Tag Archives: Pray Saints

Overtime & THE Monday Night Rivalry

26 Sep

Sorry, nothing philosophical today folks.  Actually, I’m in Monday night prep mode for the rest of my week.  With my assistant having just gotten married this past weekend and his plans to honeymoon in the Caribbean until the beginning of October, I figured that as opposed to having to train and pay a temp or to struggle through some long and arduous days, I will be bringing the excess work home.

But don’t cry for me Argentina.  Although I will likely be working into the wee hours, I do have my Skins on Monday Night Football to keep me warm tonight. And with Tony Romo clearly continuing to bet against Dallas (if his recent playing is any indicator), I am feeling quite comfortable that the Redskins will help to alleviate a lot of my workload discontent this evening!

Tapped Out!

15 Sep

Sorry Fanny Pack Fam!  After disputing a traffic ticket, cancelling and rescheduling two meetings, getting caught in the rain and sitting through gnarly, weather slicked, bumper-to-bumper traffic today, I am all out of gas.

But hey, feel free to historically search some blog posts or simply chitchat amongst yourselves.  I’ll be luxuriating in a bubble bath while I co-wash my hair.


The Devil Is Black? AND He Makes Cakes?

18 Apr

You can always count on the innocent inquiry of a child to hem you up, leave you utterly dumbfounded or make you rethink your position on an otherwise trivial matter.  That’s what happened to me this afternoon while The Babychild was playing Pastry Chef’s Apprentice to me in the kitchen.

With my kids officially ripping and running all over creation thanks to the annual free-for-all that is Spring Break, the rules in the Pack Household have become a little more lax (well, at least for the next five days).  Once such rule that is receiving a brief moratorium is the one referring to no sweets on weekdays.  Sympathizing with their sugar-deprived angst, I decided that I was going to bake them a “just because” cake today to enjoy during their vacation.  And seeing me getting my bake on, The Babychild decided that he just had to be all up in the batter as my helper and unofficial taste-tester.

That was, until he realized what I was making.  After adding, mixing and pouring my velvety cake ingredients into my baking pan, The Babychild eagerly awaited the spoon, bowl and mixer tong to lick.  It was evident that he clearly had no problem with the taste of the rich, dark concoction, and he happily let me know it.  When he asked me what kind of cake I was baking and I absently told him Devil’s Food Cake, things quickly changed.

“Mom-ma, the devil makes cakes and he is black like us!?”

Stricken…Panicked…Exasperated; adjectives that don’t even hold a candle to the look that was in that little boy’s face or the trepidation in his voice.  In my mind, all I could hear were damage control sirens shrieking and my inner voice screaming “Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!”

How in the world was I going to explain to my toddler that although I’d often wondered what 18th century European “genius” decided to associate “deviled” foods with “black”, and even rolled my eyes a time or two at my local grocer for aligning their Angel’s Food Cake mix on one shelf and their Devil’s Food Cake mix on a lower one, that there was no legitimate association between the naughty entity he had come to know as the devil and people of color.

Again, the expression on my child’s face let me know that he was extremely troubled by this potential discovery, so I had to forego the backstory altogether and simply explain to him that for years and years and years, that had been the name for the super chocolatey confection in our oven, and that the devil has never had anything to do with baked goods.  Pondering that for a moment, The Babychild laughed and told me how silly it all was, then proceeded to lick his sticky fingers.

WHEW! Mini-Crisis averted!

Still…a smoldering side-eye at Betty Crocker, Duncan Hines and those first culinary experts who caused my kid to fret over a deviled dessert!

Death and Taxes Part Deux

16 Feb

I must apologize to you guys for my admittedly indistinct and unsubstantial blogging for the past few days.  While yesterday I spent much of my evening being reacquainted with my very favorite authors, tonight I have been threatened with divorce if I procrastinate filing our taxes for even one day longer.

So with that, I must bid you adieu (however, I will be back to play tomorrow).  In my absence though, I’m told that The History Channel is airing a compelling piece on the secrets of the dollar bill.


It’s A Quarter ‘Til Midnight…Do You Know Where Your Sanity Is?

21 Jan

The clock is only a few moments from striking twelve and my glass slippers and other finery are about to turn into homely rags. Too bad that it doesn’t even matter though, beacuse I never even got the chance to get decked out!

Why, you ask?

Um, well…because like yesterday, I spent much of today closing out financials, and I am just leaving work.

Shhh…I know how idiotic I sound at the moment, but my positive affirmations (Jesus be a fence, a sedative and a double portion of agreeable temperment) are the only things keeping me from deliberately accepting unemployment pay right now!

Migraines, Fever, Flu and The CDC

8 Nov

It’s been far too long Pack Faithful, and being away from you all has really made me feel like Celie and Nettie…You and me will never part *Hand Clap*

So, here’s the lowdown on why I’ve been M.I.A. for the past few weeks…

Two weekends ago, after experiencing the sort of brain ache that made me want to extend a personal two-angel-detail invitation to both Michael and Gabriel to escort me on to glory, I was dragged kicking and screaming strongly encouraged to return to my doctor’s office for better analysis of my situation and more tests to determine what has really been going on with me.  When I finally made the call for an appointment that Tuesday (two full days after feeling like I’d gone 12 rounds with Mike Tyson…the late 80’s heavyweight camp, not the ear biting, facial tattooed round-in-the-middle Mike), I had already been suffering with a fever that had been sitting at a consistent 103 degrees.

