Funny

How to dress up like a cow

We recently took a trip to Chick-Fil-A

for some free chicken.

All you had to do was dress up like a cow.

It was in this setting that I realized,

that moms can try as hard as they want:

they can make costumes

and help coordinate efforts

but, they can

never

even

try to

replace

dad.

LG is such a good sport.

Or he really just likes free chicken.

Nobody got his costume.

Except for this other dad,

standing close by

in his sissy

jersey spots.

He let out a good manly chuckle

at the sight of LeGrand,

being the man that he is.

I think he is going to rethink

his costume next year.

I wonder how many men

will show up as bulls

next time?

But, remember,

you saw it here first.

LeGrand needs all the manly points

he can get

in this household

full of women.

Like our 4 daughters

always say,

“even our cat and dog

are girls.”

Guest Post – Chad (Facebook Etiquette)

I like making new friends.

In real life and on facebook.

A while back, something I had posted

caught the eye of a real-life friend’s friend.

Her name was Daisy.

She will have to be a guest post another day.

She is buried in her book publisher’s demands right now.

Daisy and I got into it, back and forth about an issue I call

“underachieving students in our public schools”.

After Daisy proclaimed her loyalty and love

for kids who struggle in school,

and declared her position to single handedly

make a difference for all those she could reach,

I referred her to my post about my mom.

Years ago, my mom taught me about

that same kind of love

when she bought some pizza for some gang members.

So, Daisy and I became forever after facebook friends. I call it FAFF.

Well, one day, whilst reading a post from Daisy on facebook

about making jam with some Mormon missionaries

(who she feeds and invites into her home regularly,

even though she is not a Mormon)

I got a good laugh at a comment.

The conversation had turned from the 30 jars of jam

to what it would take to eat it all.

Chad Deal wrote something like this:

“All the bread you are going to have to eat with that jam

will be enough to give a sperm whale a yeast infection.”

And, with the click of the mouse,

I found myself laughing uncontrollably,

The next thing I know, Chad is my newest facebook friend.

I am pleased to offer him up

as my latest and greatest guest post.

Here is Chad’s bio.

He wrote it himself.

I am so excited that I have a band director on my list of friends.

Abigail was just issued a french horn,

and I know absolutely nothing about it.

Chad Deal is a Music Educator in Georgia. He has directed High School Bands in Las Vegas, Atlanta, and Statesboro, GA. He is married to a wonderful woman (a saint, some say) and is the father of two little boys. He currently exists without his own web address, but only because http://www.supercrazyawesome.com is taken. His Facebook fan page was taken down after it made Brad Pitt look bad. Don’t tell me there wasn’t a conspiracy at work. If you would like to contact him, please find something more rewarding to do (he really is quite boring and full of himself), but if you must, please email chadadeal@me.com

Chad’s contribution is called

Facebook Funny

I asked him to inform of us

his take on facebook no-no’s.

It does not disappoint,

but does have a few

PG-13 references.

But this Mormon blogger

can put up with them

in honor of

making new friends

and celebrating differences.

I am often asked to be funny. Actually, I am nearly always required to be funny. My life as a dad, hubby, and teacher insists that I be funny in order to make the mundane tolerable. Another outlet for my humor is Facebook. This social phenomenon has given me a huge audience (which is good because my wife has grown weary of hearing my jokes over and over on the phone and Facebook allows me to be silently funny). The compensation scale won’t pay the light bill (electric/power bill if you live outside of the South) but it does make me feel great when something I write elicits a favorable reply, “Like” or even a “nice one, Chad”.

It was just such a comment that lead me to this blog posting. I am not a blogger. I enjoy blogs, and have considered writing one, but I am always distracted by things like playing in the backyard, playing in the living room, and once the kids are asleep, doing some playing in the bedroom. So my blogging is limited to Facebook status updates and replies to the updates of others. I enjoy seeking out seemingly normal, mundane updates and finding the humor (or creating it), but I must say that sifting through the endless blathering of some of my friends has lead me to create a system for pruning my friends list.

I will approve nearly every friend request I receive through Facebook. Notable exceptions are 1) current students and their parents, 2) obvious spammers (unless they are super hot models) and 3) anyone from France. Once approved, everyone gets an audition. I keep an eye on their status updates and if I like what I see, they get to keep their coveted spot in my friends list. However, should they fall into one (or more) of the following categories, they are quickly removed, which can decimate someone’s cool point cache.

