I kind of have the perfect family.

We are a family that pretends to push grandmothers off of docks into lakes.

Every Thanksgiving, my mom’s massive family gathers deep in the forest of Florida to hoot n’ holler & jump on trampolines & take walks in the woods collecting chiggers & catch chickens & throw marshmallows at alligators.

It’s kind of the best of everything.

Especially when my 27-year-old cousin gets called out and congratulated during the dinner prayer for bringing the same boyfriend 2 Thanksgivings in a row.

And also when a different cousin is questioned by our grandfather,”Who is this one?” when she brings a new boyfriend.

And also when the our grandfather is confused by the boyish-looking girlfriend another cousin brings with her.

And also when no one realized the aunt who always brings the mashed potatoes isn’t coming to the forest this year, only to have mayhem ensue thus forcing one of my cousins to send out her new boyfriend to the store for tubs o’ mashed potatoes during afternoon dinner only to have him get lost in the woods on his way back with no cell service. *cue Deliverance banjo music*

But the award for Best Moment of Thanksgiving in the Forest can arguably be the moment my dad finishes a joke he’s telling to me, Patrick, my 85-year-old grandfather, and my uncle with the punchline, “I know what you are! You’re a vagina!”

Moments like that are when I realize just exactly how I were raised to be the snarky-ass twisted mo’fo I am today.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2011. | Permalink | 8 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: Family, forest, thanksgiving

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I have a friend who has never farted in front of her husband.

Yes, she’s really a friend and it’s not really me saying it’s a friend.

Yes, I have friends outside of the tubes of the internet.

I think she may be lying. Farting in front of your spouse or partner or friend is one of those milestones like introducing them to your parents. It’s bound to happen, and when it does, it takes you to the next level of your relationship.

There’s a certain comfort level reached when the first air biscuit is released while in the company of a friend or lover. Reaching that level of comfort is necessary for a healthy long-term relationship. And I do mean healthy in the body sense.

Who can hold in farts long enough to leave the room and go to the bathroom every time the spirit moves you to release the thunder?

It’s unhealthy to leave the noxious gasses inside of your belly for too long. Science tells us this. There’s a reason we were given a bunghole: letting out the Stink Beast.

To not be comfortable enough within your own house in front of your spouse/partner/spousal equivalent/family/BFF is unnatural.

My house is rife with the musical sounds of the asshole. We rate them on tonal quality and length of time expelled. We save them for a finger pull. We drop air bombs in stores, then laugh as we race to leave the aisle. My girls announce their accomplishments, and they’re always polite with a follow-up “Scuse me, I pooted.”

However, there is one butt horn that will never, ever, never happen in our house: The Dutch Oven.

Patrick has been warned with 100% seriousness that if he EVER releases a fart under the covers and traps me underneath, it is grounds for immediate divorce. No questions asked. I get everything. He’ll be left to live out his days without his loving, farting wife and kids if I’m ever locked in to the sheet trappings of a bowels bomb.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2011. | Permalink | 13 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: Family, farting, marriage

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The guilt is probably worse that the physical pain.

I’ve said a few times that I frucked up my knee trying to start the Couch to 5K running/walking program, and now I’ve found out I have to have an MRI done on it to see if I need surgery.

Yeah.

Exercise is stupid. And painful. And I miss it. I miss the 4 times I got to walk/exercise in the morning where I felt confident in myself and my ability to actually accomplish a goal that I set out to achieve. After the 4 times of getting up and sweaty, I actually felt a difference in myself. After being pretty much inactive for the last 15 years, starting this was my time to get back into my fighting weight and bust some fat ass.

What I’m learning now as I sit on the recliner for the 12th hour of the day as Patrick finishes the dishes from the last 2 days, is that I should have started even easier into the program. Even with it starting as easy as it could have started (90 sec walk, 60 sec run, repeat for 20 min), I should have taken it even easier by just walking for the first week. You know, cause people who get to be my size and my lack of movement need even more limitations.

*le sigh*

So that’s what has put me where I am now: on the recliner, knee propped, icing 20 min an hour unable to be the wife, mother, and housekeeper I need to be.

The official instructions from the doc: “Act like you’re lazy” which, hello? is something I’ve wished to hear for the last 33 years of my life. But when it comes down to the actuality of the situation and all that it means, it completely blows.

It sucks that I can’t push a vacuum to clean my floors.

It sucks that I can’t stand at my kitchen sink and load or unload the dishwasher.

It sucks that I can’t carry loads of laundry, move them, then fold them.

It sucks that I can’t make it to the grocery store to buy food then fix it for my family.

