I wanna be a dad!!

Ok, not really. I am getting ready for this trip, and it is a ton of work. Not only do I have to get my stuff washed and packed, all my paperwork in order, have everything caught up at my job, and make sure that my credit card is active, I also have to get everything ready for the kids.

Without a note on every surface to remind Marty that Colby must have his antibiotic every 12 hours, it will never cross his mind, and Colby will end up with pneumonia.

The kids are staying at my moms on Saturday night and going to church with her on Sunday, so I have to go ahead and pack their suitcases, too. (With a note taped on top to not forget the antibiotic that is in the fridge.) Because if I do not, Colby will end up at my moms with a diaper bag full of wipes and two diapers, and they will both have shorts and sweaters to wear to church.

I have to remember to put a check for Elizabeth's lunch next week in her backpack tomorrow after school, or she will get a note home about how we owe lunch money. I don't think Marty even knows that we have to pay for lunch.

I am purposely making sure that we run out of bread before I leave. Marty thinks that peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are an acceptable meal... three times a day. (Of course, Elizabeth would be in heaven, because she thinks the same thing.) I am 98% sure that he will not attempt to go to the store "with both children...????" Oh the horror!!! I am pretty sure that he is pretty sure that it cannot be done.

I have already asked my mom to give them a bath on Sunday, because that would never occur to him either.

I wonder if I die, will he adapt?? Will he learn to do these things?? And I am aggravated at myself for enabling him to be lazy when it comes to childcare duties. He is GREAT at playing with them. He is just not good when it comes to general maintenance.

In fact, he keeps forgetting that I am leaving. I heard him on the phone the other night making plans to go fishing on Saturday. I poked him on the shoulder and made "I can't believe how dumb you are" hand motions. "Dammit!! I can't go!! I forgot my wife is going to be out of town!"

And then today at lunch he said, "I think I am going to Lake Greeson to visit dad tomorrow."

queue hand motions.

"What?? You aren't leaving until tomorrow night!!"

Frantic, spastic hand motions, coupled with dirty looks.

"Ummm.... I mean.... you aren't leaving... ummm... when are you leaving??"

Exasperated sigh. "Saturday morning. We are getting up at 3AM... remember??"

"Then I can definitely go to dads.... right??"

NO!!! NO!!! NO!!!

Tomorrow is my day. I am going to get a haircolor and I am going shopping by myself. I remind him of this for the 97th time. He is to pick up Elizabeth at school at 3pm, and then go get Colby. And then cook dinner. And then play with the children while I go to bed early for my flight...

I guess I maybe should be a little more specific...

Dear Marty:

Elizabeth is our daughter. She is the taller of the two children that reside in our house. Her bedroom is the last door in the hall. You will know it from all the polly pockets in the floor and the pink netting above the bed. Colby is not to play in Elizabeth's room.

Colby is our son, and the shorter of the two. He doesn't talk very well, so you may have to interpret his sign language. If he throws a cup at you, he is not being mean, he is just thirsty. His room the first one on the right. (Not the left, to the left is the Laundry Room... I know, that confused you, right? The Laundry Room is that room to the left that you may have never noticed before. It has two big white boxes in there. They are the magic boxes that get your clothes clean. Do not attempt to figure out the white boxes. Stick to rebuilding boat motors... the white boxes are way too complicated for you.)

Elizabeth (the taller one) goes to KINDERGARTEN. She knows where it is... if you get lost, just ask her for directions. She must arrive there at 7:50, and if you are late, you will have to go in and give a reason for your tardiness. Do not be late. There is a clock in the Durango. It is on the thing that plays our CD's.

Colby (the boy, you can determine this by checking his diaper... he has a penis. It is smaller than yours.) (must not make obvious joke here...) goes to daycare. He will cry when you take him in. This is normal. Do not panic. You must pack him a lunch. His lunch is already in the fridge, with his name (Colby) written on it. All you have to do is remember to put his lunch in the durango when you leave the house, and then take it to his teacher when you get to daycare. You will know who the teacher is because she is MUCH TALLER than all the other humans in the room. However, she will still be shorter than you. Do not let this fool you. Get down on your knees if you must to verify who the tallest one in the room is.