Category 1- The ‘Villes:

If you are a hardcore participant in any game that ends in ‘ville (Farm, Fish, Drug Cartel, etc.) I think that is fine, but if 90% of your updates are related to that, or other games, you may need an intervention… or a sign that points outside. Don’t get me wrong, I understand addiction… I have an iPhone, but for goodness sake, stop taking pictures of your computer screen and posting it for all of your friends to ignore. Tell me something interesting, like what you had for lunch, or how long your last (or first) orgasm lasted. Pique my interest with something real, something tangible. Otherwise, you will be banished from Chad-Ville.

Category 2- Pundits:

The only thing more annoying than the ville’s is politics. I don’t care if you are a Democrat, a Republican, or an Idiot… I mean, Independent (sorry, Freudian slip). If you think that a single political party has all the answers then you are in for more disappointment than my first Prom date. I understand having a strong opinion about certain issues, we all do, at least, I hope we all do. But please, refrain from trying to assert your superiority within your friend circle by regurgitating the flame-filled ramblings from our current “news” channels. I could write a book about everything I hate about politics and news, but I digress. Save the Soap-boxery for something that really matters, like guaranteeing that reruns of Friends are shown in the order they were meant to be shown and with all of the lead in and lead out jokes intact. Where is my PAC for THAT???

Category 3- Sickies:

Being in pain is terrible. I feel bad for you, I really do. Having spent a period of my life in chronic pain (4 years living in Alabama), I totally get the need to seek compassion, but do we need to hear EVERY single complaint? “I have a headache” “Tummy is upset today…FML”.

FML (F**K My Life)??? REALLY??? For an upset tummy??? Please get some perspective. You can find it at Wal*Mart. Spend 15 minutes watching the endless train of poor decisions coupled to a substandard education and a caboose of Zero fashion sense and you will understand the true meaning of FML. Your aches and pains cannot possibly compare to the despair of these people (which would be 100 times worse if they actually knew what despair was). Save the complaining for your bartender. At least he is getting paid while he listens. Maybe I should start a game called Bar-Ville.

Category 4- Haters:

“I hate my job”, “I hate my Ex”,”I hate my neighbors”. Complaining is natural. We all hate something, and misery loves company. But I simply cannot commiserate with ALL of the hate that comes up in my news feed. Times are tough, and many people are stuck in a job that is unfulfilling, but one thing that I have learned in all my years of punching the time clock is this: Complaining only makes it worse. It forces you to focus exclusively on the most negative aspects of your job. Instead, find the best thing (even if it is quitting time) and keep that in your sights. You’ll be surprised how many more positive things there are when you look past the negatives. Same thing with an Ex-husband or Wife. Something drew you to that person originally. Instead of spending all of your energy hating the person they are, try to remember what you loved about them to start with (even if it was only the great sex. Reliving that in your mind once or twice might temper some of the hatred and allow you to move on). Hate the neighbors? Join the club. Kill ‘em with kindness… or poison, but stop the hate.

So, what next? Well, anyone that falls into one or (god forbid), more of the above categories is placed on a watch list. If the annoying behavior dominates the Wall, and subsequently, my news feed, then I block or delete. I need quality soil to grow the seeds of my humor. I get no inspiration from the ‘ville’s, pundits, sickies, or haters. I need quality material like mundane updates with poor grammar and/or misspellings. I adore people that mix up their attempts at descriptive language and my heart leaps every time someone misses obvious sarcasm. What can you do to make my experience better? Here are some tips:

• Accidentally slip up and reveal juicy details about your private life

• Take lots of pictures when you are out in public (preferably of people you don’t know) and post them.

• Occasionally post something on your Wall that was supposed to be a private message.

As I am not the only Facebook user out there, please feel free to comment with the thing(s) that drive you the most crazy about the Facebook experience. My next Guest Post (if I am invited back) will be about Twitter and why I think we find celebrities so fascinating (PREVIEW–WE DON’T).

Thanks for reading. Stay subscribed and try the veal.

My two cents – Category 5 – The Runners. These people love to post about how busy they are, so they somehow feel important because their declarations so obviously rat themselves out. They feel so insignificant. They also like to talk about how much THEY RUN. 5 miles, 6 miles, 18.5 pairs of shoes, 192 roadkill. Can’t go to sleep until I finish up my sprints on my treadmill.

