Don’t It Make You Wanna Scream?

Remember my pal Milton Verret? Or should I say, arch nemesis Milton Verret?

One year ago, he outbid me for the one article of clothing I’ve wanted since I was six years old – Michael Jackson’s Thriller jacket.

I know what you’re thinking – 1) Nicole, you couldn’t afford the balled up tissue Michael stuffed in the Thriller pocket, and 2) You didn’t even place a bid on the jacket, and 3) Verret used the jacket to raise money for children’s charities while you were going to use it as a swim cover-up.

All valid points, but the fact is, my intent was there. And when someone screws me over, I tend to hold a grudge. It’s why I disowned my brother after he left my skateboard in a field to be run over by a tractor 23 years ago. And I didn’t even skateboard.

So when Julien’s Auctions announced it was auctioning off a new batch of MJ costumes, I did a little moon walk. Granted, the lot isn’t nearly as exciting as last time – it’s more “MJ wore this when he presented an award at some ceremony” – but there are two articles that piqued my interest, and now I just have to make a heartwrenching decision between the two.

The Captain EO shirt – At first, I was all excited thinking it was the actual full military ensemble from the movie, but alas, it’s just the rainbow motif Spandex shirt he wore underneath it. But I thought I could use it to my benefit – it has to be affordable, considering it’s just a t-shirt. Plus, the rainbow would allow me to coordinate the shirt with all the shades of hot pants in my closet.

The downside –  it’s a t-shirt and one that begat thousands of mass-produced copies. I could easily order one for $34 off eBay that doesn’t smell like Bubbles and could actually fit over my boobs. In fact…***running off to eBay***

The Scream Spandex – Ok, so I will be bidding on the Scream outfit, which is really a more fitting choice anyway. There are so many nights I lie awake pondering what I’m going to wear clubbing the following weekend. And by clubbing, I mean happy hour at Chili’s. The Scream ensemble is ideal because:

• Dark colors are slimming. So is Spandex – it’s a full-body Spanx.
• It’s perfect for mixing and matching. I can pair the pants with an apron shirt just like all the girls at Joe’s Brewery circa 1997.
• Nothing screams summer in St. Louis like head-to-toe black Spandex.

So, between my can recycling money and the credit I got for taking a belt back to New York and Company, I think I’m good to bid on December 2.

Watch out, Milton. I’m coming for you, baby.

Going Blue and Green

I hate, hate pictures of myself. That’s why I only post fuzzy pictures or cover my face with Paula Deen riding things.

However, today is National Blue and Green Day – a day to show your support of eye, organ and tissue donation by wearing Donate Life America’s colors of blue and green. In honor of the event, I reached out to some local bloggers to ask them to show their blue and green, so I needed to jump on board as well.

So, here’s my look for Blue and Green Day. Yes, they were taken on Easter morning because it’s the one day both of my children are clean at the same time. And yes, my children are in the picture to not only show our family’s support of donation, but to take attention away from my mug.

Why do I support donation?

• 113,000 Americans, including 1,600 in Missouri, are waiting for organ transplants. Thousands more require life-enhancing cornea, bone and tissue transplants.
• Each day, 18 people die from the lack of available organs for transplant.
• Since 1995, 3,200 Missourians have died or become too sick to receive a transplant while waiting.
• One donor can save up to eight lives and enhance the lives of up to 50 recipients.
• Of the 25,000 people who pass away in the St. Louis region each year, only about 200 are able to be organ donors.
• It only takes two minutes to register at www.donatelifemissouri.com or www.donatelifeillinois.com.

The biggest reason? I support donation because I’ve met so many people whose lives have been impacted because of the gifts of others. Growing up, I knew a couple of people who had received transplants, but since I’ve become involved with Donate Life Missouri, I see these stories on a day-to-day basis. And each day, I’m humbled by a donor family who has found strength through donation or a recipient who is taking Taekwondo with her two kids because she received a heart transplant 20 years ago.

