Mutton What?!

Last evening Jack and I (more Jack MUCH less I) put on a bull ride for the non-profit we are involved with. This was my first bull ride and it was a ton of fun. The bulls are huge, pretty docile until provoked, and stubborn. They reminded me a lot of our English bulldog.

Before the bull riding began, there was mutton busting. This is where small children sign up to ride sheep. They get in the same stall as the bull riders, mount a sheep, hold on tight, and see how long they can stay on. It was hilarious! There were many children there donning their western gear (jeans, boots, hats and all). Then there were my girls in their shorts and flip flops. The first rider out of the gates was #2.

#3 was second. She was determined to stay on longer than #2 and held on TIGHT.

When the gates opened everyone laughed. Her determination paid off as she was able to score 52 points (whatever that means). She got beat by a much younger contestant. I think it was rigged.

Despite the scrapes, bruises, and lingering sore muscles, they both said they do it again.

Funny story about the mutton busting and the internet…

It was part of the marketing strategy to market to the Hispanic population via a restaurant and grocery store in a nearby town. The bull ride posters were all made up. With the use of a website, the poster was converted into Spanish. When Jack went to deliver the posters to the restaurant and market, the gentleman looked over the poster. With a smirk on his face and a chuckle, he pointed at the mutton busting picture and asked what it was. Jack explained that the children could register to ride sheep. The gentleman let out a chortle and explained that the interpretation stated they could eat the meat! HAH! He kindly changed the poster with a magic marker so misguided bull ride goers didn’t show up expecting a meal.

Picture This!

I had the best idea this year, as it pertained to picture day at the middle school. Usually, I run around the morning of picture day frantically trying to help all three of my beautiful little girls do their hair and put the final touches on the outfit they’ve picked out (or I’ve specifically bought for this occasion). Not this year, this year, I planned to alleviate as much of the chaos that surrounds picture day as I possibly could. Let’s face it, I’m no proponent of spending $26 per child to have ugly pictures taken. The children almost never smile naturally, the backdrop is a drab blue/gray draping that does nothing but wash out my impossibly white children, and almost always someone has altered a shirt/necklace/carefully placed hair tie that my OCD cannot overlook for an entire year!

In true procrastination style, I stopped by the hair salon two days before picture day. I begged our hair stylist to come in after hours and help me. She agreed and last night she took the girls into the salon and primped their hair to perfection. She put in enough gel and hairspray to endure an evening of tossing and turning and left strict instructions on how to fluff their new do’s the next morning. Genius, right?!

So, this morning I woke up with the understanding that my 11 year-old and her 13 year-old sister could get themselves dressed and ready for school with little to no effort on my part. After all, I did my part. I suckered the hairstylist into doing my work.

As it turns out, even the best laid plans can be foiled by hormonal tweens and an overbearingly anal mother.

“Mom, can you fix my hump?” (the one in her hair, not one on her back!) “NO! Julie said absolutely NO combs!” I’m not really sure how else she thought I was going to fix her hump.

“Mom, what shoes should I wear?” seriously?! no one is going to see your shoes.

Three shirt changes later, a myriad of instructions about the proper handling of a diamond necklace given as a last gift from grandpa received for Christmas the day after he went to live with Jesus, a “discussion” regarding shoes, a couple of hair primping sessions, followed by massive amounts of hairspray later and we were ready for school.

“Mom, I have gym first period. How am I going to get my shirts to lay nice like you have them and make sure I don’t mess up my hair? Can you write me a note?”

Oh, yeah, I’m sure that would be approved:

“Please excuse my daughter from gym class today. I appreciate the important role physical health plays in my child’s life, but I cannot leave my workplace to redress my child and restyle her hair. I will be busy making money to pay for the ugly things!” Sincerely, the world’s most psychotic mother.

Not a Morning Person

Yesterday my husband and I “celebrated” our 15th wedding anniversary. I say “celebrated” because the day itself was really a non-event. We celebrated properly in April with our trip to Las Vegas, so yesterday was pretty much just another day – another day with CHEESECAKE. That’s right, my honey brought me home a cheesecake and I’ve spent the better part of the last 24 hours telling the girls why they can’t eat it.