What annoying facebook categories can you guys come up with?

If you aren’t on facebook, do you have categories for your blogging friends?

Love Hate Relationship

I won’t tell you who constructed such a fine piece of artwork.

As they might have morning after regret.

But, I will tell you

that karma is a bummer.

And for all the times I said this exact thing to my mom

I want you to know

that I always knew you didn’t hate me.

If helping you to learn to clean your room

so you can have

a nice home of your own someday

means I hate you,

then I hate you.

If disciplining you for

disobedience

so that you will learn

that actions have consequences

means I hate you,

then I hate you.

If reading scriptures with you every day,

so that you will know

the love of God and Christ

means I hate you,

then I must hate you.

If sitting down with you to

do your homework

every day after school

so you won’t be a procrastinator

means I hate you

then I hate you.

If telling you to hurry

because you are going to be late

for soccer again,

so that you will learn to be responsible

means I hate you,

then I hate you.

If asking you to remember

and wash your face every night

so you won’t be scarred

by the effects of

adolescent acne

means I hate you,

then I hate you.

If taking your phone away

so that you can learn to

have a real conversation

means I hate you,

then I hate you.

If requiring you to wear

modest clothes

so that you will

have self-respect

means I hate you,

then I hate you.

If limiting your TV time

so that you won’t

turn into a couch potato

means I hate you,

then I hate you.

If asking you to help

with household chores

so that you will learn

to be a contributing member of society

means I hate you

then I hate you.

Now,

go back,

and read

every one

of these stanzas

over again.

And where they say,

“means I hate you

then I hate you”

please replace with

“means I love you,

then I love you.”

And then add this last one.

If laughing

when you make a sign like this

so that you will

learn not to take

yourself too serious

means I love you,

then you must know

that I really love you.

Because I am still laughing.

Guest Post – Donna (Birthing Story)

I have decided to implement two new features on the blog.

The first is Just Ask Alice.

You will hear more about this one later.

But, somebody told me that I should write an advice column.

And I am going to start taking questions.

How fun is that?

About as fun as this picture of the beautiful Jada.

The second new implement is the Guest Post.

My friend Donna was kind enough to be my first.

Jada is Donna’s beautiful daughter.

Thanks Donna.

You always got my back.

Donna is the first because she is

the most hilarious person I know.

We once talked about starting our own blog together.

We were going to name it

“Raising @#!*% at the Rose Home.”

That’s because we were

the life of the party at

our Bishop’s house

a couple of years ago.

We are so inappropriate.

And funny.

And fun.

We are most definitely

not your typical Mormon wives.

God bless our husbands.

I love reading about people.

I love hearing their stories.

So, Donna was kind enough

to write part of her life story.

I asked her to share a funny one.

I found it very odd that she chose a birthing story.

Because she is the most adamant supporter

of women getting lives.

And not wasting girls night out with

birth stories,

diaper changing horrors,

cleaning tips,

scrapbooking display,

shoe collection comparison.

(We all know that she would win anyway)

Donna and I

are kindred spirits.

In conversation,

we go straight for the kill

with topics like

sex,

politics,

and

except-able behavior.

(like so many Knoxvillians lack)

I miss Donna.

She moved to New York.

She has a great blog,

with lots of recipes.

I don’t think she could ever recover

when her dog Charlie died.

She had to get out of state.

The Parvo is bad.

We loved Charlie.

I am glad I got some pictures of him.

My only regret with Donna’s guest post,

is that you can’t hear her tell you the story in person.

I have her voice imprinted in my eardrum.

It’s saying things like:

For sure. No doubt. Charlie!!! No not Charlie!!!

Well, here is Donna’s story.

It’s about when her son Miles was born.

And the picture to go with it.

This picture is so much better to look at

after reading the story.

Donna told me to make sure to tell you

the parts she originally forgot:

Don’t forget to add the fact that I had to share a room with a Dominican who had a party everyday till visiting hours were over, AND a bunch of Indians ( like from India) had 5 generations in there room across the hall. Oy!

Miles to go before I push.

I always had nightmares about giving birth in public

since we’ve moved to NYC.

I was especially nervous because

I didn’t know what real contractions

or natural labor felt like since I got induced with Jada.

