a Friday night with Kerry

So, it's Friday night. Although I've never been the party girl, I never thought a Friday night would become quite this anticlimactic.

I've just dyed my hair orange.

Orange was not the color I was going for, in fact, Light Auburn is the shade on the box. But it might as well be called Orange. Don't believe me? Let's go to the evidence.

Oh, yeah, I dyed my eyebrows too, because I want to look like the Carrot Top version of Groucho Marx.

This is all kinds of sexy, wouldn't you agree? Not so much, I know. The houseboys aren't exactly lining up outside the door.

As the color began to to darken on top of my head and I checked the mirror, a song popped into my head.

Can you guess which one?

"They call me Heat Miser…"

It's the one and only Heat Miser from 1974's "The Year Without a Santa Claus."

The Heat Miser and I have one thing in common. Okay two. 1) flame-colored hair and 2) similar body shapes.

Besides that we're total opposites. He likes it hot; I like cool temperatures. He hates Santa; I love Christmas. He can melt objects with his bare hands; I melt in the heat and humidity. He sings Ragtime; I sing everything on my iPod, no Ragtime. He has a much-hated step-brother, the Snow Miser; I have a sister in Texas, where it has snowed before . His mom is Mother Nature herself; my mother has enjoyed the Animal Planet. He clearly has no fashion sense; I'm me. He has minions which are miniature versions of himself; I'm not allowed to speak about that until after the trial is over.

Just before I rinsed my hair, I checked the mirror again and another image came to me.

Syndrome from The Incredibles.

Either I need to go back to the salon for professional coloring or I need to stop watching animated television and movies.

This is just sad.

I just had the strangest epiphany.

If the Heat Miser and I had a child it would be Syndrome.

Look at him. Seriously.

be free to be you

Be free to be you while on your period.

Thank baby Jesus I've never felt the need to be a Pierrot.

Yes, it's that time. No, not in all 24 years of my menstruating life have I felt like being a freaking French clown. Well, there was that once, but it's not not like there were any witnesses and even if there were, y'all don't speak French anyway, so guess the joke's on you. Ha. And why'd you have to bring it up anyway?

Do you have any chocolate?

blog makeover

Woo-hoo! The blog makeover is complete! Hannah of Sherbet Blossom Designs did a great job on my blog's makeover and I love it. The old blog had needed a fresh coat of paint and a little sprucing up and I couldn't be happier with the remodel.

The fam is back from the beach and I have a bunch to tell you and photos to share, but for now I'll just wish you a happy Sunday and I'm going to upload pics and read my 180 emails (no exaggeration there, btw). Have a great evening and I may surprise y'all with a late edition of the 80's Sunday Rewind, who knows.

one weak week

It's been an odd week for this chick, so I'll start there because it's always nice to start at the beginning.

Monday was normal. The hubs was sick, but everything in Kerry world was fine otherwise.

Tuesday sucked. The munchkins and I were on the way home from the club and I got into my first car accident. I rear-ended a woman, pretty much knocking her bumper off. Go me. Before I go on, everyone was fine — no need to worry or start a telethon for donations or anything. The middle child asked if I would get a ticket, followed with the question "will we go to jail?" So far (fingers crossed) I can say I've never spent time behind bars, but I told her we'd go to jail if we didn't behave. The police show up and I hand over my license, registration, and expired insurance card — of course my card expired on my birthday and I hadn't put the new one in my car yet. Awesome. Then deputy Megan shows up, jumps out of her car asking if I want her to take the kids or if there's anything she can do — I was expecting her to say she was once a traffic cop, because as those close to her know, Megan has had every job on the planet. By the way, I'm not exaggerating here — Megs has done everything from designing kitchens to taking newborn photos in the hospital — I never know what's next. We will be sitting in a restaurant or something and I'll wonder aloud if the paella is any good and she will bust out with "you know, when I was Castro's personal food taster, I had great paella." And I'm all "I didn't realize that was a job or that you'd even been to Cuba."

So, I told Megan everything was under control and she left. I got a citation and the middle child asks if it was a ticket. I said yes and the four year-old goes "yea!" as if it were a prize. Once I get home, Frugal Beth calls and tells me her mother saw me after the accident standing on the median. Later, on Facebook another friend tells me she saw me too. I felt like a minor celebrity. By that night my neck and head hurt and I've been popping Motrin since. Oh, the pic is of the car I hit, notice the bumper. And I didn't know they still make Lancers.

