{If you do that with your pants, they'll stick that way}

There are certain words/phrases that make me wish I did not speak English.  Among them (and the list is long) are the words Hubby, Wifey and Kiddos.  Hate them.  Not the husband and the children (most days) just the obnoxiously altered catch-phrases that are intended to make the speaker appear to possess some kind of above average, sugary attachment to their family.  After reading an article on "Mormon Mommy Bloggers" this week, I have decided that I am sick to my freshly dyed roots of being called a "Mommy" by people who I'm pretty sure did not emerge from my ... womb.  (Attaching the word "Mormon" is a subject for a different rant on a different day... but I'm sure it'll be a good one.)

My problem with the word "Mommy" is that it is only applied by social commentators to women like me. Women who have chosen the glamorous world of caring for our own children, without pay or sick days, one peanut butter sandwich at a time.  Can you imagine Michelle Obama or Sandra Day O'Connor or Gloria Steinem (had she chosen to have children) being called "Mommy" in an op.ed?  It may be subtle, but this is a word whose intent, I believe, is to be cutely condescending so as to cloak the speaker's true feelings in folksy friendliness... like when an older man I don't know calls me "sweetie".  It's basically a verbal pat on the head.  It's a verbal dismissal... which we do to women who have chosen traditional roles all the time to women.  Old Wive's Tale anyone?

And speaking of another term I dislike ... I am not sure when exactly a woman becomes an Old Wife; when what she has to say is no longer considered witty, well informed, well reasoned and practical, but rather the hysterical rantings of a girl who is too bossy for her own good.  I am not sure who decided that the tales she tells are any less reliable than all those scientific certainties that never end up being that certain in the end. (Speaking of "hysteria"...)

I've found that the wisdom of women is treated in one of three ways.  1. We fold it nicely, wrap it up in acid free tissue paper, tuck it away in a cedar lined box toward the back of our closets and hope that another generation will one day find it and be glad that it has been preserved in such unused, vintage condition.  2. We put it on and grudgingly wear it only when we must be seen using it, like the horrible clothes that new moms get at baby showers and only put on their children when taking a snap shot to email to the giver.  3. We laugh and agree with others around us of a similar age that it is an unfortunate fad owned by a generation to whom we are glad we don't belong.  (Much like the white tuxedo with huge lapel, pink ruffled shirt and velvet, navy blue bow tie which my father wore to his wedding),

I am beginning to understand that there is an unspoken truth that lives behind the words and through the words and around the words of women who have sacrificed to care for someone else.  I am beginning to see the pain and happiness of life in the advice that Mommies and Old Wives pass along.  When an Old Wife says "Don't let the cat go where the baby is sleeping, it will suck out his breath", maybe she is hoping that if she can convince the rest of the family that their pet is a baby-breath-sucking-predator, they will agree to get rid of the thing already.  Perhaps she's trying to spare future generations of Mommies the extra chore of vacuuming cat hair on top of everything else they have to do.

When an Old Wife says "It's all fun and games until somebody gets their eye put out", maybe she's trying to spare you the pain associated with those things that look fun at first glance, but inevitably end with you missing parts of yourself that you'd wished you'd held onto.

When an Old Wife says "Don't do that with your face, or it will stick that way", maybe she wants to guard you from becoming like the grouchy auntie from her childhood who smiled at life so rarely and frowned at it so much that the lines and the wrinkles and the skin adopted a permanently gloomy look.  Maybe she knows that the outside will eventually reflect the inside.  Maybe she know that if there's a canker in the soul it will eventually show on the face in a way that no amount of lip stick and eye cream will fix.

Here is my decision- some will always be shocked at the competence of women.  They are surprised at the force that we bring to life and at the things that we know.  But not me.  I believe in the words of the Mommies and of the Old Wives.  Tell me all your tales and I will believe them.  I will wrap myself up in them and I will wrap my children up in them, and when the time comes I will wrap my children's children up in them too... and  eventually they will be glad I did.

Those pants are way full.

I just finished my first week of full time school...

On the up side-  I am in school.  I am not totally stupid.  There are lots of chapters on genetics (thank you strangely shallow gene pool.  Who says X-linked and other strange recessive traits can't help you out?)