Both children, the boy and the girl, must eat three times (or more) a day. They are not like the fish that can apparently go for days with out food. Do not feed the children fish food.

Colby, the boy, wears diapers. You will have to "change" diapers. Instructions for changing diapers are on the changing table. (That is the big table in his room - the first room on the right.)

Elizabeth, the girl, is potty trained. She does not need help in the bathroom. It is ok for her to shut the door. I promise she is not cooking meth or going to flood the bathroom with shampoo if you leave her alone in the bathroom.

Colby has no reason to ever be in the bathroom. Ever. Keep this door shut, even when it is not in use.

Children need more sleep than you do. Their bedtime is 9:00. They get up early. You MUST get up when they do. This is non-negotiable. They cannot be allowed to roam unsupervised through the house. They will need to eat. (see above.) If you do not get up when they do, they could attempt to feed themselves. This is NOT GOOD. I have told Elizabeth to wake you up when she wakes up. Please listen to her....

See how complicated this is?? Maybe I should just stay home...?

Nahhhhhh!!

Sundays with Marty

I am leaving on Saturday morning for a fun filled weekend in Washington DC with some of my favorite people. However, getting to DC from Arkadelphia, Arkansas requires a plane ride... well, four planes to be exact.

The last time I flew, I was 18 years old and I thought it was the coolest thing ever. We landed in Dallas in the middle of a thunderstorm and had to circle endlessly for the storm to pass before we could land. I was leaning with my forehead against my window, "oohhhh"ing and "ahhhhh"ing and gasping with delight at every lightning bolt, until the lady beside me grabbed my arm maniacally and said, "FOR GOD'S SAKE will you SHUT that GODFORSAKEN blind?!?!?!?!" I complied, grumpily, simply because she looked as if she might have a stroke at any minute. If she had been younger and healthier, I would have said, "Look lady. When I bought my ticket, I paid for a window seat. If you wanted to control the blinds, maybe YOU should have bought a window seat. As it stands now, I am in charge of the window, and you are in charge of the isle." But that seems awfully childish.

So anyway, I bought four more window seats for this trip. But the closer it gets to Saturday morning, the more panicky I get.

My husband has a fear of flying, as does the rest of my family. The following is a conversation we had last Sunday night:

Natalie: Oh, by the way, I talked to mom and Phyllis and if I die in a fiery plane crash, they are going to come over every Sunday and lay out the kids clothes. (Marty has ZERO fashion sense)

Marty: Shut up. I am not listening to this.

Natalie: You need to listen!! How do you know what is going to happen when I die, if you don't listen!

Marty: Shut. UP.

Natalie: Seriously, what if the plane crashes and I am in a coma, the only survivor. Do I want to be kept alive or not?

Marty: I am not kidding. I am going to leave in five minutes if you do not shut up with this morbid bullshit.

Natalie: What about my funeral? What about the insurance money? What kind of coffin do I want, considering there is enough of my body recovered to necessitate a coffin?

Marty: *expletives removed*

Natalie: Seriously!! I am not trying to wig you out, we just need to talk about it!! (even though I am totally just trying to wig him out. Heck, I will be in Heaven - right, God? - and I don't care what they do at my funeral.) (except for that song that Tasha is going to sing.)

Marty: FINE!! Where the HELL do you want to be buried??

Natalie: Buried? Who the hell cares?? From what I hear, the view will be the same for me no matter if I am in Bismarck or Arkadelphia or Costa Rica.

Then Marty seems to be pondering something....

Marty: So if you die, and I live another 70 years, then how am I buried??

Natalie: Well lets say, we were married 11 years, and I died in a fiery plane crash. You and the children mourn me for 15 years (an appropriate amount of time - plus the kids will be nearly grown and won't be up for calling some other slut "Mommy") and then you get remarried and are married 11 years to that old hag, technically, you could be buried in the middle of both your wives.

Marty starts to grin.

Natalie: HOWEVER, do NOT even THINK about it. I will not spend eternity as your left hand wife.