Wednesday night we took the kids to see Thomas Live in New Orleans. Driving across the Causeway, the hubs asked where I'd like to go for dinner and he suggested Chevy Chase's place. My hubs is a very bright man. He can do all kinds of math, knows the ins and outs of complicated computer programs, and is great at what he does. He's not so good with names. Make that horrible with names. I informed him that Chevy's Tex-Mex restaurant is not Chevy Chase's place. It is not an understatement to say he was shocked. His reply "but it's called Chevy's…" made me question his brilliance. I went into analogy mode –because my hubs is the king of analogies — and told him that the toilet paper brand Scott's doesn't make it automatically his. I think he understood, but I'm still not sure. No doubt I could not endure that conversation if it were not for medication. This blog should be sponsored by anti-depression/anxiety meds, I'm telling you.

We ate dinner at Chevy's (not Chevy Chase's place) and went to see the show. Once we found our seats, I started reading the tattoos of the woman sitting in front of Andrew. The back of her neck said Sarah. Her hand read Ms. Pink in swirly letters and there were different sized stars going up her arm. She turned her head to talk to the woman sitting to her left and to reveal more stars coming from below the bra area (she was wearing a very low-cut top) and going up her neck to behind her ear. Another family shows up on their row and informs Sarah that her family is in their seats. Color me surprised because Sarah seemed like the type who knows her way around an arena. The show began and ten minutes in a 50something lady is asking me to move my purse from her seat and I obliged, then she says they've paid good money to be there and want to sit down. Huh? Are we gonna have a throw down? I moved my purse, grams. Grams, Gramps, and a kid sit and don't stop talking the entire time because apparently they felt the show needed to be narrated. Intermission. Grams tells her hubs, who is named "Dammit George" to get them drinks. He asks what type of beverage, she replies "Dammit George, I said Cokes!" He walks away, returns with said Cokes. Grams says "Dammit George, I thought I told you to get cotton candy." He walks away, then turns around, maybe 15 feet away and yells "red or blue?" In my head, I'm thinking that it's pink and not red, but I'm not going to interject. Grams yells "Dammit George, get the blue!" I start to wonder if he was Dammit George as a child or if he got the pet name once he married Ms. Congeniality.

Thursday was a day spent on the computer from morning 'til way past sundown. There was a bit of work to be done on the ScrapFest! website, just cleaning up a couple of things that most people woudn't even notice — then I decided to make a favicon (that's the little picture you see next to a website in your address bar and in your bookmarks or favorites). I made a pink scalloped circle with a blue fleur de lis inside, uploaded it, and put it on all the pages of the site. When I got to the FAQs page I saw an empty page. Somehow there was no saved version of the FAQs page, so I remade the whole thing — it was time consuming. I fully intended to write a post Thursday night, but instead had work to do. Gosh, I sound like a real grown up. Ugh.

So, this has been an odd week, complete with my first ever car accident. I know, hard to believe I haven't caused more accidents, right? That's what I thought.

With ScrapFest! looming I'll be quite busy for the next several weeks, but since practically all my work is either in Photoshop or the Interwebs, I'm hoping to post more since I'll be on the computer anyway. The hubs thinks I'm on this thing a lot now — he hasn't seen anything yet. I hope he likes the new nickname I'm giving him, "Dammit Scott!"

a brief personal history of summer (or why I hate summer)

There is a psychological disorder called SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) which is described as a pattern of
depressive or manic episodes that occurs with the onset of the winter
months. As the days become shorter, and the weather colder, there is
an increase in vegetative depressive symptoms. In pronounced cases, they say significant social withdrawal occurs as
well. Some have described the pattern as a hibernation during the
winter months.

That's all well and good, but what about summer?

Here are the SADS (Seasonal Affective Disorder, Summer) symptoms according to Kerry: As the days become longer, and the temperature unbearably hot, there is an increase in vegetative depressive/rage symptoms. In pronounced cases, significant social withdrawal occurs as well. Some describe the pattern as a "it's hot as hell outside, I'm staying in the air conditioning and yes, my hat is a bag of frozen peas!"

