Not Sweating the Small Stuff – But wait, it’s 104 degrees!

Alright, after a decently-lengthed hiatus, I am going to try to get back on the wagon and post something everyday.  Life got hard there for a minute, and it was hard to find the humor in anything.  But then I read a bunch of grandma’s cliché needlework about how “laughter is the best medicine” and “don’t sweat the small stuff: it’s all small stuff,” etc… and decided to get over myself.

I’m going to try to wrap up the drama of the last three weeks into as few, sarcastic sentences as possible. 

We decided to move from Griffin to Williamson, and even after selling $300 worth of our crap, we still have incredibly too much stuff.  Come take a look around the new house and make us offers for stuff.  We’ll probably take it. 

In the last three weeks we’ve purchased two new cars (well, actually one was pre-owned and the other was brand new).  We kept the “brand new” one (a 2010 Nissan Rogue) and returned the pre-owned Mazda CX-7 to CarMax (an extremely pleasant experience, I may add;  I spent more time returning duplicated wedding gifts to Belk than returning that car to CarMax). 

Now, you notice that I emphasized that the Rogue was brand new.  That it was, until my husband backed it into our “new” mailbox at our new house. 

The story goes a little something like this:
The sink at the new house was completely rusted out and leaking badly, so my brother and grandfather were over trying to fix it.  Adam had to run into town and I wasn’t feeling good, so he asked to use my car.  “Sure,” I said, already half asleep through my nausea.  I wake up after he comes back from his Lowes and Wal-Mart run and we sit on the couch together, watching my brother work.  We laugh, watch our new tv, and talk about dinner – seemingly perfectly normal.  As soon as Tana (brother) and Paw-Paw (grandfather) leave to get another part, Adam suddenly turns to me, with the gravest of grave faces.

I think I may have been in the middle of a sentence, but as Tana and Paw-Paw reach the other side of the threshold and his face drops, I trail off.  Adam says very quickly “Baby, I kinda backed into the mailbox in your car.”  I can feel my face drop from a smile as my mouth forms an “O.”  In addition to a few explicatives sprinkled in, I think I said something like, “You’re kidding me.  Please tell me this is a bad joke,” as I swiftly walk out the front door to inspect this bad joke. 

Jagged black gashes in my baby that doesn’t even have her honest-to-goodness tag on.  My two-week-old-baby.  I begin to bawl.  Adam tries to hold back that awkward laughter as he holds me. (You know that weird laughter that you can’t really hold back when something unexpected or awkward happens? – It was that type of laughter.) “Why are you laughing?!” I ask? “Because I expected to get yelled at, not for you to cry! Why are you crying?” And I think my voice became inaudible from there. 

I think I was crying because I knew that at some point, that car wasn’t going to be new anymore.  I just didn’t expect that point to come so quickly. 

I know this sounds extremely bazaar, but as disappointed as I am about the jagged scratches on the back quarter panel (the damage is relatively light, but will nevertheless cost roughly $500 to be fixed), I’m just kinda glad that it was someone else who “broke in” the “brand newness” of the car.  (Sorry it was you, honey…)


Pet Confessional: I Decorated Your Kitchen Floor

I came across this funny story this morning at, and just had to share.  It made me laugh out loud at my desk, which has been long overdue – I’ve been just a tad bit stressed during the ordeal of buying a car and moving into a new house.  I have been meaning to post about it all, but I don’t think I’m quite far removed enough from the stress yet to try to see the humorous side of it all. 

Confessional:  I Decorated Your Kitchen Floor

My name is Napoleon, but my people usually call me “little man.” You could see why that might give me a “complex.”

I have a confession to make.

Spotted: bag of cookies, sitting on the edge of a shelf in my kitchen yesterday, just where I could get a fat whiff. My person was in the shower. And the cookies smelled so good; I got a nose-full when they were baking in the oven. So I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I just gave the bag a tiny nudge…and what do you know! It fell right off the shelf. And then I gave it an expert rip on the corner. Out came two chewy, soft, jumbo-sized cookies FILLED with chocolate. Too easy. You know where those went.

Next thing I know, I’m on my back sweating like a hooker in church, squirming in circles. Big Man is jamming open my jaw, thinking he can slip me a dose of some nasty stuff called hydrogen peroxide.*


I sprinted around the kitchen (Manic-like! The energy! No wonder you people eat those things), and he fumbled after me. He finally snagged my back legs and flipped me over and forced a giant gulp of that awful stuff down my throat.

The cookies came right back up. All over the kitchen floor.

Yep, that’s right. My own artful contribution to home decor. I am victorious, as I watched my person on his knees, cleaning up after me. And just for that, I’d do it all over again.

*Chocolate is poisonous to dogs. After extensive googling and calling dozens of closed vet clinics late on Friday night, Napoleon’s people found out that in cases of accidental doggie ingestion, owners should induce vomiting with hydrogen peroxide.