Maybe it will be the next Olympic sport

We went out to eat tonight, and of course we had to make a trip to the potty while at the restaurant.

So, Kaitlyn and I are in the stall, and she does her business, and I get her off the potty to help her wipe. I'm not sure why, but she finds the wiping part to be hilarious. She laughs - every time.

Tonight she was giggling, and it was that contagious type of giggle. There we were in the stall, both of us cracking up, but me trying to maintain my composure because I am, after all, the mom. Isn't potty training supposed to be serious business?

Meanwhile, in the midst of our giggling, more people have come into the bathroom. I wonder what they must have thought of us.

Me: Kaitlyn - stop it. [giggle] I have to wipe you.

K: [laughing hysterically]

Me: Kaitlyn! I mean it! [laughing] I have wipe you, and we have to change your pull-up.

K: [more hysterical laughter]

At this point she was doubled over in laughter.

You have to picture this - I'm squatting and trying to maintain my balance, while also fumbling with a diaper (I accidentally grabbed a diaper instead of a pull-up) and trying to put it on Kaitlyn. She is bent over, with her little bare butt in the air, giggling and squirming around.

What a sight!

That's when a tragedy occurred - she bumped her head on the floor, and then, of course, the dramatic laughter turned to dramatic crying.

The only thing more difficult than trying to put a diaper on a doubled-over, laughing two-year-old is trying to put a diaper on a standing up, clingy, crying two-year-old.

Do they give out gold medals for this type of thing? If so, I could possibly be the Michael Phelps of potty training. (Minus the tabloid photos and drug drama.)

I finally got the diaper on her when we moved to the next phase of the competition: hand washing. I somehow managed to balance her on my leg while washing both of our hands and trying desperately to avoid splashing water all over the lady at the sink beside me.

"Oh, that's too bad. The splashing will cost some points with the judges - that's an automatic deduction of .5. She does have good form though. Look at her stance with the leg! Now if she can just stick it out and execute the paper towel flawlessly, she might have a chance at a medal."

Pardon my little Olympic fantasy... anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the hand washing. We finished with the hand washing, and I was trying to get myself all put back together while dealing with a dramatic toddler at my feet, clinging to me and screaming, "UP! UP!" as if the other women in the restroom (or maybe the automatic flushing toilet) were going to assault her at any moment.

I picked her up and was halfway out the door when I remembered the full pull-up that I set on the toilet paper dispenser in the stall. Figuring that the next person might not appreciate the perils of an absent-minded mother who was distracted by a giggling (and then crying) toddler who was not wanting to cooperate with the potty training, I thought the nice thing to do would be to return to the stall, retrieve the pull-up, and throw it away.

By the time we made it out of the bathroom and found our way back to the table, I realized I was out of breath.

Out of breath, because of a trip to the bathroom.

Either I clearly need more exercise, or this mothering/potty training thing is harder than it looks.

(Or both.)

Car accidents: Part II

I'm back to share my second car accident story. (Here is the first story.) This second accident took place in August of 2006.

I was eight months pregnant with Kaitlyn, and had just moved to having weekly appointments with my OB because we were nearing the end. Mike attended most of my OB appointments - we would drive separately so we could both go straight to work after the appointment.

On this particular August morning we started off, exited our neighborhood, drove past the park, and approached the hospital. My appointment wasn't at the hospital, but we live quite close to it and always drive past it when heading anywhere west of our house.

The part we have to drive around is weird. There is this strange, quasi-intersection, where traffic could come from three directions, but only two of the directions have a stop sign. There is also a lot of pedestrian traffic, and a parking garage entrance right when you come around the curve. Traffic consists mostly of people coming to the hospital or to the park, so it's not a busy intersection by any stretch of the imagination.

I was driving our Grand Am and Mike was behind me in our Nissan Sentra. (Thank you, Lord, for two cars with great gas mileage!!) I came around the curve by the hospital and had to stop short because a pedestrian was crossing the street. And I generally try to avoid hitting pedestrians. (Unlike other members of my family. I need to clarify some details on a particular instance that occurred and maybe get permission to post this story sometime.)

Mike, however, did not see that I had stopped. I don't blame him for this, because, as I mentioned above, this is such a strange intersection.

This is when Mike rear-ended me.

