Sherry Ellis's Blog, page 92
January 15, 2013
Dumpster Diet
Sometimes I don't have time to cook. (Maybe if I didn't write or blog, it would be a different story.) On those days, I cheat. I pull out some kind of frozen food and heat it up. Today, I pulled out a mini pot roast. It was a boil-in-the-bag variety. (Yeah, I know - kind of weird, but it works when I'm in a pinch.)
I plopped those things into a pot of boiling water and continued writing. My daughter came along and peeked in the pot. "Mom!" she said. "You're boiling plastic bags!"
"Yep. Only the best at this restaurant!" I replied.
She made a face. "I'm sick of this dumpster diet of yours."
"Dumpster diet? What do you mean? This is good food!"
"Mom, I can crawl into a dumpster and find this stuff."
"Oh good," I said. "Then you can go crawl into a dumpster to get your dinner, and I won't even have to boil water!"
I plopped those things into a pot of boiling water and continued writing. My daughter came along and peeked in the pot. "Mom!" she said. "You're boiling plastic bags!"
"Yep. Only the best at this restaurant!" I replied.
She made a face. "I'm sick of this dumpster diet of yours."
"Dumpster diet? What do you mean? This is good food!"
"Mom, I can crawl into a dumpster and find this stuff."
"Oh good," I said. "Then you can go crawl into a dumpster to get your dinner, and I won't even have to boil water!"
January 14, 2013
Frozen Junebug
"Mama," my eight-year-old son said this morning. "There's a frozen Junebug on our porch."
"Hmmm," I said. "That's nice. What's he doing there?"
"Well, he was crawling around inside, and I didn't want to share my food with him. So I put him outside."
"I see. You do realize it is 23 degrees outside?"
Bubba nodded. "Yep."
"Bugs can't live outside when it's that cold. You killed him."
"Yeah, Mama. I know. When I put him outside, he took a few steps and turned around. He took a few more steps and then he froze."
Poor bug. He probably just wanted to get back into the nice warm house. Next time my boy should share his food!
"Hmmm," I said. "That's nice. What's he doing there?"
"Well, he was crawling around inside, and I didn't want to share my food with him. So I put him outside."
"I see. You do realize it is 23 degrees outside?"
Bubba nodded. "Yep."
"Bugs can't live outside when it's that cold. You killed him."
"Yeah, Mama. I know. When I put him outside, he took a few steps and turned around. He took a few more steps and then he froze."
Poor bug. He probably just wanted to get back into the nice warm house. Next time my boy should share his food!
January 13, 2013
Mama Fails Hair 101
Most of you know that I'm a dance mom. My daughter is on competition dance teams. As part of the dance mom job, I have to know how to apply my daughter's stage makeup, and fix her hair into a multitude of hairstyles. Today was practice day. I took my $100 worth of makeup supplies and hair stuff to the dance studio to show the owner of the store that I could actually do this.
Ha.
We started with the makeup. Do you know how hard it is to apply liquid eyeliner to somebody else's twitching eye?
"You have to stay still, or I'm going to end up lining your ears!" I told my daughter.
She made a face, which of course didn't help matters.
Then I tried to curl her eyelashes. "Mom!" she said. "You're going to poke my eye out!"
"Sorry about that. Here. You do it yourself."
"What do I do?"
"Put your eyelashes in the thing and squeeze."
Yeah.
Next was the mineral powder. I put some on a brush and knocked off the access. Of course my daughter started gagging. "Mom, what are you doing? This is like Mount Saint Helen erupting!"
"Deal with it," I said.
Somehow I managed to paint her face in such a way that was acceptable to the dance store owner. "Pass," the lady said, and signed off on our chart that it was good.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
On to the hair. The style was a very special twist with a side bun: the signature dance studio hair do. It is very important that I learn to master this. Being the genius I am, I forgot the gel and hair net.
"Mom!" my daughter complained. "How could you forget those?"
