Diabetic Rum Runner

My son's become a rum runner of sorts. The booty was just too good to pass up for Mitchell. He even lured his cousin Kyle into being his accomplice.

This particular scuttlebutt begins with  a confession:
Around our house we're big diet coke drinkers. Sad but true. But with three kids with diabetes sometimes the precarious haze of blood sugars we marinate in every day just won't let everyone have a snack at the same time. And when they all want to eat something but they can't, a glass of water seems like a final insult to their cancelled-out calorie cravings. So whats a family to do? Well this family turned to the drink, Diet Coke that is. All of us, diabetic or not, have become "drinkers of the diet". We call it that because it makes our little habit sound kinda shady, which it is--being DIET and all.  But these sorts of things are a slippery slope. Over the years Mitchell and Chey spun out of control and soon they were drowning their diabetic doldrums by drinking harder stuff like Diet Dr. Pepper. And soon it became their favorite among syrupy swigs.

So recently, when our local grocery store had this sign out front:

I knew I needed to send a picture text to Mitchell ASAP.

Now usually when I text this kid, it takes a while before I hear back. And sometimes my texts get ignored completely. But as you can imagine, he instantly text me back:

Mitchell: "huh?"

Me: "For real."

Mitchell: "really??"

Me: [picture text]

Mitchell: "Where??"

Mitch grabbed his cousin Kyle and headed for the store. They parked just yonder and eyed the booty--it was ALL DIET DR. PEPPER.  Not only that, it was late in the day and there was A LOT of soda left and as Mitchell said to me later, "There's just a small target market for this kinda stuff mom".

I don't even wanna know if they made a million discreet trips or if they just pulled up and loaded the car. There are some things a mother just shouldn't ever know. But what I do know is that the Rum Run ended with the sound of my garage door opening and my kid backing his car into the garage whereby conveniently locating the trunk end nearest the garage's refrigerator.

This is what I found in my garage:

And what ended up being stashed in my garage fridge:

And here's the younger cousins all enjoying a bit of bribed boot-er-y in return for their hushed silence on the matter:

A Rum Run for Diabetics.
Now go and brush your teeth!

Skillmans Don't Fish! ...right??

Growing up, Mark and his brothers spent most of their days out of the house and as far away from a summer chore list as they could get. They'd climb trees, scour the beach for sharks teeth, and hang out with the neighbor kid who later grew up and became a serial killer
(no kidding there, just ask "Snapper"--that's the nickname our little serial killer called Mark) but for most of the summer you could find the brothers out fishing.

Fast forward a few decades and everyone's still fishing except Mark. For him, it was just something to do to in the summer, but for his step-brothers it became their passion. And when I dated him and first met his family I met them on a family campout. When we first arrived at the campsite the tents were all abandoned because they were all out casting lines at the waterfront. And my first glimpse of my soon-to-be niece Dominica was of her smashing a fish on a rock and asking me if I knew how to gut one.

Now when you picture the family I married into, don't be picturing a bunch of red-necks with mullets and hats with fishing lures hooked to the brim. These boys all grew up to be very successful businessmen who travel the world. In fact, if you ever sat next to one of them on an airplane, you'd never guess that under their professional exteriors, lies a bunch of guys who pine at the smell of fish bate.

Recently, the brothers all came out for a visit. And while they were here, one of our kids let the brothers in on our dirty little family secret: We don't fish. They were horrified to hear that Mark lived right next to a lake but that he'd never ever taken his kids fishing there. Silly us, we thought the lake was for wake boarding!

When Uncle Don heard the offending facts, he came marching in to the house and said, "What do you mean you've never taken your children fishing?? Then he raised his hand high above his head and bent his hand to show a level threshold and then added, "That is just one step below child abuse."

He then quizzed the kids who led him out to the barn to scrounge up fishing poles, lures, and tackle boxes that had never been opened since the day they were mistakenly inherited.

It was a sad little scene as I watched my little band of wake boarders cast off the family speed boat for a day on the shore just to hold a stick. With a jumble of fishery stuff they all headed off for the lake. I grabbed my camera and walked up to the lake to take a peek at the messy business of fishing my innocent children had been so easily seduced into. I crest the dam and what do I see? A bunch of turncoats happy to be on the mucky shore.

Uncle Don setting things right.

My progeny of Benedict Arnolds...

Then to my horror, ol' "snapper" caught the fishing bug.

I kid you not, this boat here, it's full of our friends

who normally see us out skiing on the lake.

They stopped to see if their eyes were fooling them,
they thought they saw The Skillmans
 ON THE SHORE

They fished till it got too dark to find their way back down the trail to the house. And get this: They never caught a fish! But they came home all hopped up on stories of the fish that got away.

I thought that was the end of that until late in the evening I looked outside and saw strange lights on my lawn. Uncle Don had them all out hunting by flashlight for night crawlers...

