A Sad but True Tale....

Once upon a time, in her freshman year of high school, Oceangypsy (not yet a mom) ran for the VP of student council. Now, this was before she became part of the "cool" crowd. This particular year she was somewhat quiet, reflective and suffering from acne and perpetual bad hair. Oh, what a difference a year makes. However, that image was not her self image. In her mind's eye, Oceangypsy knew that she could make a difference.

She spent hours working on posters with creative and witty slogans. Her entire family participated and it was a bonding experience. The result was a campaign that resembled the California Raisin commercials. "I heard it through the grapevine..." Sorry, momentary lapse into song... lucky for you, you can't hear me right now. Her speech was awesome. It was funny, targeted, and promised real change.

What Oceangypsy didn't know was that in politics popularity trumps substance nearly 100% of the time. Her rival was a fun, cute and networked cheerleader. It didn't matter what her campaign was as she only needed to put her name on the ballot and the deal was sealed. However, Oceangypsy let her idealism carry her through to the end. Of course, the writing was on the wall and when she went in to see the final vote tally she was in for a real shock. Let's just say that Oceangypsy knew that it was improbable that she amassed any real number of votes, but the number on the page was simply excruciating. Five votes. Five votes, one of them being her own.

It is one of the defining moments of Oceangypsy's life. A true life lesson in how to hold your head up high. Thankfully, the following year she transferred to a new school and redefined her social life.

You may ask why I feel compelled to share this sad but true tale at this time? Nearly everyday I am encouraged by a friend or family member that feels compelled to say, "I just love your blog." I am so flattered. I am really, really glad. And, sense I seem to have no real life of my own other than that of my hubby and children, this blog represents a new chapter in staking a claim on one. So, I am encouraging my friends and family to cast their ballot and actually sign up as followers. There are currently eight followers (which is a great improvement over my pitiful five votes) but surely we can do better than that.

I do not want to be deluded like all those contestants on American Idol that think they are actually good because their mother told them so. I want to earn your comment (vote). I would love to read what you are thinking.

7 years, 44 days and 1 hour

Don't be surprised if you see me on the eleven o'clock news:

Oceangypsymom literally jumped off a cliff today when she realized that she had 7 years, 44 days and 1 hour left to go before her children moved out! She was seen wandering the neighborhood mumbling, "how many times have I picked up these socks?" Friends and neighbors feigned surprise, but they had been privy to the routinely unkempt oceangypsy house. According to their reports, mountains of laundry, crusted dishware, and a yard full of bicycles or skate boards was the norm. When questioned by authorities, her hubby, revealed that she frequently fantasized about a clean house in which she could relax and breathe deep. No amount of Yankee candles, Downey softener or Merlot seemed to make a difference.

The perpetrators (otherwise known as the children) of the messiness proclaim that they are innocent of all charges "wasn't me." They have no known memory of repeated pleadings, to pick up clothing off of bathroom floors, to turn off lights when leaving rooms or to feed the dogs. This reporter was surprised at the lack of empathy the perpetrators had towards their mother's plight. They were instead more concerned with their Rock Band, Runescape and Facebook status.

The final straw appeared to be a half eaten meal that was prepared "just the way they liked it last week." Apparently, the rendering of the meal was met with a pitiful amount of gratitude and swiftly set aside for the dogs to eat. Unable to force herself to clean the dishes just one more time, the Oceangypsymom penned a quick note to her hubby. Remember me as I was once. Remember the woman you fell in love with. With that she took off in the neighbors Mustang convertible and never looked back. Onlookers, report her last words were... 7 years.... 44 days... and 1 more hour...

Cooking with Love?

Some of you may know that my hubby worked as a chef for many years. And while, he is content with a can of Cheeze Whiz and Doritos, he can whip up a mean meal if he wants to. He'll always be my Top Chef. However, we, like many other families out there, are addicted to reality t.v. Top Chef is one of our favorites.

I just wanted to give a shout out to Carla, my favorite contestant. Okay, okay so Fabio was my all time favorite (love that Italian accent.) But, I was really pulling for her in the end. She kept saying that she cooked with "love." Which made me think about my own cooking. I can't even remember the last time I felt like I cooked with "love." Disdain, yes. Frustration, always. Regret, yes. But, love, umm... not so much. Now, eating with "love," I've got that down. I appreciate the effort that goes into a good meal. I appreciate that it looks pretty. I especially appreciate it if I'm not doing it. I will doubly appreciate it if I don't have to cook it or clean up after it! I guess I just don't have the patience or creativity for it. You either have it or you don't. It's like singing, which, I'm sad to say I don't have either.