I shrugged. "We'll borrow somebody's gel." (Not that they'd want used hair gel back.)
That's what we did, but unfortunately, it wasn't the good stuff. It was more like water. I parted my daughter's extremely long hair and went to work. I tried very hard to twist the hair just right, and position the bun against the side of my daughter's head, just behind the ear. But of course, without the right stuff, it just didn't work right. Nevertheless, I sprayed it down with a half a can of hair spray. "That'll have to do," I said and marched her over to the dance store owner for inspection.
She gave me a look. I knew it wasn't going to be good news. "First of all, the twist is supposed to start higher on the head," she said.
Okay. Fine.
She continued. "Second, I see a wispy (term for hair out of place)."
I nodded. Couldn't argue that one. There was indeed one hair out of place.
"Third, where is your hair net?"
"At home," I said.
"You failed," said the owner. "Come back another day and try it again."
I'm crushed. What an utter failure I am. I'm going to go have a pity party now. Would somebody else like to take over my job as a dance mom?
Ha.
We started with the makeup. Do you know how hard it is to apply liquid eyeliner to somebody else's twitching eye?
"You have to stay still, or I'm going to end up lining your ears!" I told my daughter.
She made a face, which of course didn't help matters.
Then I tried to curl her eyelashes. "Mom!" she said. "You're going to poke my eye out!"
"Sorry about that. Here. You do it yourself."
"What do I do?"
"Put your eyelashes in the thing and squeeze."
Yeah.
Next was the mineral powder. I put some on a brush and knocked off the access. Of course my daughter started gagging. "Mom, what are you doing? This is like Mount Saint Helen erupting!"
"Deal with it," I said.
Somehow I managed to paint her face in such a way that was acceptable to the dance store owner. "Pass," the lady said, and signed off on our chart that it was good.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
On to the hair. The style was a very special twist with a side bun: the signature dance studio hair do. It is very important that I learn to master this. Being the genius I am, I forgot the gel and hair net.
"Mom!" my daughter complained. "How could you forget those?"
I shrugged. "We'll borrow somebody's gel." (Not that they'd want used hair gel back.)
That's what we did, but unfortunately, it wasn't the good stuff. It was more like water. I parted my daughter's extremely long hair and went to work. I tried very hard to twist the hair just right, and position the bun against the side of my daughter's head, just behind the ear. But of course, without the right stuff, it just didn't work right. Nevertheless, I sprayed it down with a half a can of hair spray. "That'll have to do," I said and marched her over to the dance store owner for inspection.
She gave me a look. I knew it wasn't going to be good news. "First of all, the twist is supposed to start higher on the head," she said.
Okay. Fine.
She continued. "Second, I see a wispy (term for hair out of place)."
I nodded. Couldn't argue that one. There was indeed one hair out of place.
"Third, where is your hair net?"
"At home," I said.
"You failed," said the owner. "Come back another day and try it again."
I'm crushed. What an utter failure I am. I'm going to go have a pity party now. Would somebody else like to take over my job as a dance mom?
January 12, 2013
Mama Avatar
"Mom, I'm going to make you an avatar on Wii," my eleven-year-old daughter said.
"That's nice," I replied. "Do you think I'll ever use it?"
"No, but I'll make one anyway."
She went to work creating a figure that was supposed to resemble me. A few minutes later, she had something she wanted to show me. "Come here, Mom. What do you think?"
I looked at the creature on the screen. It had black eyes and tiger stripes all over its face. "Excuse me," I said. "I don't have black eyes. And what's up with the tiger stripes?"
"Those aren't tiger stripes, Mom. Those are wrinkles."
"What?" I couldn't believe it. "Listen kid, I know I'm old, but I don't have wrinkles like that!"
"All right. Fine. I'll fix them."
She went back to work. She got rid of the wrinkles and then gave me pretty blue eyes. I was about to say that it looked much better, but then she started messing with the lips. I looked like a kissing gourami. "Why did you give me fat lips?" I asked.