I’ve had contractions off and on

but they were those Braxton Hicks,

and to be honest

sometimes I couldn’t tell if

it was contractions or gas…..ANYWAY.

Monday at like 5 in the morning

I starting getting cramps,

but they weren’t that intense,

but they came every so often

with intese pressure on my bottom.

I called my mom and she was like yep those are for real.

I had 4 within the hour,

but she said it was too early to go to the hospital.

Seth was going to leave for work,

and I told him I would just call him when they got closer.

I head in the shower,

and when I got out

the contractions were 10 mins apart,

then 5.

This happened all within a span of 10 mins.

I tried to get dressed,

and call him on the phone

but I couldn’t talk

so I just screamed

when he answered the phone.

The landlord came up and was freaking out.

She kept telling me to breathe,

and helped me get dressed

and offered to take me to the hospital.

Seth races home and Niki

(the landlord)

helps me get downstairs.

I tried so hard not to scream and cry

when I had contractions

because I didn’t want to wake everyone up.

It was like 6:45 in the morning.

I couldn’t help it

and was screaming down the stairs.

(later Niki told me her daughter

who is getting married soon

doesn’t want to have kids now

becuase of my primal screams)

We get to the hospital

and its like a scene out of a movie.

I get a wheelchair and they rush me up to L&D

meanwhile I am hollering due to the contractions

and the workers in the hall are like

“go mama go”

“Breathe mama breathe”.

We get up to L&D

and they are asking me all these dumb questions

that they should know already since I pre-registered.

THEN the guy has the nerve to tell me

to go sit and wait in the waiting room.

I’m like hello I can’t sit or walk,

and I’m screaming every 3 mins.

So I’m clinging to the wall trying to walk,

in the meantime wondering what the H is going on

and why I’m not in a gown.

My only concern is I need an epidural,

please,

I need something,

because the pain is sooo intense.

I guess my screams got intense for them

so they finally put me in a room.

The nurse kept telling me to breathe and stop screaming,

I’m like easy for you to say.

I went in at 730ish am and I was at a 4.

I kept asking everyone in the room

when I was going to get an epidural .

They were like we have to do your blood work first,

and blah blah blah.

THEN it was the anesthesiologist

was doing a C section

so I’d have to wait.

In the mean time I was thinking

“please God just let me die now.”

I asked again,

and the anastesiologist was still tied up with people.

Pain more intense,

screaming more despreate.

You know when you are in so much pain

and you just can’t get comfortable?

yeah…

Meanwhile Seth keeps rubbing my leg and back,

and I’m yelling if you touch me again!….

Finally he was like you taught yoga

you know how to breathe,

my response was some choice words after that.

My water broke on its own

and I start screaming

they need to come now I think I have to push.

They come and check me and I’m at a 10

within 45 mins of getting there.

The nurse is like congratulations you are ready to deliver.

My heart races and my face goes dead.

“What about an epidural?”

She tells me I don’t need one I just need to push.

I get panicky wondering if I will survive the ordeal.

I’m thinking can you get me something?

A beer?

Something to club myself over the head with?

The Doctor waltzes in a

nd tells me to push where his finger is.

I go and try to grab is hand out of there.

I feel like I have to go to the bathroom,

and they say push.

HOLY MOSES!

I feel the worst pressure ever

and the primal, jungle, call of the wild,

blood curdling roar comes out of me.

My only motivation is a long a

s I get the head out the rest is cake.

3 pushes later Miles slides into home base.

I sigh the biggest sigh of relief and exclaim

that was the worst pain I have ever felt in my life!

While I’m getting stitched up I thank God

that I survived that whole ordeal and that it went quick.

Natural labor is a beast,

but you feel like you can take on the world

after going through that pain.

Seriously it feels like someone shot you

with a gun in the genitals.

Anyway thats my story and I’m stickin to it.

P.S. So sorry Donna, I have come back and blocked commenting from this post.
You will be so proud. I received over 400 comments on this post advertising porn.
I guess there are a lot of sick people out there who would have liked to watch you give birth.

Pee Alert

Somebody sent me the following ad in an e-mail.
I replied immediately asking if it was serious.

She said that she hoped so.
Really?

Because I helped a boy child pee at my house the other day,
and the first two times he sat down and it went off without a hitch.
The third time he tried to stand up,
and there was pee everywhere.
It was not pretty.