On the down side- I am in school with 4 kids, volunteer work and a job in the church youth group.  I am sort of stupid.  Mac-n-Cheese or Fruit Loops for dinner?  Where are the clean underwear?  Why has the vacuum been sitting by the Christmas tree for 7 days?  Wait, why do we still have a Christmas tree?

I can do anything for 10 weeks.

The Return of the Prodigal Pants

I don't know if there is such thing as a writer's coma, but I think that I have been in one for several months.  It's not so much that I can't think of anything to write about... I frequently write blog entries in my head.  Mostly ones that highlight my borderline functional parenting moments or those that deal with the follies of my 4 children.  I had a whopper all worked out, but the child who starred in the tale will k-i-l-l me if  I actually publish it on the internet, so too bad for you... and now since I'm up a creek with no funny story,  here's an update on what's been going on the last few... um... months.

• I have officially started back at school and am moving slowly along my path toward becoming a midwife.  I got 100% in my first class - intercultural communications.  (Which was not that difficult since, based on their answers, most of the class thought that the homework questions were actually a Facebook survey.)    I thought about sending my resume into the UN after my perfect performance, but my husband doesn't believe in the UN, so... peace at home before peace in the world I guess. 

I have several sciencey kinds of classes that I'm starting and  have to do a statistics course that I am procrastinating as long as possible.  I 'm good with the words, but the numbers- not so much.  Also, I'm pretty sure statistics is just something that big fat liars made up to try to convince everyone else that they're not big fat liars.  (PS - I had to take a math placement test.  Mediocre is over-exaggerating my performance. I swear the only thing that saved me is that my daughter broke her arm in two places at the beginning of the school year which meant that I got to act as 5th grade scribe/tutor for 5 weeks... also, I Googled "college math placement test" about 2 hours before I had to show up.  Say what you will about Google.  As far as I'm concerned they can map my house all they want as long as they help me test out of basic college algebra.)  

•  I have lived to celebrate another birthday, ushering in my late-mid -30s... and that's all I have to say about that... except- my mom got me the best birthday present ever... 2 days with a bunch of hippy birth junkies whose idea of a fun Friday night is a women's energy/sharing/dance circle and swapping stories about placenta encapsulation.  I am out of my mind excited.  By the way Eugene Oregon... if you smell something strange, it's just my deodorant.

(...one more thing about the birthday. Every year on December 10th I reacquaint myself with the famous people who share my astrological sign.  Sagittarius.  Basically we break down like this... writers (Mark Twain, Emily Dickenson, Jane Austen), musicians (Beethoven, Hendrix, Donny Osmond, and Billy Idol), actors (Don Johnson) and politicians (Winston Churchill) including a couple of despotic tyrants.  I was feeling like I had really found my people until it occurred to me that the horoscope folks probably don't include normal and boring lives in these lists and so it is very likely that every other astrological sign has a similar roll call of awesomeness... except for Donny Osmond.

• The baby has cavities all over his mouth.  You don't know judgement until your dentist peeks into  your baby's mouth and the look on her face says "clearly he's been sucking down Dr.Pepper and Pixie Stix for 14 months".  The first dentist (yep, more than one dentist) actually showed me how to put the toothpaste on the tooth brush and then made little circles with it in the air to demonstrate proper brushing technique.  I'm not kidding.  Just for the record... I have never had a cavity.  Ever.  I never had braces.  I never had a retainer and I have all of my teeth including the 4 wisdom ones.  Clearly, this is totally my husband's fault.

• It's Christmas again.  I have been possessed by the Spirit of Crafters Past and have an unexplainable and obsessive urge to make stuff out of paper and felt.  Not necessarily in that order.

Merry Christmas all... and on that note, I'm off to send an email to Santa telling him that my kids are signing up for a Chilean miner"s pocketfull of coal if they don't stop their fighting.  It usually solicits good results - after the crying and screaming that I am "the worst mom ever,  seriously Mom, ever."   Aaah.  I love being the best at stuff.

{ Dog. Pants. Now. }

 I do not believe in the great outdoors.  I do not hike.  I do not fish. I do not camp.  My idea of "roughing it" is a hotel with less than adequate room and towel service.  I do not find anything morally superior about sleeping in the dirt and washing with water that may or may not look like one of those microscope slides from high school biology. Nor am I interested in knowing what color one's boogers can become depending on what is burned in the campfire.  As far as I can tell, "outdoorsy" is just a one word phrase for "let's pretend we're homeless - only with bears and mosquitoes."