"Because of your duck bill."
"Hey, that's gone! I have normal lips now. Fix those lips!"
She gave me an exasperated sigh. Then she went to work on my body. When she was done, I had a fairly attractive face, but a big head and a teeny tiny body.
"That's a little disproportionate," I said.
"No, it's not. You have a little body and a big head."
Okay. Maybe she's right!
"That's nice," I replied. "Do you think I'll ever use it?"
"No, but I'll make one anyway."
She went to work creating a figure that was supposed to resemble me. A few minutes later, she had something she wanted to show me. "Come here, Mom. What do you think?"
I looked at the creature on the screen. It had black eyes and tiger stripes all over its face. "Excuse me," I said. "I don't have black eyes. And what's up with the tiger stripes?"
"Those aren't tiger stripes, Mom. Those are wrinkles."
"What?" I couldn't believe it. "Listen kid, I know I'm old, but I don't have wrinkles like that!"
"All right. Fine. I'll fix them."
She went back to work. She got rid of the wrinkles and then gave me pretty blue eyes. I was about to say that it looked much better, but then she started messing with the lips. I looked like a kissing gourami. "Why did you give me fat lips?" I asked.
"Because of your duck bill."
"Hey, that's gone! I have normal lips now. Fix those lips!"
She gave me an exasperated sigh. Then she went to work on my body. When she was done, I had a fairly attractive face, but a big head and a teeny tiny body.
"That's a little disproportionate," I said.
"No, it's not. You have a little body and a big head."
Okay. Maybe she's right!
January 11, 2013
Chess-playing Dog
Wasn't it just a couple of weeks ago that our German Shepherd, Schultz, was trying to play the piano? Well, now he thinks he can play chess.
I found my marble chess set and decided to set it up. Of course Schultz had to check out everything I was doing. He stuck his big black snoot on the board and sniffed.
"Would you like to play chess, Schultz?" I asked.
He looked at me and cocked his head. Then he nudged one of the pieces.
I looked at him and cocked my head. "All right. Let's see what you can do." I took a turn and moved one of the pawns. "Your turn."
Do you know what he did next? He grabbed the king in his big jowels and tried to eat it.
"Schultz, drop it!"
He dropped it.
"Schultz, you're supposed to say, 'check' before you 'check mate!'"
Stupid dog.
I found my marble chess set and decided to set it up. Of course Schultz had to check out everything I was doing. He stuck his big black snoot on the board and sniffed.
"Would you like to play chess, Schultz?" I asked.
He looked at me and cocked his head. Then he nudged one of the pieces.
I looked at him and cocked my head. "All right. Let's see what you can do." I took a turn and moved one of the pawns. "Your turn."
Do you know what he did next? He grabbed the king in his big jowels and tried to eat it.
"Schultz, drop it!"
He dropped it.
"Schultz, you're supposed to say, 'check' before you 'check mate!'"
Stupid dog.
January 10, 2013
Rat in the Tank
My eight-year-old son came running into the house. "Mama, there's a rat in the tank!"
"What?" I asked. "Where? What tank?"
"The one outside, where the frog and tadpoles used to live."
Oh. That one. For a minute I was worried it was our fish tank or our African Clawed Frog's tank. "Is it alive or dead?" I asked.
"Dead."
"So what are you going to do with it?"
My son shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing."
"Okay." I picked up a load of laundry and took it upstairs.
Bubba followed me. "But, Mama, aren't you going to do anything about it?"
I shook my head. "Not my department."
(So, ladies and gentlemen, how long do you think the dead rat will remain floating in that tank?)
"What?" I asked. "Where? What tank?"
"The one outside, where the frog and tadpoles used to live."
Oh. That one. For a minute I was worried it was our fish tank or our African Clawed Frog's tank. "Is it alive or dead?" I asked.
"Dead."
"So what are you going to do with it?"
My son shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing."