I never ever NEVER thought I’d think these things would suck. Ever. Never.

The absolute worst thing about injuring my knee: I won’t be able to travel to Anissa’s house next week to help her and her family.

It KILLS me. I am wrecked, gutted, flat out sad that I can’t follow through on my promise to help my friend.

I know there’s nothing more I could have done.

Except for take care of my self for the last 15 years. If I had done that, I’d be driving to Atlanta on Sunday.

Instead, I’m waiting to hear from the MRI scheduler to find out when I’ll go in to be photographed from the inside out.

It will cost my family hundreds of dollars.

If I have to have surgery (which, if I have to have the MRI, it’s pretty much a given that I’ll have to have surgery), it will cost my family even more money, and time, and frustrations, and canceled plans.

I can’t compare my injury to anything anyone else has had to go through, but I still have guilt over my part in what is happening to everyone around me.

Anissa and Peter are amazing. Forgiving. Understanding. Loving.

Patrick is beyond loving. Beyond caring. Beyond understanding. He’s been a single parent and housewife when he gets home after work. He’s amazing.

Thank you.

And now, while I sit on the internet 12+ hours a day as rest my bum knee, I need to learn how to make latkes, blintzes, and knishes.

shit … the tears again …

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2010. | Permalink | 19 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: Family, Friends, guilt, health

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Remember Saddle Oxfords?

I’ve been looking for a pair for myself for the last umpteen years, and at one time, Payless had them, but I was a poor college student and didn’t have the balls to wear them.

So now, when I see Little Bill and his brother wearing them, I’m all jealous of them.

They are cartoons.

Apparently, I have serious issues with lust and wanton and coveting stuffs from kid’s cartoons.

I also have issues spreading my personal issues. Yeah, sure, I can talk about how I want to have a drag queen penis, or how I have the skin of a 14-year-old boy, or how I’m a fake writer.

But the deep down, when-I-lay-my-head-down-on-my-pillow stresses of life, stay inside me.

Until this week when I exposed myself like BritBrit’s c-section scar.

I’m all… OUT THERE.

I’ve been one of the lucky ones out here in the cyberspace. I’ve stayed away from the haters (I’m not big enough to be on their radar, thankyoujeebus), I’ve pretty much stayed away from the dramas, and I’ve made really good incredibly awesome friends.

But I didn’t know that I could lean on the people of the intertubes for real support and a real sense of community. Yeah, I’ve helped others out in their times of need.

But this week, the internet held my hair while I puked.

In the few short days it’s taken me to strip down and expose my own BritBrit c-section scar, I’ve been lifted up like a meth-head holding up Ted Haggard’s nutsack.

I’ve learned, just in these last few days of exposure, that wanting things and seeing what I truly have, kind of sort of go together.

I don’t want Little Bill’s Saddle Oxfords.

I’m very OK sitting in my house, watching my TV, happy to have the house and the TV and the lappy and the husband and the kiddies to enjoy them with.

Thank you dear internets and all of my old friends and new friends. One is silver, and the other’s a diamond-encrusted pimp cup.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2010. | Permalink | 35 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: exposure, Family, Friends, internet

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The ‘rents are in town for the weekend.* I’m not going to give you a rundown of the weekend or they crying that commenced whilst (love that word) looking for clothes. Email if you wanna know more. I’m too much of weeny to post why it actually happened.

To bide time, I suggested we take a trip to the mall. So mom, sister, the girls and I hopped in the T&C and rolled off to the tourist shopping central of Orlando – The Florida Mall. Personally, I like the mall, and the masses of people and tourists (not real people) don’t really bother me. I won’t, however, be caught DEAD there between Thanksgiving and New Years, but any other time isn’t a problem for me. But for mom, the masses are a lot to handle, and with two toddlers in tow with no stroller (really, what’s the point?), it can be a little draining.

BTW – mom’s fallen asleep in the recliner as I type. How women over 50 have young children, I have no idea.

One of my main reasons for going to this mall is they have a Ruby Tuesday. And Ruby Tuesday has a salad bar. And their salad bar has pumpernickel croutons. Pumpernickel croutons. I go to the mall and fight off the tourists for pumpernickel croutons.

After taking side trips into the M&M super store (someone PLEASE tell my who out there likes M&Ms enough to need dishes, purses, pajamas, clocks, and giant pens of M&Ms), the tea store, and Ann Taylor Loft (for the sis), we finally made it to the pumpernickel croutons Ruby Tuesday. I had to make the promise of the Disney Store if Anna was a very good girl while we ate. Had to have something to hold over her head.

