possibly filed under the category of 'famous last words'

Someone in my house just said the following:

"Can I stick my finger in it?"

Yeah. That JUST happened!

Anyone care to guess who said it, and in what context?

wouldn't it be 'eggcelent' if I reran a post from 2 years ago?

Um, what are you doing here? Seriously, don't you know it's a holiday week? Don't you have some turkeys to stuff? Some thanks to give? No one's really around this week, you know that, right? Heck, even I'm not here. I'm busy busting my retail rump, providing the best customer service you've ever had. I'm talking the kind that makes you hunt down a manager just to tell them about the awesome woman in the children's department who helped you find all the books you wanted AND talked you into purchasing a tremendous amount of gift cards. You're welcome. I'm here for you.

Because of that, I'm not here. At least not completely. I decided to stop through and drop an oldie but a, well, oldie on you from a couple years ago. Remember a couple years ago? Time flies, eh? It's creepy, honestly, the way it does. Even creepier is how you get a sense of deja vu about it, like I did this week when my mom let me know what I could contribute to our family's Thanksgiving meal.

Did you guess deviled eggs?

Yep.

***************

The list of things I have never done is rather diverse. I have never:

• jumped out of an airplane
• run with the bulls
• swam in shark-infested waters
• snorted cocaine off the rippled belly of a supermodel
• sung in public
• used the phrase "True dat!" in conversation (although I think I recently used it in a comment I left on someone else's blog, and if that's the case and that person found it either ironic and/or humorous, then I might consider incorporating it into actual conversation)
• dined with royalty
• broken a man's heart
• pulled off a heist

Pretty diverse, eh? I know. I look at that list and think how amazing my life really is, even though I've never done any of those things. I do actually think I have broken a man's heart before, but the dude in question refuses to admit it, thinking it's cool to have this big strong man demeanor, but whatever. I believe he misses me, and really, sometimes what I make up in my head is all that matters.

Also on the list of things I've never done?

Deviled an egg!

But guess what! This morning, I have to do just that, and not just one egg. No. I have to devil 24 eggs for the Thanksgiving meal my family foisted itself upon. Have you ever Googled the recipe for deviled eggs? There are more than 2 million entries! My Tool Man (his heart - completely intact) looks up from one of the 2 million Facebook games he plays and says, "How hard can it be. Some mustard. Some mayo. There you go." Well, well, well. Check out the Iron Chef over there. However, have you ever tasted his recipe for Jell-O? I suggest you rub your distended belly and say you're full as you back away from the buffet line. Easiest thing to prepare in the world, and I've watched him get confused pondering the one cup hot, one cup cold guidelines.

So I'm on the hunt for a classic deviled egg recipe. I refuse to ask my Mom for her recipe, because she will make fun of me. I can hear her now. "You're 41 years old and you've never made deviled eggs? Who raised you? Wolves? Hell, I bet you can't even make Jell-O, can you?" To which I would respond, meekly, "I make Jell-O better than you, woman!" before running to my bedroom, slamming the door, and turning the volume on my stereo super loud so my Journey Escape album would drown out the sound of my tears.

Here's what I've learned while browsing a handful of the millions of recipes. Deviled eggs should not have meat, barbecue seasoning, pickles, or cheese in them. To all of you who think these would be a treat, I ask why? The thought alone makes me shudder. I simply want mustard, mayo, and maybe (if I remember to stop at the grocery store on my way home from work tonight) a sprinkling of paprika.

Actually, what I wouldn't mind is just having my Mom make them because her recipe is pretty damn good, but I refuse to admit defeat. Only so many tears you can cry, right Steve Perry? Sigh....

Right.

***************

I wrote this post almost exactly two years ago, and guess what I've STILL never done? Made deviled eggs! After I wrote this, I apparently convinced my mom to take over production of my first attempt, and my inquiries into what I could contribute to later family meals have been ignored, or resulted in me bringing just my smiling face (which is delicious, btw). But this year, the deviled egg request has returned! Will this be the year I step up to the plate with my platter? Possibly not. My mom's already volunteered to make them if I simply boil a couple dozen. However, I may surprise her. It may be two years before I let you know, though, so until then, Happy Thanksgiving, my fellow Americans, and to the rest of you? Enjoy your Thursday!.

happy birthday, aleksander kwasniewski!

Who's Aleksander Kwasniewski, you ask? Just the former president of Poland, and today he celebrates his 56th birthday! So happy birthday, you crazy Kwasniewski! Party like the former head of state you are!

