Come On Down!

Pretend we’re playing The Price is Right. (Not even close to being one of my favourite game shows, but I have watched it.)

Look at this picture and, in your mind, try to guess how much I paid for these 23 items at Wally World yesterday. DON’T look ahead. I’ll give you thirty seconds. (Please note: There is no prize for this. All you can win is the satisfaction that you know your stuff.)

$99.21. That’s the answer. $99.21. SERIOUSLY? (Were you close?)

Let’s go through them product by product (STAY WITH ME—this could be fun):

Had to have milk, eggs, half and half, and turkey. Absolute necessities. Didn’t need the Cream of Wheat individual packets, but I’ve been going down Memory Lane recently, remembering how much I loved having this for breakfast, while growing up. We cooked it in a pot—took every bit of 25 minutes. The more lumps? The better. For me. Not my siblings. I often got to eat most of the pot by myself.  I wanted to try it. (BTW: Fixed a packet this morning. Wasn’t cRaZy about it. Think I’d really prefer to prepare it the old-fashioned way. Not sure what will happen to the other 7 packets now. Interested, TLC?)

I always have, in my purse and car, individual Wet Ones. To clean my hands, cellphone, steering wheel, etc. after shopping or touching things out there in the sCaRy World. Things that have been touched by possibly hundreds of hands. Things including, but not limited to, ATMs, doors, gas pumps. Things that could have cold, virus or other contagious germies on them. I’m slightly obsessed with attempting to keep my hands clean. TLC is, too, but she prefers the bottles of alcohol hand sanitizers. I’ve seen, on TV news’ reports, that her method is the best one. Mine is certainly better than nothing. Those little wipes are refreshing and they also get rid of stickiness (like after having a DQ Mini-Blizzard—oops—not recently, TLC). The reason I purchased three boxes yesterday (I usually pick up two every couple of months) was that TLC had requested I get her some of a particular scent—“citrus.” She alleges she can’t find that specific kind in her area. I’m suspicious of this. I think she just wanted free boxes.

Last week, after being a year overdue for my eye exam, I learned I have cataracts. Little bitty ones. But they’re there. I went into a semi-shocked state. Huh? My eye doctor I adore, Dr. Phil (no, not that Dr. Phil), said I shouldn’t have to worry about them for several years. I am young-ish to have them already beginning. I’m still disturbed about this. And there’s nothing I can really do except wait and watch. However, I also have macular degeneration in my family. He encouraged me to take Lutein to help prevent this heartbreaking condition. Hence the three bottles I bought. When I got home, I realized two things: (1) One bottle had less milligrams than the other two—I have no clue how this happened—clearly I wasn’t paying attention; and (2) Two of the bottles were $13.94 each! I spent $34.82 for a two and a half months' supply of these capsules. For me. If My Sweet Hubby (MSH) needs them, too, which he probably does, WOWZER. I’ll need to work at Wally World to pay for them. Or locate cheaper lutein. If you have help for this problem, please advise ASAP. Add lutien to the 500 vitamins and supplements I already take every day (J/K—it’s about 20) and I'll definitely need to find a part-time job or actually start eating right. This is getting expensive.

MSH and I both take fish oil capsules. Twice a day. I’m always buying a bottle of those every couple of months. He left a bottle of shaving cream on my vanity. My official notification he needed more, please. What I purchased will last approximately six months.

I’m currently in a Mascara CRISIS. Yes, I know I’ve recommended a couple of brands, in past posts, I alleged I liked. Apparently I don’t like them that much any more and am now searching for alternatives. If I don’t like one of these (the two together cost me $13.41), I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t think I want to try Latisse. And my 58-year-old hands are too shaky to apply false eyelashes. I’m also uninterested in (costly) eyelash extensions. So I’ll try to update you on these two options soon.

Turns out I did not need: the Jergens’ lotion (except the small one for my travel makeup bag) or the cotton swabs or q-tips. I forgot to remove these items from my list when I bought all three two weeks ago. Shocking that I would forget, right? Sheesh. Except for one of the mascaras and the Cream of Wheat, I was going to eventually need all of these things.

I went to a checkout for 20 Items Or Less. I don’t cheat on that. Ever. Okay, not very often. Or intentionally. I counted exactly 20 items, in my basket, as I stood in line. Confession: As I unloaded the cart, three items were hiding underneath bigger stuff. I felt HORRIBLE. I apologized to the clerk. Profusely. Who said: “Don’t worry. I just checked out a lady who had over 40.” WWWHHHHAAAAATTTTTT?????? Why would she be in that line? (No one was behind me. Therefore, I technically wasn’t inconveniencing anyone else at that moment. I get cranky when people cheat on this—especially when it affects me because I’m behind them in a long line.)