It’s been no secret for the last 15 years that I am simply not a morning person. I’m not really sure if my husband thinks I’m faking it, if he thinks I’ll grow out of it, or if he simply gets a kick of of tormenting me, but the day after our 15th wedding anniversary he thought he’d poke at me a bit.

He woke up this morning singing and whistling (both of which irritate the crap out of me before 9:00am). I was brushing my teeth trying to ignore him when it happened - #3 appeared from her room dressed in this…

 

This is a skirt she rec’d as a hand-me-down from a neighbor. I was not home when this article of clothing made it’s way into my house or I would have PROMPTLY scooped it up and did away with it. Since the day it arrived it has wreaked havoc on my life. The skirt is a little big for my nine year-old, so initially she decided to make it into a dress. If she pulls it up under her arm pits, it reaches far enough past her knees to pass the “Touch Your Toes” test. This is a test by which father decides if a skirt is too short to wear in public. If you bend over and touch your toes and Dad can’t see your panties, then you may keep it. If not, it is promptly removed and put in the box to be handed down to the next or sent to the second-hand store. She asked me several times to sew straps on this hideous thing. I thought by putting it off she’d forget, but she did not. Instead she took it upon herself to attempt to sew white ribbon straps to it. She never quite finished and I’m not sure what happened to the one she had semi-successfully attached, but today it was a skirt again.

When I questioned her on this outfit selection, she replied “Dad said I could.”

Why? Why does he do things like this? He knows there is no way I am going to allow an outfit like this to leave my house. I care about my daughter’s social well being. While Dad may not care if she never dates, I know what third grade girls eat for lunch – girls that dress like this!

The look on #3’s face pretty much sums up how she felt about how I felt about this outfit. In fact, it had been “decided” that #3 would be allowed to wear this to school. She was in her room reflecting on her mother’s opinion and doing her best to avoid a fist fight with #2 about some noise someone was making (none of my darling daughters inherited their father’s love for the early hours of the day). When I stepped in to snap this picture for this very blog post, Dad came trotting down the hall shouting, “Don’t do it. She’s going to make fun of you on her blog. Really she is. She just wants to make fun of you.” I could have punched him in the junk right then and there. Like the situation needed this prodding.

“I’m NOT going to make fun of her on my blog.”

“Yes, she is.”

“No, I’m not. I’m going to make fun of YOU on my blog.”

While #3 was deciding what her real outfit should be for the day, my loving husband (the one with the death wish) followed me into the kitchen and caught me in a big bear hug. Seriously? He then makes lovey-dovey talk at me in an effort to cheer me up (like some how his antics will magically make me all better).

He went back to check on the children’s progress in preparing for school.

I appeared in the doorway to tell him that I was leaving for work. He looked up and joked, “Do you want a medal?” Really? After 15 years you’d think he’d better understand how close he walks to the edge.

School’s Back in Session

Living in a small town, it is very evident when college resumes each fall. We get an over-abundance of fearless 18-21 year-olds that walk out into traffic on the state hiway in town because they know we have to stop for them. They move in herds and you have to add an additional 5 minutes to compensate for the crossing of the college students. Five minutes doesn’t seem like a lot, but it really only takes about 10 minutes to drive across town.

Saturday, the girls and I went to the convenience store and saw some of those same suicidal students participating in the activities available on campus during these first few weekends. We pulled up to see a young man sporting a purple flowered bicycle helmet donning an oversized tricycle with big ape-hanger handlebars. Before we can make it out of the Pilot, four students wearing a pair of GINORMOUS tighty-whities came flying out of the convenience store. All four of them were in the one pair of underwear. I’m not even kidding. Then they all ran off back across the hiway (not in the cross-walk either) and the guy on the tricycle peddled as fast as he could without tipping over just to keep up with them.

It was funny and I didn’t have my camera with me :(