dirt don't hurt

I have this theory that you make your own normal.  Everything that you do, no matter how wacky and odd it seems to everyone else, is pretty standard in your life.  And naturally it follows that whatever everyone else does is just plain weird. My theory was once again proved true during a recent trip to the whopping metropolis of downtown Cleveland, where my husband and I met some friends and enjoyed a concert.  Truthfully, I was a little excited to have this destination, because it’s not often that I step foot into a world of concrete with a plethora of shops and restaurants at every turn.  (Some people might argue that Cleveland doesn’t have that many options, but those people have never lived in a small town in rural Ohio.)  Visiting a city like this gives me a feeling of comfortable anonymity and the ability to step out of my usual self, to test the waters of a life I don’t normally lead knowing that I will be back home in a matter of hours. The evening was lovely.  We walked

Dear Fast Food Restaurants, French Fry season is just about full swing, when busy families like ours simply have no other choice than to buzz through your drive through.  Not that we don’t enjoy it, because we do.  You have done an amazing job making your food mouth-watering and delicious, and I stand by my sentiment that anyone who says they don’t like french fries is just a just a downright, two-faced liar.  We are Americans and have been raised to crave salt, fat, and sugar.  There is no one better than you to give it to us. As I said, we’re just about in that time of year when our family dines more frequently than we should at your establishments.  It seems we’re always running from this game or to that event, often times changing clothes in parking lots.  The back of my vehicle has been filled with the necessities of the season, from baseball gloves to concert attire. My point is that I personally struggle to keep my family going to where they need to be and have them as r

It’s time to get a little personal, and if you’re offended by the passing of gasses, I suggest you discontinue reading this column.  For in the next few hundred words, I’d like to express my maternal nose’s lament and explain why I have sudden outburst that I never thought were possible.  As a mother, you expect to yell things like, “clean your room!” or “finish your dinner!”  Maybe even a rhetorical question such as, “why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?”  But it was a recent exclamation that got me thinking that no one really ever warned me about all this stinky stuff. “I am so tired of smelling farts!” I yelled, in total honesty, on a chilly day when opening the windows wasn’t really an option.  Because when you’ve got three kids, a dog, a husband, and let’s keep it real here, yourself all processing food, there are bound to be releases.  I just don’t want them in such close proximity that not only does my nose burn, but my eyes also water.  “But farts are natural,” they ar

Alliteration, if you can’t remember from way back in high school English class, is the repetition of similar first syllables used in adjacent words in literature.  Or basically, a bunch of words start with the same letter.  Technically, Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers is more than just a tongue twister, it’s alliteration.  This wacky little English tool has been used for hundreds of years, and was quite prevalent in old English, but something so spectacular seems to spread though the centuries.  It’s used in advertising, cartoons, poetry, music, and just about everywhere else, including my own home on what turned out to be an excellent evening of events.  We simply dubbed it “The Night of P’s.” The first great thing about The Night of P’s was that it was just G’s, as in just girls.  With just my two daughters and my dog, we were free from the plagues of the boys, including passing gas, paper airplanes, and persistent pestering.  We all four sat huddled on our couch,