"Okay." I picked up a load of laundry and took it upstairs.
Bubba followed me. "But, Mama, aren't you going to do anything about it?"
I shook my head. "Not my department."
(So, ladies and gentlemen, how long do you think the dead rat will remain floating in that tank?)
January 9, 2013
Hauling Mama Up the Stairs
Last night, my husband got the brilliant idea to try to carry our eleven-year-old daughter up to her room.
"No, daddy!" she screamed, and promptly ran out of the room before my husband could catch her.
"Well, I know somebody else I can carry up the stairs." He looked at me.
I looked at him. "Don't even think about it!"
He thought about it. Next thing I knew, I was over his shoulder, my head facing down and my tush facing up.
"Oh my God!" I cried. "Pleeeeeeease don't drop me!!!!!"
Meanwhile, my kids thought that was the greatest thing ever. "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" they chanted as he carried me across the house, up the stairs.
My life flashed before my eyes. I could just see the headlines: "Mom Killed after Crazed Husband Drops Her on Her Head ."
Somehow he managed to carry me all the way up stairs. He put me down. I gave him my best glare, (which was difficult, because it was actually kind of funny). "You know, I just got rid of my swollen duck bill lip. What were you trying to do? Give me a goose egg on my head?"
My husband grinned. "Aw, come on. I wouldn't have dropped you. I could've carried both you and your piano up the stairs."
Yeah, right.
"No, daddy!" she screamed, and promptly ran out of the room before my husband could catch her.
"Well, I know somebody else I can carry up the stairs." He looked at me.
I looked at him. "Don't even think about it!"
He thought about it. Next thing I knew, I was over his shoulder, my head facing down and my tush facing up.
"Oh my God!" I cried. "Pleeeeeeease don't drop me!!!!!"
Meanwhile, my kids thought that was the greatest thing ever. "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" they chanted as he carried me across the house, up the stairs.
My life flashed before my eyes. I could just see the headlines: "Mom Killed after Crazed Husband Drops Her on Her Head ."
Somehow he managed to carry me all the way up stairs. He put me down. I gave him my best glare, (which was difficult, because it was actually kind of funny). "You know, I just got rid of my swollen duck bill lip. What were you trying to do? Give me a goose egg on my head?"
My husband grinned. "Aw, come on. I wouldn't have dropped you. I could've carried both you and your piano up the stairs."
Yeah, right.
January 8, 2013
A Most Peculiar Window
I have some pretty strange conversations with my kids. Here's one I had yesterday with my eight-year-old son:
"Mama, could I see anything when I was in your stomach?"
"Well Bubba, first of all, you weren't in my stomach, because if you were, the acid in my stomach would have destroyed you."
Bubba nodded. "And then I would've come out as poop."
"Um, yeah. Something like that."
I continued. "You were in my uterus, and I really don't know if you could see anything."
"But what about the belly button?"
I looked at my kid funny. "What about it?"
"Isn't that like a little window? Couldn't I see out the belly button?"
"Bubba, seriously? Have you looked at your belly button lately? There's no possible way you can see in or out of your body through your belly button!"
He grinned. "But your belly button is special. It's a Mama belly button!"
"Mama, could I see anything when I was in your stomach?"
"Well Bubba, first of all, you weren't in my stomach, because if you were, the acid in my stomach would have destroyed you."
Bubba nodded. "And then I would've come out as poop."
"Um, yeah. Something like that."
I continued. "You were in my uterus, and I really don't know if you could see anything."
"But what about the belly button?"
I looked at my kid funny. "What about it?"
"Isn't that like a little window? Couldn't I see out the belly button?"
"Bubba, seriously? Have you looked at your belly button lately? There's no possible way you can see in or out of your body through your belly button!"
He grinned. "But your belly button is special. It's a Mama belly button!"
January 7, 2013
911 Emergency
My eight-year-old son has been eating me out of house and home. During winter break, he never stopped pestering me about feeding him. Yesterday took the cake.