In honor of Blue and Green Day, I urge you to post your own blue and green looks to the Donate Life America and Donate Life Missouri Facebook pages to show your support of donation and enter to win great prizes from both organizations.

And be sure to visit these incredible bloggers who are showing their support today:

CoMo Style – Inside Columbia magazine
Crazy and Cool with a Side of Crafty
The Cubicle Chick
Economy of Style
Original Cyn (Check out Cynthia’s incredible story on living donation)
Rung Boutique
sKIDmarks

I’m Solo, I’m Shoppin’ Solo

There are certain out-of-the-house activities which suit my two lovely daughters.

Movies are good. They’d sit and watch a French documentary on linguistics if you threw them in a darkened theater with a bag of popcorn and a Coke.

Anything with animals is a successful outing as well. MJ and KT would spend hours in the cat adoption area of PetSmart if I let them. I’m pretty certain that one day they’re going to run their own vet clinic or have their own sister lion tamer act.

But shopping – even if it’s a 10-minute run-in – is officially out from now on.

When MJ was three, the girl loved shopping. She would pick out clothes for me, and in the dressing room, she would exclaim how fabulous everything looked. Talk about boosting the old ego. But now that she’s five, there are so many other things she’d rather be doing, and picking out shoes for mom just isn’t as fun as it used to be.

KT has never been able to handle shopping. Ever. So I always leave her at home with Mr. P, especially when I go grocery shopping since she insists on riding in the ginormous car-shaped shopping carts with the wonky front wheel. It’s pretty much like pushing a Toyota Tundra up a mountain with David Lee Roth screaming in your ear. She also enjoys peeking underneath the dressing rooms at The Limited to say hello to the other shoppers.

However, last week Mr. P was out of town, and I had a couple of errands to run. Quick ones – pick up some dog food at Target and exchange a dress. Twenty minutes total – tops.

I did everything I could to prepare KT – I warned, I bribed, I begged. I showed her my C-section scar to guilt her into behaving. She nodded with everything I said, so I thought we had a mutual understanding. But within two minutes of entering the store, she:

• Pulled every shirt off the rack she thought was “bootiful.”
• Yanked the size stickers off five pairs of jeans, because OMG, “STICKERS!!!!”
• Grabbed a handful of glass beads from a jewelry display.

I should have known better. I should have grabbed her and made a run for the door. But then MJ saw a very inexpensive, yet very cute, dress she wanted to try on. And well, I did too. So I caved. How much trouble could she get in a dressing room?

Me: KT, please don’t open the door when Mommy and MJ are changing clothes, ok?
KT: K, mommy.
Me: KT, I mean it. Don’t open the door.
KT: No open door.

I gave KT my iPhone to keep her occupied, and MJ and I began whipping off our clothes in the world’s fastest attempt to try on two dresses. That’s when I saw a little butt and two size-eight Nikes shimmying out the room under the door.

Covering myself with my jacket, I stuck my head out, shouting KT’s name, but she was nowhere to be seen.

That’s when I heard the half-naked woman scream in terror in the dressing room next to me.

And then I heard a two-year-old scream in terror after coming face to face with a screaming half-naked woman.

I could just leave her there, right? I mean, I knew where she was.

Me: Ma’am, I am so, so sorry. KT, crawl back under, honey.
KT: WHAAAAAAAAAA???
Me: KT, crawl under the door and get back here.
KT: WHAAAAAAAAAA???
Me: (sticking my hand under the dressing room door while trying not to flash the male dressing room attendant my lady lumps). Here, grab my hand and crawl under.
KT: WHAAAAAAAAAA???
Half-naked stranger: Here…I’ll just…open the door (shoves KT out the door while trying not to flash the male dressing room attendant her lady lumps).
KT: (Wipes her tears, gives me a sneer and proceeds to run out of the dressing room).

MJ, with her catlike quickness, somehow managed to get a reasonable amount of clothes on and catch KT before she hightailed it out of the store. I threw the rest of my clothes on, left the store’s clothes in a pile on the bench, gave the attendant my sincerest apology, and ran through the store while putting on my sandals at the same time.