Yes, I was rear-ended by my own husband. Here is what went through my mind in the five seconds that followed:

Oh my word. Mike just ran into me!

Am I ok? I think I'm ok. I feel ok. No harm done.

Ok, so I need to pull over because there has been an accident.

Wait, the purpose of pulling over is to get the other person's insurance info. We have the same insurance info.

So... I guess I don't need to pull over.

During this thought process I had slowed down, stopped for a second, started to take off, slowed down again, and finally I just drove off.

In the meantime there were a lot of confused people standing around. Here is what they probably said:

Person #1: "Did you see that??"
Person #2: "Yeah, that was a hit-and-run!"
Person #1: "Wait, is it really a hit-and-run if the person who got hit is the one to run?"
Persons #1 and #2: "What the....?"

Mike and I immediately connected via cell phone (what did we ever do without cell phones?!) and I assured him that I was ok. We proceeded to the doctor's office where we assessed the damage and realized that, aside from a small dent in our seven-year-old Nissan, there really wasn't anything to worry about. We went inside the office and checked in.

The appointment was going normally - see the nurse, get weighed, pee in a cup, check the blood pressure.

Hmmm... The blood pressure was up. Well, Mike just rear-ended me, so that certainly could have caused an increase in blood pressure.

This is where we had to pause and tell the nurse our accident story, because she couldn't believe it. She, of course, laughed and said that yeah, that was probably the reason for the increased blood pressure.

Then the doctor came in, took a look at my chart, and furrowed his brow. (I wouldn't normally use a phrase like "furrowed his brow", but it fits so well here. I think I'll keep it.)

He said, "Hmmmm. I'm a little concerned about your weight."

I thought, "back off, buddy. I may have gained another pound but you must remember that I am eight. months. pregnant!"

Then he said, "I see you've gained seven pounds since your last appointment." It had been ONE week since my last appointment.

I said, "WHAT? SEVEN POUNDS? There is NO WAY I've gained seven pounds in a week!"

Then he looked at my blood pressure and expressed more concern. I explained the car accident, but it was too late. He already had it in his head that we might have a problem on our hands. He decided to check my swollen feet.

The problem with checking my swollen feet is that they had been swollen since Memorial Day. I had horrible, horrible, horrible sausage feet from Memorial Day until a week or so after Kaitlyn was born (which was the day before Labor Day). I wore the same, ugly, brown pair of sandals for the entire summer. Literally, every day I wore those things. (Not that I harbor any bitterness about this. Nope. No bitterness whatsoever.)

I don't know what the doctor hoped to accomplish by checking my feet. I don't know how he could gauge whether they were more or less swollen than the week before. It would be like looking at a beach and trying to determine if there was more or less sand than there was the week before.

I once again voiced that there was NO WAY I had gained so much weight. He decided that maybe the nurse should re-weigh me.

She did, and lo and behold I had not gained ANY weight. She just happened to have a lapse in brain activity when she wrote my weight down and for whatever reason had added SEVEN pounds. SEVEN!!

This explanation, and the explanation about the car accident, did not quell my doctor's fear of pre-eclampsia. His first impression of a huge weight gain and high blood pressure had already pushed him to be concerned about my condition, so he insisted that I go for additional testing.

Because when you're pregnant, what you really need are more doctor's appointments.

Thankfully, the test came back negative. (Or maybe I mean positive. They came back negative for signs of pre-eclampsia, which was a positive thing.)

And some day we can tell Kaitlyn the story of how Daddy rear-ended Mommy while she was still in Mommy's tummy.

Moral of the story: I'm really not sure what the moral of this story should be, but my last car accident story had a moral, so I feel like this one should also end with a moral. As much as I try to come up with one, it's just not coming to me, so I have to ask you to go forth and make up your own. And if you come up with a really good one, please let me know and I'll consider adding it.

Car accidents: Part I

I am pleased to bring you the first of three stories about car accidents I have been in.

The first accident took place in July 1999, when I was living in Nashville. It was the summer between my junior and senior years of college, and I was living with three other girls from my college while doing an internship with a small event planning company.

Well, ok, actually, the first two weeks of the summer Brooke and I lived in the apartment of her fiancee. That was quite the experience. He played the keyboard for Carman. (Yeah, that Carman. Remember The Champion, Radically Saved and Satan, Bite the Dust?) The one memory that really sticks out about those two weeks is the time we ran out of toilet paper. 'Nuf said.