Marty: Then I will bury you on the right side.

ass.

queue "Dueling Banjos"

I am sure that I mentioned before that I live in rural Arkansas. Contrary to popular belief, most people in Arkansas do own cars, many pairs of shoes, and have indoor plumbing. I have never used an outhouse. Ever. But today, I got a reminder of how redneck we really are around here.

This morning, I went outside to dispose of a bag of trash, and to my surprise, this rooster was in my breezeway. Now, when I say breezeway, most of you probably think of something that would have been in Gone With The Wind: a completely finished porchy type area with painted wooden floors, plants and flowers all around, a small table, (complete with a pitcher of tea and an ice bucket) and many vintage white rockers... Our breezeway? Not so much. We do have a table and chairs, but they are completely covered in stuff. Everything that we do not want in the house ends up in the breezeway. Right now, even Colby's crib is out there. (Because we took it apart and got him a twin bed, not because we make him sleep out there as a form of punishment.) It is complete with green indoor / outdoor carpeting, and many, many leaves - because my husband never shuts the damn doors.

Also, we take our trash out and put it in the corner until we can get to the landfill. (Sorry, no trash pickup out here... yes, again: rednecks.) We do this because if we put it anywhere else, the neighborhood dogs will decorate our yard with soiled diapers and empty cereal boxes.

So anyway, I am taking out the trash, and here is this rooster. I have this thing about birds... I don't like them very much. I think it is the feet. Just looking at the rooster's feet make me queasy. And his little beady eyes. But really, as far as roosters go, this is a pretty one. But I don't want him in my breezeway.

I open both exterior doors and go back in the house. Two hours later, I go back out and he is still there. Looking at me. Clucking deep in his little rooster throat. I decide enough is enough. I convince him to leave. (Convincing involves waving my arms frantically and running back and forth through the breezeway, while screeching, "Go on!! Go home rooster!! Get out of here!! Go!!")

Miraculously, it works. I am triumphant at my rooster rounding skills... for about one minute. Then I hear the rooster screeching and squawking, and a huge ruckus in my backyard.

My dog, Cassie, and the neighbors dog, Oreo, are trying to kill the rooster.

I stand there, horrified, watching the show and trying to decide what to do. As much as I want to go back inside and watch Blues Clues with the kids, I can't do it. This is all my fault. I evicted that rooster from the safe confines of my breezeway and literally threw him to the dogs. I must save him. It is the morally correct thing to do.

So, I run outside, barefooted, in my blue pajama pants with the clouds, and my gray Old Navy flag shirt circa 1999 and no freaking bra. I grab a stick and start waving it frantically around the dogs, yelling, "Cassie!! NO NO!! Oreo!! STOP!! Put the chicken down!! We don't eat chicken!! Well... not with feathers anyway!! STOP!!! OREO!! I am not kidding!! DROP the chicken!! Cassie, get DOWN!!!"

We run the length of my yard, and into my neighbors yard. Oreo has the squawking, pissed off rooster in his mouth and is prancing around like he just won the canine lotto. Cassie just keeps jumping up and snapping at the roosters tail.

I finally slam the stick on the ground right beside Oreo, and it startles him enough that he did drop the rooster. The rooster flapped away the best he could and both dogs stayed with me.

I hope that this ordeal doesn't apply to that old Chinese saying about when you save a life it is your responsibility forever, because I don't want a rooster's well being on my conscious for eternity.

Prostate Troubles??

I heard on the radio last week that Rob Lowe turned 42 years old... how can that even be possible?? When I was a pre-teenager, and he played Billy in St. Elmo's Fire... ahhhh, he fueled my adolescent know-nothing-about-sex fantasies... in other words, we walked many a beach, holding hands. Kissing, with no tongue. Such nice fantasies, only to find out later that he was making creepy porn tapes with underage girls... *sigh* Poor Rob.

It is funny, apparently I am a wee bit OCD or something, because every time I hear how old someone is, I have to work out the numbers in my head. Like, when I was born, Rob was 10. My Dad was 20. When I saw him in St. Elmo's Fire the first time, I was 13, and he was 23. And when I was 23, he was a little older than I am now, which made him 33, and he was in an acting slump, playing only TV movies. When I am his age, 42, he will be 52. My children will be 16 and 12. I will be suicidal... and it will be here before I know it. Heck, it has been 20 years since I saw him in St. Elmo's Fire to start with.

