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!!

House For Sale

In the market for a new home? Check out this stylish abode.

This small, two story, Ohio River view property is full of character.

Enjoy the tranquil sound of a babbling brook? This house is equipped with leaky gutters, that provides a soothing pitter patter as it destroys the porch below.

Are you a pack-rat looking to start anew? Then you'll love this home with an enormous dumpster occupying half the driveway and blocking the entry way to the back yard.

Have a green thumb? This garden needs your love, and while you work with the flowers, cool off in the shade of the trees growing in the gutters above.

After two straight weeks of gardening, relax on the modern front porch. Whimsical meets industrial on this porch full of Amish treasures, carpentry tools, and layer of wood chips.

The inside is a treasure chest full of surprises. Enjoy looking out this new door with fancy flourescent yellow spray insulation crammed between the slats of an exposed slat and plaster wall.

Give those over-worked feet a vacation on this plush wall-to-wall foam padding on top of plywood.

So, if you are the most desperate kind of individual, give White Trash Realty a call today!

Poptart

Lesson 78: Driving around town with a visible half eaten Poptart stuck to your bumper = white trash

Thanks Jovie for sharing your breakfast with Beaver County!

Letters of Complaint

Dear Washing Machine Draining Hose,

Please stay in the wash tub. Stop getting crazy and spewing water all over the place. This is the second time you've flooded my basement this week.

Dear Stone's Dresser,

Please remove yourself from the middle of my kitchen, and would you please take the pile of tools with you!

Dear Jude,

Please learn how to wipe your own bum. Wouldn't you like to have a birthday too?

Dear Stone,

Please learn to amuse yourself. I'm running out of material!

Dear Brain,

I'm sorry I abused you. I'm sorry I neglected you and subjected you to horrible visions of child feces and big purple dinosaurs. Can we please get back to the way we were when I knew my name and the day of the week?

Dear Mangy Disgusting Stray Cats,
Will you please stop peeing on all my belongings in my garage? The broken windows on my garage door, from a 1 year old with a baseball bat, and a brother-in-law with a horrible arm for throwing snowballs, are NOT cat doors.

Dear Pittsburgh Area Contractors,
Stop trying to rip off a charity that is trying to help us get our roof finished. Shame on you! Are there no decent people left in this area?!

Dear Adam,
Don't go and get a new career. You'd be doing the culinary world a great injustice if you leave it to be an insurance salesman. I know you're tired and you miss us, but we'll always be here when you get home. We love you and want you to use the wonderful gift God gave you. You don't just make food, you create art. :)

Dear Laundry,
Do you think you could fold yourself for once?

Dear Life,

...........................................aw, forget it.

LORD HAVE MERCY!!!

I am one dirty diaper away from commiting myself to the looney bin! Adam has worked the past 11 days straight, and I'm not talking a normal 9-5, no, he's been leaving here around 9 and not returning until midnight! There have been days where he doesn't even lay eyes on Jovie because she's still sleeping when he leaves.

Why is he working so much, you ask? Well, let's see.....first he had an employee who got wasted then owned himself on a curb, resulting in having extreme brain bruising. His doctor won't release him back to work until next month. Then another one of his employees picked up a fun little heroin addiction, obviously terminating his position.

Lesson 74: learn to handle yourself in a professional manner!!!

Adam also lost his Sous chef, who was the only other salary paid employee, so Adam has to do all morning and afternoon parties by himself, but because they are terribly understaffed he also has to stay for dinner business.

Yes, Adam has it hard, but my life hasn't been a cake walk. (Even though Adam tells me I'm on a pemanent vacation.)

Lesson 75: DON'T EVER TELL YOUR STAY AT HOME WIFE, WITH 6 KIDS, THAT SHE'S ON A PERMANENT VACATION OR YOU WILL WIN AN ALL EXPENSES PAID TRIP TO THIS AWESOME GETAWAY!!

Did I mention that on the last day Adam had off, we started some home improvements? They're only part done. Stone's dresser has been in the middle of my kitchen, backwards, for the past two weeks. There's boxes of flooring and floor padding piled beside it. I can't get to my island. I can't set up my ironing board. I've bruised my hips trying to walk by this ridiculous heap.

