Hot Dogs On Bread

Hot dogs on bread, we meet again. It's been a while since your thin bit of compressed crust got stuck behind my front teeth.

Lesson 85: being too cheap to buy your family hot dog buns = white trash

A week of Adam in charge of the financial reins, after my gallbladder surgery, combined with school shopping for the four older boys contributed to our small food fund. The school clothes weren't the problem, it was the shoes. I've never been a name brand kind of person, I wore whatever I thought looked good. Well, Adam has this tramatizing childhood memory involving a pair of Reebok Pumps. Anyone remember those? I do, and I thought they were hideous! Needless to say, Adam desperately wanted a pair, but his family didn't have a lot of money. He tells me, even though I think it's an exaggeration, that he was the only one in his class without them. He didn't get a pair until a year later when they were out of style, and they weren't even Reebok, they were a Kmart knock off. Tramatizing. After that, he vowed never to put his kids through the same kind of embarrassment.

Lesson 86: making personal promises because of Kmart special Reebok Pumps = white trash

Thank you Reebok, this hot dog on bread is for you!

Gallbladder and Adam's Glimpse of Permanent Vacation

My gallbladder has been bothering me since Jude was born, 4 years ago. It became quite a nuisance over the past few months. I constantly felt nausiated and lethagy kept me from getting anything done. After a HIDDA Scan, my doctor felt it necessary for me to get it removed. I couldn't wait to see it go.

My surgery was scheduled for last Monday. All details were worked out. Adam would take his weeks vacation to take care of me and the kids. I wouldn't be permitted to pick anything up over 5 pounds for a month. (Yeah, like that's gonna happen!)

I had to be at the hospital by 5:30 AM. Adam wasn't thrilled. He has never been a morning person, but he got his cup of coffee and bag of what I thought was full of things to keep his amuzement during the hours he'd have to wait while I went under the knife, and never complained.

While I waited in my room to be taken to surgery, Adam sat drinking his coffee. I watched him take his last swig. Knowing he would need more to carry him through, I said, "That guy said there was coffee in the waiting room."

Adam smiled, "Don't worry, I have it covered."

He threw his backpack up on the side table and unzipped it to reveal a whole airpot full of coffee. He pumped a steamy cup of brewed coffee into his cup then zipped it back up.

"Are you serious?" I chuckled.

I could tell Adam was very proud of himself, "I don't trust hospital coffee. It always sucks, and it's going to be a long day."

Lesson 82: bringing your own pot full of coffee, hidden in a backpack, to the hospital = white trash

They soon came and wisked me away to get prepped. During this time, the anaesthesiologist came to check me out and tell me what was going to happen. He told me I would have to take a few breaths in the gas mask.

"Oh no, not the mask." I joked. I recounted the story from when I got tubes put in my ears at age 6. My anaesthesiologist for that procedure happened to be my cousin. He put the mask on me and I started to cry. My cousin smiled and said, "That's right Jessie, go ahead and cry." What?! I felt betrayed and terrified. I told this story to lighten the mood, but they took it as I was going to be trouble.

"Are you closterphobic?" the one nurse asked, seeming quite concerned.

"No," I answered.

"Are you going to have a problem with the mask?" the anaesthesiologist questioned.

I rolled my eyes, "I doubt it. I am an adult now."

They obviously didn't believe me. As they pushed me down the hall, the one nurse said to the other, "Maybe you should give this one a shot of B12."

The other nurse smiled as he stuck stuff in my IV. Being suspicious I asked, "Hey, is that really B12 or is it something funny?"

"Let's just say I'm gonna look real good in a few seconds," the other guy told me.

Lesson 83: being drugged because you tried to be funny = white trash

Needless to say, I don't recall having to breath into the mask.

After the ordeal was over, Adam took me home and locked me in our room. I hardly remember anything from that day. I would wake up and hear the muffled sound of random crying or Adam yelling at kids then I would pass out again.

I woke up the next morning to Jovie and Stone crying. Adam slept next to me. I vaguely remember Adam bringing Stone in to feed him during the night, and getting up to wipe Jude's poopy bum. I shook him awake. "The kids are up."

Adam growled as he threw the blankets off him, "All I want is five minutes of undisturbed sleep!"

I smiled. How many times had those exact words spilled from my own lips? Adam hadn't even been on duty for a full 24 hours. Over the next few days I watched my husband transform into a haggard version of myself. The glazed over stare that usually looked back at me from the mirror loomed across Adam's handsome face, and phrases I spoke on a regular basis spewed from his mouth like he'd been saying them for years.

"What is wrong with you kids?!"

"I can't help everyone at the same time!"

"Can you not make a mess for like five minutes?! Is that too much to ask?!"

"Give me five freaking seconds!"

