Get the door, it's Bombino's

There is approximately one day a week that sloth leads me to ordering takeout of some type. This week, that day was yesterday. The girls were busy jumping on my bed when I asked them what they wanted for dinner.

"Pizza!" bounce "Pizza!" bounce "Pizza!" bounce "Pizza!" bounce

We have this amazing pizza place that we usually order pizza from. They have real New York style pizza and garlic knots, and we love it. Unfortunately, they don't deliver. Remember when I mentioned sloth? No garlic knots tonight, kids.


Me: Mmmm, girls, you want Domino's?

Abby: Bombino's! I want Bombino's!

Molly: *eye roll* Abby, it's not Bombino's, it's Domino's. If it were Bombino's, there would be BOMBS on the pizza, and if you ate bombs you would blow up.

Abby: Bombs? On the pizza? Mommy, will I blow up if I eat bombs?

Me: You won't explode from eating bombs, but if you burp after you're done, your head will blow off.

Abby: Ok, get Bombino's, and I will not burp, I promise.



Fast forward to dinner. After inhaling a couple of slices of Bombino's, Abby gasped and looked at me with a panic stricken face.


Me: What's wrong?

Abby: (in a whisper) Mommy, I just burped. Is my head going to explode?

Me: It would have exploded instantly. It must already be far enough in your stomach that it won't blow up your head. Just, whatever you do, do not fart.

Abby: Oh, no. Oh, Mommy. Mommy, I need to fart right now. Ohhhh noooo. I need to go to the bathroom, too. Oh, Mommy. I love you. Goodbye forever!


She ran down the hall to the toilet, holding her tush and yelling the entire way like she was on a bathroom kamikaze mission. She made it out alive, but I'm not sure she'll want to eat pizza again anytime soon. At least not from Bombino's.

Funny Sign Sunday

Is this a warning or a strange, twisted invitation?

Funny Sign Sunday

I could use one of those masks.

Let me share a little TMI

TMI = Too Much Information. This phrase applies to this blog post.

My entire family got the stomach crud this weekend. On the news this morning, they called it "gastroenteritis." In my house, we called it "dying." Four to five days of fluids spewing from every direction deserves to be called something a little more dramatic than gastroenteritis.

After several hours of throwing up, little Abby was about worn out. I followed her for the hundredth time into the bathroom after watching her turn pale, gag, and make a run for the toilet. When I walked in, she was standing over the toilet heaving. She wiped her mouth on her arm (ewwww), then turned to look at me.

"Mom, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but..... well, I barfed out my butt."

Dying may not even be a dramatic enough description.

Funny Sign Tuesday, because Sunday's so far away

Call me crazy, but I'd say anyone who tries to molest an alligator is going to be facing a bigger problem than the $500 fine.

This is not what it looks like.

This really isn't what it looks like. Well, I guess that's only true if this looks like anything other than a pig's tongue to you. Icky, right? We went to a BBQ at a freind's house a couple of weeks ago, and they roasted an entire pig. When it was done, they hacked it up into a lot of pieces, some of which looked edible, and some of which did not. I would classify a pig's tongue somewhere in the middle. It's one of those things that you could eat, but why in the name of all things holy would you?


We've eaten with these friends before. They're amused by the odd things my girls will eat. They've watched both of my little angels suck down raw oysters like candy and gnaw on hunks of meat of unknown origin. In spite of that, I really don't think they expected a positive reaction when they offered them the pig's tongue.



The girls got excited about eating a tongue. They bounced around and made up a song.

We're gonna eat the tongue
We're gonna eat the tongue
We're gonna eat the tonnnnngueeee

Songwriters, they are not. I thought they'd both wimp out when they actually had the nasty little piece of meat in their hands. Abby did.



Molly did not wimp out. She tore into that thing like a hyena on a dead zebra. Honestly, I'd rather watch a hyena rip the guts out of a zebra than watch my little girl with a pig tongue in her mouth. I gagged a little that day.