Did I mention I live in Louisiana, which has been featured on the Weather Channel's special "Louisiana: Forget the Cayenne, It's a Seasonless State." We have summer and a few months that aren't summer. These months cannot be referred to as autumn, winter, and spring, as they are not marked by typical temperatures, precipitation, or foliage changing colors. No, not here. Not Louisiana. I remember moving to Atlanta, Georgia in 1997 and something the natives there called "fall." First the leaves turned glorious colors, then the temperature started to drop. Before I knew I it, I was buying a coat. Not a jacket, an actual coat.

I became jaded when it came to summer as a young girl. I was probably seven when I realized it was because I had a summer birthday that more kids didn't come to my birthday parties. Besides having a summer birthday, it's also the same week as the 4th of July when many people go on vacation. So yeah, summer sucked.

What most people love most about summer was the thing I knew nothing about: vacations. A vacation in my family was traveling to a relatives' house or going to Six Flags in Dallas. I heard stories of friends going to a mythical place called Disneyland. Usually after summer break, I'd return to school only to have the thing I dreaded most come up: the what I did on my summer vacation essay.

Somehow I didn't think my experiences were essay material:

One year we went to Tennessee to my aunt's house and had to return early because my 80something year-old great-grandmother accidentally overdosed on her eleventy-seven medications.

The next year we returned early from another aunt's house when my dad fell off of a scaffold and injured himself. At least I got to tour Graceland, thankyouthankyouverymuch.

One summer during the wonderfully horrid time known as puberty, I had a swimming birthday party. After the party, when I was changing out of my swimsuit, a family friend's son my age walked in on me naked and looked just as disturbed as I was.

The summer before I started high school, I was trying to be sporty — bike riding with a boy I'd liked for a year, went to a dance with, you get the picture. We'd had a nice afternoon, it was June 18th (I remember this because I have some sort of idiot savant memory that hasn't been documented yet), very hot and very humid. Because I'm nothing that remotely resembles sporty, I got overheated and threw up in front of him. Yeah, the boy never called me again.

The following summer, my parents took a vacation together and I stayed with my grandparents for a couple of weeks. I was changing the water in my fishbowl and my fish, Ringwald (it was a Black Molly, get it?), jumped out and down the garbage disposal, committing suicide. Sure, it was a fish, but I was a girl with major allergies and my parents wouldn't let me have a cat and I was going to have a pet, deadgummit. And despite what Nemo said, all drains do not lead to the ocean.

The summer that I turned 16 was just a prelude of crap to come. Guess what I got for my birthday. Go ahead, guess. A Caboodles. Girls of the late 80's/early 90's — do you remember the Caboodles? The make-up case that was made of more plastic than Joan Rivers. The Caboodles contained a t-shirt with the columns of ancient Roman architecture and a faux Russian watch. Sweet sixteen? Not so much.

I dated a guy named Fred (yes, that was his real name, it's so generic I don't have to change it for the blog) who was much too old for me and dumped me for not being experienced enough for him — well, hello, I was 16 and he was in the air force. What was I doing dating a guy in the air force? He had a mustache for cryin' out loud. I'd seen Top Gun once too many times. Picture this, it's my birthday, late in evening in Bossier (where we hung out for some reason) and a few of my friends, dudes, and Fred are in the Airline High School parking lot. My good friend has her car's stereo playing Bryan Adams "Everything I Do (I Do it For You)" from Robin Hood: Prince of Theives over and over 'cause it's one of those cassette singles and damn, if that song wasn't everywhere that summer — even on my birthday make-out night with Flyboy Fred. Here's the rub, he broke up with me the next day. I KNOW. Oh, and I had to go to summer school that year because I'd failed math and my teacher was the same teacher I'd had all year because that's how my life is. And I went to driver's ed, but my mom wouldn't let me get my driver's license just because. Ah, memories. What a great summer 1991 was.

I've blocked the year after that from my memory. Okay, I wish I'd blocked it from my memory. I honestly had such a bad year that I do not remember much of what happened after Thanksgiving '91 and I couldn't tell you what the next summer was like. I'm guessing hot. I'm pretty sure I rode with some friends to Mississippi for no reason overnight that summer without telling parents where we were, but I'm only guessing it was that year.