When I got married I found out that my in-laws did believe in the great outdoors.  They kept making reference to vaguely planned, upcoming family camping trips as though they expected me to say "Super.  I keep my hip waders in the car.  Just let me grab my Survivor Man jammies and we're off.  By the way, don't bother bringing toilet paper - I'm cool with leaves and grass." I promised them one camping trip.  Ever.  So far I've done two - and that was only because I really wanted the S'mores.

I am pretty much the only one on my husband's side of the family that scrunches up their nose at the thought of sleeping bags and backpacks.  My father-in-law (who is 72 by the way) goes snow camping with the church scouting group... in the snow.  (Seriously.  I didn't even know that this was a thing until I met my father-in-law.  They sleep in full on igloos...which they build out of snow.  Crazy talk.)  My husband's sister and her family go on week long hunting trips ... with guns and shooting and camo undies.  My brother-in-law loves to talk about what he's killed, what he's almost killed, what he thinks he may have killed,  and what he'd like to kill if given the chance.  He also likes to talk about killing accessories.  Knives.  Guns.  Trucks.  Dogs. Sons.

I have to admit that I feel somewhat conflicted when I listen to these stories.  My father was quite the hunter/gun enthusiast . You wouldn't think that a guy in an electric wheelchair with a bleeding disorder would be your first choice as a point man when trying to sneak up on a wild animal while holding a gun, but we need to break barriers where we can I guess.  Also, I'm a big fan of eating meat.  However, I'm pretty sure that if I had to kill the meat myself, you'd be looking at the world's newest vegetarian.   I'm just not sure that I'm totally on board with sentences that start "It was the most beautiful animal I'd ever seen..." and end with "... and so I shot it."  (You can imagine what it's like to share this opinion while sitting in a room with a giant, furry, once-real bear mounted to the wall.  A bear.)

Even though the subject matter isn't my favorite, I do like my brother-in-law... and since he doesn't run screaming from the room while gouging out his eyes when I breastfeed my baby during family game time, I feel like I should be a little flexible.  His latest story was about a duck hunt that had happened a few weeks ago.  I have to admit that I was half-listening to him, half-watching the TV, half-trying to figure out why my boys were being so quiet and half-trying to figure out how I was going to get the Christmas presents wrapped  in one night.  There was something about a duck in a bush and really cold water and his dog is a genius.  My ears grabbed onto the part about the dog.

From what I could tell, after being blasted from flight, the duck dropped into a bush and my brother-in -law (who was standing in the cold water) said to the dog "dead bird".  (A little gross, but there you go.)  Dog the Genius then ran down a hill, under a fence, across a field, and picked up the bird in his mouth.  (Also a little gross.  Although, I guess that when I eat a cheeseburger I too have a dead animal in my mouth. Hmmm.)  Then, (with the dead bird in his mouth), the dog returned across the field, under the fence and up the hill where he sat down next to my brother-in-law, put his head against my brother-in-law's leg and at the command "my bird", dropped the dead bird into my brother-in-law's hand.  Again, a little gross, but you've got to admit, impressive.

While listening to my brother-in-law's braggyness about his dog, a memory of a long-ago Nordstrom shopping trip popped into my head.  I came into the store, child sitting in the stroller, when I was suddenly surrounded by a cloud of very smelly, yet very expensive, perfume.  In an attempt to clear my nose... and vision,  I temporarily, but vigorously shook my head back and forth thus taking my eyes off of my son.  The 2 year old seized on my distraction, jumped out of the stroller and sprinted to freedom.  (I think the perfume sprayer lady may have been his accomplice.  It seemed like a pretty seamless plan to me.)  He made it to the end of the aisle, slid on his belly across the marble floor and army crawled under a rounder of very ugly, yet very expensive jeans.  Bird in a bush.

In my mind I pictured myself yelling out "dead kid" and then standing back and watching with great satisfaction while a very well trained hunting dog comes bounding down the escalator, knocking middle aged white women aside, heading straight for my son.  I picture him flattening his body, easily fitting under the jeans and grabbing my child by the seat of his pants, dragging him from his strategic position.  The dog would then knock down the perfume lady as payback and drop the little escapee back in the stroller.  Good dog.

As it was, that particular shopping trip ended with crying and threatening and staring and judging and me on my belly (less successful at fitting under the jeans than the dog would be) and my son being really glad that Nordstrom has security cameras.

