I had just settled the kiddos down for their afternoon naps. Aiden went down for the third time (it takes him a while every afternoon-he gets back up about four times to inform me he only took a baby nap, he wants to color, or his toy is orange-you know…the important stuff) when there was an incessant ringing of the doorbell. Can I just say that people who ring doorbells in the middle of the day are a little thoughtless? Side tangent: I’m seriously considering making a cute PERMANENT little sign that ever so non intimidatingly states: DEAREST thoughtless RUDIES: Children are napping. Leave the package. I’ll find it later. No, I don’t want your Gideonite Bible, Religious pamphlet to be filed under “other” or useless-to-me lawn service. STOP trying to sell me your crap unless you are the Girl Scouts and you have Thin Mints. If it’s after one in the afternoon, babies are sleeping. I am currently finessing the art of coordinated naps. GO AWAY.

Anyway, back to the doorbell ringage... I was sitting on the couch feeding Malone. And…cue the Incessant ringing. At first I ignored it and scolded Chloe who had flown into torrential fits of snarl induced growls. I literally thought she was going to throw herself at the door. I was too busy with a hardcore scolding of miss Prozac to realize what was happening on my lawn.

“ROOM SERVICE!!! ROOOOOM SERVICE!!!” I thought that was what I heard, in garbled sentences through the front foyer, but then dismissed it. Is someone seriously yelling for me to answer the door? I thought to myself. Surely the man who’s voice was floating through my house was UPS. I was expecting a package, (I didn’t think I would have to sign for towels) but I set a non-too obliging, ravenous Malone down, rearranged my woman parts, and, irritatedly, went for the door. Without even thinking, I opened it. I had to shove my snarling fifty-pounder ball of nerves to the side, but I still opened it.

That was stupid.

There was a chopper in my driveway. I’m not a motorcycle kinda gal but I have to say, this one looked like a Harley. I was too far away to tell, but it definitely had the low riding high handles going on, and the fire down the sides kinda vibe. Pretty sweet. It’s owner, a man dressed in motorcycle paraphernalia (as well as a healthy dose of narcotics) who looked to be in his mid to late 40’s was pacing, standing a good distance back in my yard.

“Mrs, Iris? Is Mrs. Iris here?” He began, immediately. Apparently what I thought was being screamed as ROOM SERVICE but thought I had misunderstood for POSTAL service was actually “MRS. IRIS. Mrs. IRIS.” My bad. {Both made absolutely no sense.}

For a moment, it felt like I was on the phone with someone who reached the wrong number. I didn’t know you were allowed to repeatedly ring someone’s door in the middle of the day and then act all confused in person when they answered.

“Uhhh, No. Iris doesn’t live here,” I responded to a slightly irritated Harv (we’ll call him Harv) as I continued to push the snarling protector, Chloe, back. Harv definitely fit the part with his skinny jeans, white tee and leather vest. And he kind of gave me a funny feeling. Harv was a little off.

I had opened my door to him in the middle of the day.

At this point he continued to pace my yard, examining my home. “Are you sure Iris doesn’t live here?” He looked around and then down at his hand into what looked like a crumpled check. “You haven’t ever gotten a 1400 check slid under your door, have ya?”

“Uhhh, No.” I replied. Looking down at the tile in my entryway, baffled, as if I half expected a check to materialize from nowhere right beside Chloe’s eager feet. Don’t we all wish we found 1400 smacks under our doors?

“You sure?” his voice had an accusatory tone to it.

“Yes, I’m sure.” I replied, my own voice becoming a bit incredulous.

“Do you know where an elderly lady named Iris lives?”

“There’s an elderly lady who lives behind us, but I’m not sure if that’s her,” I responded politely, I was eager to bring the conversation to an end, my hand still perched on the door latch. I’ve seen way too many Oprah’s about following your instincts in the face of rapists and danger. (Even though MY womanly instincts regarding the sex of a baby and pregnancy aren’t exactly up to par as of late, they are regarding psychos in my life.) So I was finished talking. Either that, or sic Chloe on him.

{Pause: If you are a psycho stalker killer and you’re reading my blog, hoping to pounce, I have a big dog. A GIANT SNARLING WHOPPER of a DOG who will rip your guts out as you scream for mercy and I laugh maniacally watching you bleed a slow painful death for trying to take any of my children. I’ll just watch you suffer. What??? Okay I’ll call an ambulance and ask you to wait in the driveway since I won’t want you to ruin my house with your gross blood. But you’ll still be in lots of pain and subsequently, big trouble…}

And then Harv began to ramble. And pace. And ramble some more. And I think he was trying to look into my windows and over my fence. He thought I was hiding Iris. And to be honest, I’ve had my fill with the local psychos lately, so I mumbled something about “Sorry, I have no clue. Good luck” And shut the door.

