Arrogant authority makes me mad -

I remember when I was in the sixth grade. I had my tonsils out and it all went bad. I hemorrhaged and had to get back to the hospital. My Dad got me there very quickly and I remember seeing the red lights that he disregarded to get me there.

Sometimes, we are emergency vehicles. Sometimes, it is imperative that we use our own judgment as we verify the safety of those around us.

This story makes me furious ... and I would have done exactly the same thing.

“Hey, that’s the nurse,” the Plano officer told Powell. “She said that the mom’s dying right now, and she’s wanting to know if they can get him up there before she dies.”

“All right,” Powell replied. “I’m almost done.”

Idiot.

Family Night -

We had a fence that was no longer fencing things in ...

The wood planks were warped and the missing piece provided a simple escape for the chihuahuas. It looked sad and we needed to get to work.

So for family night, we all gathered together and created a small factory in the backyard. We each had our own assignments. I tried to assign myself to be the videographer of the event, but the gang objected and handed me bolts, washers and nuts.

A couple of hours later, after the boys were distracted for a period of time by apple pie & ice-cream that Adam Dick and girlfriend brought over ... the job was finally complete.

A few splinters.

Lots of sawdust.

Much better.

Five boys that fart ...

I was never allowed to say the word fart while I was growing up. If we were referring to passing gas, we would say "Who let a tooter?" Now that I'm older, this seems like a rule for the very proper and possibly even elite, which strikes me as odd since we had a live pig roaming free in our kitchen (true story). So I am going to say the word fart a lot in this post since I was deprived as a child.

Anyway, all of my boys (four that I birthed and one that I married) seem to be especially gross and gassy lately. Last night, Jake and Garrison both came in, jumped on my bed, farted in unison and laughed hysterically. I didn't see the humor in it. I'm not sure if I was more irritated with the smell or that they were disturbing my down time. They were quickly escorted out of my bedroom and the door was locked behind them.

So I have two questions.

1. Do all boys just fart all the time?

2. Were you allowed to say fart growing up?

P.S. Immediately after posting this, my twelve-year-old was heard around the entire house farting into a microphone. In no way, shape or form was this a tooter ... or windy. It was a fart. Sick.

The flock

It all started with one chicken, which turned out to be a rooster ... and now we have seven of these little guys to add to the feathered friend (I'm trying really hard to be friends with that manic cockadoodle doo er). We now have a flock. What are we doing you ask? I have no idea. We make things up as we go along ... just like Indiana Jones.

David Archuleta in the hood!

Right now my lucky kids are at a Fireside (an evening church gathering for our youth) with this handsome boy ...

I'm completely jealous.

My husband ... Neighborhood Watch Dog

As I mentioned in my white trash post, we live in an amazing neighborhood, not fancy, but amazing nonetheless. This neighborhood is where the criminals like to frequent, as they scour the parameter for new birthday presents on wheels and plumbing tools that go for big bucks at the local pawn shops. We've been hit several times, losing almost every new bike we've ever purchased and Gary has lost countless pieces of expensive equipment. Consequently, one of Gary's favorite pastimes is ... catching the bad guy.

Last night was not unlike many other nights that have come and gone. Let me preface this by saying that we have a home alarm system that is set every night and we have motion detector lights that illuminate the entire surrounding area as any cat makes a movement in the evening shadow. We also have a great guard dog and the newest addition ... the rooster. This does not, however, relinquish Gary from his need to protect his property and this is when Gary puts on his cape and is at his best.

He had just gotten home from work at about midnight. He winds down from work by playing a game of "Call of Duty" as he practices his aim just in case he is called to war. That's when he saw the motion detector lights on the driveway. He darts from his seat and stands on the hearth of the fireplace trying to catch a view of what created the motion. There he was, Caucasian male, approximately 23 years old, on a bike (probably ours from the heist of 07) and the most incriminating of all ... wearing a backpack (my guess is that he wasn't a student). The next ritual is what happens each time a criminal act is eminent.

Gary takes off down the hall, grabs his weapon of choice (this varies and I will not incriminate my sole provider), runs out the door setting the alarm system off, and then (our favorite) he becomes a human siren. In his loudest, most annoying voice possible, he portrays a police car as if it were in hot pursuit. Of course this scares off any criminal (in truth, the motion detector lights had probably already done that), but this is just the beginning.

It is now about 1:00 a.m., and Barney Fife, I mean Gary hops in his truck and begins calling all of his cohorts (friends with other various weapons that rarely get to be used) to join him in some action. I apologize to all of the wives who have been awakened as their husbands were called to join Gary in manly night games. Soon we have at least four vehicles running amok as they use their high tech cellular devices to coordinate their destinations and close in on the perp.

Last night, the perpetrator was located, police were called, helicopters hovered over our home (oddly enough this is just a gentle hum anymore) police cars came in triplicate and yet again, Gary has another story to share.

2:00 a.m., he bids farewell to his friends in uniform and civilians with similar dreams ... and resumes his game of "Call of Duty" waiting for his next true call. 5:00 a.m., he is up and playing the role of husband, father and plumber by day ... watch dog by night.

Is this what they call a mid-life crisis?

Happy Anniversary to me!

This was a good day ... 15 years ago today!

Update -

Aforementioned chicken is still alive ... is actually a ROOSTER ... with a very strong desire to COCKADOODLEDOO ... all morning ... BEFORE the sun comes up.

We still live in the city.