You know who could write a kick ass, brain worm of a party song for the birthday boy? Chad mutha-flippin' Kroeger! Who's Chad Kroeger, you ask? Wha? Do you people live under a rock? He's none other than the lead singer of Nickelback! I figure you'd know that when I used the words 'brain worm' to describe one of his songs. Listen, we all say we hate Nickelback, blah, blah, blah, but deep down, you know when one of their songs comes on the radio, you're like "Hey man, is that Freedom Rock?" But no, it's Nickelback, and before you know what's happening, you're singing along, even if it's to that annoying Photograph song.

ESPECIALLY if it's that annoying Photograph song.

However, Chad Kroeger might be too busy to write a song for Aleksander Kwasniewski that sounds hauntingly like all his other songs. Care to guess why? Anyone? No? Well, if you had guessed it's because Chad's celebrating his birthday today, too, then ding, ding, ding! You'd have been right! Chad Kroeger turns 36 today, folks! Happy birthday, you amazing troubadour!

Maybe now you're thinking, "This is all very interesting, fadkog, but honestly, it's also a little boring. Who cares that it's Aleksander Kwasniewski's and Chad Kroeger's birthday today? I mean, other than Ed Asner and maybe Anni-Frid Lyngstad, the redheaded singer from Swedish pop super group ABBA, the one you once dreamed of being while singing along to 'Fernando' in your childhood bedroom, both of whom are also celebrating birthdays today, who really cares?"

Um, how about MY MOTHER!? The woman who gave birth to ME! ON THIS SAME DAY?!

That's right. I share a birthday with this notable list of individuals (and Randy Savage, who I neglected to mention, but fist bumps, Macho Man), so that means I get to blow out some birthday candles today, too, assuming my above mentioned mother and/or husband decide who might be responsible for making me a cake. You could probably go back in the blog archives to determine my actual age, but to save you time, I'll simply tell you I fall somewhere between everyone I've mentioned.

I've been getting a lot of spam emails lately wishing me a happy birthday, and those have meant a lot to me. I've also been getting a lot of junk mail about erectile dysfunction and ways in which I can achieve a younger penis. Apparently, when you reach my age, you morph into a man with a sluggish trouser snake. Based on the giant black hair I plucked from my chin today after mistaking it for an errant eyelash (and then weeping because gah, giant black chin hair(s)), there may be some validity to that. But here's the deal. I want a lot of things for my birthday, but a younger penis? OK, who am I kidding. Maybe. But I'm not so sure that would make my husband happy.

("Mine's younger than yours," he just told me when I mentioned that line. Apparently, although he is just a smidgen younger than me, his mind and ability to discern the difference between us is slipping fast)(or I am, in fact, slowly morphing into a man)

The few times I've floated around the Internet this month, I noticed people offering advice to the 16-year-old version of themselves. I've been giving some thought this week to what I'd tell the younger version of me, especially since every time I get on Facebook now, many of the girls I graduated high school with are announcing the arrival of a new grandchild, which makes them GRANDMOTHERS!!! When did I get old enough to possibly be someone's grandmother?! It's my belief that if a photo of one of these new grandbabies causes my ovaries to seize and release a million viable eggs in my desperate, soul crushing desire for another child, then I shouldn't be old enough to be in such a category.

What else would I tell 16 year old me? A few things. For starters, that boy you loved, the one who took you to prom and was the stuff of teenage romance novels? One day, he's not going to remember your name (true, recent story), so when he asks if you want to have sex with him, remember how proud I still am of you for not caving. Also, you're not going to believe this, teenage me, but Madonna? Yeah. She's still around. I know that's not so much advice as it's really just a statement, but seriously, can you believe it? You know what else you're not going to believe 16 year old me? At 43, you're STILL going to break out with zits, and yes, it's still just as annoying and inconvenient now as it was then. Thankfully, your Dad won't want to try and pop them every night after dinner, though, so yeah for being a grownup!

Finally, young me, you have pretty awesome taste in music. One day, you're going to turn the radio on and you're going to hear some guy growling over the roar of guitars. That's Chad Kroeger and his band, Nickelback. You're not going to like them. Especially that annoying Photograph song. But when it's his birthday, you're going to give him his due.

Happy birthday, Chad mutha-flippin' Kroeger. You, too, Aleksander Kwasniewsk!

And, yeah, OK. Me, too.

good bye, good bye, good bye.