It's hard for me to believe I have been alive long enough to remember things that happened 20 years ago... But sadly, I do remember.

Twenty years ago, I got my period.
Twenty years ago, The Challenger exploded.
Twenty years ago, I graduated from 6th Grade.
Twenty years ago, I wore make-up for the first time.
Twenty years ago, the top movies were Top Gun, Platoon, Ferris Buellers Day Off, and the Karate Kid.

Wax on, wax off Danielson. Wax on...

character flaws

If I could change one thing about my personality, I would love to be more patient. My impatience gets on MY nerves, much less poor Marty's!

Slow drivers make me want to just knock them off the road. People who STOP to make a right hand turn on to another street, or people who don't wait their turn at 4-way intersections... uggg... don't even get me started.

And it gets worse than that. I can get the dumbest idea in my head, like how all of a sudden I have GOT to have the newest hand sanitizer from Bath and Body (an hour away) or I get my Hallmark Gold Crown reward check in the mail for $2.00 or I decide that Colby has to have a new outfit for an event two weeks away, and I want to go to Hot Springs RIGHT THEN. THAT DAY. And Marty will say something stupid like, "Why don't we wait until tomorrow and then we can get hair appointments, too?" Because!! My hands need to be sanitized!! Don't you get it???? And I will sull up and be mad, and end up getting my way like a spoiled brat. I don't know why I am this way. I can assure you that it is NOT because I got my way growing up... NEVER. Maybe thats why. Now that I am an adult, I want to make up for all those years of never getting my way... HA!

The latest thing is that my friend Precie emailed me and said that Family Fun magazine actually published Elizabeth's picture and my letter. Can you believe it????? I have been beside myself. Of course, here in Podunkredneckville, it is not out on the stands yet. I have made a trip to Hot Springs, one to Little Rock and THREE TRIPS a freaking DAY to Walmart. And that stupid boy with that stupid red ball on the March cover keeps grinning that stupid grin at me, as if to say, "April isn't here yet!! haha!! See you this afternoon, you loser!" When I made the 49th trip to Walmart today, I just got so aggravated. My aunt said, "Well, it looks like it is not out yet." and I wanted to scream, "NO SHIT!!" since this was the 57th store we stopped at... But I didn't say anything.

So my thinking is, there has to be a way to make some sort of Patience Pill... I mean seriously, there are pills for sad people, pills for manic people, pills for fat people, pills for people with penile problems, pills for forgetfulness, pills for concentration, pills for people who are shy in social situations... why isn't there a pill that will make me more patient and kind?

WeeeeWeeeeWeeee!!!

My little piggy had her stage debut last week.

I always get weepy at little kids events. I don't know why seeing a group of 4 year olds twirling on stage, or a 6 year old up at bat makes me so emotional, but it does. I don't even have to know the kids. It is just all that promise and pride and joy wrapped up in those teeny bodies.

Anyway, the musical was called "E-I-E-I- OOPS!!!" about a cow that won't moo. All the barnyard animals try to make him moo, and he refuses. My daughter was in the pig chorus, singing "Ham it up!" She had a tiny solo in the song, too.

On Thursday, Marty forgot to charge up the video camera. No big deal, we will tape the Friday performance...

We get there 45 minutes early to set up a good camera spot on Friday. Get the tripod all ready and I have THREE batteries charged up. You can never be too safe, right?

Well, Marty is taping and the kids are singing and mom is weeping and little Elizabeth gets up for her solo part and does perfectly, and goes back to her spot and I hear Marty say, "uh-oh." I ask him what, and he shakes his head frantically at me.

I find out after the play that he decided to be a modern day Stephen Spielberg, and try to do something stupid like zoom in while Elizabeth sang her part. Unfortunately, when he went to pan back out, he realized that somewhere while zooming in, he hit the Standby button.

So we now have a perfect copy of her play, with her solo neatly edited out. One more thing for her to hate us for when we get old.