My question is this…
Do we really want to pee like the boys?

Whiz Freedom

for when nature calls

World’s #1 Hygienic Urine Director.

Allows women to urinate standing up

Blow out Price: $15.00
Retail Price: $24.95
I have 86 in stock ready to ship right now.

Re-usable
Anti-Bacterial
Anti-Fungal
Hydrophobic
Machine Washable.
No Hard Edges Anywhere
Foldable for easy storage

This product allows women to urinate standing up and avoid unsanitary bathrooms (nasty toilets). No more need to shed layers of clothing, hover or squat over brush and bushes, endure mosquito bites, looks from others or have pants/clothes sitting on dirty floor/ground, possibly getting soaked. The products preparedness applications for families living in tight quarters and evacuation scenarios, or helping the injured relieve themselves are abundant.
Origins of the Whiz Freedom

The idea for this product was actually conceived by its inventor during the 2004 Asian Tsunami disaster. He was vacationing there with a loved one the day the tsunami hit. He recounted to me many of the sanitation nightmares he witnessed during the chaos afterward, especially for women. One incident in particular motivated him to invent this product. It was of a husband and wife. He watched as the husband knelt over his wife’s broken and lacerated legs trying to lay her on her side so she could relieve herself. He tried desperately, but unsuccessfully to not get urine into her open wounds. It was heartbreaking and the inventor wanted so badly to help, but he could do nothing. It bothered him for months afterward until he determined to invent something that could have given that women relief . It is in her memory that the Whiz Freedom was created.
Is it Easy to Use?
“The Whiz freedom™ is very easy to use. Children, students, mothers and 80 year old grandmothers have tested the Whiz freedom™ and they were all complimentary. It is simply held against the body with the broad area of the opening uppermost and then you begin to urinate. Nature and gravity do the rest.
We have not had one single user who cannot use it.

Its unique ‘lily shield’ shape was tested by over 1400 women in clinical trials in 2003/4 and since then, by tens of thousands of women of all ages, from all walks of life. It is CE marked, FDA approved and available on NHS Prescription in the UK. It is also recommended by the UK Continence Foundation.” –From the Whiz Freedom Official Website
Video Explaining benefits and Use of Whiz Freedom

Can Little Girls Use It?
Yes, they can.
My 6 year old daughter has comfortably and successfully used one for the last 2 years whenever we’ve been on long car trips with no bathroom in sight. The are one size fits all and can accommodate women and girls form 4 years old up to adulthood.

Purchasing Method
To place your order please call or email me.
Phone: 435-817-0743
Email: preparednesspurchases@gmail.com
A PayPal option is available for Credit Cards, please email me for details.

I accept checks, cash or money orders. A PayPal option is available for Credit Cards. Checks can be made out to me and mailed to:

Jacob Meyers

PO Box 268

Spring City UT, 84662

And for you weird equal rights people and/or inquiring minds,

I’ve tried to authenticate the idea/company online,

and have come up with nothing.

I guess you will have to keep sitting down,

like the rest of us.

But, take courage,

it really may not be that bad of a thing.

LG is mesmerized.

He says,

“But, you’d have to wash it every time.

What would be the use?

You would lose the time you saved standing,

by disinfecting that thing.”

Yeah, not to mention, the pee all over my toilet.

I can only imagine the fun

my adventurous daughters

could have with a contraption like this.

Don’t laugh

I bet you can’t do it.

Even Caroline was laughing when we watched this.

No Brainer

While recently spending time at the local K-Town gem

we call World’s Fair Park,

I had an epiphany.

If God gave us some snapshots of life before we came to Earth.

Any snapshots of what our future would hold.

And He let us a choose a gender.

(I know that’s not how it really worked,

as I am pretty sure our gender was part of our creation.)

I am 100% certain that I chose girl.

I wanted to be a girl.

And if I could only have one or the other,

I wanted daughters.

It was pretty much a no-brainer.

Don’t you think?

Only Sophia

A little while back Sophia had some fun by saying that if she would have gotten her middle finger cut off she would have to say “give me four” when wanting a high five for the rest of her life.

I recently came across this picture, and wanted to share the funny story.

Raising Sophia is so much fun. She is hilarious. She is smart. She is beautiful. She is SWEET. And she is also blonde. Very blonde.