Outside is embarrassing. There's chunks of plywood everywhere, and the yard needs trimmed (I mowed, but I'm terrified of our weed wacker. It's impossible to start, vibrates profusely making my arm fall off and spits out more smoke than the industrial park on the other side of the Ohio River.)

Lesson 76: having a weed whacker that is solely responsible for global warming = white trash

I can't even enjoy my front porch. My rocking chair is buried beneath planks of wood with nails sticking out! LORD HAVE MERCY! I think my brain is hemorrhaging.

As I've said before, my kids are extremely moody when they don't get to see their Dad. (after reading this blog, I'm sure you can see they aren't the only ones). There's been more whining and fighting than ever before. One night I went up to yell at the boys, who were determined NOT to go to bed, I opened the door and Jet started to cry, "I miss Daddy." As soon as he mentioned their father, Jagger started to cry too, "I need Daddy to come home."

"I know. I miss Daddy, too." I reassured them, trying not to cry myself.

Looking at Jude as he climbed the ladder up to his bed, I waited for him to break out in tears like his brothers. All that came from my child's mouth was, "Daddy has a peep like me."

Wow.....what a tender moment! Thanks Jude for keepin' it real.

I'm just tired. I'm used to having a few hours in the morning to do what I need to do. Now I don't even have that. I've done all my grocery shopping with the kids, gone to Walmart with all the kids, and I've even managed to take all the kids to the park alone (I was tired of being stuck in the house, and the kids needed a little pick-me-up). I look ridiculous when we're out. Stone has to be held all the time. If he's not, he's screaming his head off. I let him scream at home, but strangers in stores really frown on it. I found that if I put him in a sling he's completely happy, and I still have the use of both my arms. The only problem is I've been wearing him constantly. He's so heavy that when I lay down at night I still feel like I'm wearing the sling!

I wish Adam could have just one day off, he'd actually be able to sit down, and he could hold Stone. It's a win-win. That way he's relaxing and I can do chores without having to hold that 5 million lb. lump. No seriously, he's like a lump. The child doesn't hold any of his own weight. It's like Weekend at Bernies...baby style.

This too shall pass.....this too shall pass......

WHEN?!!!!! As of right now there's no end in sight! Even my dreams have had enough!

Lesson 77: Dreaming several consecutive nights in a row about the Time-out chair = one tired white trash lady

Standard Dress

I had a bad morning yesterday. My boys have a clock in their room and aren't allowed to come out until it says 6:00 with the a.m. dot glowing. (Jag has a habit of waking himself and everyone else up at 4am.) Yesterday, they ignored that rule. At 5 my boys were screaming and running up and down the hall. Then Jude decided Jovie shouldn't miss out on the fun, so he opened her door and woke her up.

I laid in bed wishing the nonsense would magically stop. No....no....of course it had to get worse. A few minutes later I hear, "Ewwww! Jovie, don't play with your poop."

I leapt out of bed, but it was too late. The poop monster struck again for the third time this week.

After I cleaned her up, I went downstairs and put all my kids in time-out. Jovie for playing in her dung, and the boys for not obeying the rules. Jude got extra time for lying. He told me Jovie opened her own door, which is absolutely not possible. Good try Jude.

While they were crying in time-out, I nursed Stone and flipped through my issue of Family Fun. On one of the back pages I saw a coupon for those Family Stick Figure decals. Adam and I want to get one because we know it would look ridiculous. I let the kids up and got on the computer to design my family in stick form.

I opted for the fancier version, where you could make your stick figure doing something. I made Adam's a chef. Marky's played video games. I chose one playing soccer for Jagger, and one reading a book for Jet. Jude's character was playing with cars. I found a curly headed little girl carrying a purse to represent Jovie, and Stone was a cute little baby.

Moving on to me, I couldn't wait to see what my person could be doing. First, the head. I scrolled down, but the only thing that was close to me was the boring one, labeled "bob". Eh, I clicked it anyway. I then proceeded to the body. There were so many to choose from. The list seemed endless. I scrolled down. Then, scrolled down some more. Went back to the top and started again. Nothing. I don't ride horses. I don't cook. I'm not a diva. I don't surf, play football, or am a shop-a-holic. And for crying out loud, I don't LUGE!