He did have a few new ones, like, "Jovie, you are five seconds away from adoption!" I thoroughly enjoyed that one.

He even treated me the way I treat him most of the time. I wanted to show him something online one day, like he often does, and he answered me with, "I can't right now, I have to get this laundry done." When I would ask him what was wrong, he'd say, "Nothing. I'm just tired."

The one bonus of him living my daily life was that he was the one wanting to go to bed at 11. He always gives me a hard time for passing out before midnight.

I overheard him on the phone, a few days ago, telling a co-worker he wanted to come back to work. He's used to being the boss, not being bossed around by children. By the end of the week he had nearly lost his mind. The last straw was having to change Jovie's bed 3 days in a row. She had decided she didn't want to wear a diaper at night any more and would rip it off and pee all over her blankets.

Lesson 84: duct taping your daughter's diaper on her body = white trash

Adam went back to work today. I'm sure he's reveling in the quiet. I am sad to not have him here. He really did take good care of me and supplied me with plenty of entertainment!

Sisters

Sister relationships are very special. I have four brothers, and only one sister. When I was younger, I always wanted a sister but had to wait 16 years to get one. At least I had my one brother, up until that point, who let me put him in a dress and do his makeup for a penny. Yes, I'm talking about you Clayte, you miser!

Lesson 79: loving money so much you let your older sister dress you up like a girl for some lame penny she found laying willy-nilly on the floor = a cross dressing Scrooge McDuck

Even though my sister, Veronica (I named her), didn't come until I was almost an adult, I still felt a close bond with her. We did everything together. Not exactly by choice, as I ended up being her live in nanny. It was a bit awkward when Adam and I would take her around town and outsiders assumed she was ours. We got so tired of explaining our situation, it got to the point people would say, "She's so cute. Is she yours?" Our reply would be a quick, "Yep" as we ran away. We weren't lying. We didn't just find her on the road somewhere. She definitely wasn't theirs.

When Ronnie was little I dressed her up and did her hair, kind of like having a live doll. Unfortunately, she was some sort of child prodigy, using big words and being able to spell at age 2. She had a bigger vocabulary than Clayte, who was 16 at this time, and everytime someone would say the word pizza it turned into a spelling bee. "Pizza, P-I-Z-Z-A, pizza". This kind of intelligence got me in trouble. She's the one who told on me when I got a tattoo.

Lesson 80: being narked out by a 2 year old = white trash

As she grew, the differences between us became more apparent. For starters, our looks are completely opposite. I'm a brunette with brown eyes. She's light haired with sparkly, bright blue eyes. I have oomp-loompa legs and a ridiculously long torso, and she has the longest legs I have ever seen with barely any middle. Oh, and my mom tells me she'll probably get boobs too. Hello?! Where is the justice in all this? Where are my gazelle legs? I could have at least gotten some pretty eyes. Nope, Beady-eyed-no-boobs here ready to go work in Charlie's Chocolate Factory.

Our looks aren't the only thing that are different. She's a talented ballerina. I dance, but I did more hip-hop. I guess you have to do what works for your legs. (I'm rolling my eyes right now.) Of course, it may not have anything to do with legs. She's a girly girl and very proper. I've always been more of a tomboy, and a lot more ghetto. (I get it honestly, you should see my booty!)

Come to think of it, there are only two things that we share. One is the ridiculous size of our feet. We both have very long feet, with abnormally long toes. The second is our ability to put those disgusting things we walk on, right in our mouths. That's right, we both have a severe case of foot-in-mouth syndrome. We don't mean to be rude, it just comes out that way. Constantly.

I've come to accept my problem, and I have tried to work on it for years. Luckily, I've had years. Ronnie is only 14 and hasn't had much practice on restraint. So, when she was here for 3 weeks last month (along with my two youngest brothers who are 10 and 9) I had plenty of amusement as she unknowingly insulted me over and over and over again. (Ronnie, you better not be crying right now or I'll tell everyone how your 30 year old sister, who gave birth to 6 kids, kicked your butt at Just Dance.....oh wait, I just did......oh, snap!)

"You are going to fix this counter top, right?" she'd ask. Or, "Your garden really needs weeded." The best was when Jackie was over and out of nowhere she lovingly glanced over at me and said, "Jessie, one of these days I'm going to pick out an outfit for you, do your hair, and paint your nails."

I looked at her and chuckled, "Wow Ronnie, cold as ice."

My sister looked at me, confusion in her eyes, "What?"

Jackie chimed in, "You pretty much just told your sister she can't dress herself and her hair is hideous."

Lesson 81: needing to be dressed by a 14 year old because you obviously can't do it yourself = white trash

Sisters. I'm so very blessed to have one!

Love you Ronnie!!