A few years back, as we were visiting my in-laws, for some reason, LeGrand and the girls and I ended up driving to church in Grammy’s van. Aunt Michelle was with us. Halfway to church, Sophia starts screaming from the back. We, being the experienced parents that we were, told her to knock it off. Michelle attentively found out what was going on. She calmly declared, “Her finger is stuck in the seatbelt.”

“Well pull it out”, I say. “It won’t come out”, Michelle says. Sophia is now crying with full force, which is slightly louder than a whimper. I forgot to tell you the girl is quiet. And although she has mostly outgrown it, she used to be terribly shy. I climb in the back of the van to take care of whatever it was that 22 year old Michelle couldn’t.

I was in for the shock of my life. HER FINGER WAS STUCK IN THE SEATBELT. What the heck? How did this happen? Sophia explained that she was just trying it on for size. You know, like a ring. What?.. had she worked her way up to the middle finger from the pinky? Well, she found the finger that it WOULDN’T fit. The middle finger was painfully and obviously TOO BIG. Honda Odyssey engineers must not have thought this one through. 3 year old stuck in a van + an empty middle seatbelt = an ultimate disaster.

I still thought I may be able to rectify things. I asked Michelle to hand me the A&D Ointment out of the diaper bag while thinking “thank goodness I still have one in diapers.” I slathered it good. The finger would still not budge. It wanted to keep that seatbelt on for the showing I guess. Sophia started really screaming good. I pulled hard to no avail. That thing, that ring, um, I mean that seatbelt was not coming off, and her finger was now swelling up good. The seatbelt started cutting into her skin.

By this time, we pulled into the church parking lot. LeGrand got in the back of the van to assess the damage. He calmly asked Michelle to go into the church building to get his dad. Papa came out and was astonished. Remember he is an engineer and he raised five kids….one of which, was Jordan. (a whole other story – one bragging rite was rescuing Jordan vs a hot water heater and although the hot water heater tried to shock Jordan to death, Jordan still won) Who would have guessed this could ever happen? Not any of us if we weren’t staring at it with our own eyes.

We decided I should try and get some ice from the church to see if we could get the swelling down. At this point, Sophia is resigned to be stuck in this van for a very long time. At least she had stopped screaming. The ice didn’t work. At all. It may have cooled her off a little but, that was about it. The only other thing we could think to do was call the fire department. I went in and found a NON EMERGENCY number and called. They questioned, “Her finger is stuck in the seatbelt?” “Yes”, I said, “but it is so much worse than that.” “We can’t get her out of the car.” With my brief explanation and their utter curiosity they said they would send someone out.

Meanwhile, we solicited the help from a prison doctor who happened to be attending church. He tried the trick of wrapping the string around the finger. It wasn’t even close to working. I guess it works on real rings…just not the steel kind. People from the earlier congregation start filling the parking lot as they were leaving. They looked over casually wondering what all these people were doing standing in the back of a van. It was July. It was hot. All of the sudden, you can hear the sirens. They are screaming from down the street and they are traveling fast. Could they possibly be for our Sophia? Why yes. They were.

First, the firetruck arrived. In LeGrand’s words, “Three big old firemen” all decked out in their flame resistant uniforms went to work. They assessed the situation and found a perfectly happy and shy little girl confined to a life in the backseat of a mini-van via seatbelt confusion. The confusion being theirs. They called the fire chief. He had to come and see for himself. Shortly after he arrived and checked things out for himself he said he had been the fire chief for thirty years and had never seen anything like this. Well there’s really no other way to celebrate America on the weekend of Independence Day, is there? The irony – no freedom to be found without the jaws of life.

Well, before they went as drastic as the jaws of life they decided that they would consult with their buddies, the paramedics. The paramedics offered nothing, except for some real eye candy for the people leaving church. We had a lot of gawkers. Not to blame them. How could they not wonder what was going on?A little girl in the back of a van. Emergency workers each taking turns checking out the situation. An array of emergency vehicles, inlcuding, but not limited to: a firetruck (with lights and sirens), an ambulance, a couple of police cars, and the truck of the fire chief.