Depressed, I picked a triangle dress. Looking below the picture I saw it was labeled, "Standard Dress". My heart broke. Bob, and standard dress? I'm the Jane Doe of stick figures. I grumbled away from the computer and slumped down on the couch, zoning out to the boys playing video games.

Adam came down a few minutes later. Knowing me all too well, he took one look at me and asked, "What's the matter baby?"

Near tears I exploded, "I was trying to make us one of the family stick figure stickers, because I had a coupon," Adam smiled at the mention of a coupon, he's amused by my love of a good deal, "and everyone else got something fun, but I got standard dress. STANDARD DRESS! There's nothing special about me. I have no talent! Where's the stick figure with a vacuum? Or, how about one cleaning poop? Huh?! Where?!"

Lesson 73: wanting a stick figure cleaning up feces on your back window to represent yourself = white trash

"Did you order the sticker?" Adam asked with a smile.

I crossed my arms like a little kid, "No. I'm not getting one until they come out with a Superwoman outfit."

Coo-Coo's Nest

Adam and I have never had a hanging plant on our front porch, but I've always wanted one. My neighbors always have them and I rock on my porch coveting their beauty. The pretty blooms cascading over the pot, making homes seem well taken care of and homey.

This year I was able to join the neighborhood hanging basket club. Adam came home with one on Easter. It not a flowering basket, it's just greens. He had used parts of it for decoration on the Easter buffet table and brought home what was left for me. It wasn't exactly what I wanted, but I was happy none the less.

A few weeks went by and for days I noticed everytime I walked out on to my porch a freaking bird would fly out of my basket. No! I walked over to the plant as the bird sat on a telephone wire and shouted obscenities at me in squawk form. Sure enough, nestled deep inside my plant was a nest.

"Adam, I think a bird made a nest in my hanging plant," I whined, "come check. I'm afraid this crazy bird is going to peck my eyes out."

Adam came out and took down the basket, "There's six eggs in here."

"What?!" At first I was angry. I finally felt like my house fit in and wasn't the street's eye sore. I knew I wasn't going to be able to water the dang thing, and sure enough, within a week my fern had become quite brown.

I wanted to take it down, but I have to admit, Momma bird was pretty clever. All those inbred mangy cats couldn't get to them. So, I left it. Even though it made our house look extremely trashy. Who leaves a dead plant hanging on their front porch? This girl.

Lesson 70: having a dead hanging basket full of birds on your front porch for decoration = white trash

It has been rewarding, though. I was actually on my porch when they hatched. It was a very weird moment where I felt like I was in the delivery room of someone I hardly knew. I wanted to watch but didn't want to invade their privacy, then got weepy when I heard little peeps coming out of the nest.

Now, they are like my family. No, seriously, they are like my family. There are six babies shoved into a way too small nest and they all have personalities. The other day I watched them as the sun was setting. I had just put all my kids to bed, and so had Momma bird, and just like my kids who have a million excuses to be out of their rooms, one of the baby birds was perched on the side of the nest. The mommy bird sat on the telephone wire yelling at the baby, and the baby squawked back until the mom had to come and physically put him back to bed. I rocked in my chair, laughing, "Oh Momma, I know how you feel."

Lesson 71: talking out loud to a bird in a wilted plant, that none of your neighbors can see, so they think you've lost your mind and are talking to a dead weed = white trash

Luckily, the other day one of my neighbors commented on how my plant must not like the sun. I chuckled and said, "No, it likes the sun. It just needs more water and a lot less bird." Then I had her come over and check out my extended family. Peeking in the basket and seeing the six hungry babies with their mouths open, thinking I was going to upchuck some delicious worm chunks into their beaks, my neighbor said, "Six?! There is seriously something wrong with this street, even the wild life have too many kids!"

Lesson 72: Don't move to my street unless you are prepared to have at least a half a dozen kids like the rest of us :)

So, if you're bored, come on over and check out my birds. You'll know which house is mine by the decrepid plantlife hanging proudly on my porch.