I seriously owe MJ a dress.

Those Late Night Talks

Nothing good happens after 2 a.m. At least that’s what my mother always said.

Unfortunately, KT, like all the good club kids before her, believes that’s when the party really begins.

Many times, KT’s up all night because she has night terrors, which really, really suck, and I feel horrible for her. Other times, the little Vince Neil inside her just wants to break free to cause a little hell. For some reason, I’ve become her wingman since it’s obvious her father can’t hang with the big dogs. Which means, like many parties in my life, I’m the exhausted, sober one who has to sit by on the couch while my wilder friend dances on the coffee table and flashes her chest at the room. And like in my college days, I’m forced to listen to the middle-of-the-night nonsensical ramblings of my roommate.

Three months ago, we were concerned about KT’s language development and were talking with her teachers about speech intervention. Now, she has finally found her voice. At 2 a.m. in the morning.

The following is a transcript of our middle-of-the-night conversations. Or, rather, the conversations she has with the pillow I smoosh over my ear.

11: 15 p.m.
KT: Mama, lay with me please.
Me: Of course. But if I lay here, will you go to sleep?
KT: (Sarcastic laugh) No.

1:00 a.m.
KT: (Weird eating sounds, hands in front of her face)
Me: What are you doing?
KT: Eating tacos. Mmmm, mommy, taco?
Me: I don’t want a taco. I’m trying to sleep.
KT: Oh, tacos. Oh, oh, oh. KT like tacos. Eat my tacos.

1:15 p.m.
KT: (Rustling movements and growling)
Me: KT, lay still.
KT: No! I do the mash. I do the Monster Mash. Grrrrrrr.

1:16 a.m.
KT: Mommy, hide and seek, please. (Throws a pillow over her head). Find me, mommy!

2:00 a.m.
KT: Mommy, ABC’s?
Me: a…b…c…
KT: No, rock ‘n roll ABC’s.
Me: (channeling Chris Cornell) A…B…C 

2:30 a.m.
KT: (pulls my eyelid open) We no pick our nose.

3:30 a.m.
(I bring her to my bed, kick Mr. P out, and turn on the T.V. I know what you’re thinking. I know I’m setting myself up for failure. I know Supernanny Jo is doing the “Can you believe this shizz?!?” eyebrow cock. But yes, sometimes, when she’s been up for four hours and screamed for two of them, sometimes I turn the T.V. on so I can get an hour of sleep. It’s wrong – I totally get it.)
KT: Ferb eats soup.

3:45 a.m.
KT: Mom! Ferb over!
Me: No, it’s a commercial. He’ll be back in a second.
KT: Oh! Ok.

4:00 a.m.
KT: Mom! Ferb over!
Me: No, it’s a commercial. He’ll be back in a second.
KT: Oh! Ok. 

4:15 a.m.
KT: Mom! Ferb over!
Me: No, it’s a commercial. He’ll be back in a second.
KT: Oh! Ok.

5:00 a.m.
Me: KT, I’m going to get a shower. Stay in bed and watch your show, ok?
KT: Ok.

5:30 a.m.
Mr. P: KT looks so cute when she sleeps in a ball like that. Did she sleep all night?
Me: (Pokes head out of the bathroom) WTH?!?

Yes, KT is a party animal. But she’s my party animal, and I adore her even on one hour of sleep.

There is one benefit to her late night shenanigans besides the mommy/daughter bonding time – a lack of sleep means I can trade a healthy breakfast like oatmeal in for a morning caffeine/protein combo in the form of a large fountain Coke and QT buffalo chicken cheese sticks.

So for that, KT, I thank you.

You Dirty, Dirty Wii You

I haven’t been much a fan of video games since I was 12. I don’t have the best hand/eye coordination, and frankly, I’d rather spend an hour doing something more intellectually-stimulating. Like reading Us Weekly and watching It’s a Brad Brad World.