"Mama, I'm hungry. Can you make me a little snack?"
"No, Bubba," I replied. "Dinner will be in about an hour and a half. You can wait until then."
"No, I can't." He walked over to the phone and began dialing.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm calling 911."
"What? Put that phone down right now. 911 is for real emergencies. You do not have a real emergency!"
"But Mama, this is a real emergency. If you don't feed me right now, I'm going to die!"
"Mama, I'm hungry. Can you make me a little snack?"
"No, Bubba," I replied. "Dinner will be in about an hour and a half. You can wait until then."
"No, I can't." He walked over to the phone and began dialing.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm calling 911."
"What? Put that phone down right now. 911 is for real emergencies. You do not have a real emergency!"
"But Mama, this is a real emergency. If you don't feed me right now, I'm going to die!"
January 6, 2013
Evil Furby
Do you know what a Furby is? I wanted to show you, but the thing is so evil, it wouldn't let me post a picture of it. (Actually, my computer seems to be malfunctioning, but we'll blame it on the Furby.)
A Furby is a supposedly adorable furry toy that has big ears, big eyes, is animated and talks. If you ask me, I'd say it looks like a cross between an alien and guinea pig. My dad got Bubba one for Christmas.
Last night, the thing was sitting on Bubba's bed in sleep mode. It looked very sweet and innocent with its eyes closed. I picked it up and put it on the book shelf. Big mistake. It woke up. Its eyes glowed with an insane white light, and it started muttering jibberish that only an alien could understand.
"Go to sleep," I told the creature.
It flapped its oversized ears and spun in a circle.
"Did you hear me? It's bed time. Go to sleep!"
It muttered something that I'm sure was alien profanity and made an evil Furby face at me.
"Bubba, come here and shut off your creature," I said.
Bubba skipped into the room. He started giggling. "Mama, he doesn't shut off."
"What? What kind of moron would design a toy that doesn't shut off?" Apparently a moron who's not a parent.
We sat there for five minutes while this creature hobbled and wobbled and stared at us with those scary white eyes.
"Bubba," I said. "Is it my imagination, or does that thing seem evil?"
Bubba grinned. "He's evil. I set him on evil mode."
So, we have a twisted toy designer out there. Nobody in their right mind would create a toy that doesn't have an off button. And nobody in their right mind would create a toy with an evil mode.
Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to take out the batteries, and then I'm going to feed it to Schultz, our German Shepherd. I'm sure he'll have fun tearing it to smithereens!
A Furby is a supposedly adorable furry toy that has big ears, big eyes, is animated and talks. If you ask me, I'd say it looks like a cross between an alien and guinea pig. My dad got Bubba one for Christmas.
Last night, the thing was sitting on Bubba's bed in sleep mode. It looked very sweet and innocent with its eyes closed. I picked it up and put it on the book shelf. Big mistake. It woke up. Its eyes glowed with an insane white light, and it started muttering jibberish that only an alien could understand.
"Go to sleep," I told the creature.
It flapped its oversized ears and spun in a circle.
"Did you hear me? It's bed time. Go to sleep!"
It muttered something that I'm sure was alien profanity and made an evil Furby face at me.
"Bubba, come here and shut off your creature," I said.
Bubba skipped into the room. He started giggling. "Mama, he doesn't shut off."
"What? What kind of moron would design a toy that doesn't shut off?" Apparently a moron who's not a parent.
We sat there for five minutes while this creature hobbled and wobbled and stared at us with those scary white eyes.
"Bubba," I said. "Is it my imagination, or does that thing seem evil?"
Bubba grinned. "He's evil. I set him on evil mode."
So, we have a twisted toy designer out there. Nobody in their right mind would create a toy that doesn't have an off button. And nobody in their right mind would create a toy with an evil mode.
Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to take out the batteries, and then I'm going to feed it to Schultz, our German Shepherd. I'm sure he'll have fun tearing it to smithereens!
