Random thought this Sunday morning…. Dippy eggs.

Like ‘em or hate ‘em?  No, seriously. I want to know.

Because I can’t fathom why anyone would knowingly partake in ingesting the filthy, slimy little wretches.

Obviously, I hate them.

They chill me to the core of my being. But my youngest son and my husband request that I serve them. OFTEN. Which is totally shiver-inducing.

But I make them anyway.  See how much I love them? That is how you can measure the love your wife or mother has for you… she makes the horrific breakfast ANYWAY. (And then pukes in the toilet discreetly afterwards.)

I personally need my eggs to be dry-as-a-bone dead. Like, long dead. NON-SLIMY dead.

Yes, I am passionate about this subject.  Probably a result of my upbringing. If I dig deep into my brain I will probably find a blocked memory containing one of my younger brothers torturing me with gooey, runny, half-cooked eggs.  Evil little monsters that they were….

So what say you? Love ‘em or hate ‘em?

I’m gonna let you in on a secret… I’m an over-achiever. In a mid-life whatchamacallit .

“Duh? You say?” (Insert laughter from all of the people who really know me here.)

Funny thing is that I actually didn’t realize I was the “over achieving type” until recently when a friend *ahem* made fun of me lamenting about something on the phone.  She nailed it right then and there and called me out.

Totally made me pause and take mental stock: upcoming marathon, charity, new business, blogging, Momz Share, community manager, blah, blah, blah…

Huh. I guess I AM.

The funny thing is that I don’t feel like the over-achiever she declared me to be.  I feel like I do many things and none of them well. (Insert mental anxiety here.) NONE. OF. THEM. WELL.

I guess you could say that I am in  some sort of mid-life crisis.  My husband would probably agree. He has to live with me and with my 6:00am crying jags centering around laundry or dishes or other such nonsense.

I’ve been doing a ton of soul searching in the past couple of months.  And no, it is  not really working out that well at the moment. I just keep getting stuck in the woe- is-me mode.  Which is annoying. Honestly, if I am annoying MYSELF then how can I NOT be annoying other people? It is just not possible.

I’m like that 45 something-guy in your neighborhood who just bought a yellow Corvette for no reason.  I may have not bought the Corvette yet but I am contemplating a pink hair extension and a nose piercing.

I just feel like I am not doing anything REALLY WELL.  Like I am just “phoning it in” yet the “it” is my life.  My mom (Gotta love mom, dontcha?) says that I am crazy and that perhaps I just need to  drill it down and not DO SO MUCH or perhaps LOWER MY STANDARDS.

And that will make it better????

The reason I pouring out my feelings here is because this blog is one of the things I feel like I am not especially doing well.  I’m always afraid of being TOO REAL.  TOO OPEN. Which flies in the face of the reason why we read blogs in the FIRST PLACE, right?

I know. I am a mess.

Got any suggestions for me? Coping strategies? Tissue brand recommendations? Please leave a comment, a thought or some sappy sentiment in my comment box.  I don’t think my husband can take another 6am crying jag.

Heh.

For the past week my hometown has been obsessed with one thing and one thing alone – the amazing, the incredible…Great Frederick Fair.

When the fair comes to town all of the radio stations do live broadcasts from the fairgrounds, all of the newspapers produce special editions devoted to it, heck, even the public school system develops a curriculum around the Great Frederick Fair. (Not to mention the fact that they actually close schools so that kids can attend. No, I am not kidding. Really.)

And like a good Fredericktonian family, we also make the annual pilgrimage out to the fairgrounds to experience this annual tradition.

This year I had the distinct privilege of chaperoning my son on his fourth grade field trip to the fair. When I learned that I was only responsible for  three boys during the trip I was ecstatic. A small manageable group = success and a pleasant learning experience.

Or so I thought.

As it turns out, the boys who attend an agriculturally-focused fair are mainly interested in one subject: ANIMAL POO.

People, believe me when I tell you that we examined a lot of poo that day.  Cow poo. Goat poo. Chicken poo. We even experienced Alpaca poo.  Oh yes, that was a rare treat.

These boys debated the cleanliness of the pig pavilion as opposed to the goat pavilion and horse pavilion. They evaluated the current animal facilities and mused over the inefficiencies of manual labor with regards to cow manure. (And really, why can’t cows just use the port-a-poties like the rest of us have to?) They even witnessed a goat relieving itself while getting a bath.

I can say with much confidence that the young men who attended the field trip with me that day can now identify and categorize a farm animal’s excrement in 3.4 seconds flat. Of that I am proud. I am sure that is exactly what the public school system had in mind when they authorized that field trip.

It was a joyous day, indeed.

My husband has a nasty, nasty habit.  Kills me!

He sleeps.

Now, it is not the sleeping itself that really gets me, it is WHEN the sleeping occurs that drives me up the wall.

Specifically, in the middle of a movie.  Watching a 90 minute movie together can literally take all night if he dozes off more than once.  Because once he dozes and wakes, he insists on rewinding the movie back to view the part that he missed so that we can all finish together.

This is especially excruciating while watching a kid movie.  I don’t know about you but I don’t want to see the 240 minute version of Hotel for Dogs, thank you very much.  Or Master of Disguise. (Oh dear Lord, spare me! Worst. Movie. Ever.)

It is like he is hit with a tranquilizer gun as soon as the movie begins to play. Spontaneous sleeping. Kinda like Pavlov’s dog.

I just want to sit all the way through a movie without  having to rewind the same scene over and over again.

Is that too much to ask?

(BTW – If you must know, my tranquilizer gun moment occurs whenever we get into the car. I go limp after a mere 20 minutes in the seat.  I more than pay him back for the movie rewind shenanigans, that is for sure. I’ve been sleeping on him for the last 15 years.)

My son gets his Selena Gomez wish…

You know how I told you that little miss Selena Gomez had replaced me as Young Jedi’s favorite girl?  Well, any smart mom would probably avoid that little tart (!) like the plague to avoid her worming her way further into her son’s heart.  But oh, not I. Instead my husband and I decided to grant the little man with one of his biggest wishes.

So we took him to see her in concert at the York, PA fair this past weekend.

It was an experience, let me tell you.

First thing you need to know is that the audience was mostly elementary and middle school girls. Barely any boys there.  Second thing you need to know is that these little girls can SCREAM, yo.

Holy Hannah. THEY CAN SCREAM. And they do.

All Star Weekend opened up the show and they rocked it.  Excellent performance. And let me just say here that the former rocker girl in me was totally into their performance.  Hey, from where I sat, they looked legal. Ahem. Let’s just say that I could APPRECIATE the pre-teen beside me getting all giddy over the band.  (Me? Cougar? Wha?)

And then it was time for SELENA.

I’m gonna pause here and say that I was expecting voice tracks and dancers and smoke and mirrors.  I admit it.

But no, she was REAL. She was adorable. She was unbelievably talented. And I loved it, every minute of it, even though I knew both my sons were completely infatuated with her and would probably be even worse off than before after seeing the concert.

So Selena, if you are reading this, you now have my permission to hang out with my son.  He is 9. He is funny and sweet  and totally devoted and  in love with you and would probably make a great roadie. By the way, he plans to move to the entire family to California in the near future just so you two can be neighbors.

But one tiny thing first…. Next time we meet, wear a longer skirt, k? No need for that  darlin.’ You are cute enough.  Don’t want you going all Britney on us.

Hey, don’t judge.  I’m a mom first, you know!