After two weeks of bachelor hell we finally landed an apartment. Since three of us were only there for the summer we didn't bring any furniture with us. We slept on air matresses, had a turquoise blow-up couch (sort-of like the barbie furniture I used to have, only slightly bigger), a few lawn chairs, and a crate that held the TV. Looking back on this experience I realize how much I probably increased my mother's prayer life during this time. I was oblivious to the horror of it all because I was in Nashville. I was finally living out my dream of the past 12 years - I was living in Nashville and had an internship planning special events within the Christian music industry.

I also had a terrible part-time job at a small record label, owned by a guy who used to play guitar for Prince. [Perhaps an alternate title for this post could have been "Name Dropping, Part I." Although I'm not sure that Carman and Prince are names that qualify for the good type of name dropping, where people hear it and think "oooh - you must be special to know people who know those people!" They might be more along the lines of "Hmmmm - maybe I shouldn't associate with you anymore."] He and his wife were nice, but the job just did NOT work out. I finally got up the guts to say, "Hey, this isn't working out" which left me without a job. My internship was not paid so a job was mildly important.

On July 2nd (or maybe it was the 3rd?) I had an appointment with a temporary staffing service to see if I could get a job through them. I got into my cute little Neon Expresso - it was black, had two doors, a spoiler and a sunroof, and was dang fun to drive - and went off to the agency. My appointment was in the afternoon and I didn't have time to eat any lunch because, as usual, I was running late. I arrived at the agency where someone explained to me that they had lots of positions available working as a customer service rep at a call center.

Translation: I would have to work crazy hours and talk to disgruntled customers. My job would be a last ditch effort to try and talk them into staying with the company, which might be met with a teensy bit of resistance and a few a choice four-letter words.

If I had not been a naive college student at the time I would have said, "No thanks. Do you have any other positions available?" Instead, I stayed for at least another hour so I could take a test that would determine if I was competent enough to be a customer service rep.

By the time I got done I was frustrated, tired, and HUNGRY. I left the agency and headed back towards the apartment, stopping at Arby's on the way. I got a roast beef sandwich, curly fries, and a drink. I couldn't wait to get home so I could devour them. I got into the turn lane to make the left turn onto the road that would lead me home.

Now, this particular light had a green arrow for left turns, but it wasn't a "turn left on the green arrow ONLY" light. So the light was green (but not the arrow) and I moved out into the intersection in anticipation of the traffic clearing, giving me a chance to turn.

The light turned yellow, and I was in the middle of the intersection so I knew that I had to make the turn. I waited for the oncoming traffic to stop before I completed the turn. And that's when the big, black truck from Texas decide to try and run the light. He was behind another car (which was in the process of stopping) and swerved out to charge through the intersection. Except that he charged through my car instead.

He hit my passenger door and sent me flying through the intersection. I smacked into another car and came to a stop.

My first thought was, "OH MY WORD!!!!!!"

My second thought (as I was trying to catch my breath) was, "I wonder what internal bleeding feels like..."

My third thought was, "Well, crap. There goes my sandwich and curly fries."

I took mental stock of all of my limbs and organs and decided I was doing ok. A paramedic showed up at my window and asked if I was ok. I suddenly doubted whether or not I really was ok.

I was afraid that, even though I felt ok, I would get home and discover that my back was broken or I had some type of internal injury that would cause my kidneys to explode. Not very realistic, but what did I know? I had been living in an empty apartment where I would sit on a blow-up couch to watch a TV that sat on an old crate, and I'd been sleeping on air matress for six weeks. I really wasn't in any position to judge where I fell on the spectrum of being "ok."

Since I didn't have a cell phone to call my parents and get a second opinion about whether or not I was "ok", I decided to err on the side of caution. The paramedic asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. I said, "Sure," almost as if he had asked me to run down to McDonald's for an ice cream cone. (At this point in my life I had no concept of hospital bills or insurance rates. I was so blissfully unaware!!)

At that exact moment he said, "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to keep your head straight."

"Excuse me?" (I still had my head turned, looking at him, wondering who he was calling "Ma'am.")

"Please look straight ahead."

"Um, can I get out of the car?"

"No. Stay right there and look straight ahead."