The first thing I always ask at RT is if I can get the salad bar and share it with the girls. Their comment is always, “Sure! HAHA – they won’t eat that much, so no problem!” Little do they know, my girls can DOWN some fresh veggies, beans, and grapes. (I need my own salad bar at home.)

So I go up to the salad bar, get the girls their little piles of fresh foods, and get to the end of the salad bar. And that’s when I see there are NO PUMPERNICKEL CROUTONS. Seriously, I almost had a heart attack. I had to keep control. Hey (nervous laughing) maybe they’re just out of stock and the salad bard stock boy hasn’t re-loaded the carafe of pumpernickel croutons. 1000 reasons are floating through my head as to WHY the carafe would be empty. Surely, (nervous laughing) someone else might love the pumpernickel croutons as much as I. (nervous laughing) So, I calmly tell the hostess that the pumpernickel croutons are (haha) out. She responds with a very reassuring response that she’ll make sure the salad bar filler knows and will replenish the pumpernickel croutons. Whew… Crisis averted! There will be more pumpernickel croutons when I return to fill my plate with my salad bar salad and pumpernickel croutons.

But this was not the case.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, when I returned with my sister to load my plate with my salad bar salad, I made my way down the salad bar all the while in the back of my head thinking, “They better have replenished the pumpernickel croutons carafe with more pumpernickel croutons” but, alas, THERE WERE NO PUMPERNICKEL CROUTONS.

Double heart attack. I stopped in my tracks with my salad bar salad in hand looking in vain for more pumpernickel croutons. I had to stop a waiter in his tracks to ask where the pumpernickel croutons were and to please find them for me. While he walked slowly (he obviously didn’t understand the necessity of locating my pumpernickel croutons and that I had travelled miles out of my way for said croutons) into the kitchen to locate my pumpernickel croutons, I asked the hostess once again where the pumpernickel croutons where and could I get some. That’s when she laid it on me. THEY WERE OUT OF PUMPERNICKEL CROUTONS FOR THE NIGHT. Triple heart attack.

Seriously people. I come to the RT FOR the pumpernickel croutons. *Open statement to Ruby Tuesday: Without pumpernickel croutons, you are just another mall restaurant with regular food, regular decor, and regular service. But, because you have the pumpernickel croutons, I go out of my way, walk through the food court (an Olympic sport with two toddlers), and weave through 1000s of tourists buying scalp massagers and crappy luggage to get to your pumpernickel croutons.

So, with my heart broken and my head hung low, I load my salad with sesame seeds. Joy.

I head back to the table where my girls are joyfully inhaling edamame, grapes, garbanzo beans, and carrots, and start to eat my regular salad bar salad. Joy. My sis kept a keen eye on the salad bar JUST IN CASE there would be more pumpernickel croutons to make their way out of someone’s ass to the salad bar. (That doesn’t sound appealing, and I almost took that out, but things that just appear come out of someone’s ass, so it stays.) She spied the salad bar boy coming out, so she made a mad dash up to the salad bar to check on the status of the pumpernickel croutons. SURELY, the could not be totally out for the night. I mean, (nervous laughter) they are Ruby Tuesday, and why would anyone go (nervous laughter) if they didn’t have the pumpernickel croutons.

While the sis was off fighting the good fight, our slow-ass waiter makes it around to check on us, and I let him know with all the sadness I can exude, that I was told there were no more pumpernickel croutons.

That’s when it came. Mr. Slow-Ass Waiter let me know that yes, the cook was at that moment, preparing MY pumpernickel croutons.

What? What’s that you say? OH HAPPY DAY!!! HAPPY HAPPY JOY JOY! HALLELUJAH!

I immediately did a little happy dance and started making out with Mr. Slow-Ass Waiter Man let him know that we needed an entire vat just for our table. Seriously, Mr. Slow-Ass Waiter Man. LOAD US UP.

Not only did we get one huge plateful of pumpernickel croutons, we received TWO huge mounds of pumpernickel croutons delivered to our table!

That just goes to prove, never give up on your dreams. Positive directional thinking will get you everything you want in life. Even pumpernickel croutons.

________________________________________________________

*This post was originally published in September 2007 before I made my “I Only Write Short-Posts” rule. Obviously.

It’s also much better than 1/2 of what I write today, because way back then in the beginning, I didn’t think too much about what I was writing. I think it’s better that way, and it inspires me to quit thinking and just write.

photo courtesy

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2010. | Permalink | 15 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: blog, Blogging, croutons, Family, food, ruby tuesday, writing, yum

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It’s pretty much the second best feeling ever to become an aunt. I can imagine only becoming a grandmother could succeed it, but for now, and the next 20+ years, I won’t know that feeling. (I better not. *shifts strict mom eyes to little girls*)

Today, Valentine’s Day, I became an aunt to my first niece. Unfortunately, my sister-in-law lives 9 hours away, so visiting Ellie will have to wait until we take a road trip next month up to visit.