What's worse, is that they woke the next morning and when we asked who wanted to go out for a morning ski, they all snubbed their noses and then asked "Can we go fishing instead??"

We haven't used the boat all week. Mark's scallywag brothers are now all officially banned from my house! I'm totally up for posh vacations with them, but they just aren't allowed to come over here anymore.

The Stare

It was a bad idea.  Right from the start, it was just not sound thinking. Connor decided that it would be really cool to buy a couple of Mexican wrestling masks and give one to Nick to make their periodic rough housing more official.

More official? What are you thinking kid??

Problem is, once Nick put on the mask, he got totally into character by invoking these seriously crazed eyes and began to stare down Connor. It even freaked me out and I wanted to scream like a girl and run from the room (which saying somethin'). Apparently Nick's got an inner pro wrestler that's been waiting to get masked.

Good Luck Connor. It was your idea. You're on your own son.

I've Got a Screw Loose

I know, I know, many of you who know me are not surprised by the frank confession that I've got a screw loose. But I'm not talking about myself. No, it's worse than that.

Regrettably the offending loose screw can be found inside my NEWish car. The same dang car that has been shamefully featured in previous postings for it's malady of mars, plague of punctures, and rash of recalls.

And one would think that since all the dents and dings have been removed, all teenage drivers have been suspended from driving or even looking at the car, and all it's peevish recalls have been adequately addressed, that this would finally put an end to my freakish car crisis once and for all.

Not so.

It seems my car and I are just not destined to live happily ever after. I've chalked it up to a case of bad Carma and I've determined that my Camry is possessed and may indeed be in need of a séance. Can you do that to a car? because seriously, I think my car is in need of one. If by chance I can't find someone to perform this sort on thing on a car, then I am seriously considering putting some holy water in the wiper fluid container and then dousing the thing by spraying the windshild with a liberal push of the wiper's spray lever thereby giving it a cleansing bath and ridding it of the demons myself.

In the meantime, this latest transportational torment is that my car's got a freaking screw loose. What's worse is the location of the darn screw which is heckling me from somewhere under the dashboard--and not just the dashboard but the dashboard area located on the driver's side where, I might painfully add, the DRIVER is in the best position in the car to hear it rattle in mocking tones, back and forth--back and forth, with every sharp turn. AHHHHHHHHH!

So a few days ago while stopped at an intersection I couldn't take it anymore and ripped the underside of my dashboard off in a fit of clink-clank induced rage. Of course I found nothing and got honked at because I wasn't paying attention to the light when it turned green. All I could see was red.  I of course missed the green light entirely and forced a whole slew of cars behind me to miss it as well but I didn't really care. I was having a serious car crisis.

Finally I abandoned my errands and headed strait home where I informed Mark with all seriousness that my car was possessed and that a random screw needed to be purged from my demonized car before I drove it off a cliff in a frenzied fit. (Sadly, it appears as though loose clanking screws are not within my scope of reasoned thought or mature behavior. Who knew?)

First Mark was suspicious of my analysis and took the thing for a test drive. Testosterone is always suspicious of a diagnosis made on a car by estrogen because estrogen can't possibly know much about cars.

On his first drive around he heard nothing and naturally determined I was crazy. And he was right as I then got a crazed look on my face and banished him to yet another test drive and threatened him not to come back until he heard the darn screw--even if it took all day.

Within a short while he sheepishly returned and confirmed my suspicions. 

He then determined the screw was somewhere in a pipe-like thingy running the length of the dashboard just above the drivers knees. He was determined to stop the madness (mostly my madness and not the screw's) and came up with a plan.

First, Mark decided to put a giant magnet on the pipe in hopes that the metal screw would slide on by and stick to the magnet and never move again. He put the magnet on and then drove like a mad man around town trying to slide the screw back and forth until it stuck. The result: absolutely nothing.

Next he decided to drill a giant hole into the pipe and then drive erratically throughout the countryside until he jiggled it out as if my car was like those little maze-like games kids play trying to get a little metal ball from one end to the other. The result: screw still loose, car warranty now completely voided.

For his Third and final attempt, Mark decided to spray foamy stuff inside the pipe, drive the car around until the screw slide into the foaming trap and stuck there forever. The result: screw sound disappeared but the stench of chemicals stung our eyes every time we drove the car. Worse yet, for the first two days I swear our family got a little tipsy in the car while driving it. Even on our trip to church no less. How's that for awkward? Our whole family inhaling intoxicating fumes on the way to church and as a result, we arrive all smiley and giggly. That said, under the influence of our chemical car ride, it was probably one of the best sermons we've ever heard at church. Nonetheless, I don't think it's really a good thing being sauced on the Sabbath even if it was accidental.

For a solid week that car stung our eyes and gave us headaches and a mild case of the giggles. But still not so much as a Clink or a Clank of a loose screw could be heard from that car. Just splendid screw-less silence.  The headaches were a small price to pay to have our sanity back. Happily the smell is now dissipating and so is the memory of that evil loose screw.