Within a few seconds a stretcher appeared. Then came the body board and the neck brace. First, the paramedic carefully put the neck brace on me. Then they had to slide the body board into the car and slide me onto it, then heave me onto the stretcher. I thought, "Dear Jesus, what have I gotten myself into? I want to get checked out, but is this really necessary??"

And please remember, it was all happening in the middle of a very busy intersection during rush hour traffic.

So I'm laying there (or lying there? I can never remember the rule on this...) as they strap me down. I couldn't see anything aside from the clear blue sky, because the neck brace prevented me from turning my head. They wheeled me into the ambulance.

This is when I also paused to wonder if I had put on clean underwear that morning. (I'm pretty sure I had.)

And then, they drove me 1/10 of a mile up the hill to the hospital. I think it took them longer to get me all strapped down than it did to drive to the hospital. See the picture below? Point A = the scene of the accident. Point B = the hospital drive where we turned in to go to the emergency room.

I'm not sure how much that short little drive cost my dad.

It turned out that I didn't have any broken limbs, or internal bleeding, or potential for exploding kidneys. I did have a seatbelt burn and a monster bruise on my leg, along with some cuts from the shattered passenger window that came flying in at me. The saddest thing of all (aside from the lost sandwich and fries) is that my sweet little Neon was totalled.

Thankfully, my parents were already planning to drive down the next day to visit me. I don't know what I would have done if they hadn't rescued me! They decided to give me their car, which was a snazzy Dodge Dynasty. (Yeah, I know you're jealous.) They rented a car for the drive home and bought a different car soon after (which they had already been talking about doing.)

I was also thankful that a police officer had been sitting in traffic at the very intersection where I had the accident and he witnessed the whole thing. While I was partially at fault for trying to turn left on a red light, he saw that the other guy was more at fault for gunning through the intersection. I'm not sure if it made a difference on the insurance paperwork (once again, thanks Dad for taking care of me!) but it probably would have been worse had he not witnessed it.

I finished out the summer and determined to never sleep on an air matress again. After finishing college I moved back to Nashville, to a better apartmet, and ended up with a much better job. But I was still driving the Dynasty. That car traveled with me to Jacksonville, Florida; Louisville, Kentucky; Fresno, California; and Dallas, Texas. It died one day in the parking lot of a gas station near Park Cities Baptist Church in Dallas. And that, my friends, is another story for another day.

Moral of the story: Never pull into the intersection while waiting to make a left turn at a light. And avoid big, black trucks from Texas.

How the Sticky Chicken almost got the best of me

A few weeks ago, while perusing various blogs that participate in Menu Plan Monday, I found this recipe for "sticky chicken" on the menu of THREE different bloggers. I was amazed, especially since I had only visited five or six sites. I thought that maybe I'd have to give it a try sometime. The next week, whole chickens went on sale at Meijer, and I knew it was destiny. It was time to make the sticky chicken.

I purchased my whole chicken, and even though I was pretty sure I had some onions in the pantry, I picked up another onion just in case. It's a good thing I did. Have you ever seen what happens to onions when you leave them in the pantry and forget about them for, oh, four weeks? I should have taken a picture, because it was very interesting. Interesting, but not exactly appetizing. So purchasing a new onion turned out to be a great idea.

According to the recipe the sticky chicken needs to be seasoned and stuffed with the onion and refrigerated overnight. And then cooked in the oven for five hours. Which means that it has to be a weekend recipe. [Side note - next time I'm going to try this in the Crock Pot.] On Saturday, in the midst of my cleaning frenzy to prepare for our open house, I realized that I had a thawed out chicken in my refrigerator and if I had any hope of actually using it before it went bad, I had to get that sucker seasoned and stuffed.

I assembled the ingredients and mixed my spices together. I quartered the onion. I pulled the chicken out of the fridge. That's when reality hit - I had to open this bird up and pull out the gizzard. And wash the outside and the inside. Yuck. I've done that sort of thing before (twice, I think) but still, it's gross.

That's when I also started thinking about the logistics of handling a big, slimy, raw chicken. I emptied out the sink, meaning that I had to put a few dishes on the counter which was already crowded with my roasting pan with the chicken, my cutting board with the onions, and my bowl of spices.

What ensued would have made a great "I Love Lucy" episode.