But isn't she the cutest thing???

"I don't want fishies in my salad!!" said Natalie, age 2

A couple of years ago, my friend Misty took me to the Macaroni Grill. I had never been before, and it instantly became my favorite restaurant. (Thank goodness it is over an hour away, or I would weigh 300 pounds!!)

I loved their Caesar Salad. Up till that point, I had been a Ranch only kind of girl. But Caesar was good!! Then I found out that Caesar was low carb, and that made it even better.

So I have been eating Caesar salads for a year at least, and loving them. Cheap, because you just need some kind of lettuce, and Parmesan cheese, and I usually add some chicken or turkey. Yum, yum, yum.

So another friend and I went out to eat the other day and I ordered a salad with Caesar dressing, and she gagged. "How can you eat that crap??"

"It's good!!" I argued. "Tastes about like ranch, but with less carbs."

"Yes, and with a bunch of ground up fish. Barf." she said.

"Fish?? HAHAHAHA!! Are you nuts??? It doesn't have FISH in it!!"

She proceeds to tell me that Caesar dressing is made with ground up anchovies. I did not believe her. I thought she was insane. Until I went to the dressing isle at Brookshires and checked the ingredients on every single Caesar bottle.

Uggg. It IS made with anchovies.

Now suddenly, it tastes weird to me. Marty thinks I am insane. If I liked it before, I should still like it, right?

But I find myself wondering if they left the little eyeballs in there, and bones and small intestines... I don't want to eat fish eyes, or fish poop.

(I feel even sicker after google-ing anchovy pictures...)

four things that make me insane...

(there are WAY more than four, but these are on my mind today...)

1. When "people"* borrow my durango because they don't want to drive their shitty truck, and they take out whatever cool cd I was listening to so that they can put in their own lame cd. Wouldn't be so bad, if they would put my cool cd either:

a) In the magical handy case that came free to protect the cd when I bought it, or;
b) In the travel carry case that I keep in the passenger seat of the car for this express purpose.

Instead, these "people"* just toss my cd in the air and let it land where it may. I am missing my four favorite cd's right now. And I am not amused.

2. Other drivers. I want my own lane. If I am this cranky now about other drivers, I can't imagine how I am going to be in another 20 years. I think you should have to retake your driver's test every time you go to renew your license. Seriously. I know the rules of the road and I want to smash into people who do not drive correctly. Like me. And don't pull out in front of me, unless you intend on speeding away because you are being trailed by the cops, or your wife.

3. Water Saver Toilets. If there is one thing in my house that I do NOT want to preserve energy, it would be the toilet. When you flush my toilet, there is a small trickle of water, and most of what is in the bowl swirls around a little bit. I HATE PLUNGING.

My dad's house was built by a plumber. You must get off of the toilet before you flush, or your butt will suction to the seat by the force of the water shooting out of the house. You might even have to call the fire department to bring in the jaws of life. That guy knew what the hell he was doing. No self respecting plumber would use a water saver toilet.

My house must have been built by a bulimic.

4. Shopping. I really do not enjoy shopping. I don't like trying on clothes. I don't like picking out birthday presents. I do, however, like to buy cards. Is it cool with everyone if I just send you all really nice, heartfelt cards for every occasion?? If you think about it, it really is a better gift than anything else I could give you. Say for instance that I come to your wedding shower (misty, nicole) and I bring you a toaster. And on my way home, I die. It is going to be hard for you to use that toaster without thinking of me. You will want to return it to ease your pain, but guilt will not let you. After all, it is the last gift I bought you. So, for years you will be stuck looking at a toaster and being unable to use it.

Now, if I just bring a nice card to the shower, and then die on the way home, you can say, "Wow. How lucky am I that Natalie poured her heart out to me in this card right before she died. I am going to stick it in my bible and read it when times are hard." And that is the end of it. You can remember me when you need to, instead of my memory being tied up in a household appliance.

So, cards. Suprise!!

* "people" as in my husband, Marty the careless CD bandit.

searching for tyffani...

What the heck ever happened to teenage babysitters?