A virtual margarita toast to Carla who clearly cooks with "love" and is to me a Top Chef.

Putting DIY and HGTV to the test

It happens if you stay in the same house long enough. I like to refer to it as the money pit syndrome. The time when repairs start piling up faster than money comes in. Eventually, you have to pull the trigger. Eventually, you have to stop thinking about fixing that leaky shower and actually fix it. Over the years, I have confidently tackled differing decorating projects spurred forward by my favorite decorating shows. Some results have definitely been better than others (don't even ask me about wallpaper.) But, tackling a complete bathroom redo is another matter. If you make a mistake, it's more expensive. If it looks awful, you can't just paint over it for an additional $25.00.

My hubby is very handy. He normally would take this project and whip it out in no time, but with his back issues he is falling into a supervisory role on this one. So, I along with Prince Lawn Gnome, will take on demolition, shower installation, tile, and paint. Lord help us all. It has been my past experience that while my hubby means well, he sometimes gets a little snippy when giving directions. And, maybe it's just me, but in the past I haven't received direction well either. So... hopefully we will survive this. Hopefully, the results will be worth the effort.

The last thing I need is a bathroom redo that I have to redo again.

And, I would be remiss if I didn't commit on the complete corner of the market when it comes to the price of shower doors! Who knew? It's glass, tempered yes, but it's not like I'm flying the space shuttle here. The number one consideration is how hard it is to clean, because, let's face it, just because the bathroom looks new doesn't mean I'm going to want to clean it more often.

This will definitely be the tell tale sign as to whether or not I should even watch another DIY or HGTV do it yourself episode. It always looks so easy...

Fear Factor

This week was one full of fears.... First Braveheart took and passed her driver's test. Talk about real, in your face fear. This is one of those stages when your imagination goes wild, when you realize all the dangers associated with driving. Your mind starts to recall every crazy newstory you've ever heard about teenage drivers. I was ever so thankful for an independent agency that gives the final passing grade. This is when your parenting really starts coming into question. Have we taught her enough over the years, raised a responsible teenage girl that can be trusted not to joyride all over town?

My fear was offset a little when Braveheart came home with a huge smile across her face, lit up like a Christmas tree. She had gone through the drive-thru at McDonald's all by herself! She was ecstatic! My fear was offset a little more when she offered to return the movies to Blockbuster on time! (Yes, there is a benefit to all this!)

One of the most fearful experiences of the week had to be when Prince Lawn Gnome, who received his learner's permit, drove from the license bureau home. It started to occur to me that this is the same child that drove a four wheeler off a cliff into a ditch a few years ago. The memory was jostled from the recesses of my brain when he took a corner like he was driving a go cart! Oh, why didn't I space these children further apart in age? Not to have any break between driving lessons is just a heart attack waiting to happen.

Sandwiched in the middle of all this chaos (life) was a planned Fear Factor experience with the youth. Finally, a little time to turn the tables around and be the perpetrator of the fear! A little redemption was just what the doctor ordered.

I'm glad that I enjoyed it while it lasted because the next onset of fear came when I cleaned out Songbird's bookbag and found my make-up remover at the bottom of the bag. Dear Lord, can I please catch a little break here?

The answer to that prayer: a resounding no.

The very next day, a new fear. My hubby is put on a one week of rest per the doctor to help his fubar, I mean, aching back. I'm thankful, so thankful for that. Even thankful for the massive amounts of drugs he's on. It is seriously funny. But, yes, there in again lies the fear. Fear that a man who has done nothing but physical labor for twenty some years is going to really rest. Fear that his employer will say, "nice knowin' you."

So, if you don't mind, shoot up a prayer for me. A prayer to deal with the fear, to keep it in check. And, if you live in the KC metro area, you've been duly warned.

A Happy Valentine's Day

First, I'd like to say that traditionally Valentine's Day for us has been pretty much like every other day. My hubby always worked (was overworked) and we were always broke. And, while those two circumstances haven't really changed, this year is different. This year, he took the time to meet me for dinner on my lunch break. This year, he went out of his way. This year he thought about it ahead of time. This year he didn't just take the easy way out.

And guess what? It worked. I feel genuinely blessed to have him in my life.

Happy Valentine's Day!

The Dork Squad

I don't know how I got mixed up with this bunch; I was one of the cool kids. Of course, that was over 20 years ago and I'm not sure how much longer I can hang on to that reputation. Anyway, I'm beginning to feel a little like I'm in the land of misfit toys when it comes to my family.