After a bevy of questions and some poking and prodding, my doctor was convinced that I was her first case of flu for the season (and even though I was deliriously feverish, I am convinced that she delivered this diagnosis in an almost giddy fashion…like she won the “First Flu Case” office pool or something!).  Writing out more than a half dozen prescriptions for my aches and pains, she hopped onto her computer and dialed up the Center for Disease Control to determine if there was a new strain of flu that had been identified for the season.  Once satisfied that I’d not been infected with some new and improved mutated bug, she administered a non-to-gentle Tamiflu shot in the tuckus and sent me to the lab for some blood work.

A day later, my doctor called to let me know that my tests had determined that I did not have the flu, but because my fever had not broken and my head was still throbbing, she wanted me to come in for even more tests.  This visit ended with me feeling like a human pin cushion and with an appointment with a specialist for the following week for an MRI and a CAT scan.

I’m told that the next couple of days included a pharmaceutically induced tirade (or three) where I fired my pool guy for trespassing (note: I don’t have a pool guy…or a pool), fussed at my nephew for being careless after I single-handedly saved him from spies and accused my honey of getting me sick for life insurance purposes.  Again, this is all hearsay (and if you ask me, more than a bit exaggerated) but if I did utter such outlandish things, surely the daily Tamiflu-Hydrocodone-Promethazine cocktail I was taking would be to blame, no?

So basically as it stands now, my doctor seems to believe that yet another migraine triggered something most foul that put me out of commission for seven whole days, and I must now spend a $70 specialist referral co-pay visit a neurologist to see if he can better pinpoint what the problem is and how best to fix it.

See?  You had to know that there was a good reason for me to leave you guys hanging for so long.  And just know that I forgive each of you for secretly accusing me of being negligent and egregious.  With that however, I do ask that on my behalf, you send up a quick prayer that 1) these migraines are only a result of stress and nothing more and 2) I learn to manage my stress better so that my body never again decides to go on auto-pilot and shut down in the name of self-preservation.

Please and Thanks!


They’re Back to School, I’m Back to Beat

25 Aug

I recently joked with my mentor (who regularly insists that I make a little time for myself each and every day…to which I assure him will happen on a more consistent basis once I discover how to enact a 26 hour day) about my time not being my own.  I mean really, with a demanding job, a tenacious honey and kids who don’t seem to understand the word “no” until I threaten them with bodily harm and/or confiscation of worldly possessions, by the time I’ve come home from work, administered baths, signed forms, returned from practices, issued a “last call” in the Pack Kitchen and turned out all the lights, I am usually dog-tired and not worth the 600 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets I pass out on.

And never does this sensation feel as true (and as overwhelming) than at back to school time.  The Pack younglings (with the exception of the overly dramatic baby child who tried to walk out of the front door with his siblings this morning with bare feet and a diaper bag on his back) returned to the halls of learning today, but not without a plethora of time-consuming drama that ultimately rendered me exhausted and completely useless by midday.  With my nephew in middle school, he pretty much had his first day mapped out, so to avoid any teenaged embarrassment, I let him head out to his bus stop alone.  Now with the big boy’s broken foot however, riding the school bus was no bueno, and since he wasn’t travelling via the cheese wagon, there was no way the baby girl was going to pass up a chauffeured ride to school. 

Once we got there, I had to fill out forms detailing his injury, the appropriate care to be taken while in school,  special travel accommodations and permission for him to be outfitted with an elevator key (to his supreme delight).  Of course, the fact that my child decided to milk his battle wound for all its worth, while his sister’s half protective natured silently did battle with her green-eyed-none-attention-getting monster other half only made matters worse.  But once I told Frick and Frack that they were both special, sent them to their respective classes and got myself to work, I did have a reasonably productive day; only slightly hampered by two calls from the school regarding omitted paperwork and a minor playground fall (yep…he’s on crutches and in a stabilizing boot, yet he thought that the monkey bars were a good idea).

When everyone got home this evening, tales of first day jitters, rekindled friendships and gripes about homework spilled forth from around the dinner table.  Much of the night was spent completing first day paperwork, preparing for tomorrow, reminding the kids and being reminded of strict bedtimes and proclaiming more than once the fact that it is “a school night.”  But even now as I am sitting here churning this post out, my eyes are burning and I am disliking myself severely for utilizing this hour for writing, when resting in the Lord for a solid 8 would be such a better alternative.  The reality though, is that my writing has been my “me time” for this last year and I owe it to myself to take a moment or two to simply decompress each day, even if I end up looking like Droopy in the morning as a result.

Still, the idea of a 5am wake-up call to iron clothes, pack lunches, make breakfast, smell breaths (you’d be surprised how many times “oh, I forgot to brush my teeth” comes up during goodbye kisses) and see my babies off has me rolling my eyes and gnashing my teeth.  We’ve only gotten one day under our belts, how in the world am I going to make it until June?  Obviously, I am going to need you prayer-warriors to send up a couple to The Father.  Either that, or we just might end up doing The Pack Academy from the comfort of my bedroom living room; back packs optional.

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