My experience yesterday caused this: ELC’s Examples of What’s Wrong With This World:

1. People who deliberately cheat in the 10 or 20 Items Or Less checkout lanes. Yes, including moi. (Truly, I don’t do that even once every two years. I end up feeling too guilty. Promise. Cross my heart.)
2. Those shoppers who leave their carts in the middle of the parking lot because it’s entirely too much trouble to walk them over to the Cart Return. I always return mine. Always. I have to make no caveats on this one. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve seen very healthy looking people leaving their carts in the parking spot next to them. I swear sometimes the Cart Return is three spots away. ? ? ?  I always wonder if these are also the people who will be mad when they can’t get into a spot because oodles of other peeps have done this. RETURN YOUR CARTS, Sillies. You and I both need the exercise. Be proud of the extra-effort you went to and JUST DO IT.

The point of this post? I don’t know. I’ve completely lost all organized thoughts.

Happy Camel Day, Dear Friends! (Except where it’s now already Thursday—but I don’t have a clue where that might be—sorry.)

Having Our Cake

Would y'all mind if I backed up a bit? Thank you. Thank you very much!

At our 13-week sonogram, the doctor was able to guess that Baby C was a GIRL! I was quite surprised. I'd initially felt certain I was having a boy. After the doc made her "assessment," I politely asked her to please double check. She decided to stick with “Girl,” but cautioned us NOT to paint the nursery pink or share the news with overly zealous grandparents. Little did she know, I had planned a "Gender Reveal Party" that evening for said overly zealous grandparents. Oops.

ELC and My Dad drove, two hours, from their home and met My Sweet Hubby’s Dad and Stepmom at our house that Friday evening. After dinner (brought in from one of our favourite Italian restaurants in our little 'Burb), it was time for CAKE! Yes, that's right. Hubby and I were going to reveal Baby C's gender via one of my (and ELC's) most favourite things in the entire universe. When we cut into said cake, it would reveal either pale pink or pale blue frosting, sandwiched between the layers of fluffy and delicious vanilla cake.

As I sliced the knife into the pretty little confection, I issued this disclaimer:

Warning! At this point, we are only 60% positive about Baby C’s gender. Yes, we are well aware that's only 10% better than your guess, Dad, that It's A Girl, and Mom's guess that It's a Boy. You both are, at 50%, almost as accurate as the sonogram machine. C'est la vie. The doctor just couldn't be definite. And, of course, we had already planned this party. Therefore, if we need to "amend" the gender after our 20-week exam, that won't be such a terrible thing, will it? Who would be cRaZy enough to turn down more cake? (Maybe my Dad. Not my Mom.)


(I’d already prepared The Cake Lady, when she delivered it, for the possibility we might need another one.)

ELC was equally as confident as me that Baby C was a Boy. She was being quite sassy as she told me to "hurry up already.” She could taste the blue icing before she even saw it. Lo and behold, she was something she never likes to be: Wrong. With a capital "W." As I placed the freshly sliced piece of cake on one of the festive, yet gender neutral, plates, I wish I could have adequately captured her face with my camera. It was one of pure and utter shock. (Picture, if you will, McCauley Culkin in a Home Alone movie poster. That was ELC’s exact expression.) There, for all the world to see, was baby pink frosting! My Mom was rendered completely and utterly speechless for five full minutes. I cannot stress how rare this is. It was absolutely priceless. She almost couldn't eat. (Key word? Almost.)

Since we're now blissfully at peace with the knowledge Baby C IS a wee little chickadee, I've found other excuses to have cake. From "Today is Tuesday! Let's have cake!" to "I can no longer fit into the first round of my maternity jeans! Let's have cake!" I'm thinking My Little Leighton will probably adore this obsession as much as her Mama and Grammy. We are “Over the Moon” we saw that pale pink frosting. Yes, yes we are! IT'S A GIRL!!!

L is for...

Little Leighton!

We found out on Monday that Baby C is a beautiful baby GIRL!

We are beyond thrilled. Completely over the moon. ELC came to the sonogram with us and got to see Sweet Little Leighton moving her perfect little mouth. It looked like she was talking! (At which point we exclaimed:  She's SO a Leighton!)

As soon as we left the doctor's office, we immediately purchased several LARGE bows. Yes, I'm going to be that Mama that puts her daughter in bows bigger than her head. The bigger the bow, the better! (Kind of like, in Texas, the bigger the hair…)

We couldn't wait to share this wonderful news with y'all! Here's to lots of pink ruffles and tulle and frilly frills in our (near) future!

STUPID BIRDS

First, it is not my intention to insult real, live birds. I adore birds. I cherish the wildbirds I see (and we feed) outside my home office window almost every day of my grateful life. I also don’t mean to offend anyone who loves and/or raises real pigs. Or the Piggy Pjs’ Gals. Or Miss Piggy. Lord knows TLC loves her some bacon, too. Actually, when I was eighteen, I had a pig named Napoleon. My parents had moved to the country from the Dallas/Ft. Worth Metroplex. Napoleon got humongous and lived for several years. He was a good pig. I’m talking about those completely rude and ridiculous little birds and pigs on Angry Birds. I’ll get back to them in a bit.

