Have to love kids.

So son #2 comes in and you have to picture my tall, lanky yet manly middle child who is barely 16. Painfully shy and always quiet, he has enormous chocolate brown eyes and a mop of unruly very dark brown/black curls. He s

tands by my chair like a giant specter and shuffles from one foot to another which tells me he wants something and doesn’t want to ask (usually means it’s costly and the answer is no, but he has a compunction to ask anyway).

“What’cha need, babe?”

“Um, Mom, there’s only one thing I want for Christmas. I’ve been wanting it for awhile…”

I cringe at what the price of this must be and think for a second how much money I might be able to get if I offered child #3 up on eBay. “What is it?”

He runs his thumb over his lip and shifts some more. “It’ll be easier maybe if I show it to you.”

I cringe even more. “What do you want?” Porsche? Ferrari? Nah- he’s not a car guy.

He holds his phone out to me.

I frown, then laugh. “Really?”

“Yeah. Would it be okay?”

“Let me talk to Dad and see.”

“Yeah, okay… but it really is all I want.”

So now my baby has a baby of his own. This is the face that melted his heart and is our new addition to the family… But it is strange to think of my tall lanky baby with a 4 pound dainty, tea cup puppy, LOL.

If you were given one wish… would you keep it or give it away?

Comic Con…. The biggest butt whipping you’ll ever love! So, so true!

Women’s Sport Equipment

Can someone please explain to me why it’s so dang hard to find real sports equipment for women? Unless you’re a woman who is the size of a man, you’re SOL. Whether it’s archery, weight-lifting, circuit training, shooting or anything else I like to do, I am relegated to trying to find youth sized equipment. Even my ear buds don’t fit. I don’t have man-sized ears and when I start to sweat even the smallest ones made fall out because they’re too big. UGH!! Just once, I’d like to have a shooting or batting glove that actually fits! Okay, rant over. But should any sporting goods mfr stumble upon this by some miracle, please remember that not all women go to the gym or play sports to look pretty. Some of us really are serious athletes and we are under 5’ 5” and have hands the size of male third graders :)

Honey, the only one coming for us is death and I just hope the petty bastard stops on his way here and brings us a biscuit. Sooner rather than later.
- Ture in Cloak & Silence :)
"You call it duct tape. I call it the man solution." Bubba from Inferno.

Things that make you go hmmmm….

Hubby meets me at the door as I arrive home. “Have I ever told you just how grateful I am that you’re completely weird?”

I arch a brow, uncertain as to how I should approach this question/revelation. “May I be so impertinent as to inquire why, twenty years later, you’ve made this obvious observation?”

"It dawned on me that because you’re so off the wall with your tastes in everything, our kids had no way to rebel except by being normal. Thank you!"

"Oooookay. So glad my weirdness was of service to our children’s normality."

I’m still not sure how that makes me feel ;) But for all my children’s normality, they do have some offbeat interests :) So my weirdness did have a little impact, but he’s right, they are basically very normal children who, should they ever choose to rebel with something odd, have a mother who would go, “oh man, that’s so cool! Can we go shopping?”



Don’t you really hate it when you find the most perfect bag EVER and the only color it comes in is beige? Really, designers? BEIGE? Not that I have anything against the color mind you. It looks great on institutional walls and in insane asylums. It’s a great shade for bread crust and even wood items and wicker baskets. But not a pocketbook. Bleh! Oh well, I guess it’s God’s way of saying, “you got too many purses, Sherri. You don’t need another.” He’s probably right.

But it was such an awesome bag, sniff, sniff. Will dream of it coming in black one day :)


DOTD Award

Dufus (Dufi for the random group) of the Day Award. Actually, I call it Dumba$$ of the Day but I don’t want to offend those who don’t like raw language. I can respect that.

So what is the DOTD? It’s for those who commit acts that are especially heinous in their stupidity. As my mother used to say, there are no stupid questions, only stupid people with mouths capable of speech. Her point? What? You think an idiot suddenly develops a brain at the exact moment a question formulates in their mind? Obviously Mom’s pet peeve was the phrase: “there are no stupid questions.” She’d invariably shoot back with, “well honey, good for you that you don’t live on planet Moronia with the rest of us” or “there are no stupid questions, only stupid people asking them.”

You know these people; we all do (hey, copyeditor, I actually do know how and when to use a semicolon without your help). They’re the ones where you’d have on your Arby’s brown and tan double knit polyester uniform (in the heat of a Georgia summer, I might add), and they’d come up to you and ask, “Do you work here?”

"No. I enjoy wearing fast-food uniforms in hideous colors every time I leave the house, ‘cause let’s face it, I was raised with eight boys and my dignity and self-esteem haven’t been damaged thoroughly enough for one lifetime. Thank you for asking."

And sad to say, I have on occasion been a DOTD Award recipient. I’m still feeling the pain of the last time I earned that honor on Mardi Gras. Never, ever slice beneath your fingernail with a razor sharp blade while telling your son that your knives are sharp. Here we are months later and said wound still hurts every time I type or use my finger… Oh wait, what do I do for a living???? I type :) There’s a gift that keeps on giving. Next year, I’m buying Zatarain’s for dinner.

Back to topic. So how does one nominate and celebrates the DOTD Award? You call up your buds and compare notes on who had the worst encounter of the day. Then you commiserate and finally go, “well, at least it wasn’t me who said or did something that stupid.” Unless it was you, then you might want to hang your head and tell your friends it was your Aunt Bob who did it. Save whatever dignity you can.

Unfortunately, this process will repeat itself the next day not long after you get up. I have a little game I play called “let’s see how long I can be up before I get assaulted with outright fatuousness.” I think my record is fifteen minutes.

Let’s go for twenty, shall we?


I am not a slinky…

Why is it the cat NEVER needs to go up the stairs until I do? Then it’s a mad dash to see how many times she can trip me. Doesn’t she know I’m the only one in the house who knows where the cat food lives? My boys will barely feed themselves… does she really believe if something happens to me they’re going to think, “oh hey, I bet the cat might want to eat this week?” Honestly, I don’t think they know how to open anything except a potato chip bag and unless she develops a serious Lay’s addiction, she’s going to miss me after I fall to my death over her furry little tail.

About Sherrilyn Kenyon

Life, liberty and my observance of fatuousness in the world around me, as well as a few words of wisdom thrown in from time to time for balance. In other words, I'm a writer. FMI: sherrilynkenyon.com

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