I unwrapped the chicken and did a twister-like move to get the dripping wrapper into the trash behind me, while maintaining a handle on the chicken. I tried to take my mind to a happy place and not think about the whole chicken in my hands, and the gizzard I had to extract. The inside of the chicken was still a little frozen, so I turned on some water to try and loosen up the ice. This made the chicken all the more slimy, and we went a few rounds before I could pry the gizzard out and do another spectacular twister move to put that sucker in the trash.

I craned my neck around to the counter behind me where I had put the recipe, which (of course) was upside down. [Note to self: take more time to plan ahead the next time I mess with a raw chicken.] That's when I decided to wing it. (Ha! Wing it!)

I attempted to put the slimy bird into the roasting pan. In one split second, this scene from Everybody Loves Raymond flashed through my mind and I was absolutely certain that I was going to drop the chicken and send it sliding across the floor and down the basement steps.

I imagined the bird shattering in several pieces at the bottom of the steps and flying into different corners of the basement. Now, I realize that a chicken probably would not shatter. But in one irrational split second when your imagination runs wild, anything is possible. I also envisioned having to apologize to our realtor the next day. "Sorry about the funky chicken smell. I tried to retrieve all of the pieces, but I'm missing a leg. After two hours I gave up looking for it. Can you follow people around with this can of Lysol and discretely spray it when you have the opportunity?" Thankfully this imaginary scenario stayed imaginary, because the chicken made it into the pan.

I started to rub it with the spices. I don't have much experience with rubs, and maybe I'm missing out on the proper technique, but I'm pretty sure that most of the spices ended up caked on my slimy hands instead of on the chicken. By this time I wanted to be done with the whole sordid affair so I moved on to the "stuff the quartered onion into the cavity of the chicken" part of the recipe. I think it was at this point, as I was wrestling with the raw chicken in one hand and a quartered onion in the other, that Mike poked his head into the kitchen.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm. Making. STICKY. CHICKEN!!"

"Oh." [Mike quickly exits. I probably looked like I might come after him with the intention of stuffing the raw onion somewhere else.]

Remove gizzard - check.
Wash chicken, inside and out - check.
Rub with spices - check.
Stuff with onion - check.
Wrap chicken tightly with plastic wrap, or put in a large plastic bag... hmmm.

I carefully weighed the pros and cons of plastic wrap vs. plastic bag. I decided to go with the plastic bag. As I prepared to make the transer, I had another split second vision of the chicken disappearing down the basement steps (now with seasoning and stuffed with onion), but thankfully it made it into the bag. A bag that now had seasoning all over the outside. It's a miracle that bird still had seasoning on it when I finally put it in the oven!

When all was said and done, this chicken was delicious. I baked it on Sunday evening, reheated it for dinner last night, and will use it again tonight to make chicken quesadillas. Despite my adventures, I will put this in the "keeper" recipe file. (Along with a note to have a better assembly plan.)

The moral of the story: Do not try new recipes with whole chickens on days that you are also preparing for an open house.

The Chex Mix Chronicles

Last Monday, as I was attempting to put air in my tire while:

1. Wearing heels.
2. Standing (or squatting, I should say) in the rain.
3. Holding a ridiculous duck umbrella (complete with an orange bill protruding from the front of it) because the only umbrella in the car happened to be Kaitlyn's.
4. Attempting to use an air hose a la Tim-the-Tool-Man-Taylor - that sucker meant business!!

I decided that my life frequently affords me the opportunity to experience these types of situations - ones that are equal parts humiliating and humorous. Situations that are perfect blog fodder.

I've already posted a few of these stories, and decided that since I will probably post a lot more, I should come up with a catchy name so I can label them all. I decided on "The Chex Mix Chronicles" because the Chex Mix story is the epitome of what this category will represent. If you haven't read about the time that three of my husband's toenails ended up in the Chex Mix (and in my mouth) please go here immediately. Thank you.

Now, since I know you are dying to know more about my experience in the rain on Monday evening, I will share more of the details with you.

I haven't worn heels to work in ages. But last weekend I got a new pair of pants, and these pants were obviously not going to work with my boring flats - they need a shoe with a heel - and the only option I had was to wear my dress heels. I looked absolutely adorable, and my feet hated every minute of it.

