So last week I noticed an odor hovering around my sink. Have you ever been in a conversation with someone with REALLY, really bad breath? Imagine that times 12. I figured it must mean some food particles had gotten down the drain so I washed out the sinks, and I poured vinegar down the pipes, and I, well  that’s all I knew to do. And it didn’t help. Then I spotted my teapot sitting in the window sill. See, occasionally when I’m done washing a platter, a large bowl, my TEAPOT, instead of walking it over to the cabinet which is located about 3 feet way, I put it in the windowsill to dry. Only this time I skipped a step. It might not have been so bad, but it wasn’t just tea that had been in the pot, it was CHAI.

Imagine bad breath, the worst bathroom you’ve ever visited and that smell that happens when your dog rolls in something dead all mixed together. This was worse.

I really hope she is paying attention when her FATHER is in the kitchen cause she’s learning nothing good from me.

I may not be completely healed yet from this fear thing. On Thursday I flew to Florida. It’s been well-documented here that I have a fear of flying. Okay, fear of crashing, fear of smashing into the ocean, fear of being eaten by sharks, fear of…you get the idea. But I am trying to recognize when I’m heading down the old, fearful path. I’m sorry to say, I’m starting to see familiar signs.

Question 1: When flying, does EVERYONE leave the spare key to the car out in a prominent place so their spouse can find the vehicle at the airport in case they don’t make it back? If not, why are you so RUDE? Do you know how much a spare costs now days?

Question 2: Am I the ONLY one that writes a sweet, poignant paragraph in my journal on the day I’m leaving in case I die so the pastor will have something to read as in, “On her last day, she was only thinking of others when she wrote, “I hope I can bring joy to everyone I meet today”? In reality, I can be sure I will die on the Sunday I write, “this is a boring sermon, I’m distracted, the guy in front of me looks like Sean Cassidy, hubba hubba.” Although that would make the funeral way more interesting.

Question 3: Have you ever Googled “Can you have a stroke without realizing it”? Well, you CAN. So perhaps THAT explains something you’ve been doing. Who’s crazy now? I just diagnosed your problem!

Whatever, so I’m crazy. Deal with it. I’m not the only one. John told me on this trip who he wants to conduct his funeral. I only have TWO wishes upon my death. If I write them now, I won’t have to leave instructions every time I leave to do something dangerous and crazy like flying Jet Blue.

1. Upon my death, no one is allowed in my house until my mother has had three days to clean, hide and destroy. She’ll know WHAT when she sees it.

2. Pictorial slideshows are permitted, but under no circumstances may my brother and sister be allowed to choose the photographs. I don’t want a twenty minute display of college debauchery and spring-break shenanigans for the world to see. Not that there are any photos of stuff like that. (Mom, see #1).

In a totally unrelated note, I hope my prayer group can get together this week. Some people have real issues.

What can I tell you? This has been a CRAZY week. Work/school/Valentines have undone us. If my mother loved me at all, she’d come clean this mess. And the one in the spare bedroom. And do the laundry. Why, Mom? Why don’t you love me??

Did I mention there’s a yard sale this weekend? Not that you can go, you’ll be busy cleaning, but I promise to keep a look out for anything you might like.

Yesterday, I took my McSkanky self down to the post office. I don’t use the word “skanky” lightly. I’ll be honest, we’d been celebrating the MoonPie’s birth for several days and frankly, a shower was just too much to ask. But it didn’t MATTER that my hair was uncombed and thrown up into a plastic clip from the 80’s. Sure I was renewing my passport, but I was armed with two, heavily retouched photographs courtesy of my husband. Imagine my delight when they told me that the photographs would not work, and that I needed to have my picture taken right then and there! Awesome. I mean, passports are only good for TEN years. What’s the worst that can happen?

If you really want to know how you look, have your photo taken by your local postal worker. against a plain, white wall under fluorescent lighting. Cool!

Wow, look at that beautiful contrast between the top of my head and the ends. And, ummm…these are the ones JD took where I had actually FIXED my hair. The ones the post office took are much WORSE.

I called my hair-dresser, Steven, and begged him to fit me in. Actually  I told him that I was walking around telling everyone that he’s responsible for my hair, and he rushed me right over. When he looked up my color in his files, turns out that I hadn’t been in to see him in over FIVE MONTHS.

I couldn’t believe it had been so long, but the photo doesn’t lie. I swore to Steven that I’d never wait over 12 weeks again.

Then he presented me with the bill. $155.00!

So long sucker, I’ll see him in June!

A couple of years ago I began Weight Watchers. And while the weight didn’t drop off quickly, I did eventually get really, really skinny. So skinny in fact that my Father-in-law pulled me aside and asked me if I’d been sick. Ahhh. Good times.

Slowly but surely I began to gain back the weight. That’s when a few friends confided that they had thought all along that I’d  gotten tooooo skinny. As one friend said, “I didn’t say anything cause I knew you thought you looked great, but you didn’t.” My friends are wonderful, they can tell me I’m egotistical AND ugly in one sentence. So now, I’m here.

Wow, they were right. I look so much BETTER. At least no one is going to accuse me of being sick.

No matter what you wear, you look good in it – IF you are 19 and skinny.  I am neither.  I am way neither. Yet, ever the optimist, I decided to make a quick trip into the store to find something to wear to Thanksgiving dinner at the in-laws. By “store”, I mean the ever-fashionable, oh-so-economically-priced WalMart.

Surprisingly, I found my choices limited. I wasn’t looking for anything special, it only had to meet two criteria. One, it had to be LOOSE enough to hide my stomach, and Two, it had to be LONG enough to hide my butt. After much searching, I found a semi-cute number that I thought might do, all for the low, low price of $9.00.

My husband, took one look at it, and did this:

*Not my real husband. My real husband was crying much harder.

Sigh. So I looked like a tent, big deal. Okay, an OLD tent dressing in canvas way to young for her. How was I to know? It wasn’t like I bought just anything off the rack, I went with a real DESIGNER.

Maybe I should have bought the hat, too. That could have pulled the whole look together for me.

And I bought this one to be my protector when the hubby is out of town.

A friend mentioned that her husband had a delicious peanut-butter protein shake for breakfast, so I decided to make one. I mean, it’s just peanut butter, protein powder, and milk. How hard can it be?

I’m glad he didn’t have spaghetti for lunch.

We’re part-time homeschoolers.  The Moonpie goes half of the time to a Christian school that sets the curriculm and outline, and we teach the other half. This ensures that she spends at least two days being taught in a grace-filled environment where she can be free to learn at her own pace. I do the other three days.

Because homeschoolers can’t pass any type of educational aid without buying it, we have cd’s, books, maps, puzzles, flash cards, science kits and poster board from one end of our house to the other. It’s because I love my daughter so much, that I can’t be bothered with keeping our living room clean, not when there’s so much to learn.

Now if I could only explain the bathroom. Biology experiment?

I got my second rejection letter today.

Thank you for your recent query.  Unfortunately, I feel that in today’s market, I cannot take on projects unless I feel strongly about them. I’m sorry to say that it didn’t happen with this one. This, of course, is just my opinion and others may feel differently.
I wish you the best of luck with all your publishing endeavors.

Sincerely,

Kate McKean
Howard Morhaim Literary Agency, Inc.

Ouch. Why didn’t she just draw a picture of my heart with a knife in it? These rejections are getting worse. By the time this is over, I’ll just get responses that say, “You, published? Hahahahahahahaha!”

They’ll be sorry one day when all the young people get tired of vampires and zombies and are looking for heartwarming stories about 13 year old girls in Zollicoffer. And the Civil War.

New Yorkers. Pfffftttt!