The summer after 11th grade was a mixture of a great deal of hurt and a good bit of happy. I finally got a cat for my b-day from a great friend and I didn't care about my allergies or that my mom said no cats. So what if I had to have allergy shots twice a week?

After graduating from high school I had the worst summer of my life.

The summer after my freshman year at Louisiana Tech brought back the crazy. I was dating the man who later became the hubs and I babysat three boys two days a week for the whole summer. Their parents were going through a divorce and the mom was having a terrible time, which she would tell me about while driving me home. Lovely. I started taking Accutane for my stupid acne and felt as attractive as a dried up raisin when the future hubs asked me to go to the August wedding of his aunt in New Orleans.
That was my first flight, I was a nervous wreck. After arriving back in S'port, I found that no one remembered to pick me up. Awesome. I knew my life was the makings of a wacky sitcom.

The next summer I worked at Kirkland's in the mall by my parent's house and hated every minute of it. There is something unsettling about a place that smells of that much eucalyptus. And I had to look at this Andrew Wyeth giant framed print called "Master Bedroom" everyday, which I referred to as "Dog on a Bed." Oh, and since I didn't know the real name of the print, I Googled "dog on a bed print" and it came up — how good am I? Do you know how much this print annoys me? Every time I sold this print to some art lover I'd say "oh, it's Dog on a Bed, good choice!" in my loveliest tone. The highlight of that summer was going taking a bus to Baton Rouge to visit the future hubs and having to come back early because of a hurricane in the Gulf. Stupid hurricanes. Guess what? When I returned on a Greyhound bus at 10 pm there was no one to pick me up. In downtown Shreveport. At night. Yep, two years in a row stranded.

I've written about my college summer school experience on the blog before, also known as Stalker Summer. Ah, good times. It was Lifetime Movie material, not that I've ever seen a Lifetime Movie, because I have not. I've got the perfect Lifetime Movie title for it too, because those movies have names like "She Woke Up Pregnant," "Someone to Love Me: a Moment of Truth Movie," and "Mother, May I Sleep With Danger" (no, I'm not making those up). Because my movie would definitely be Moment of Truth material, I'd title it "S'talking Too Much: Kerry's Story: A Moment of Truth Movie." I would've been played by Tracey Gold or Kellie Martin back in the day because I only want the best. This would be the stuff Emmys are made of.

Come to think of it, all of my summer stories should be made into a movie, but it may be too big for Lifetime. I believe this could be a big budget Hollywood screenplay. Maybe directed by Woody Allen in little vignettes. Or it would be a Michael Bay summer blockbuster with robots and explosions. What? I didn't tell you about the summer my friend's car turned into a robot and the feds showed up and there were explosions that lit up the town like the 4th of July? Man, that was a summer.

So, we're halfway through Summer '09: Forced Vacation. It's too hot to live, the kids are arguing, there is a thunderstorm every other day, and the boy is finally potty trained. I've donned my bag of frozen peas hat, played lots of wii, ran through the sprinkler, and sat by the pool. There's only so much a whiter-than-pale girl can do. And we're in a recession, I can't be at the nail salong getting my toes done as often as it takes to maintain a Kerry level of glam. It's only a matter of time before SADS gets the best of me and I fill the tub with ice, declare it winter in my bathroom and invite Sarah Palin to come ice fishing with me. It's not like she's got anything to do the rest of the summer.

life’s rich pageant

So, by now many of you know how I tend to obsess over things, eras, and what have you. Because I'm such a giver, I thought you'd like to have a look at my latest obsession, the now defunct Pageant Magazine. Y'all know how I love the kitch of mid-twentieth century: the sort of housewife-glam. Well, nothing defines that like Pageant. It was a magazine that ran from the 1940's to the 70's with possibly THE BEST COVERS ever. And NO, it wasn't about pageants. Don't tell me you thought I was talking about actual pageants. And you think you know someone. So disappointed.

I'm thinking of framing the covers for my scrap office because they are equally glamorous and hilarious.

"What to do With the Leftover Booze" is one of my favorite titles of all time. And really, how many times have I wondered that while in my hammock wearing a beehive? If I had a nickel.

You know, you could test your psychic powers while husband hunting. Damn, if only I would have had the hunting guide before I met the hubs. And please — my psychic powers have been evident for years.

And if the hubs gives me any lip –I have proof, it's in print — American women are lousy wives. Thank goodness we're cute.