She took a few bites off the cut end, then held it between her teeth and ran around the yard sticking it out at people, laughing in hysterics at the horrified gasps from all the ladies in attendance. I probably should have made her stop, but I was too busy laughing. She's a plucky little thing. Thank goodness nobody offered her the brain.

Even God likes weenies

I was sitting on the couch with Abigail this morning, enjoying a little snuggle time, when she asked me a question.

"Mommy, how many weenies would fit in a jar?"

I just looked at her for a minute, trying to decide what she was really asking me. Did she say 'weenie?' I've never heard her use that word, so I had to question her. "Weenies? What do you mean, 'weenies?'"

She rolled her eyes dramatically and sighed. I know she thinks I'm an idiot. "WEENIES. Like the food."

"Well, I don't know. I guess it would depend on the size of the jar."

"What if the jar was really, really big and long, all the way up to heaven?" This was accompanied by violent hand motions toward the ceiling, chubby little fingers pointing as high as they could reach.

"That would be a big jar. How many weenies do you think it would take to fill it?"

She looked thoughful. "Prob'ly like sixteen. Sixteen is a lot of weenies."

I have to wonder what kind of weenies she's thinking of. Even the quarter pound footlong weenies aren't that big. I asked her, "Do you think, since the jar goes all the way to heaven, that God would eat one of the weenies?"

"Of course he would."

She said it with so matter of factly that it surprised me a little, so I asked her, "You really think God likes weenies?"

The eye roll was almost audible. "Moooommmmmm, everyone likes weenies, because they're hot dogs."

You heard it here first, folks. God likes weenies, with extra mustard.

Funny Sign Sunday

If I knew where this sign was located, I'd be sorely tempted to take my children there.

Login information may be my undoing

I can't believe it's been nearly a year since I made an entry here. It's most definitely not because my life has regained any sense of normalcy. That won't happen for another fifteen years or so. The reason I haven't blogged in a year is simple - I forgot my login information. In the midst of moving some furniture and cleaning around my desk the other day, I found it scribbled on a receipt. Thank goodness for my awesome organizational skills.

This is a frightening sight to me. Any time I'm required to log in to a website, I have a moment of panic. There are too many variables. I have several email addresses and a couple of different user ID's that I use, and a couple of different passwords I use, depending on the requirements.

Some websites just want at least four characters in a password. Others want twelve characters, with at least one capital letter, one lower case letter, four numbers, two symbols, the name of your first born child and an exclamation point all tucked in there just for fun.

Given the number of email addresses, user names and the number of possible passwords I may have used, every login attempt has at least *pause to figure mathematical equations* about ten million possibilites.

I'm hopeless. It's a wonder I can get dressed in the morning without help.

It's friggin' hot again. It is one week until Christmas, and it's 80 degrees outside today. Seriously, Mother Nature?

When I was a kid, every year I asked Santa for two things: a pony, and snow. Every. Year. Christmas morning brought all kinds of goodies to my house, but never the two things I asked for. The Barbie Townhouse I got one year almost made up for the lack of snow and large animal, but the longing was still there.

I got to an age where I "understood" about Santa, so I started praying for snow. God, if you'll just let it snow this Christmas, I promise to be good for the rest of my life. I guess He knew he'd get the short end of the stick in that deal, because I never had my white Christmas.

I know, you're thinking that you'd love to be where snow shoveling and ice scraping are just things you see on TV. I love it most of the time, too - just not this week. Running the air conditioner on Christmas to keep from breaking a sweat opening gifts is just wrong. Having to crank the AC down to 50 so it feels like winter is wrong too, but we do it every year.

About two Christmases ago (yes, seriously), I finally came to terms with the fact that I'd never see snow on Christmas morning in Florida. This morning, Molly came to me and said, "Mommy, I really want snow for Christmas. Can you send Santa another email?" I told her it doesn't snow here. She drew a picture of snow and asked me to mail it to Santa.

Another tradition continues.