But, right here in my city, my childhood best friend had her baby yesterday. Austin was born at 9 lbs, 7 ounces with NO MEDS and NO ASSISTANCE other than major pushing & grunting & I’m sure major cursing. I’ll be snugging up on him this week which reminds me that I haven’t held a newborn baby since my nephew, Nolan, was born in Oct 08. That is FAR too long for my ovaries to NOT be next to an infant.

OK, so what if they both look like little aliens straight out of Mars Attacks!. Just you wait until they’re a week old and are almost the cutest kids on the internet. THEN you’ll be oooing and awwwing.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2010. | Permalink | 4 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: babies, Family, Friends, newborn, niece, photographs, Pictures

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I’m going to preface this by saying my sister and I can sometimes revert back to our 12-year-old selves when we get around our mother. It doesn’t happen when we’re together without her, but add our mom into the familial equation, then you’ve got a clusterfuck of teenage hormones.

A few Christmases ago, I was 3 months pregnant with my oldest daughter. I felt enormous. Little did I know, I’d double in size and stay that way for the next five and a half years. I felt like I needed at least a queen-size bed to share with my baby daddy. Anything smaller would kill the baby, obviously.

My sister and I along w/ my baby daddy were coming home to my parent’s for Christmas, and since we got there first, I claimed the room with the queen-size bed. You know. For the baby’s life. FOR THE SAKE OF THE BABY.

Can you guess what happened next?

My sister came into my parent’s house, marched into the room with the big bed, AND ROLLED OUR LUGGAGE TO THE SPARE BEDROOM WITH THE FULL-SIZE BED.

oh yes she did

And oh yes, I moved them back.

AND OH YES SHE MOVED THEM BACK BACK.

There was a cacophony of tears, yelling, insults. My dad was stuck in the middle. Don’t you dare feel sorry for him. He lives in his own little version of paradise. He felt the need to appease both his daughters. To make it even. Make it fair. What all fathers do for their fighting daughters.

He sided with his youngest daughter.

My sister won the battle. She got the big bed.

that bitch

But this is what I remember. This is how we make our memories. By insult-throwing, luggage moving, teenage-style tantrums.

Happy Merry Everything

Do you still fight with your siblings? Or are we the only ones who see the world through our 12-year-old Coke-bottle-sized lenses?

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I’m live and in colorish over at Aiming Low today (well, December 15th)! Show me some loves, won’t you? Won’t you?

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My homegirl, Meghan, is hosting the Second Annual Great Bloggy Holiday Card Exchange. I posted the card back in November, but because I listen to Meghan cause that girl can cut a bitch, here’s the card again.

My girls are WAY too cute.

I’m teaching them to cut a bitch like Aunty Meghan.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2009. | Permalink | 48 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: christmas, Family, fighting, holiday

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My grandparents just celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary. My mom is the eldest of their 5 kids, all of whom live within a few hours of one another. There are 12 grandchildren and 9 great-grandchildren also all within a few hours radius.

Almost all of us get together at least twice a year for Thanksgiving and Easter and maybe once more a year for a wedding.

It makes keeping tabs (see: checking up on tattoos, boyfriends, unemployment, etc) much more personable than MySpace or Facebook.

We’re pretty traditional: divorces, step-kids, the gays, the rich uncle, the losers, the smart ones, the holy rollers, the cousin with 4 kids and 3 baby daddys. We make dirty jokes, we do vodka shots, we know who to talk to about politics, we know when not to mention the extra 20 pounds packed on. We laugh really loudly together, we play cornhole, we watch each other’s kids on the trampoline, we pick their tangerines on the way out, we swing under the oak tree and on the porch for hours judging whispering to about each other.

You know, the perfect family.

My mom asked to keep my girls for the night of Thanksgiving (tonight). HECK YEAH! I’m all about getting a few hours to ourselves. (No, there’s no hint-hint in there.)

But when the husband and I were making our rounds of goodbyes tonight, nearly every aunt, uncle, cousin, and grandparent gave us the ole “YOU’RE-GONNA-TOTALLY-DO-IT-TONIGHT-RIGHT?” look.

Uhhhhhhh… We kinda might have, but now that you mentioned it, there’s no way we can enjoy our happy-no-kids Fun Time with your faces in our heads.

Thanks, Grampa. You totally ruined my boner.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2009. | Permalink | 10 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: Family, thanksgiving

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