While at work, I realized that Monday night was probably going to be the best possible time for me to go grocery shopping. I didn't have to worry about picking up Kaitlyn after work, and even though it was raining and would be a yucky night to shop, rain was in the forecast for every day of the week so I didn't think that any other day would be any better.

Side note: it did not rain any other day this week. Not one drop.

I left work and realized that I had no umbrella. Except for the duck umbrella that we gave Kaitlyn as a part of her Easter basket. It is such an adorable little umbrella!! It is the perfect size for Kaitlyn and the whole thing looks like a duck head, with eyes and a duck bill that sticks out a little bit.

Yeah, it's adorable for a toddler. But for a woman in heels, trying to maneuver through the Meijer parking lot? Not so much.

I left the umbrella in the car, deciding that I would rather make a dash for it and get a little wet. While in Meijer I wanted to look for a few items to spruce up our house, in preparation for our open house tomorrow. (Please pray that our house sells!!!!) I spent longer than normal in the store, and by the time I got to the check out my feet were killing me.

I went to the self checkout, which I normally love. But on this night, the scanner didn't want to work. I found myself standing there, waving a bag of frozen corn around and around and around, trying it left to right, right to left, from the top down, from the bottom up, etc. I thought maybe it was waiting for a little song and dance. After five or six or one hundred attempts, it finally scanned. A line was forming behind me, and I could only imagine that everyone was thinking, "Geez, lady. Just scan the stupid thing!"

By the time I left the store I was not in the best of moods. I stepped back into the pouring rain, praying that I was actually headed in the direction of my car. I found my car and as I loaded the trunk I noticed the front tire - it was low. Very low. For some reason, the rims on our tires make it difficult for the tires to retain air. Or something like that. Mike explained it to me once, but I all I know is that it means we are always putting air in the tires. My parents gave Mike an air compressor last year for Christmas, which has greatly reduced our hurried trips to local gas stations who provide air. And our digging in the cup holder to see if we have 75 cents, which is how much air normally costs.

But we aren't always on top of the air-in-the-tires situation. And of course this had to be one of those times. And (of course) the tire was low enough that I did not feel safe in driving all the way home without putting air in the tire. I got in the car and headed in the direction of the gas station. When I pulled in I realized that (of course) the air thingy was not in a covered area. I was already wet and miserable, but I didn't have any desire to be SOAKING wet. My only option was to try the duck umbrella. I reluctantly pulled it out and stepped out of the car.

I went around to the tire, squatted down and took the cap off. While simultaneously trying to balance myself, ignore my screaming feet, and hang onto the duck umbrella, I grabbed the hose and put the nozzle onto the air thingy. It didn't seem to be doing anything. By this time, the frustration had reached a whole new level. I kept messing with the nozzle and tried to examine the base unit to make sure it was operating the way it was supposed to. That's when I noticed the other hose. The one lying in the wet, muddy grass, several feet out of reach. The other hose that was tangled up with the hose I was holding.

I made my way to the other hose and stood there, hovered over the grass, trying to balance in my heels and keep the duck umbrella somewhere in the vicinity of the top of my head, while attempting to detangle the hoses. I quickly gave up on any hope of success, and instead I heaved the whole tangled, muddy mess over to the car. (And I'm still holding the duck umbrella, thank you very much.) I put the second nozzle onto the air thingy and it about knocked me off my feet! I've put air in tires plenty of times and I've never experience that kind of air pressure. Normally, it might not have been a big deal. But on this night, well, it just about sent me over the edge.

After I managed to get air in the tires, I heaved the muddy mess of hoses back towards the grass, remembered to put the cap back on the tire, and fished around in the back seat to find a paper towel to wipe my hands off. I put the ducky umbrella down, got in the car, and drove home. And prayed that Mike would find it in his heart to put up with his tired, wet, cranky wife, who was going to make him carry in the groceries.

Note to self: Buy more umbrellas.

For another story from the Chex Mix Chronicles, click here.

Semi's, little blue cars, and killer chunks of ice

Yesterday I had the pleasure of waking up with an "uh-oh" feeling in my stomach. Not a mental uh-oh, like a nagging feeling that I forgot something important, such as forgetting to turn the oven off the night before. No, this was a physical uh-oh. And I won't go into graphic detail of my activity between 6 and 6:30 a.m. because that would just be gross, and I don't think you want to be grossed out.