Case In Point

A couple of weeks ago, Miss Kacey objected to the subtitle that I recently added to my blog ...
A white trash family, living the blue collar dream.
I would like to give you a mere example of how deserving we are of this description.

Luckily, the three water heaters have recently been removed from the south side of our home ... right next to the street ... where all of the lovely houses dwell AND we don't have anyone living in our backyard this month. However, in our back yard, we still have a German Shepherd who is currently sleeping on an old mattress atop of our old kitchen table that is now distinguishably placed on our patio ... and this German Shepherd called Mia got quite the workout today!

It's become somewhat of a tradition for my boys to go to our small town "rodeo" called Lehi Days each year ... and bring home a chicken. The last chicken (Tommy) didn't survive more than 48 hours as I recall. Tears are shed, eulogies are said ... and then we do it again.

We live in the city! We're not set up for chickens! However ... we are redneck enough with a splash of white trash to just keep up this messy ritual.

Saturday was the day. Jake brought home a chicken, bigger than usual. He got it all set up in our playhouse with some crates (because all white trash people have numerous crates laying around their habitat). For the most part, the dogs were kept at bay and the chicken made it through it's first night.

Today, after church, Jake came home and decided to feed, water and "play" with the chicken. Somehow, said chicken got loose, dogs began salivating and charging all in a split second. I heard Jake screaming for Kacey at the top of his lungs and Garrison was immediately brought to tears ... like I said, we've been through this before and G was inherently aware of the impending doom as he saw the scattered feathers.

But Kacey is stronger and faster than even a German Shepherd. She leaped over tables and chairs (which all white trash people have way too many of) in a single bound ... and she saved the day!


Mia was not giving up easily and ended up wrestling Kacey to the ground, giving her a pretty good goose egg on her leg as the chicken chase continued.

Let me remind you that I live in the middle of the city!

Chicken had a good jog around her new living quarters. She ran through tables and chairs, around an ice-cream cooler filled with frozen meat and food from a restaurant that shut down, by the aforementioned mattress, through several bikes (none of which are in working order) behind two plumbing trucks (that haven't run for eons) through millions of PVC fittings and she finally landed here ...


On the table and the old typewriter that I learned to type on at my Grandparents house ... that I just can't seem to get rid of. It was in my bedroom, which is being revamped a bit ... and so of course it is now on the patio. Doesn't everybody have an old typewriter on their patio?

These two brothers never worked together so well as today when there was a life a risk ... a chicken. They chased and chased and finally cornered it behind the gallons of oil, multiple propane tanks and barbecue grills (a must have for the white trash family ... we can't just have one good one ... ever).


Jake finally grabbed those talons with his bare hands and held up dinner, I mean his pet, with pride!



Chicken is now resting on an old pillow, in an old shelf, with yet another crate lovingly placed over it's head ... devouring our left-overs.

For Kacey's version of this story, click here!


My case in point is this ... we are some crazy white trash people! BUT, we are very blessed! We have a lovely home in an amazing neighborhood, all because the biggest redneck of us all is a hard working ball of energy that provides for his family any way that he can ... in a very blue collar world. He's the best plumber I know (and I've had many satisfied customers repeat the same statement). So we don't mind sharing our lot with plumbing trucks, copper pipe and PVC fittings. We don't mind an occasional water heater and even a toilet lingering around our place before it makes it's way to the dump. Because gosh dang it ... we are living the dream!

Field Trip!

When your 17-year-old son calls you from High School to see if you want to go on a field trip with him ... you don't ask where, why or when ... you immediately exclaim "YES!" Because spending a day with this young man and his friends is a rare occasion indeed.

When I heard that we were going to the Desert Botanical Gardens, my mind drifted back to the 4th grade when I took that very field trip with my little friends. I recall saying one of my first cuss words there, just trying to act cool (I can't say that it was the first time I used foul language, because my Dad's favorite tale to tell is of me when I was about 3-years-old shouting out a four-letter word in the middle of church while I was coloring ... but you can't blame a 3-year-old, so I've let that one go.) I'm sure that my friends were so impressed with my filthy mouth (not) and it still bothers me to this day! So here I was some 35 years later, going back with my boy ... this time there would be no swearing.

I remember The Desert Botanical Gardens being ... well ... a big desert with botanical growth. I thought it was ugly, hot and boring. I vowed never to return ... I was a fun child. To my delight, they had a special treat in store for us this time! It was the Chihuly Exhibit, which is basically acres of incredibly crafted stained glass placed sporadically throughout the garden as images intertwined with nature (poetic eh). Since Keaton is taking Stained Glass in school, this was clearly an educational bonus and I was thrilled to accompany the group. After the exhibit, three bus loads of us stopped off at a quaint little burger joint near ASU called The Chuckbox ... it was deliSH and we only left six students behind ... but they weren't in my group, so it was ok. Enjoy the pictures and enjoy your children ... they grow up WAY too fast!

Bachelor GARBAGE!

What the heck just happened?????? Clearly I was WAY too involved with this whole stupid Bachelor event ... because I am SO WORKED UP right now! I have many things to say.

1. First of all, Jason dramatic whiny face, you chose the right girl the first time, and I wish that plexiglass would have shattered as you were flailing yourself over it in tears.

2. Second of all, how dare you quit when life got back to NORMAL and not fight for Melissa.

3. Third of all, stop pretending to be the nice guy. "Everything I ever said was real." How many "reals" can you possibly profess to have before they actually scream very unreal.

4. Finally, I think you're gay. It makes perfect sense now.