12,776th day

What does one do the day after their birthday?

In my case, you spend it feeling awful from eating fried stuff and cake the night before, go back to bed until 11, get up and play online while waiting for the hubs to finish the first of two phone interviews for the day. I am miserable. After deciding it would be pajama day while the hubs and kids were at the club, I changed into a pair of pjs that would be more acceptable if someone comes to the door, which will happen at some point today.

So, here I sit on the 12,776th day of my life on earth (a friend reminded me yesterday that I've been on earth for 35 years, I thought I'd break it down) in my pajamas playing on the laptop. My friends know I'm an information junkie and I've had more than one person call me to ask something while starting the conversation with "Kerry, you know everything…" to which I usually reply "yes." What I hear quite often is "how do you know that?" and "where did you find that?" if I send a link in an email or post something like the Kush on the old blog. Sometimes the answer is Kirtsy.com. Kirtsy is a site of recommended links of all kinds, categorized for your pleasure.

Today I found something I thought you might enjoy from Kirtsy. It's My Heritage's Celebrity Collage. You can upload your photo and the face recognizing software shows you what celebrities you look like. How fun is that? I know you're dying to see mine — take a look.

I can't tell you how awesome it is to find out I resemble such great leaders of the African American community, but I have to say I'm surprised. Condoleeza? Okay, sure. MLK? I don't even have a mustache. Beyonce? I have to say no, I don't think so. I'll take Shirley MacLaine, since I'm most like her character Ouiser in Steel Magnolias. ScarJo? I don't see that either. How unflattering is this photo of me? The hubs took it with my iPhone, horrible

So, I figured I should try the Celebrity Collage again, since it said "upload another photo." Here's my second try.

Okay, this pic looks more like me in my everyday life. Took it with the webcam after getting my hair cut. So, now they think I look like Drew Barrymore, Brit Brit, a Malaysian pop singer, perhaps the greatest boxer of all time, and Sally Field. I'm more confused than ever.

And after looking at a few photos of myself today, I'm convinced I need an eye lift.

35 things I know

So, today I'm 35 and I thought I'd make a list of things I've learned after being on Earth for 34 years. And yes, I did think about copying last year's 34 Things and adding one, but I didn't because that's the kind of blogger I am. Here we go.

For the most part, people are too worried about themselves to notice what you're worried about.
Just when you start loving a magazine it will cease publication.
Silly Putty does bad things to clothes in a dryer.
Old friends are great.
Sometimes the cat doesn't come back and that may be a good thing if the cat was psycho.
Just when you think you have someone figured out they will surprise you.
Laptops and water do not mix.
Even if you try not to get your hopes up, you can still be disappointed.
Denim jackets are always great.
Things can always get worse. Birds can lay eggs in your mailbox and then attack you.
Getting something off your chest can be freeing, but it can break your heart as well.
The great outdoors ain't always so great.
Don't die on the same day as someone more famous than you.
It's now okay to talk to yourself in the car or in public, people will think you've got one of those Bluetooth thingies.
It takes 3 people to get a properly fitting bra. Or maybe I'm just that fabulous.
Pedicures are not a luxury.
Love is a many splintered thing.
It's not always about what you think it is.
You can't "unsend" a Facebook message. For realz.
If you're tired all the time, get your blood checked.
When you cancel your Nutrisystem order, make sure you really canceled it.
No matter what the commercials say, the pre-packaged meals are not yummy.
Even when you lock the door, the middle child can find a way in.
You don't have to be friends with everyone (or if you were a biatch to me back in the day, I will ignore your Facebook friend request and you should know better).
There are no such thing as fairies and woodland creatures will not show up to clean your house even if you sing cheerily out the window.
If you sing cheerily out the windows, neighbors may look at you strangely.
The neighbors are probably weirdos anyway.
Having a superfantastic memory isn't such a good thing sometimes.
If you ignore the mailbox because of the attack birds guarding it, then the terrorists have won.
Give people nicknames, it's simple and makes life fun.
Ruffle a few feathers. Ruffles are in this year.
A new purse can cheer you up. Especially if it has stripes and a matching wallet.
When your parents told you your childhood pet went to live on a farm they were big fat lying liars who lie.
Children do not know what "sleep in" means.
If all else fails, the Hoff makes everything better. Click to Hoffify.