Once I got the gross stuff out of the way I thought I was on the road to recovery. I thought it probably was something I ate the night before. Plus, it was the day of a big event for work and I needed to get some reports delivered by 8:30. So I got ready and off I went. I dropped K off at the babysitter's, and that's when I realized that I was SICK. It wasn't just one little "oops-I-ate-something-that-didn't-agree-with-me." I made it to work, and once I got inside I had one of those moments of "Oh. my. word. I have to find a bathroom NOW!!" So I did, and then I delivered the reports, and then I got back on the road to head for home.

Now, I have to pause here and tell you about the weather. (There is a point to this - I'm not just rambling. I promise.) When I went outside yesterday it looked like a giant snow-cone (minus the flavoring) had exploded. There was this weird slush/ice/snow mix over everything.

Ok, so back to me leaving work. I was trying to drive as fast as possible while navigating the somewhat icy roads, while dealing with other people (*cough* wimpy drivers *cough*) who were driving way too slow also trying to navigate the icy roads. Do you know how annoying that is when you are just praying that you will make it the 20 minutes home before you explode??

I got behind this semi, and we all know that, for the most part, trucks are going to be a wee bit slower than cars. Especially driving on a busy street with lots of lights where you are constantly stopping and going. So obviously it's best to pass them if you are in a hurry and worried that you might not have any clean undergarments at home just in case you would have an accident.

I pulled into the other lane to attempt to pass, and just as I did this, the little blue car in front of me followed suit. I assumed the little blue car also wanted to pass the semi. But the little blue car apparently missed the memo detailing what you are supposed to do if you pull out from behind a semi and get into the passing lane. Yeah, that's right - you are supposed to PASS THE SEMI. I sat there yelling at the little blue car - "GO AROUND! PICK UP SOME SPEED!! HOW DID YOU GET A #$^&%$#%@ DRIVER'S LICENSE???"

It's amazing what you will yell under such stressful circumstances.

A little way up the road the little blue car turned off and I finally had my chance to pass the semi. As I started around, the semi started spitting that annoying spray of dirty water that semi's tend to spray in this type of weather. I couldn't see very well, so I did the logical thing and turned on my wipers. Except that my wipers were still covered in ice and they didn't wipe. They only smeared a bunch of dirty water across my line of vision.

That's when I realized the semi was moving along at a pretty good pace and I should probably get into the other lane because my lane was going to end in a few lights. I slowed down, moved behind the semi, and the gunk on my windshield cleared up just in time for me to look up and see the semi disappear under a light that had just turned RED.

To avoid running the red light I had to slam on my brakes, praying that the road wasn't icy and that I wouldn't go sliding through one of the busiest intersections on that part of town.

Let me pause here to explain a few things about the laws of physics. When I left my house in the morning, my car was covered in ice. The top of the car had a very thick layer of icy-slushy-snowy stuff that was frozen to the car. But I had now been driving around long enough for the sun to start doing its job, and this ice had loosened up and was just waiting for an opportunity to release itself from the top of my car. And my sudden stop was the opportunity it had been waiting for. (What's that law about every action has an equal and opposite reaction??)

As I slammed on my brakes I heard a horrible noise - it sounded like the entire roof of my car was being ripped off - and in a split second one big chunk of ice came exploding forth and landed on my windshield. The ENTIRE windshield was engulfed by the ice. This would surprise a person under any circumstances, but need I remind you of my situation? Yeah, surprise is a pretty mild word for it.

Thankfully, I did not have any accidents as a result of the killer ice chunk attack. But boy did I ever want to get home!!!

I finally did get home, where I spent the rest of the day in a coma on the couch (minus a few panic-induced trips to the bathroom.) Seriously, whatever I had KNOCKED ME OUT for the entire day. When I went to bed I was worried that I wouldn't be able to sleep because I had slept so much during the day, but I had no problems at all and slept through the entire night. When I woke up today I felt so much better.

And there was no slushy stuff on the ground this morning.

And the sun was shining.

And I didn't have any run-ins with little blue cars or semi's or killer chunks of ice.

Is it spring yet?????

Why are there toenails in my chex mix???? (A true story.)

Here's a little comic relief for your day.

Once upon a time, I finished off a bag of Chex Mix that had my husband's toenails in it. Really. I'm serious.

