Funny Archives

Maggie speaks

31949292731_490b8eb50c_oMaggie talks quite clearly and in large, winding sentences sometimes, but doesn’t always make sense.  Recently she came into my room quite taken aback at some odor emanating from the other room.

Maggie (3 – making a yucky face): Mom, it smells so bad out there.

Me: What does it smell like?

Maggie (more yucky face): I don’t know. Yuck!

Me: Does it smell like a poopie?

Maggie: No. (exaggerated yucky face) It smells like back.

Me (confused, needing clarification): It smells like back?

Maggie (louder, as if I am asking a ridiculous question): Yes. Back. And it smells so bad.

Me: What does back smell like?

Maggie: I don’t know but we can no longer eat the dirt from outside.

And that must have been all she needed to say because she quickly turned back around and headed out of the room.  I still don’t understand the relationship between the smell of back and eating dirt from outside. I’m pretty sure we’ll never know.

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We have some friends visiting from out of town this week.  He is a pilot who went through flight school with Rabbit and he’s here for some training thing.  He and his wife have the most adorable 5 children and so we set our rec room up as a sort of studio apartment so they had a comfortable place to stay while they are here.

I asked Matthew to please set up some pieces of our modular sofa into a double bed for the adults.  I said to put the pieces the long way to make the bed longer.  I guess he didn’t understand what I was saying because went I went out into the rec room to finish picking up a bit and to put some sheets on the couch-bed to find this:

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Apparently Matthew was expecting one very tall person.
I couldn’t stop laughing.  I showed Rabbit and he said, Well, you did tell him to set the pieces up with the long ends together.

Obviously this isn’t what I meant.

While I think the company that makes these is awful to deal with, our Sactional modular couch really is awesome because whether you have 12 people in your family, or you are 12 feet tall you can make yourself an appropriately sized couch or bed.

I need to change my header don’t I.

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We’re at a change of command dinner which is usually fancy and formal but is not this time.

It’s a beach theme and for some reason this meant to somebody that each table should come stocked with mustaches.  That was all fine and well until I made the mistake of saying they looked like uni-brows and Rabbit heard me.

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Looks totally natural, right? I bet you’d never guess they were fake, would you.

Seriously though, I can’t take this man anywhere. Not even to an official military function.

Here is another one.

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He is having a serious conversation in the above picture.

This is who I married, people. I know you’re at least a little jealous.

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A couple nights ago I put spaghetti on the table for my children to eat for dinner.  Rabbit and I had to run a quick errand so I charged Gabe and Matthew with dishing up the littles’ food and we headed out the door to the bank and then to Publix.

We were gone for about an hour and when we got home the kids were just finishing up dishes and evening clean-up chores.  This made me happy because it meant that I had missed the bulk of the work.  Two points for having awesome kids.

About an hour after we had returned home everybody started to notice the faint smell of roasted garlic.
Roasted garlic on burnt toast to be more exact.

Ben was the first person to realize what it was.

MOM! It’s the bread!  It’s still in the oven!

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Before I had left with Rabbit I had checked on the garlic bread in the oven.  It wasn’t even close to being finished yet so I set the timer so the children could get it out after about 10 minutes.

Only I had forgotten to mention that to them.
And they had forgotten that I was cooking garlic bread.
And somebody had just turned the timer off when it buzzed because the boys use that timer for a million things and probably thought it was for something else, like whose turn it is on the stationary bicycle, with which they are all obsessed.

So for 2 hours the garlic bread cooked itself into a hard rock-like substance.  There was no fire, no smoke, and only a hint of burnt smell. Thank goodness I had it cooking on a low temperature because once when my mother-in-law and father-in-law were cooking us dinner they set their garlic bread to burning, like on fire, when they were broiling it to give it a quick toasting on top.

We have a big family with many eager cooks so we frequently have a newbie in the kitchen trying something they’ve never tried before. Obviously mistakes are going to happen.  Things bubble over on the stove, green beans get burnt to the bottom of a pot, muffins get set on fire
But we’re not talking about a newbie here.  This was simply me being a doofus.

And now I must go because Maggie is dumping Super Puffs all over and around the stationary bike.

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So many questions were answered for me.

And here we have a conversation between my second oldest and my second youngest.

Lucy (3): Joe, I need a herring so I can go cut down a tree in the backyard.

Joe (16): I don’t know what a herring looks like.  You’ll have to draw one for me.