But then last year, we got Just Dance 2, and I fell in love. I totally rock that game, because in my head, my bootyliciousness moves are the equivalent of Beyoncé’s. In reality, I look more like a drunken Shrek falling down the stairs. More important, it lets MJ and I bond over a game without breaking out into fisticuffs the way we do when we play Candy Land.

So when the Michael Jackson Experience came out last year, MJ (ok, I) was all over it. It was on her (ok, my) Christmas list for the past two Christmases, but Mr. P didn’t think it was suitable for a kindergartener. He’s a fun-ruiner, that one. He nixed the Thriller costume I wanted to get her for Halloween and refused to buy me these amazing Michael Jackson Colorforms. When it was time to pick out MJ’s Christmas presents, I refused to back down on the Experience. It was my giant metal chicken moment.

Now, it’s common knowledge that when it comes to his performances, Michael Jackson is a notorious crotch-grabber. I mean, the last four minutes of “Black or White” were censored by MTV for its violence and its focus on the manly parts. But I assured Mr. P the game would be perfectly fine since it’s approved for kids as young as 10. To me, there wouldn’t be any difference between a five-year-old playing and a ten-year-old playing.

See! See! It says 10+!

We kicked off our Experience moment with “Black or White.” The game is similar to the video, so I whipped out my killer moves right off the bat by which MJ was amazed and thought I was the coolest mom ever. Mr. P was horrified and wondered why he ever married me. But we were in the clear – no crotch grabbing.

The next song was “The Way You Make Me Feel.” That’s the game I was concerned about. If you’ve seen the video there is a breakdown in which there is a significant amount of pelvic thrusting. So I pulled on my FCC cap and sat with MJ while she went through the motions. Again, relatively grab-free.

All was good, and I left the room to get some housework done. That’s when I heard it.

MJ: Mom, Michael Jackson’s grabbing his privates!

Me: (muttering) Oh s**t.

MJ: Why is he grabbing his privates?

Me: That’s just how he dances.

MJ: Should I do that too or should I just skip it?

Me: Just don’t do it.

MJ: But I’ll lose points if I don’t do it!!!

Mom: Turn it off now!! And do not tell your father about this.

I made it my goal from then on to watch over MJ’s shoulders every time she played the game and to avoid clicking on the more explicit songs. And I was good until New Year’s Eve. The kids were off playing in another area of the basement so I goaded Mr. P and my friend Angie into shaking their booties to the duet of “In the Closet,” which is very close to the actual video – in other words a bit risqué.

That’s when MJ turned around, saw their choreography and admonished them with, “Guys! That’s totally inappropriate!!”

If my kid wasn’t such a Pollyanna, I would be worried I’m scarring her for life through the Wii and sending her on the road to Courtney Love-ville. But I think she’ll be ok. I memorized “Like a Virgin,” in first grade, I watched my mom’s soap operas, I saw Porky’s when I was knee high to a grasshopper – and I didn’t end up shagging everyone in high school. Because I knew my parents would kick my ass if I did.

My hope is that ten years from now, when her high school cohorts are knee deep in a pool of peppermint Schnapps on a Friday night, my kid will be at home safe and sound, playing Just Dance with her friends. If she’s half the nerd her mom and dad were, I think we’ll be ok.

Rose Parade Memories

A few of you may know my December was crazy busy at work since we were working on a sponsorship for the Donate Life Float, “…One More Day” at the 2012 Rose Parade.

This year, one of our eye, organ and tissue donors, Mariah, was honored with a floragraph on the float. We were all excited to watch the parade on the 2^nd, and then…

NBC ran a commercial over the Donate Life Float segment.

I totally thought Curry was behind it. But it was all Roker. ROKKKKERRRR! But luckily, one of the float riders posted a link from ABC. So for the two people who asked to see it, here you go:

Mariah’s floragraph is placed under that of the athlete ABC features near the end of the segment. Working with Mariah’s family over the past year has been incredible – her mom is just awesome and is not only a great supporter of donation, she is an advocate for safe driving and presents regularly to high school students.

Also featured on the float was Kyndall, an organ donor from Ballwin. I spoke with her mom, Jennifer  – who is sweetness personified – a couple of weeks ago for an article on Kyndall, and I am continually amazed by her dedication in helping other donor families.

