live-in” (another female to occupy the extra guest room and share the load) this is clearly not what I had in mind.

On any given day, Hazel appears to have the better end of the deal . She lays around, eating and sleeping and yapping at anything/anyone that gets within 300 feet of our property.

She doesn’t cook, clean or do laundry, and yet, when my husband walks through the door, you’d think she had been working her puppy-ass off all day in service to him. She gets so excited when his truck rolls in the driveway, that she literally pees on the floor. Undoubtedly flattered, he has commented several times that I am never quite that enthusiastic to see him….

Which brings me back around to Hazel taking a flying leap for herself out of a moving vehicle. I have always subscribed to the popular life philosophy “If you love something, set it free…”