Lucy: Well, I could draw it on paper if I had some chopsticks but we don’t have any chopsticks so you will have to get me some and then I can draw a herring for you.

Lucy’s (eyes suddenly very big):  OOOORRRRR   I could draw the herring with a crayon or a pencil!

She ran away and returned with a sheet of white paper and an orange crayon and then drew something that doesn’t resemble anything that exists anywhere.

Lucy: Wait, that doesn’t look like anything. Hmmm… I’ll fix it.

She added some eyes.

Lucy:  There. Now it’s a scary ghost.

Lucy:  Joe, I can’t draw a herring.  I need help.

Joe took the crayon and drew a simple picture of a fish.

Lucy:   That doesn’t really look like a herring.  It needs legs.

Joe drew some legs on it.

Lucy (laughing): Jooooeeee, that doesn’t look like a herring, it looks like a guy. He needs wings.

Joe:….

Lucy: Wait, noooo not wings.  I was thinking of an astronaut.  It needs wheels.

So, without further ado I give you a herring that can chop down a tree.

lucysherring

You’re welcome.

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Deal alert!

I used an explanation point so you would know that this is for realz.

Rabbit and I found this at the Walmart yesterday.  It’s called Poo-Dough. It’s a revolutionary product that allows you to make your own poo for the low, low cost of just $7.96.

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It looks just like the real thing.

If you’re like the tons of Americans who’ve been wanting to make their own poo you might want to hightail it to the Walmart and pick one up while they’re still available. 

Or, you know, you could just eat some food…

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math + months = chaos

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So, when Lucy was a baby, just over a year old, somebody at the grocery store asked me how old she was. I replied that she was about 13 months old because she was.
What happened next confused me for weeks on end.

The lady asking the question shook her head and responded with, Oh, I don’t do months.

I didn’t understand what she meant by that. What does it mean to not do months? Is it some kind of political statement? Is she trying to buck the system? Stick it to the man?
And if not months, what then?

I didn’t ask her what she meant because I didn’t know what to ask and I was hesitant to spark a political argument with somebody I didn’t know in the canned food aisle of the commissary.

It dawned on me a while later, like weeks or maybe even a month that she probably wasn’t making any sort of a public proclamation, and that she was likely saying that she was either not willing to do the math, or was unable to work numbers on the spot.

After my kid is about a year and a half old I’m finished describing their age in months. However, after having nine children I have found that simply saying that my child is 14 months old or 16 months old quite often gives people a mental brain freeze of sorts, causing them to pause for a moment while they work out that 14 months is equal to 1 year and 2 months.
This is somewhat comforting for me being that I, myself, am number dumb.

Now that Maggie is 13 months old I’m prepared for those blank stares when I respond to questions about her age.

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A few days ago, just after I started cooking a bunch of eggs, I noticed a large, crappily boxed package in my living room.   Nobody claimed to know where it came from so naturally I assumed it was a bomb and was getting ready to call the Navy.  Ben looked up from his video game right in the nick of time and let me know that he had answered the door earlier when the UPS man dropped the package off.  I had been in my room nursing Maggie and I asked him why he didn’t come and tell me that we had received a package and he said he though I knew. When I asked him how I would know that he just shrugged his shoulders and said, I don’t know.  I just thought you probably already knew, because obviously ESP is in my job description.

The address label was a generic, nondescript UPS label.  Wondering what could be in the box, I grabbed a pair of scissors and got to opening it.

My eggs were just starting to cook.  I was just starting to smell their vegetable and eggy goodness.

I pulled out some of the packaging paper when the understated, yet potent smell of used lard, dirty dishes, and body odor made its way up into my nostrils where it tried to make a permanent home.

It was in this moment that I recalled Rabbit winning a set of 6 pans from a government surplus auction a few cities over.  They shipped them to us instead of bringing them to the local auction the next day because that was easier for them.

Yeah.  Easier for them than having to refund our money because the pans included rotten food and two of them were so warped that they were unusable and obviously more suited for the dumpster than for cooking.  None of that was in the description at all and the picture in the auction was taken at an angle that made the pans only look previously used, not like they had been in a prison riot during the zombie apocalypse.

In their defense, the description did say Condition Unknown Not Tested.  But since they had gotten close enough to take a picture for the auction I had just figured they would have seen if there had been any left over food.