Another touching aspect of the float is knowing my colleague and friend, Darian, was being honored with a rose by Donate Life America. In May, Darian and her one-year-old son Joshua lost their lives in the Joplin tornado. Darian was everything I adore in a person –she was hilarious and bawdy and caring.

Knowing how passionate she was about donation, her husband – at the most tragic time in his life and in the midst of unbelievable chaos – went above and beyond to try and make her pledge to donate become a reality. On December 18^th, we got the honor to join both Mariah’s and Darian’s families in Joplin to decorate Mariah’s floragraph before it was sent to Pasadena for placement on the float.

The woman who produced the YouTube video above? That’s Janice Langbehn. She and her partner, Lisa, were the first openly gay foster parents in their county in Washington State, and over the years, welcomed 25 foster children into their homes, eventually adopting four children with special needs. When Lisa was in the hospital, losing her life to a brain aneurysm, Janice and their children were denied access to Lisa’s bedside. Since then, Janice has been a remarkable advocate for gay rights, leading hospitals to provide gay couples with the same visitation rights as straight couples.

So many stories. So many lives changed because of someone’s gift.

You can make a difference as well by pledging to become a donor during Donate Life America’s “20 Million in 2012” campaign. To register, just visit www.donatelifemissouri.com or www.donatelifeillinois.com. Registration is simple and takes just minutes. Please do it in honor of Mariah. And Kyndall. And Darian. And Lisa.

Pizza is Dangerous to Your Health

This weekend, I had it in my head I would blog. It was going to be an introspective view into the European debt crisis and its effect on American stocks.

But I couldn’t blog because I was laid up with a twisted neck. A neck that was twisted in the stupidest way possible. So stupid I’ve officially crossed from busy 30-something into bitter old hag who refuses to return baseballs hit into her yard.

On Friday night, after a long week of work, Mr. P ordered some pizzas for me to pick up on the way home. We were told it would be 30 minutes, which was perfect since it would take me that long to drive from St. Louis.

I arrived at 5:30, full of sunshine and unicorns, all ready to pick up my pizzas and head home for merriment and mirth with the family unit, only to be told it wasn’t ready yet.

So I waited.

5:40, 5:45, 5:50. Finally, at 6, I had it.

Now mind you, I never blow up at restaurant staff. I worked in a restaurant for six years; I understand the stress of crappy tips and bitchy customers and the worst, the disgusting process of marrying ketchup bottles (which is a whole other post in itself). So I always try to give restaurant folk the benefit of the doubt.

On the other hand, when mama is hungry, I’ll eat your leg off if I can dip it in Heinz 57.

Me: (To cashier) Excuse me! It’s been over an hour. Where are my pizzas?

Cashier: (Dumb expression)

Me: Can you go check?

Cashier: (Dumb expression)

Me: Please…go…check…on…my…pizzas.

The cashier went back to the kitchen where she confirmed my greatest fear.

Cashier: They’re going in the oven now.

Over her shoulder, I saw the cook throwing my chicken wings in the fryer. Oh…dear…God.

Finally, I got my pizzas and wings 75 minutes after we ordered. With the most insincere apology ever. The kind of apology MJ gives me after sticking her sister in the toilet. I was livid. Beyond livid. I was hungry and livid.

Me: I’d like to speak to your manager, please.

Cashier: Oh, he’s really busy right now.

Me: Uh huh. And?

Cashier: (Dumb expression)

Immediately, this suburban mom turned into a combination of Foxy Brown (Pam Grier Foxy Brown, not rapper Foxy Brown) and a Jane Austen heroine. I pulled out my, “Good day, sir. I said, GOOD DAY!” and pivoted dramatically while tossing my hair in her face (because you know, it’s so long and powerful).

That’s when I heard the crack in my neck. And I saw stars. And my eyes started watering. And the pizzas began their descent from my arms. I managed not to dissolve into tears from the pain until I was sitting in my car. I finally drive home at 10 miles an hour, threw the pizzas at the family, and settled on the coach with an ice pack.