I decided to call Jamin and laugh, and then I realized Harv was still in the local vicinity. Harv hadn’t left. The chopper was still in my driveway and I couldn’t see Harv anywhere.

I still felt a bit uneasy, so I went around and locked all my doors while I aptly described the rude doorbell ringer / naptime intruder. Jamin was headed home, (it made him nervous) but I told him not to worry about it. He obviously wasn’t here to take us anywhere because he showed up on a chopper. I didn’t see him strapping my kids on his back and riding off into the sunset after he left me bludgeoned on the floor.

He would probs just murder us all with his giant hunting knife I was sure he had hidden in his awesome motorcycle vest. The hit man Harv, Hired out by Kanye.  

Even though his chopper remained parked, blocking my entire driveway, I completely lost sight of Harv for a good ten minutes. When I looked out my window again later, I saw him perched on the curb across the street. That was after he paced nervously in the park. And had a loud convo on his cell with his mob boss regarding a disappearing Iris. Bazaar much?

So, instead of helping Harv the sketchmeister, I did what any normal person with too much apparent time on their hands would do. I ducked out in my window and took ample photos of Harv. In case he came back. And tried to off me. That, and since I couldn’t make this stuff up, you know…a bit of spytastic-I-have-absolutely-no-life-check-out-this-weirdo-on-my-blog-action was definitely in order.

After a while, Harv gave up, lit a ciggy, and puttered off into the sunset, while I praised a formerly scolded Chloe. In the meantime I’ll be searching for Iris, the elderly meth dealer. Maybe she needs a helper. I would love to have 1400 dollars under my door. Harv was certainly ready to get his hands on some goods…

1. I was brushing Emerson’s teeth this morning, getting ready to go out. I was shirtless (Yeah. Cute. I know.) and I bent down, so I could get a good look at what I was doing. Aiden sauntered into the bathroom and made a beeline for me. “Look at that fat belly!” he said, smiling. He was patting, ever so affectionately the exact spot where my exhausted baby maker just so happens to resemble a rubber band stretched past its elastic limit. He then skipped out of the room.

I froze. In sheer horror. I think I actually felt my stomach wobble in giant ripples of fat vibrations with each loving pat. I have now baked and birthed three children. Things are a little out of place, to say the least. Thanks for the complex, kid. I have five pounds to lose, and I was pretty darned proud of myself, but I don’t even think my bones have completely moved back yet from the exhaustive process one experiences in the incubation of such vicious little creatures. So for the sleepless nights, endless morning sickness, excruciating pain, exhausting mental/emotional strain and completely transformed body three times over…This is the thanks I get.  I found myself standing up straight and sucking in, pondering the age-old question as to why I indulged in the Papa John’s extravaganza the night before, while simultaneously boring a hole into my midsection via the unforgiving mirror. The mirror and the scales are on a secret mission to ruin my life and just brought Aiden in on the mix. He still resents me for all the potty training tactics I’ve tried on him. Revenge is his. Bring on the carrot sticks and then ten-mile runs. (Revision: Scratching that.) Too bad I don’t have the time or energy to make a ten miler. And who am I kidding? Pass the cookies. I’ll be hiding in the closet from now on, if only to change a pair of shoes. I probably have some sag on my toes that may need some acknowledgement from the blunt little observers in my life.

2. I braved my way to Prattville yesterday to a new flea market I wanted to try out. This place was the very best kind…a little off the beaten path, where people don’t really try to pass off a plant stand as an antique and/or charge one hundred bucks for it. This is the kind of place where you have to dig, but a little elbow grease and creativity will take you a long way. I was armed with my arsenal system or two kids in the double stroller and Malone in the sling. There I was, collecting my plunder, when a curious woman walked by. I still don’t know why people think they have the right to touch my children in public. They were all reaching out in slow motion with their nasty swine flu hands, and it’s all I can do not to take a few steps back in sheer terror. No, I don’t mind if you touch my child. Right after I run this background check, call three references, and ask you to don a mask and gloves AFTER complete sterilization of the hands…And a full orthodontic makeover. You’ll be needing one of those too since your smile is kinda creepy. What?

Anyway, this woman walked by and started staring at Malone. I hadn’t even so much as looked in her direction when she peered down ever so curiously. “Are you sure he’s comfortable in there?” she motioned toward my sleeping baby, frowning.

“Uh, yes…” I said, doing my best to keep my tone polite. But she didn’t move. She simply kept staring, frowning, looking at me expectantly, waiting for a thorough explanation on my child’s comfort level. “It’s supposed to be like the womb, I guess” was the best I had to offer. I didn’t owe this woman anything, yet there she was, staring, and blocking my walking path into the next segment of the store as if she fully expected me to break out the power point and informative statistics on child safety levels and sling transportation.