I know what you’re thinking. Pictures or it didn’t happen so I took some of my own for you.

pan1

I’m not even kidding, people. This is representative of 4 of the 6 pans we received.

pan3

This is one of the two warped ones.

pan2

I had trouble capturing its true warped-ness but it was seriously oval and the bottom of the pan was no longer flat but had rounded out nicely as if it had been bashed across a very round, very hard head.

Did I mention that I opened these while I was cooking eggs for myself for dinner because I couldn’t eat the cheese in the dinner I had cooked for the family?

I completely lost my appetite.  As a matter of fact, I couldn’t eat anything for close to 24 hours.  That is how bad it was.  Every time I thought about food the smell returned.

I almost feel sick just thinking about it.

So the moral of the story is to not have any reasonable expectations from government auctions that may or may not include used but not cleaned or even wiped out prison cookware that may or may not have been used as weapons at one time. Not that I’m biased against prison pots and pans.  But I am.

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Whats do they haves on their faces-es

It would seem lately that masks of any and all sorts are all the rage in my family.  I was going through some recent pictures and found that I have captured quite a few moments where one of my children was wearing some kind of disguise.

Here we have Sam in his new swim mask.  I have already posted a picture of this, I think.  But it fits the post so I thought I’d post another.  Plus, he’s wearing fins in this one so bonus.

sammask

Here is Gabe with the same swim mask on his face.

gabemask

The root beer box on his head definitely ties the whole look together, don’t you think?

Sam again.  Not sure what kind of statement he was trying to make but it’s something.

sammask2

And Jesse put on this simple, understated, black mask when he got dressed first thing in the morning.

jessemask

He continued to wear it through breakfast and then during our writing lesson which, obviously, he was super excited about.

jessemask2

And as innocent as it may seem, bringing back leftover tortillas from Chili’s has recently resulted in a slightly disturbing mask-wearing episode which included a somewhat humorously creepy video I may or may not get permission to post.

kaitmask

Legally, she’s an adult.
We’re so proud.

And I will end this post with a random picture of an old man picking his nose because he was just standing there staring at me all eerily calling me mom.

image

It’s a wild ride, people. A wild ride indeed.

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A conversation with a 3 year old.

lacyintoyThe scene for this conversation is in my room.  I was getting ready to lay Maggie down in her bed for a nap and Lucy was following me around talking to me about church and swimming and how to sit like a lady.
I saw that she had some dried blood on her leg – the kind that comes from a very small scratch but looks like you’ve probably lost a pint or more of blood and may require some gauze and tape and possibly a nurse.
Also, throughout the entire conversation Lucy was never alarmed, just surprised.

Me: Lucy, you have some yuck on your leg. Here is a baby wipe so you can clean it up.

Lucy: Where?…  Oh!  That’s blooood!

Every time she said blood she said it with a murderous scowl.

Me: Yeah.  Wipe it up really well.

Lucy:  What happened? Why is there blooood?

Me: You must have gotten a little scratch without realizing it or something.

She continued to wipe quietly for a few seconds.  Then suddenly…

Lucy (incredulous): WHO BITE ME?

Me: I don’t know. Why do you think someone bit you?

Lucy: Maybe it was a shark.

Me: A what?

Lucy: A SHARK!

Me: A shark?  In our backyard? I don’t think so.

Lucy: Oh.  Well, maybe it was Sherlock. (the puppy)

Me (I’m laughing now): I don’t think the puppy bit you.

Lucy: It hurts.

Me: No it doesn’t.  You didn’t even know it was there until I told you about it.

Lucy: So it doesn’t hurt? Why doesn’t it hurt?

Lucy continued to wipe up her leg while we chatted about sharks in the backyard.  When she finished she held up the blood stained baby wipe and proclaimed it disgusting and continued to talk about who might have bit her while I tried to laugh as quietly as possible because Maggie was THISCLOSE to being asleep.

It’s yucky? It’s blooood?
Does it hurt?

Who bite me?
Probably Sherlock.  Or a shark.

I would like to say, for those of you who might be feeling deep concern, that we don’t, nor have we ever kept sharks in the yard. Or anywhere.  Gabe is the closest thing we’ve ever had to a shark and he hasn’t bitten anyone in 9 or 10 years now so I don’t know why Lucy suggested she might have been bitten by a shark.  And Sherlock is about as innocuous a puppy as they come.

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