Oh yeah, after putting all their heads together, what did they come up with? They were gonna have to cut her out. That was all they could do. They cut her out of the seatbelt and gave us their best advice, “Head on over to the emergency room to see if they can figure out some way to remove the metal from her hand”. “Oh, and tell your other kids not to play with the seat-belts in the future.” “Why thank you. Thank you so much.”

LG, Sophia, my father in law(Duane), and I head on over to the emergency room. We get to start it all over again. At the front desk. “Hi.” “hi.” “How can we help you?” We all look totally fine and we are dressed to the nines compared to the rest of the room because our Sunday worshop was apparently happening on their floor of the hospital. LeGrand starts to explain, “This is our daughter Sophia, she got her finger stuck in the seatbelt.” Blank stare. Me: “let me show you.” I held up her hand to the receptionist who immediately dropped her jaw in astonishment.

This exact scenario happened at least 20 more times while visiting the hospital. We finally just started throwing her hand into the faces of the medical gawkers. Everyone wanted to see what a finger looked like on a little girl who stuck it in a seatbelt. Nurses, doctors, janitors, desk workers, x-ray technicians. You name it. None of the emergency room docs knew what to do either. They tried the string trick, ice, but gave up shortly before the second round of A&D ointment.

It all ended with a visit from the orthopedic surgeon who declared, “we are going to have to do surgery with our diamond saw.” Are you kidding me?

As he started to explain that he was pretty steady with the saw, but there were still all kind of tragic possibilities including the loss of a finger, I quickly reminded him that LG was in law school and he better not screw up. He didn’t appreciate that. I started crying and begging him to not cut her finger off. He assured me that if he did cut it off, he would be able to most possibly successfully reattach it.

That was the longest hour of my life. The surgeon did a great job. I never did tell him that LeGrand wouldn’t have sued him even if he cut her whole hand off. I was so relieved that she was all in one piece.

Today, Sophia is really proud of two things. One- she was in a movie and two – she has a beautiful and modern ring that is an original. (I haven’t had the heart to tell her that has probably happened to someone else out there in this big world) The ring is cut into two pieces in her box of keepsakes and she is free to try it on whenever she feels a hankering. We figured that would be the surest way of keeping her away from the same exact seatbelts in our current van.

I wish I could have been at the Honda Dealership when my father in law was explaining the situation. He had to pull out a picture of WHY the fire department had actually cut the seatbelt out of the van. “She got her finger stuck in the seatbelt” just wasn’t cutting it.

Our hats go off to Honda who has a lifetime free replacement for their seatbelts. Maybe one of these days they will call to let our children safety test their vans. I am sure there are other possible disastrous scenarios that their engineers haven’t thought of. Adding a blonde child to their team could only help their safety regulations. I know four children that could give them a run for their money, as long as they won’t lose any fingers.

Adding this video in on 1/24/2014 for your reference to the string trick mentioned.

Mr. Obama

Abigail was telling me yesterday that she had written a letter for The President. She is preparing for a trip to Washington D.C. soon.

Sophia questioned, “Did you write Dear Mr. Obama”, and for some reason that struck my funny bone.

I think Abigail may just be writing these letters for some blog attention. I don’t want to disappoint her.

Dear Mr. President,

I would love it if you made everything cheaper. I know you can’t but could you check with the Legislative Branch, please?

You may be wondering why I am asking. Well, my family is in the red zone. We have 4 kids, two pets, and two parents. All but my dad are girls (even the two pets), so, you know how that is with all the drama, clothes, and make-up. Again, thank you for reading this.

Sincerely,

Abigail Gold

P.S. Please reply

A Poopy Ending

My friend Valerie e-mailed me another funny one. It served as a reminder to me today that we can never predict the ending. And we should laugh because it’s good for us.

There was a bagpiper. He was asked to play his bagpipes at the grave site of
a homeless man.

The bagpiper showed up late as he got lost in the hills of Kentucky on his
way to an unknown cemetery.

When he finally arrived he saw the workers had already started to fill in
the grave. They were now sitting and eating their lunches. He looked down and
saw the top of the casket. He took out his bagpipes and started playing with all
the heart he had for this homeless person who left this earth alone. By his last
number, Amazing Grace, the workers were all gathered around and everyone was
weeping.

The bagpiper silently gathered his instrument and started for the
car.

As he got in his car he overheard one of the workers, “WOOOOOwee. I’ve
never seen nothing like that before and I’ve been putting in septic tanks for
over twenty years.”