“He doesn’t look comfortable,” she responded.

Pause. What I really wanted to say: “Yes. I felt like putting my seven week old in this sling to punish him for keeping me up all night. I’m secretly hoping it causes serious neck injuries and I can’t wait to see if his head stays in the same place when I get him out to sit in his car seat on the way home. But that’s impossible since I don’t own a car seat. I mean, why would I since, obviously, I could care less about him as indicated by my use of this cruel device. I’ll drive home with him strapped to my chest just like some of your relatives I saw digging around in boxes in the garbage behind the STORE. But thanks for your unwarranted concern and unsolicited advice. I’ll be the first to sit in your waiting room when you open up your peds practice. Call me.”

Yeah. The above paragraph would have made a stellar story. But instead of the dialogue which I found could easily escalate to violence (and who has time for violence when they’re out using valuable laundry-folding time to haul three kids around and shop?) I chose to ignore, for the sake of my children. I kept walking. I totally scored some fabo finds that made up for it, anyway.

3. Because when I do lists, I have to do them in three’s: remember that time (see below) I wrote this huge entry about how my kid finally pooed on the potty, and then in doing so made the fatal mistake of assuming he would continue to do just that? Yeah. Not. So. Much.

the usuals:

funky greens, classic linen and a touch of ikat

mums, fabulous finds, and kirklands vomit

yummy babies

So I'm blogging, despite the fact that I have a kazillion things to do, and Emerson is climbing on the couch, constantly threatening to teeter off the edge and bounce on her head before coming to a complete stop. (Yeah, she did that a couple of weeks ago whilst eating some jelly beans...her new fave.) We've been supa busy, so I honestly don't have much to write about unless you want to hear more about refinishing furniture, how I lost the stripes battle in the new nursery, (It was better for the sake of our marriage) and painful poos due to the fact that we have traumatized Aiden with our potty training efforts and convinced him that holding it in is better. We are awesome! Grapes and prune juice are on the grocery list today. 

Here are a few pictoral (doesn't the word pictoral feel like it should be followed by directory, as in church?) updates of what's been going on around here...

A true boy, Aiden has been smacking these suckas around. He was so proud of himself. Dumb useless things keep getting into our house. Remember this post? Probably not unless you've been with me for the past nearly four years...feel free to marvel at the hair change with Aiden. These things come out every year and I actually FINALLY googled them last night after noticing a disturbing pattern. We call them Mosquito hawks, but I never see them actually eating any mosquitos. Oh the things you can learn via google. The funny part is, that after I educated myself, I then educated my neighbor who asked me what the heck the things were whilst both standing in our yards swatting at them. Just call me Mr. Wizard. Full of useless science knowledge like how to collapse a gasoline can and what those flitty giant things are in our grass...

 It's busy season in youth minister world. Jamin=gone all the time. Me=ready to KILL someone. Just when I was about to have a nervous breakdown and run away to a private arubian spa resort (after I secured a trusty baby sitter, of course...no DHR please) Jamin finally came back. FINALLY. He brought Aiden a pirate set from Disney (Emmy loves her Minnie Mouse) and he now runs about screaming ARGHHHHHH! constantly from the tops of various pieces of furniture.

Please someone else tell me they sometimes cry themselves to sleep at night when they are constantly left to deal with the kiddies. Humor me. Lie to me. Tell me you've been put in an institution so I don't feel like the biggest wimp in the world...

We've made some minor changes to the house out front. We have a giant tree on its way, soon, and are now waiting for the rose bushes to come out. I was a bit hesitant to show the front of my house since I don't want any stalkers to come and steal my babies, and then I remembered I can alter it a bit in photo shop to throw said stalkers off. Or did I? Either way, I guess you can just look for the house with the two giant urns out front if you really want to come and get me, but then you would have to get past my security system/GIANT dog with ULTRA sharp teeth...

My point..

Scored these suckas at WALMART of all places. Thanks, better homes and gardens. I refuse to be snooty about where I score my finds, and can't afford to be anyway. So here ya go. Gardening section. They're huge. I took a pic of Emmy for sizing placement...I filled them with moss phlox. Cascading flowering thingies. I can't wait for them to cascade. I keep walking out of my front door, expecting the cascade to occur.

I'm nesting. What can I say?

Oh yeah, and then I decided I needed a wreath on the front door, so I scooped up Emerson and headed to Hobby Lobby, who was having a fifty percent off sale on all their flowers. I made this wreath in ten minutes with a glue gun, one of their little wooden wreaths, and flowers of my choice. Price: 25 dollars. Price at Target: 100. No lie. Ridic. 

Good story. I'm off to tea stain a shelf and move the toys from the playroom so we can paint. And by we, I mean Jamin. Have a fabulous week!