Perhaps, a little explanation is in order. Over the summer we went to the lake with friends. Braveheart took one of the younger children aside when he needed to go pee. So, now they are forever know as "pee buddies." Which in and of itself is an endearing tale, but now, it's beginning to take on a life of it's own. For her 16th birthday, Braveheart has decided to order personalized license plates that say PBUDE. When I was 16, I would have sooner died then advertise this fact. I am further annoyed that I might actually drive this car with said license plates from time to time. And while having to go pee constantly after three children, or crossing my legs when I sneeze is a major part of my life now, I'm not ready for the PBUDE sign.

Secondly, I'm fairly certain that Prince Lawn Gnome has actually shaved part of his eyebrows. He vehemently denies doing such, but stubble is stubble. I'm not sure what he was thinking, but a monobrow is definitely growing in.

And now today, Songbird calls me at work with an "emergency." It seems that all three kids have locked themselves in the basement and cannot get out. Just how exactly do you lock yourself in the house? Long story short, they did. However, this still did not constitute an actual emergency in my book as they have a bathroom, two televisions, Internet access, every game system known to man, and a mini fridge fully stocked with pop, string cheese and an ample supply of Doritos. My response, "just wait till your Dad gets home."

I love these guys from the bottom of my heart, but truly sometimes I feel like the mom of the dork squad.

Wash and Wear or Underwear?

I swear to you that this actually happened. I am not making it up.

I decided to try a new salon that opened near my home. It's always a little scary trying out a new stylist. But, today I was feeling brave and thought "why not?" I was encouraged when I could walk right in no problems. The stylist was very friendly and listened intently to what I wanted. She did a very good job. She got it right. Cuddos on the haircut. Her personality was also very nice, but she didn't chit chat too much. I hate small talk. This was just the right amount. So far so good right?

Well, I started looking around the place and noticed that the updates to the building were a little shabby at best. This was not the work of a professional. Weekend warrior was more like it. The two preschool aged children of the stylist were also playing nearby. They were well behaved children and seemed to be very involved in some imaginary game. And, then I glanced over to the counter behind the register and there it was. I wasn't sure at first so I stared for a long time to be certain. It was a pair of little pink panties wadded up in a ball. They weren't folded as if they had come out of the laundry. Just wadded up... there on the counter... for all to see....

I thought about asking the stylist about them, but I didn't want to offend her. After all, my hair was still in her hands! I thought about mentioning it before I left. Certainly, she would be embarrassed and appalled. Certainly, this is not the image she wants to display to her clientele, but I chickened out. Not only did I chicken out, but I tipped her handsomely.

Now, I can't decide if I am appalled enough to look for another stylist or if I'm happy enough with the cut to give her another try. I'm looking for advice on this one. What would you do?

Where did all these kids come from?

I know for certain that I only birthed three, not all at once, thank you. Yet, somehow, more and more of them keep showing up. They wander in and out, in and out and in and out again. If you follow the trail of dishes and empty pop cans, you know exactly where they've been. My phone rings constantly! I don't even answer it anymore, I simply let it go to voice mail.

One of these extras has actually taken to calling me "mom." Several have spent the night so many times that I don't even bother to make sure that they have pillows and blankets. (They should know where they are by now.) It's not unusual to find extra clothing in the laundry. Clothes that I am positive look familiar, but don't actually belong to anyone in this household. I find this particularly insulting as my laundry mountain is tall enough. I don't need any help in this department.

But, the latest and somewhat disturbing trend, is that I am actually losing sleep over other people's children. Awhile back, I mentioned to my hubby that I would like to adopt another child. He wasn't thrilled. He hasn't said no, but he hasn't said yes either. He really hasn't said much of anything. And, now, I'm beginning to think that my life is being filled with all these teenagers that need a surrogate mom for a reason. There are a lot of them and their problems are real. They make me thankful that my own kids are late bloomers.

I'm trying to wrap my brain around it. I'm trying to wrap my heart around it. If I give up the dream of enlarging my family, will that hole somehow be filled? Can it really be the same? Is influence given in bits and pieces the same as raising a child completely?

Love is in the air...

I can honestly say that yesterday I was a wedding crasher! Never thought I'd do that. I debate long and hard over going to weddings of those I do know, much less someone I've never even met before. Weddings just aren't my thing. Now a good reception... that's another story. In fact, I think that's when the whole wedding scene started turning sour for me... dry receptions. I mean what's the point?

So, just why would I crash a wedding? Let's just say... love was in the air. I innocently went to church and part of the service was a chance for all married couples to renew their vows. My husband is always off doing tech support so I was surprised when he was waiting for me at the front of the church! Yes, there were tears in both our eyes. It's amazing how much more those vows mean when you know the full extent of them.