That’s when we discovered the chicken wings weren’t cooked.

This morning, I sent the most scathing email I have ever sent to a restaurant in my life – just like Foxy Brown would do – but without all the motherf******s and coke on the computer keyboard – because Foxy Brown is one awesome prostitute/vigilante who is all about justice and would never take s**t from a low-end pizza chain.

Don't jack with Foxy's pizza order.

Update: The customer service email is bouncing back as undeliverable. First the neck, now my back.

Cheers to the Freakin’ Weekend

Because of work and kids, it’s almost impossible anymore to get together with my best friends from high school. But by some miracle, this past weekend, the stars aligned and three of us were able to have a fabulous girls’ weekend in St. Louis.

My friends are hysterical. So much so that I just spent two months doing 500 sit-ups a day so my abs could handle the doubling over with laughter. Add to that, we had to prep ourselves for our liquor intake since  none of us drink anymore. We talk a big game, but in reality, one drink gets us loopy. Two drinks get us sloppy. And by four, we’re stealing Mike Tyson’s tiger.

I hate posting pictures of myself, but since a so-called friend refuses to believe I stayed up past my usual 9:30 bedtime, here is your proof. It’s also reinforces an iPhone should never be in the hand of an inebriated photographer.

It was a fabulous night. There was a great band that played 80’s music and Justin Timberlake so I was in my element. I also became best buds with the bartender who made all my gin and tonics as GIN with tonic. We met some super fun ladies and were totally bummed we didn’t get their phone numbers, which I lamented to Mr. P the next day.

Me: ….and I didn’t get her number because I didn’t have my business card or a pen.

Mr. P: Where were your phones?

Me: In our pockets.

Mr. P: Why didn’t you just put her number in your phone?

Me: Uhhhh…..

Mr. P: You know all the young kids put each other’s numbers in their phones these days.

Me: Uhhhh….

Mr. P: I guess we don’t have to worry about you getting some guy’s number.

So, Maria from Fenton – if you’re reading this, post a comment so we can all go out sometime. I promise I won’t go all Single White Female on you.

The evening also stirred up a PSA that has been fermenting in our brains for the past 13 years – since we first started going to bars. Well, legally started going to bars.

Now I know no men read this blog. Except for my dad and the guy who continually finds my blog by searching for “Oscar de la Renta meatloaf.” (Dude, I’m begging you – I need to know the connection between couture fashion and a big hunk of ground beef). But maybe, Dad and meatloaf guy, you can pass this tidbit on to your friends?

Gentlemen – when approaching a lady to hit on her, never, ever use the lines “Smile! It’s not so bad!” or “It doesn’t look like you girls are having any fun.”

We’d like to know who taught you these lines because you all seem to use them. You must have one of two scenarios in your head: 1) She really isn’t having a good time so she’s going to leave this bar and go home with me, or 2) She really isn’t having a good time. I’m going to play nice guy and let her tell me all her problems so I appear all sensitive and then she’ll go home with me.

Guess what – a lady doesn’t have to personify Next’s “Too Close” on the dance floor with you to have fun. Sometimes women like to get together and just have some girl talk about the financial crisis in Greece. Or baby diarrhea.

My plea to young women is to nip this in the bud immediately. If only to save my future bar-hopping daughters from the worst pickup line in history. The next time some gentleman approaches you with, “Smile! It’s not so
bad!” I implore you to respond with either: “It is. I’ve got the gonorrhea itchies.” or “I’m blue. Animal Control took 22 of my kitties today because I “hoard” them and live in “unsanitary conditions.”’

Note – We were not hit on Saturday night. It is simply a topic we have discussed for the past 13 years. The last time I was hit on Beyoncé was still in Destiny’s Child, Ricky Martin was still in the closet, and I actually bought a Train CD.

Sparkles for Sight Fundraiser

If you’re not doing anything on November 13^th and want to get some holiday shopping out of the way, please join the Missouri Lions Eye Research Foundation and Heartland Lions Eye Banks at Sparkles for Sight!