Second, I want to apologize for using the word “stupid.” A week ago yesterday, our 3 ½ year-old grandson, Cutie-Pie, and our son arrived from the Big Metropolis of Houston, to stay with us two nights/three days. (To say we were in Grandparent Heaven is an understatement.) It was sunny, but breezy and a bit chilly in the country that afternoon. Our son forgot to bring a jacket for Cutie-Pie (it's always warmer in Houston than five hours north), so we headed to town—to Wally World—to find one. On the way, I sat in the backseat of Pa-Dad's truck with our little fella. Looking out the window at the cows, horses, llamas (Cutie-Pie was also searching for some “blue elephants”) I said, for the first of three times during their visit, the word “stupid.” Something like: “Those stupid people who think they have to drive so fast on this highway make Grammy cRaZy.” An impatient person behind us, on the two-lane, had decided My Hubby’s speed of 72 mph wasn’t fast enough. Mr. Nascar had passed us in an illegal and dangerous way. Evidently he was unaware we had Precious Cargo On Board.

Cutie-Pie immediately looked at me, with his major-big-brown-charming eyes, and firmly stated, in sincere shock: “Grammy, you said a BAD word.” Suddenly, I was 3 ½ and my Mom was telling ME to NEVER use the word “stupid”—especially as a description of my younger brother and sister. I felt ashamed. Completely embarrassed. I quickly and profusely apologized to Cutie-Pie, thanking him for reminding me that he was exactly right: stupid was not a nice word. I said: “I should never use that word, Cutie. Or shutup either.” He nodded his angelic little head. And forgave me.

Confession: He caught me saying “stupid” two more times before they headed back home. In my defense, I wasn’t talking to him either time. I wasn’t even in the same room with him. Technically, I was speaking, in almost a whisper, to TLC, who had driven from her home on Saturday to see her brother and nephew (spending the night with us for a second weekend in a row—which Grammy loves!). I had no idea Cutie-Pie was listening or could hear me. He has exceptionally good ears, that one. I apologized. Again. And again. He continued to forgive Grammy. Yes, I was and am ashamed. 

Cutie-Pie really understands how to use an iPad. Wowzer. I must be totally honest and admit I took full advantage of his amazing technological/game-playing abilities/skills on Saturday afternoon.

We’d been on a long walk to the gate—and a ride on the Ranger around the tanks. We'd fed the catfish. Cutie-Pie, Pa-Dad, Aunt TLC, Grammy and Teddy Buddy Boo Bear had had a BIG time. We were resting and Cutie was sitting by me on the couch. He was on his Dad’s iPad. I was checking my phone to see if any of my Words With Friends opponents had recently made a play (TLC being one of those peeps—one of those who likes to play a word every five to six days—thanks, Sugar). Suddenly, it hit me.

ELC: Cutie-Pie, could you teach Grammy how to play Angry Birds? (I've tried several times, on my own, to figure that insanity out. To no avail.)

CUTIE-PIE: Sure, Grammy! I show you.

At which point, he took my phone, hit the Angry Birds icon, and started playing. Knocking those pesky pigs into the next century with those annoying little red, blue and yellow birds. He was focused. He was fast. He was confident. And extremely successful. He was at Level 6 when his Dad said: “Please give Grammy her phone back and show her what to do.”

Cutie worked with me for a few minutes and then decided I had the general idea. He talked his Dad into helping him download Angry Birds Rio onto their iPad (which needed charging). Our son then set him up in our guest room so he could play the game. I sat on the bed, watching him, but he never knew I was there. Even when I was taking pictures. He didn’t look up once. Not until Aunt TLC (who he yikes--ayot!) came in and told him we were going out to dinner. It was time to come to a stopping point.

Bless his little heart.

His love for Angry Birds knows no bounds.

He's more than willing to play by a trash can.

Look at his yittle "yambie"--awww...

From that moment on and until this past Thursday night, I periodically picked up my phone and tried to get to Level 4 (6 is clearly an unattainable dream for moi) on that STUPID Angry Birds game. I watched those smart-alecky little birds NOT knock down those mean little pigs, who smiled and laughed at me, jumping with joy each time I missed them, until I thought I might throw my phone into the above lovely trash can pictured with Cutie (yes, I’m lacking that discerning “eye for detail” in photos—sorry). I’d had it. I uninstalled the AB app. Done. And done. Surely I have better things to do with my time. Right? I could go on-line and read the Piggy Lounge blog—which I treasure. Or I could start a new game of Words With Friends (10 on-going games don’t seem like enough, do they?). Or I could literally sit on my great-grandmother's rocking chair and twiddle my thumbs. Take a nap. Catch up on my DVRd Dr. Oz shows (I’m at my self-imposed limit of 10 and can’t record any new ones until I get rid of at least one). Anything. Seriously.

I’ve also sworn (maybe I should say promised?) to myself I’ll work exceptionally hard at not saying BAD words in front of our grandchildren. Or anyone, for that matter. Because it’s simply wrong. And stupid. I must learn to shutup.

ttfn, Happy Friends . . .