It is clear to me now, thanks to my brother-in-law, that there is an easy solution to just such parenting dilemmas.  It is clear to me that what I really need to be a more effective parent is not more love or patience or organization or discipline.  What I really need is a really good hunting dog.  Besides patrolling the perimeter on shopping trips, all I need him to do is identify which kid started the most recent Christmas vacation fight, retrieve Nerf missiles from the neighbor's yard and make sure that the dirty diapers make it to the garbage.  This seems like it would be a lot easier, and less gross, than finding a dead duck in a far away bush.  I'm pretty sure that some dog will want this job.  Maybe I'll check Craigslist, or maybe I'll just yell "dead kid" really loud and wait for him to come to me.  Good Dog.

These just look like Scrooge's pants

My daughter, whose birthday was last week, has always had pretty strong opinions about food. When she was five or six, she came to us and said that she wanted to be a vegetarian. She said that she didn't want to eat animals because it made her sad. I was ok with it. I believe that just because a person can't tie their own shoes, doesn't mean that they can't believe in stuff. I explained to her that vegetarians eat grains with made up names like "quinoa" and "millett". I explained to her that vegetarians eat actual vegetables- even the ones that (in her words) "are stinky and feel like slime in my mouth". I explained to her that vegetarians do not eat chicken nuggets - ever. She gave up being a vegetarian. (I think what she really wanted to be was a carbotarian.)

Despite the fact that she is a huge fan of the soy burgers (or "protein sponges" as I refer to them) and that she tells me "you know that's a dead animal right?" every time I grill up a ribeye, she is still a sucker for fast food. Basically for her, (and her brothers), the ultimate dining destination is a McDonald's restaurant...with a play structure.

The McDonald's playland is indeed my worst nightmare. It more often than not smells like a poorly sanitized boy's locker room and there is always at least one family who seems to think that the sign that reads "SOCKS MUST BE WORN AT ALL TIMES ON THE PLAY STRUCTURE" really means "IF YOU WANT TO WALK BAREFOOT TO THE RESTROOM AND THEN COME CLIMB ALL OVER THIS THING IT'S COOL WITH US". Also, I'm inclined to believe all those urban myths about how playland janitors find used hypodermic needles and random human body parts in the ball pit. When my kids are playing on these structures I become the slightly panicky mom who you see pacing neurotically back and forth in front of the twisty slide muttering words like "e. coli" and "cryptosporidium" under her breath while clutching a purse sized bottle of hand sanitizer like some kind of super clean talisman.

I do not like the McDonald's playland. However, I believe that a person should be able to do whatever they want to do on their birthday. More specifically, I believe a person should be able to eat whatever they want to eat on their birthday - and so at my daughter's request this is where we went for her birthday lunch.

We walked up to the counter and I asked them what they wanted to eat. I've got no clue why I do this since they order exactly the same thing every time we go there. We ended up with 1 McNuggets Happy Meal (no sauce), 1 Double Cheese Burger Mighty Kids Meal (only ketchup), 1 Chicken Strips meal (no sauce) and 1 really gross salad. (The really gross salad was mine - I'd like to wear jeans with a zipper again.) I swiped my debit card and began working out how I was going to carry two trays full of food and a baby car seat while stopping my four year old from pretending that the tables and chairs were in reality, a practice course for that TV show "Wipeout". (He watches it with his father during "man time".) The McDonald's counter lady told me my total and then said "... and would you like to donate a dollar to Ronald McDonald House Charities today?" I looked right at her and said "Nope. I wouldn't", and hit the accept button on the debit machine. I'm pretty sure I saw her give me a look that clearly said "Oh, no you didn't."

I didn't mean to go all Ebenezer Scrooge on her, but honestly, it's not just her. There are a lot of worthy causes out there that I choose not to support. I feel like maybe I should have more guilt about this than I do, but I ask myself - is it better for me to give one dollar to thirty different charities just because I don't want to get the evil eye when I say "no", or thirty dollars to one charity because I believe in their mission and want to help? I have chosen the latter. My husband and I give to a few, specific organizations that we feel address the diseases and social ills that we care most about. When I give a dollar - I give it to them. Unfortunately, there's not usually enough time to explain this to the four people standing in line behind me at the grocery store who see me not donating to breast cancer research... or to the McDonald's counter lady who I'm guessing was less than impressed with my apparent lack of generosity. All I'm saying is that I do my alms in private. Is it too much to ask that I be allowed to do my non-alms in private too?