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on illness, death, and things that are generally not awesome

I've been semi-MIA the past few days, here's why:

Last Thursday my scrapbook peeps and I went to a cabin in the swamp/woods to hang and crop. This was not my idea. I am not remotely what you would call "outdoorsy." I'm allergic to everything and I have asthma and I don't like insects, but I like my friends, so I went. It was our own little retreat and I have to say, I had more fun in the cabin than at any retreat I've been to and believe me, I've been to a bunch. So, yeah, we were in a cabin with air conditioning and running water and all, but it was still roughing it as far as I was concerned. Frugal Beth and I arrived to see we would have to bring our bags up fairly steep stairs. Now, this was a scrapbooking trip and we had my minivan (maxifun) packed to full capacity with scrapbook bags, plastic 12×12 organizers, ice chest, overnight bags, bags of snacks and beverages, pizzas, and a tray of Triple Dippers from Chili's. If we ever do the cabin-thing again, we're getting one with a ramp (and bringing more southwestern eggrolls 'cause them was delicious).

On the way to the cabin Beth and I talked about how sad Farrah's death was, then said I said "well, you know how celebrities deaths come in threes. Ed McMahon, now Farrah." And for some reason after that, I checked Facebook on my iPhone (no, I'm not obsessed) to see everyone's status updates read something like this: OMG WTF Michael Jackson is dead?!?!?

I am nothing if not resourceful, and went to Google news where I found a plethora of contradicting headlines from CNN, AP, Reuters, and every news organization known to man. This just wouldn't do. Beth and I had to know the truth before we were smack dab in the middle of gatorland, where we feared there would be no television or wifi. At that point I realized the person my friends rely on for pop culture information is me and there is no one to call to confirm this story. Sad, isn't it? I called Melissa, who had not left for the swamp yet, and she said MJ was in the hospital and of course moments later I check CNN again they're saying he's gone. We arrived at the cabin, where Megan was already scrapbooking (I know, the nerve!) and watching — get this — Friends on the flat screen. Beth and I bust out with "how can you be watching Friends at a time like this?! Michael Jackson's dead!" Seriously.

And so began the Michael Jackson Death Watch weekend. Heartwarming, isn't it?

…….

Saturday I tried to post layouts to the blog on the iPhone, but got a message from Typepad saying my account was put on hold because something was wrong with billing my credit card. Okay, so I got a new debit card and forgot to update my info, whatev.

Sunday I made it home to see that Billy Mays had died and decided something very strange was going on in the universe. That afternoon a mucho tired me took the almost 6 year-old, her big sis, two friends, and my bud Frugal Beth (mom of one of the friends) to the circus, as if I don't have a three-ring circus at my house. Please. And I nearly twisted my ankle on a New Orleans sidewalk. Imagine that.

Monday afternoon I noticed five or so red streaks on my right heel going up my ankle and two of the streaks going up my calf. I'm not a doctor, but I thought this was bad and with the way people are dying lately, I thought about having a will drawn up. Shortly after that, I started feeling pretty bad and researched the streak-thing online which made it sound like I was very near death or at least getting ready for an emergency room visit. Then I talked to a couple of friends in the medical field about it (shout out to my peeps), and by the end of the night was pretty sure I wasn't dying. And pretty sure is good enough for me.

Tuesday I woke up feeling like death on a bad day. I was positive I'd be sitting on a cloud learning the harp with Elvis by nightfall (totally kidding, Elvis is still alive). I know everyone has different thoughts about what heaven will be like. I've read what the Bible has to say on the subject several times, but I like to think Fred Astaire is giving dancing lessons and Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon do a nightly talk show.

Yesterday afternoon I felt a little better and started writing this very post.

Now it's Thursday night and I'm nearly 100%. Streaks have faded, energy is back, and I didn't need a nap this afternoon.

Here's the thing, being sick is not enjoyable. I spent a good portion of this week trying to rest. Yes, I said trying. For those of you without children or just one child, let me paint a picture for you. I will be your Bob Ross, minus the afro.