On my way home last night I was happy my car and I were at long last content. I made a sharp turn into my driveway to confirm the last of my auto aggravations were finally behind us...I heard nothing. Just me, my headache, and a saucy smile.

Then as I made another sharp turn into my garage...
CLINK...CLANK...
My loose screw is back.
My sanity...completely gone.

A Birthday Conundrum

Seriously, I'm totally confused by the odd collection of birthday bestowals I received today.

First, a card featuring my all-time favorite greeting card characters Hoops & Yoyo:

who sang a delightful birthday tune called "You're Hot"
Uh...not sure what that had to do with my Birthday, but thank you Hoops & Yoyo, awfully kind of you to sing so.

Then next, I got an ipad.  
Awesome so far, right?

agreed.

Followed by the kids showering me with fatty goodness.

Then, most curious of all...I got this:

 

Huh?? A Good Housekeeping Magazine? Sheesh. Have I been too lax lately in my domestic duties?  

(don't answer that, it was rhetorical.)

Okay, now I'm totally confused. Do they really expect me to 

'lose 42 pounds' while I'm sitting on the couch eating Oreo's, M&M's, and Dark Chocolate as I'm surfing the internet on my new iPad??

Really?

I'm hoping they didn't buy the magazine to subtly hint that I should embark upon a serious weight loss regimen.  There's a slight chance my family was just hoping I'd be making more easy summer dinners for less than $5 a serving. Or maybe it's my wrinkles or acne, or worse, my #1 clutter problem.

Yes, a Paradox of Presents.

All I'm sure of at this point is that Hoops & Yoyo think I'm hot.
And that's not bad at 42.

A Fossil-Fueled Fourth

The birth of our nation was celebrated around here in a classic American style: by consuming an obscene amount of fossil fuels.

For the 4th of July we decided to do a little stay-cationing and invite our friends all over to camp out here at the house. And unfortunately, because we live right near a well attended lake, many of our other friends who did not get invited, drove past our place and saw the mass of trailers, boats, motorcycles, and go-carts spread out like a used car lot on our drive and our little secret was out.

First thing on the agenda was the dirt bike track over at our friend Haedon's house. I was smart enough NOT to ride but instead I took pictures of all the boys racing the track so as to insure that the first of our weekend events DID NOT find me ending it all with a new set of crutches.  But the boys--they weren't worried at all and threw caution to the wind and pretended they were Evil Knievel. But old age caught up with the dad's because later that afternoon both Mark and Mont were all complaining of stiff joints, sore shoulders and backs, and drowned their woes with a cocktail of ibuprofen and Tylenol so that they could endure the next phase of planned activities.

Happily the only daredevil shots I got were of Mont and Haedon. Mark didn't do anything terribly radical because he said as soon as he headed for a jump, he suddenly remembered all the mortgage payments looming in his future that would be way easier to make if he was healthy enough to get himself to and from work. This backed him off the throttle.

Mark, Brandon Sharp, and Haedon Shields

Connor

Mitchell

Mont

Haedon

 and Yes, injuries abounded...

Here's Broc after his track mishap

Then to wash off from the dirt track, we soaked in a warm bath at the lake at speeds up to 22 miles an hour behind the ski boat with lots of wake boarding, which of course required a bit more fuel.

Afterwards we dried off by gassing up the go-carts for some drag racing on the driveway.  And that wrapped things up for Saturday.

Sunday we decided to calm things down a bit and played games at the house. Thanks to Sharie Petersen who gave me the idea a few years back, we played a hilarious round of Human Battleship which required no fuel at all but an intensive round of water balloon making.

On the Fourth of July we headed downtown for the parade. Incredible as it sounds we all rode our bikes. Yes, under our own natural powers, but don't tell anyone. And actually, for the record, we did drive our bikes in a trailer which was hooked up to "The Beast" so we could start riding a little closer to town. So there was a wee bit of fuel involved there.

While peddling my way to the parade I may have had a little skirmish with a car that decided to rudely and vigorously brake suddenly--not that I was following too close behind it or anything. Thankfully no pictures were taken so lucky for me my oldest daughter, who's suddenly decided to start blogging the embarrassing stunts of her mother, can't post any photographic evidence of my little brouhaha with a stupid hybrid.

Our hometown parade was full of the usual unusual flavor I love about our freaky little town. I took many a picture of crazy parade outfits but, because this is a family sort of blog, I dare not post any of them. You can thank me later for not subjecting you to shock therapy treatments to rid yourself of the mind boggling display of fleshy fanfare.

The weekend's capstone was the most traditional American pastime of all...by almost accidentally lighting on fire the driest parts of our  
'land of the free home of the brave' with a slew of unauthorized fireworks.

And that is how we celebrated our nation's birth!  
Indulgently American.