I was thinking about that this weekend before calling my mom to see if she would babysit (for the millionth time) so that Marty and I could go and see my friends' band. We have been trying to go and see them play for weeks, and it just never seems to work out. This time was no exception, as Colby got sick as a dog on Saturday morning, running a high, stubborn fever.... but i digress...

Back when I was a teenager, locking in the good babysitting jobs was crucial. The competition was fierce. There were tons of girls my age that babysat on the weekends. For me, it was critical. My parents would buy me the necessary clothing, but off of the clearance rack at walmart. If I wanted to dress better than that, I had to buy my own clothes. I babysat every weekend for 2 months to buy a pair of Guess Jeans that I ended up wearing until the whole leg ripped out from dryrot or something when I sat down at lunch one day.

I never found a "perfect" babysitting job. Contrary to what the media presents to us, parents know when their kids are absolute shits. The worse the kid, the better the pay. One couple that I babysat for once a month had two kids that were absolutely impossible. They would lock themselves in the bathroom, kick me when I tried to make them mind, and on occasion even cussed at me. They would barricade themselves on their beds and throw sharp objects at my head when I would plead with them that it was bedtime. The minute their parents walked in the door, they would start sobbing and hugging them. The parents always paid me $75... no matter how long they were gone. It was worth every bruise. You always knew the Golden Rule of babysitting too: When the mom asked, "How were they?" you would smile, wipe your bloody nose and say, "Awwww! They are such sweethearts! We had the best time! They really played hard though, so hopefully they will sleep well for you!"

Then there were the jobs where the kids were perfect angels. They would cuddle with you at bedtime while you read them stories, and sit in your lap quietly while they watched Sesame Street. And their parents knew they were angels and would pay you $20 for 12 hours.

If another sitter tried to horn in on your good job, you might drop a hint the next time you saw the parents that they got caught doing something horrible in school. Or you might recommend them to the Angel parents so that they would be tied up the next time the Devil Spawns needed a sitter.

I babysat from the time I was 14 until I was 8 months pregnant with Elizabeth when I was 25. Obviously I had a "real job" by then, but I would keep the kids I really liked, and not worry about the money.

But somewhere, they all disappeared. I know lots and lots of teenagers, and none of them have ever babysat anyone but their own siblings. I wonder why that is? Part of me thinks it is because they simply don't have to. Because none of the teenagers that I know WANT for anything. They have all the cds, and cell phones, and cool clothes.

It kind of sucks. So I guess I will keep asking my mom, every time. You would think with 4 grandfathers and 3 1/2 grandmothers, we would have plenty of sitters, but that is SO not the case!!

Of course, my kids are Angels. And I would pay really, really well for a good babysitter...

Rose Ceremony...

Normally, I am a fan of reality TV, not that I get to watch much TV lately. But I have never seemed to really catch on to The Bachelor.

I am the oddball in my circle of friends and family, because they live for Bachelor nights. I tried this year to get into it, I really did. I was tired of feeling left out of all the conversations.

The first night, I literally caught myself with my head under the covers on the couch, horrified for these women. They seem to be attractive, well-groomed, intelligent women, and yet they are completely degrading themselves and making asses of themselves to attract the attention of the lone guy on the show. I was totally embarrassed for them. And by the second night, it was even worse. They had known Travis for what?? A week? And they were already proclaiming that they were falling head over heels in love with him and would DIE if he did not give them a rose... *barf*

I did not watch it anymore until Monday nights decision. And then Moana's limo suicidal breakdown made me want to push her out of the limo and put a merciful end to her suffering.

How can these women be so pathetic?? I don't get it.

The thing is, women are naturally catty. (come on, admit it. You know its true.) and they are naturally competitive and always want to have one up on the competition.

I sincerely think that my husband, with his beer belly, noxious farts, and poor table manners could get on there and they would be fighting over his ass, too. I have to convince myself that it all boils down to a competition.

Because if they are really sincerely falling in love with these guys after 2 chaperoned group dates, then there must be something wrong with me.

Oh, and did anyone notice how Moana's nipple kept peeking out of her dress?? LMAO!! Poor Moana.

photo courtesy of ABC.com. Used without permission.