My kids eventually finished their romp in the playland and we made it home with no sign of serious infections or illness (yet.) Just my guilt over not feeling guilty. Hopefully if I wake up in the near future with a scary, non-verbal Christmas Spirit floating over my bed, he'll let me pull up my online statements to prove that I really am a good person and that he should go haunt someone else. In the mean time, I think I'll just stick to the drive through... at least until next year's birthdays.

Proud of My Pants

When I was pregnant with my oldest child I knew a few true things about having a baby. Most of these things, it turned out, were totally untrue. Foremost among the untruths was this: babies require a lot of junk in order to survive and be happy and get the pediatrician to put a little PostIt Note on your child's chart saying "you can tell that this baby momma totally knows what's going on because she owns a baby wipes warmer." I bought all kinds of stuff that I later discovered is the reason that garage sales and consignment stores were invented. I also discovered that the depreciation rate on a baby bathtub is basically 100%. Apparently other moms just use sinks... or the bathtub that came with the house. Or maybe, people just feel weird about putting their baby's naked bum in the same place where someone else's naked bum has been sliding around. Even if the other naked bum that's been sliding around belongs to another baby.

As the birth of our 4th baby grew steadily closer, I realized that I was going to have to break down and buy some supplies for our new addition...and I wanted no part of it. This was for two reasons. First, when we found out we were pregnant way back in January, we had no job and therefore - no health insurance. Awesome. I basically handled this by pretending that the reason that I was sick everyday was because I had some rare and exotic stomach flu whose other side effects were constant crying and giving false positives on at home pregnancy tests. The professional term for this is "denial", and it lasted until at least 5 days past my (alleged) due date.

Second, even though we now do have a job and health insurance, I was trying to be resourceful and just use what I already had. (Stupid recession.) Which unfortunately was not much since I either gave away or sold all of my baby clothes and accessories the previous year... (when we had a job and insurance)... because I couldn't get pregnant. (Who says God doesn't have a sense of humor?) I came up with a couple of super rad ideas too. What baby wouldn't want a hat made out of his father's old Gold Toe sock or a jammie sack converted from a tee shirt that reads "Eat Krispy Kremes"?

My mother, however, was not having any of this. She generously gifted our son with clothes and diapers and onesies and a super plush bath towel and a super plush blanket with a softy edge(my husband really wants a man size one of these). She also got me a new diaper bag. The best diaper bag ever.

This bag has a name- "Chocolate Cake". Literally, that is the bag's name. Mmmm. Mary Poppins wishes that she has this bag. This bag comes with a matching wallet. This bag comes with a second, washable bag that you use to protect the Chocolate Cake bag just in case you are forced to place it on some kind of unclean, unworthy or otherwise undesirable surface. (I asked the lady at the store if the second bag was for dirty diapers. She was not impressed and I think that she seriously reconsidered allowing someone who would not hesitate to put actual poop inside this diaper bag to purchase it.)

I have gotten more complements on my bag than my baby - and he is cute. I take good care of my baby and I take good care of my bag. I am proud of my baby, but I am also proud of my bag... and that's what got me in trouble. Bag pride.

Here's how it went. I took all 4 children to Winco for the weekly grocery shop. (I do this because I love to hear the comments about how it looks like I've "got my hands full". It's my favorite. Also, it's fun to mess with the guy that has to reconstruct the Pyramid of Giza out of macaroni and cheese boxes on the end of aisle 4. You haven't seen fear until you've watched that guy's eyes when he catches site of my four year old demonstrating his new found ability to walk backward and spin at the same time.)

After strategically parking near the cart return and assigning each child a cart spot where they would not be within touching or breathing distance of their siblings, I strapped the baby up in the sling and picked up the Chocolate Cake bag. I looked at the Winco shopping cart. Visions of little hands covered with peanut butter and jelly, boogers, H1N1, and worm guts flashed before my eyes. The cart that was good enough for my kids - not good enough for my bag. I put the bag back in the car.

I was very thorough. I covered that thing with every sweatshirt, backpack and burp cloth I could find - just in case there was some roving diaper bag bandit on the loose... because I'm sure that the master camouflage job wouldn't tip him off. I closed the door. I realized that I forgot my cell phone. I put my hand in my pocket to get my keys.