It's 9am, I'm in bed. Katie is standing next to my bed asking what's for breakfast. My hubs is sitting with his laptop at the kitchen table. I tell her to ask her daddy. Next comes Molly asking if they can go swimming. I tell her to ask her daddy. Katie returns, says her daddy told her to wait until he's finished sending an email. Andrew enters the room with no Pull-Up or undies on, jumps on my bed and asks for cookies. At this point I get up. Later that afternoon I attempt a nap. Exactly three minutes after I get comfy, here comes Katie asking if they can play upstairs. Next the hubs asks where his iPod is. Now, I do not use his iPod. Where in the marriage vows does it say "I will find everything you lose" for the rest of my life? For realz. Next it's Andrew saying he can't find MollyKatie (he's reduced them to one name). Then Molly comes in, asking when their daddy is taking them to swim and can she wear her tennis shoes instead of her flip flops. Out of nowhere Katie pops up, says Molly won't play upstairs and wants a snack. The hubs returns, says he's taking the kids swimming. The kids all go nuts and run out of the room, only to return seconds later asking where 42 things are.

…….

Sunday marks the beginning of Kerry's Crazy July, with our anniversary and Katie's birthday, followed by my berfday, then Andrew's, and the hubs at the end of the month. It's about this time every year when I remind myself that Katie was due in June and had she been born then, it would have lessened my July stress. I mean, come on.

making Father’s Day a little easier

Yesterday after reading every Father's Day card that Target had, I decided there has to be something out there for the rest of us. Are you familiar with the typical Father's Day card? Most of them have a picture of a sailboat or a lighthouse with a sentiment like this, "To my Wonderful Dad on Father's Day. You taught me how to tie my shoes and ride a bike, but the most important thing you taught was how to love." Or there is a picture of a man's feet with little girl feet standing on his shoes and it says, "Daddy, I'll always be your little girl no matter how grown up I am. Happy Father's Day." These types of traditional Father's Day cards make me want to throw up.

It's not that I have a bad relationship with my dad, it's that I don't have a that kind of relationship with him. The truth is, I didn't have much of a relationship with my dad until my parents divorced three years ago and he started speaking for himself. We talk on the phone once or twice a week and he tells me what he's been up to, which is usually working and going to Nicky's on two for one enchilada night with his girlfriend, then we usually talk about a couple of amusing relatives. It's good times. My dad is a regular guy who works hard for a living and doesn't have any real hobbies. He doesn't play golf, doesn't grill, doesn't care about football, and doesn't wear ties unless he's forced to. He's not one for a great deal of sentiment and I've never found the right sentiment for him in a card — and for some reason, this year was especially hard. I ended up buying a card that said "To the King of the Road, Happy Father's Day." By the way, my dear old dad is a truck driver, more specifically, he is a "route salesman" for the big dairy in my hometown, but that's a fancy schmancy word for truck driver.

There was every type of Father's Day card except for the non-mushy card. There were expectant dad cards, new dad, step-dad, grandpa, papa, grandad, "to my son on Father's Day," "to my mom on Father's Day," and my favorite "you're like a dad to me." I thought about getting the last one just for fun. There was even a Father's Day card from the cat or dog. When I saw the card from the cat I said WTF outloud in the presence of children. I apologize, I'm not proud of that, but I couldn't help it and yes, I said the words, not the acronym. So, I grabbed the king of the road card and mumbled to myself on the way to the check-out, vowing to make a line of honest Father's Day cards for The Rest of Us.

I think I'll call my card line Cards for the Rest of Us, which could mean whatever you want it to. I'm debuting my Father's Day line here on The Kerry Blog, feel free to clip and print for your own use, royalty free 'til Hallmark comes calling, bitches!

This is the first card, which I put on my Facebook page yesterday. It's short and to the point.

My friend Shannon suggested that maybe the above card was a little too mushy, so here is the bare-bones version, just right for your dad and any dad you know. And if you're visiting your dad at the county jail, this is perfect.

For those of you looking for a little more sentiment, this is the card for you. It can be taken any number of ways. I would let it speak for itself.

This card is just great for those "regular guy" dads like mine. Self-explanitory is the best way to go.

My friend Jennifer made a special request for a card and I hope this one covers all the bases. I thought the hammer added that nice passive-aggressive touch I'm always looking for in greeting card.

And lastly, this card is truly for the rest of us.

Y'all have a great weekend. Check the blog Sunday for an extra special Father's Day edition.

xxxooo,
Kerry