To have and to hold... despite times of tiredness
For richer for poorer... how about for poorer or poorer
In sickness and in health... we're getting older and just really facing sickness head on
In good times and in bad... it depends on how you look at them
As long as you both shall live... if even out of nothing but pure stubbornness!

Yes, those vows mean a lot more now.

Well, I was all caught up in the moment, feeling loved and feeling blessed to have such a great hubby. That's when they announced that there would be a wedding of a young couple directly after the service and we could stay if we wanted to. Just one week ago they were merely living together and now they wanted to make it official before God and everyone. They didn't want to wait and prolong the process. The marriage was the important thing, not the wedding. It was romantic! (Remember romance?) And, yes, I cried. I cried and cried and when will I learn to carry some Kleenex in that over sized purse of mine?

Oh, and how young they looked. They looked really, really young. Did we look that young? We must have. There is something completely endearing about the hopefulness of young newlyweds. Their biggest assets are determination and love. What else do they need? Yes, love is in the air...

Helpful hints from Urgent Care...

I would like to start by saying that I, too, have had my freak out moments as a mom. Yes, I am guilty of going to the PCP (with my firstborn, Braveheart) for ridiculous reasons. So, yes, I understand. I know that sometimes completely rational people lose all common sense when it comes to your children and illness. However, I cannot survive another flu season in the urgent care without passing along some helpful hints.

First of all, I guarantee that your child's fever is NOT 108 degrees.

Second, please plan to spend at least 3 hours in the urgent care. This is a normal amount of time. If you get out sooner then consider yourself lucky! This is flu season people, everyone is sick. You will not be bumped ahead of other families because you are "just waiting for strep results." So is everyone else. You are not special today.

If you come to Urgent Care every week, then it is probably because you are repeatedly exposing your child to a million germs in the waiting room every week.

Please, I beg you, do not hand your insurance card to your coughing, runny nosed child and then tell them to hand it to "the nice lady." The nice lady is trying very hard not to be sick too. Her hands are dry and cracking due to all the hand washing.

When your child presents with vomiting, you should bring a bowl or bag of some sort to avoid the upchuck scene at the front desk. I often wonder, didn't they take a bowl in the car? Weren't you worried that your child would throw up on the upholstery? Seriously, am I the only mom that assigns a bowl to any queasy child? The designated bowl goes where you go.

WHEW! That about covers it for now. I do have to say that for the most part, parents out there are great. Nice, polite, and simply doing the right thing in making sure that their child is going to be okay. I understand, I really do. I think I must just deal with an abnormal amount of parents that fall under the "don't have a clue" category. They don't call it a compassion crisis for nothing. I will definitely work on that.

Who are you, really?

I'm beginning to wonder if it's possible to ever really know a person. For that matter, is it really ever possible to honestly know yourself, to be objective? It seems that we go to great lengths to portray who we want to be, or who we want others to think we are.

Exhibit A: The following entry made by a friend's husband on his web acct, "I do my own laundry and believe that housework is family work. Not women's work or skirt work. It's easier to help around the house then to lay around and complain about it." I think he forgot that there are those of us who know better. There are those of us who have lived through the trials and tribulations his wife has suffered in the long journey to housework self discovery. However, I am encouraged by this remark as it is proof that you can teach an old dog new tricks!

Exhibit B: The insane cleaning frenzy that occurs before company comes over. If you haven't seen the clean version of the oceangypsy house in awhile then consider yourself elevated to true friend status. You no longer qualify as company.

Exhibit C: Dressing up for church on Sunday morning. I would love to show up in my pajamas, slippers, no make-up and an IV pole with a direct line for the caffeine. (This could be a great social experiment.)

Exhibit D: An oceangypsymom stuck in the middle of the midwest. Where's the water? Where's the beach? Brad Paisley said it best, "I'm so much cooler online."

For the Underdogs...

Watching the Superbowl today, I realized how much I love the underdogs. I can't help it. Come to think of it, I think we are predisposed to root for them. There should be an underdog hall of fame. The Little Engine that Could... underdog, The Pokey Little Puppy.... underdog, Clark Kent.... underdog, Cinderella... underdog, The Beaver... underdog, The Chicago Bears... always the underdog, The Cubs... again, always the underdog... and now living in KC, the Chiefs, who define the meaning of underdog. And, didn't you hate it when poor Fredo gets whacked in the Godfather? Poor Fredo, he was definitely an underdog. How about ordinary, working class folks that win the lotto? Oh, yes, and Rocky! Can't forget Rocky! And now, Kurt Warner, gotta love him.

So, here's to all the underdogs out there (lift your virtual margarita's high) I salute you!