An Open Letter to the Pest Control Man

Dear Pest Control Man,

I want to thank you for coming, faithfully each quarter, to check on the status of our critter control issues. I also want to thank you for braving the deepest recesses of our unfinished attic. Your willingness to climb a ladder and root around up there on your knees to make sure no varmint have intruded on our homey bliss, endears you to me.

Can we also talk for a moment about how kind you are when you catch me running out the door, forgetting we had a standing appointment? Every. Single. Time. You are so kind. Thank you for that.

And now, I must offer my deepest condolences for what took place on Tuesday. I realize that I cannot make you un-see what you saw.

I had just finished telling the children how wonderful it would be to spend the Veterans Day off of school, in our pajamas for as long as we wanted. I was, in fact, padding to the kitchen for my second leisurely cup of coffee, when you rang our doorbell. My mind was clearly not prepared for your arrival.

Neither, most unfortunately, was our home.

As usual, you were gracious as I opened the door to you, exclaiming that I had forgotten that you were coming for your quarterly inspection.

And, OH MY SWEET MOSES, how I had forgotten!

You see, it was only after you left our home and drove away that I ventured upstairs to put the ladder you used, out of our closet and back into the garage. I know you try not to see my messy bed and clothes piled up on the ironing board and bookstacks, a mile high by both sides of the bed. I imagine you must valiantly try to focus on your destination, as you travel through my master bathroom to get to my closet, which is where the attic door is located. I know that you have seen dirty pajamas, and other things, that didn’t quite make it into the laundry hamper.

And this time, I was able to see that I had left, for your viewing, three freshly laundered bras hanging from the towel rack. Directly in front of the only door you could walk through.

Please, please forgive me!

I will not allow this to happen again.

I will, however, need to greet you the next time from behind a mask. Please, try not to think of how strange it will be.

At least, I hope it is no stranger than walking through a curtain of ladies undergarments to go hunting for evidence of critters.

Most Sincerely,

Eternally Embarrassed

P.S. Siri and I have agreed to alert me to your next quarterly appointment, no less than 10 times in the hour leading up to your arrival. I hope this will prove helpful. For both of us.

P.P.S. Your eyes were filled with an extra measure of mirth, as you left. I believe I know why.

Pig Latin For Old People

Genetic Freefall… it’s all the rage after 40.  Dontcha’ know?

My 42nd birthday is creeping up here super stealthy-like. Waltzing in all November-ish and brazenly nudging my calendar toward a specific date. I don’t remember asking it to crash my 2013 Party.  Then again, I don’t remember much these days that I haven’t explicitly asked Siri to remind me about.  And even then, she talks to me in some 2X Chipmunk Speak that I have to listen super hard to be certain of.


But, the good news is that, as I age and become more forgetful, people start to take notice.  No, wait, stay with me here. You see, this buys me moments of time to truly try to remember why the person I’m speaking with is staring at me like I’ve suddenly started speaking in Pig-Latin.

Which, in some instances I do.

On purpose.

It discombobulates (that is SO ten points for that word, right?) them enough to buy me some more precious minutes to remember All The Things.  Or even just, The Thing.

For example, if one were to make a phone call; and one were to be so excited to talk to the person on the other end.  But one completely blanks out when the person on the other end has the audacity to ask who is calling.  And one forgets to answer because one is fighting the good fight to remember who in the blue blazes she picked up the phone to call in the first place?  Pig-Latin. It stays the dreaded “Missy?  Is that you?” question for a time.

Or, if one heads out to the grocery story all armed with one’s list and feeling all super-confident because one actually remembers to bring her list.  Only, she reminds herself twelve times to add kitchen sponges to the list because she has none left?  And she gets to the store and manages to locate Every Single Thing on that list and leaves feeling uber-confident in her ability to remember All The Things. Only to get home to see that she still doesn’t have kitchen sponges.  Pig-Latin.  It keeps little ears from hearing what you’re really thinking.

Sweetman suggested that I start playing some memory games online to boost my memory-ability.

I logged on and forgot why.


For those well versed in Pig Latin, you know that it takes a moment to process each word.  Those moments are necessary and critical for those of us in genetic free-fall.  Every second counts.

Especially as it relates to emory-may.  Oh, yes indeedy.

And, if you happen to be on the other end of that phone call, could you help a sister out.  Start speaking Pig Latin until it all comes back to me.  I’d be eternally grateful.

My Preferred Language of Late

My Preferred Love Language of Late

Playing Around

As opposed to, you know, horsing around.  Because, y’all know I don’t do horses. Please excuse the mess today.  I’m playing with the theme of my blog and the background and the header and…
In the meantime, I was hoping you’d feel free to amuse yourself at my expense. Feel free to click on an “update” to any of these older posts while I get this thang all sorted out.
See ya in a few weeks days. Oh yes indeedy!
Update: Um, the rebounder? The blessED, belovED, needED, rebounder? It was puked on this weekend. Just sayin’.
Update: I’m imagining an endless supply of stories that I’ll come back from Arkansas with when we go for a family wedding in April.  (More fun stuff always happens down South. It’s just true y’all.) 
Update: I‘m lovin’ Modcloth right now. Seriously.  Browsing around that site will help an hour disappear in seconds. For realz!
And lastly, and maybe my favorite, in a surprise turn of events – The Nana is becoming totally Tech Saavy. True Story!
Update: Straight from The Nana’s mouth, recently:
“I’d talk to Siri more – but Captain Ahab says she uses too much data! Whatever that means?”
See now?  How fun is that?! Plus, I just helped you kill an hour, too.  Your welcome.


Siri has been getting quite the workout in our house lately. A workout that I’m fairly certain she isn’t enjoying all that much.

Sweetman:  “Why can’t I remember the name of the actor that played the White Shadow?”

Sweetboy: “Just ask The Siri Lady, daddy.”


Mama:  “I wonder where the closest ice cream place is?”

Sweetboy: “Siri will know, Mama.”

And just when I thought her ill-treatment was contained to our house, The Nana called.  Poor, poor Siri…

Me:  “So, Mom, how are things going with your new iPhone?”

The Nana: “I hate that Siri Lady.  Sometimes, I hit her by accident, but I don’t want to talk to her so I just say ‘Oh, shut-up Siri.  I don’t have anything to say to you!’ ”

Maybe I should steer the Sweetchildren towards degrees in techno-therapy.  It’s almost a given that Siri’s gonna need it.