In a few minutes, my husband and I are leaving and heading to a church about 40 miles away. It's the same large church we were at to celebrate Shawn's life, and today, we're there again to say goodbye to his widow and our friend, Penny. The pain she felt this past year since Shawn unexpectedly passed away was not something those of us around here were unaware of, but the depth of it? The power it had over her when all of us who loved her couldn't be with her? Unimaginable. I don't believe I can say at this point in my own life that I can understand what it must have felt like to be her these last months, but I can say - even with grief so fresh and a heart so broken - that I don't feel angry at her, Penny, for the choice she made.

I'm not sure that makes sense. Very little right now feels like it does.

But back to the beginning of this post. We're leaving in a few minutes, and when we arrive, we'll be surrounded by friends, as well as those whose only connection to us is that they, too, knew and loved our Penny, and after we huddle together and feel sad in our moment, we'll then turn to her boys and we'll do all we can to protect and love them. Right now, that's the simplest, most necessary thing we can do.

I can, however, take just a moment and say thank you to all of you. Thank you. Thank you for reading, thank you for your words, and thank you for your prayers. I want to respond to each of you, but, in all honesty, since writing of Penny's death on Sunday afternoon, aside from a few moments scattered here and there, I simply turned the computer off and did not look toward it. It was a gift, then, to open my emails late last night and know there are people out there extending a hand or thought toward me, as well as Penny's family. What a world. When I can, you'll hear from me.

Right now, I'm ready to join my friends and church family - many of whom will be wearing their most amazing shoes and sporting pink, which were, on a list that also included her family and working with and advocating for people with disabilities, Penny's most favorite things in the world. "Never, ever let anyone tell you a redhead can't wear pink," she once told me. I'm nowhere near the redhead my dear friend was, but every time I slip into pink, I think of her words. Always will. I thank her for them.

And I thank you all, too.

and so, now...

Just a year ago, my dear friend Shawn died unexpectedly. The loss of everything we loved about him has been a gaping hole in my heart and the hearts of those who love him. I hate that I cry when I think of him instead of beg him to stop what he's doing because it's making me laugh so hard that I'm crying. Two weeks ago, on the anniversary of his death, I took time to pray for his two sons, and I spoke with his wife, Penny. Last Sunday, during the busy transition period between our church services, I smiled across the room at Penny, then made my way to her to hug her and tell her I love her.

This morning...

This morning, en route to church yet again, I growled when I heard my cell phone start to ring from somewhere at the bottom of my purse, and stabbed my arm into the bag several times before my fingers made contact with the tiny device I think I now officially hate.

"I have some news, and it's not good."

God, seriously, I hate these phone calls.

Unexpected.

Unwelcome.

My friend Penny killed herself early this morning.

Unhappy.

Undone.

I simply have no words, and the few I do seem pointless. I know none of you had the honor of having either of these individuals as your friend, but I just needed to put these few words down here as a reminder to me when I come back to them that, yes, this is all true. There's yet another reason to cry.

oops, he did it again. seriously.

Thirteen days.

Thirteen!

That's how long (little! it's only been a little!) it's been since my youngest son FINALLY got his arm cast removed. Over a two month stretch, he wore three versions of that stinky monstrosity for a total of two months as both bones in his forearm healed. THAT'S a long time. Especially when you're 8 years old and you're supposed to start playing flag football for the first time ever in three days.

Well, guess what!!

WE GET TO DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN!!

Eight weeks and 13 days since breaking his left forearm, my son came home tonight from a friend's house in tears (which I could hear before he ever got near the house thanks to his tendency to cry loudly which may or may not be a trait he picked up from me), clutching the same arm, and I was all, "Seriously?! Seriously?! I just today mailed the first of what will be approximately 3,394 payments to the clinic and the ER for the first broken arm!"

It's like deja vu. And other words that start with the letter 'D.'

Like 'damn,' and 'dang,' and 'damn' again.

It's also for 'dog,' which is what caused this new break. My son had his back to his friend's very large dog, very rambunctious dog while they all played in the backyard, and the dog went charging after a toy. In the process, he slammed into my son's back, knocking him to the ground. My son landed hard on his elbows and then rolled. The impact caused the lower bone in the same arm, just barely healed, to snap again.

Did I mention 'delightful'? Oh, yes, it's that, too. We pay (literally)(and a lot) another visit to our orthopedic surgeon tomorrow for yet another stinky cast.

Thirteen days.

Thirteen!

By the way? He was supposed to start playing basketball in three days.