From 6 p.m. to 8 p.m., Charming Charlie at Chesterfield Mall will open its doors to Sparkles for Sight attendees. For a minimum $10 donation to the Foundation, you’ll receive 20% off your purchases, enjoy refreshments, and for one night only, watch me reprise my celebrated* freshman year dance routine to Snap!’s “Rhythm is a Dancer”**!

All proceeds from the evening will help expand the Foundation’s Free Children’s Vision Screening program to kids in low-income communities.

Reservations are required and can be placed at the Sparkles for Sight website.

*By “celebrated,” I mean celebrated by my imaginary fans in my parents’ basement.
**Dance routine reprised for a $5,000 donation to the Foundation.

A Good Time Was Had by All

I had the most incredible weekend last week. My friend and I went to some red-carpet fashion event and ended up dancing on the bar.  Jay-Z and Kanye, who just happened to be there, were so enamored by our sweet, sweet dance moves, they sent over a bottle of Cristal and asked us to be dancers on their Throne tour. Have you seen my choreography to “Otis”? It’s spectacular!

Ok, that didn’t really happen. I was in Branson, and it was just as glamorous.

Actually, four days with the entire P clan turned out to be pretty fun, or as The Altamont News in Altamont, Illinois likes to refer to such a weekend: “A good time was had by all.”

The trip truly made me see how quickly KT is morphing overnight from a toddler into a little girl. It’s all Chrissy-from-Growing Pains fast, and it’s making me both joyous to see the world through her eyes and a little sad knowing she’s only a little tyke for so long. Everything was justsofreakingexciting to her – she had her first go-cart ride, laughed her head off when the fish fought for food pellets at the hatchery, and said “Hi, horsey!” “Hi, horsey!” three times to all 20+ horses at the Dixie Stampede stables.

Grandma and Grandpa P also took us to see Noah: The Musical. All I knew about it beforehand was it had some incredible scenery and special effects (which it does), had an important message (which it does) and that the Duggars went to see it. So the whole way down to Branson, I was all like, “Look at us! We’re the Duggars!”

Mr. P: Are you joking or serious?

Me: I’m joking!

Mr. P: Really? Because you’re wearing a denim skirt.

Me: It’s above my knees!

Mr. P: And your hair is pulled back in a pouf.

Me: It’s styl…

Mr. P: And the girls are in the back watching Veggie Tales.

Me: It’s a cartoon with a message!

Realizing I was in fact very Duggar-ish, MJ and KT immediately began calling each other Johanna and JoyAnna and three babies came tumbling out my lady parts onto the minivan floor.

But in all seriousness, the Duggars seem like kind-hearted, hard-working, God-loving,  family-oriented people who appear to make some rockin’ tater tot casserole, so if I’m going to be compared to them, I’ll take it. It’s better than being compared to she whose name shall not be mentioned.

Because no trip to a tourist destination is complete without a visit to a wax museum to take inappropriate photos with Prince and The Rock, I also took MJ to her first museum visit (but kept all photo-taking clean). 

 

When I saw this, I was surprised Jo Calderone got a wax figure so fast. Then I noticed the EP on the jacket and figured it must be The Brady Bunch’s Eve Plumb, because there no way in hell that’s Elvis Presley. Even MJ was shocked by the lack of resemblance.

Mr. P: Who’s that supposed to be?

Me: Uh, Ricky Bobby.

Mr. P: No way. That’s the other guy.

Me: You’re right! That’s straight up Cal Naughton!

The whole reason MJ came with me: to pose with Captain Jack Sparrow. And a very unattractive Orlando Bloom. Neither MJ nor I can hear the name “Captain Jack Sparrow” without channeling Michael Bolton from Saturday Night Live.

The trip really was a nice break. Since we’re so busy during the week and the weekends are just as crazy, it was wonderful to turn off the rest of the world and spend quality time with the girls – swimming, eating gigantic cones of frozen custard, and watching them grow up before our eyes.