I know you think I'm lying because, honestly, how in the world could that ever happen to a person??? It's sort of like those stories you hear of women who suddenly have babies and they swear they never knew they were pregnant. I hear those things and I think, "HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW?" If that's what you are thinking right now, stay tuned. And please put down the Diet Dr. Pepper because I would hate for you to snort it through your nose or spit it on your keyboard. Liquids and keyboards don't mix - I know all about that, too, but I won't get into all of that right now because this is a story about toenails. And Chex Mix.

I love Chex Mix. I've always loved salty snacks, and Chex Mix just plain hits the spot for me. The bagged stuff is ok, but homemade CM is the absolute best! In fact, if I ever make homemade CM I always make extra because I know that I'll eat half of it in the process. And I always secretly hope that there will be a lot leftover after the party or get-together or whatever I'm making it for, so I can pop the lid off and dig in on the way home. The wheat Chex and the Cheerios are the best parts, especially the ones that soak in a lot of the seasoning. Oh my - I want some just thinking about it!!

Anyhoo... Mike and I had been married all of five months when our church had a campout. We packed our newly purchased tent and other camping essentials into our car, along with some camping snacks. Because obviously you have to have snacks while camping. We spent one (or maybe two?) nights at the camp ground, and we really didn't sleep all that well. (The sleeping part isn't essential to the story, but maybe it was a contributing factor to the circumstances that led to this. At least that's what I'd like to think.)

We returned home in the early afternoon and spent the rest of the day lounging around the house. I ended up in our extra bedroom, which housed our computer and a second TV. I'm sure I was on the computer playing Zuma, a highly addictive game that is even more addicting when you are obsessed with beating someone else's score. (Mike and I are slightly competitive. That is whole other series of posts. Someday I will share the infamous Chinese Checkers episode. And the Pente slaughter of '03. And the time I threw the X-box controller at Mike while playing the "Simpson's Road Rage" game.)

Mike wandered into the room with the half bag of CM leftover from camping and sat down to watch some TV. We passed the bag of CM back and forth (yes, I am at least capable of sharing the CM with others) and when there wasn't much left in the bag I handed it back to him and told him he could have the rest. My back was to him, so of course I didn't realize that after he ate most of what was left in the bag, he decided that three of his toenails needed to be cut. (I have no idea why he only cut three, but I'm thankful it wasn't more.) And he decided that putting these toenails in the CM bag was more convenient for him than getting up to put them in the trash. He fully intended to put the bag in the trash on his way out of the room.

In the early evening we had to go to some meeting at church, so Mike announced that he was going to get ready and I told him I was going to finish my Zuma game and then change my clothes. I finished the game, and on my way out of the room I saw the CM bag on the floor.

I picked it up to throw it away, but first I looked inside and saw just a handful of crumbs left. I certainly couldn't let those crumbs go to waste, now could I? Sometimes the crumbs are the best part!

I reached inside, scooped out the contents, put them in my mouth, and threw away the bag. I started chewing. And I thought, "Something is not right."

Just as I had this thought I walked into the bedroom, still chewing. Mike looked at me, realized I was chewing something, noticed the strange look on my face, and said,

"YOU DIDN'T EAT WHAT WAS IN THE BAG, DID YOU?"

At the moment he finished uttering those words, he collapsed on the bed in a fit of laughter. And just as he hit the bed and was laughing hysterically, I reached into my mouth, and to my absolute and utter horror...

...I pulled three toenails out of my mouth.

I don't remember what happened after that. Maybe I passed out. Maybe I ran to the bathroom to quickly douse my mouth with Lysterine. I'm not really sure, because I was so shocked and horrified to have chewed my husband's toenails.

To this day he will argue that there wasn't anything left in the bag, and I will firmly point out that there most certainly were crumbs in the bag. Enough crumbs to engulf three toenails so that anyone who looked in the bag would not be able to see said toenails.

And since I am the one with a blog and I am the one telling the story, that's the final word. Amen.

So, dear children, that is how it all went down. That is how a person can unknowingly chew (but not eat - thankfully, I did not swallow) her husband's toenails. I'm not sure what the moral of the story is but I will tell you that toenails are not good and I would suggest that you keep them out of your mouth.

Now doesn't your day seem a little better?

P.S. The "amen" was inspired by Pioneer Woman. If you want more laughs, take a gander around this blog and this blog.