It was one of those times when you feel like you might throw up a little bit and automatically start to do a mental inventory and your mind starts replaying the last few minutes of your life. I saw myself removing my wallet. I saw myself putting my cell phone in the pocket of my bag. I saw myself hitting the lock button on my key. I saw myself putting my keys... in the pocket of my bag. The same bag that was now residing at the bottom of a pile of kid gear... in my locked car... with my cell phone. Awesome.

I learned several things that day. One was that pride cometh before the fall... and the call... for help from the Winco customer service/MoneyGram/Lotto numbers line. I learned that I need to stop using the automatic dial feature on my cell phone and actually memorize someone's phone number. (Seriously, the only phone number I could remember for several minutes was 911 and I don't think that they would've been on board with my definition of emergency.) I learned that my plan of keeping my spare key in my bag just in case I locked my first set in the car qualifies me to work for FEMA or maybe those flu shot planning people. (I'm sending them a resume). I learned that anything that can be locked, can be unlocked (after your husband gets the valet key from your friend that was holding it as a backup),

But most importantly I learned that the best way to deal with your kids during a dilemma with the Chocolate Cake bag at Winco is... the chocolate cake aisle at Winco - and that's something that I'm proud of.

Tuxedo Pants

I am a little bitter.  What, you might ask, has brought about this change from my usual sunny disposition?  Homecoming.  What about homecoming, you might ask.  I don't get to go.  How is that fair?  I know that I'm thiry three, and that I have three kids, and that I graduated high school before the turn of the century, but I think it's more than just a little ageist (yes, ageist) to disinclude me from such a better -than-average party simply because I do not actually attend high school anymore.  Especially since I did attend high school - all four years.  (Disinclude is my daughter's word by the way - if Bush can make 'em up, so can Avery.)  

I am left with only one course of action.  Like great dissenters that have come before me I will form - a protest party.  (Mine will be an actual party with punch and cookies and sweet music.  Watch and learn Ralph Nader.)  Good people - we must insist on our right to ugly dresses, dyeable shoes, and huge rose corsages at all ages.  We must stand firm in our goal to achieve a fair and equitable dance community by establishing not one Homecoming Queen, but one Homecoming Queen every hour. ( We'll set a timer and pass the crown when it goes off.  A short reign, after all, prevents royal tyranny. On second thought, maybe we'll make it BYOC - bring your own crown.  Mine of course will be the shiniest - it will probably have feathers.)  Let us unite under the best homecoming themesong of them all - Forever Young by Alphaville (that was your homecoming theme song wasn't it.  If not, you didn't really have homecoming so this party will do you good.)  It will be the start of a dance, dance revolution.  Who's with me?

I know in my attempt to make a better world, I may dance alone - but at least I will be wearing a crown while I do it.

Have they not read 'Rants in My Pants?"

There has been yet another tropical storm/hurricane/lots of rain episode and still not a one named after me. Clearly this is a gross oversite by the National Weather Service which must be remedied. (After all, who can you think of that is more hurricane-ish than me?)

Unlike my Jenny, Amy, Jessica, Michelle, Stephanie, and Erin generational name counterparts - I haven't had my name on so much as a pencil. (Jenny even got her own song and phone number - which I bet you've actually tried calling at least once.) Even the stuff that was supposed to have my name on it was usually misspelled - (did I spell that right?) And so, National Weather Service storm namer guy, I am employing a technique of persuasion that, as the mother of three, I hear with sickening regularity - NOT FAIR.

Because, even though life isn't fair, the naming of hurricanes should be, so get the word out people: Hurricane Endre '08 - because it's less messy than the other campaigns happening this fall.

Their pants move really fast...

Olympic rant...

Super Awesome Track and Field Commentator: "Hey American guy taking a victory lap with the flag on your shoulders - you thought you won a bronze medal, but you didn't because you can't run in a straight line (or a curved line in this case) - how do you feel about that?"

Really Fast Runner Guy - "I'm relieved because I've heard those things are really heavy to carry around, and can cause neck problems. I just want to give the credit to God for making it possible."

ps - the medal being too heavy to carry around was actually my husband's joke... I added the God part.

Who has stinky pants?...

Men - if you are getting on a plane, please leave the cologne your lady friend gave you for Christmas at home - yuck.