Freaky Friday

Before my husband left for work this week, he asked if I wanted to join him as he ran some last minute errands. We like to squeeze in as much time together as possible because we never know how long he is going to be absent.

Traditionally our dates include dinner and a movie to be followed up with a rousing argument about why one of us has the worst taste in movies, ever. It's our 'been together almost 22 years' version of foreplay. 

However, if my husband wanted to get romantic at the local farm equipment supply store, I wasn't going to argue. The farm equipment supply store is my crack. I don't know why. I'm a city girl. But there is something about troughs and tractor parts that get me hot and bothered. 

So much so, that upon leaving that store, when my husband asked, "When was the last time you were lubed?" I answered him.

Only to notice he didn't respond in the manner in which I had thought he would.

Because he was too busy staring at me, mouth agape, with a horrified look on his face.

"What is the matter with you, woman? I meant, WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU HAD YOUR VEHICLE'S OIL CHANGED?"

Oh.

In my defense, you married me dude. The fault is clearly yours.

So my oil was changed, in the most literal sense and my husband wouldn't look me in the eyes. Every time I started to speak to him, he'd just shake his head and mutter under his breath.

Some oil changes are more fun than others.

Luckily, I had the video of the yelling goats to amuse me. 

(Also, if you thread the sound into your vehicle's stereo system like I did, you can entertain the entire lube shop. Much to your husband's chagrin.)

I'm now good for another 5000 kilometers before I need any sort of lubing. 

Oh, the bad jokes just keep writing themselves.

***

Earlier this week I stumbled on some forgotten videos I had posted, (basically my entire YouTube channel) and as I watched them, I was stunned to notice just two years ago I was taller than Nash. Who is currently 6 foot one inch. Or at least he was the last time he was measured.

The difference two years makes. And still, he hasn't learned to smile for his mother.

I had forgotten there was a time when I didn't have to look up while talking to my kid. Weird.

Upon this epiphany, I've decided to try something new over here on the B-side. Every Friday, or until I forget or get bored, I'm going to highlight some of the best moments I've captured over on Instagram. (I am not a good photographer and I am worse at Instagram. THIS IS SUCH A TREAT FOR Y'ALL!)

Mostly because my kids are 15 and 16 and my daughter will only be with us for one more year before she leaves for college. Nash has two years before I drop him off at some random dorm room.

This parenting gig? It's fleeting.

Also, puppies don't stay puppies for long.

LOOK AT ALL THE WISDOM I AM POURING FORTH. 

God. I'm a mommy blogger with out a mom blog. I CANT QUIT.

I need an intervention.

In the meantime, look at these photos.

STOP JUDGING ME.

***

This boy? Looks EXACTLY like the boy I was dating at 16. It's totally weird.

Abbott. I swear he's still a puppy.

The size of a 16 week old paw. STILL A PUPPY.

He knows his mother is a dork. And he loves her for it.

Knox's first photobomb. I'm so proud he's inherited my dorkiness.

Have a great weekend everyone. May your inner dork shine through.

Spaghetti Westerns

Every Sunday, for more Sundays than I can recall, my parents would stuff my siblings and I into the back of their economy car and drive us over to my grandparents house for dinner.

With the smell of pot roast lingering in the air, my mom and grandma's laughter would bounce off the old linoleum floors while my grandpa and my dad hunkered down on velvet furniture in the living room, watching whatever western they could find on the television. My siblings and I would be sprawled on the carpet, with our chin in our hands, eyes glued to the screen.

I've watched every episode of Gunsmoke and Bonanza as well as every movie the Duke ever made. And then I've watched more.

Spaghetti westerns helped shape me into the person I am today. 

That sentence explains everything that is wrong with me. And everything that is right.

When I was 14 years old I painted a ceramic bust of John Wayne's head and built a shrine around it.

When I was 15 years old I asked for (and received) a giant framed poster of John Wayne's head to add to my shrine.

When I was 16 years old I secretly hoped some tall cowboy would stride into my school and call me 'little lady.' 

He did and so I married him a few years later.

And when I was 21 I tried to convince that cowboy that we should name our son Marion. Or Duke. Or Festus. Just for fun. 

It was then I learned about the invisible line between cute and creepy. Interested and obsessed. Apparently I crossed it. Or so I was told.

You dodged a bullet, Nash. Be grateful.

It's funny the things that fill your mind, the memories that come racing back, in the small hours of the night, when the world is dark and you are supposed to be sleeping.

Instead, wide awake, you alternate between trying to smother your head between two pillows and cursing the one thing keeping you awake and evoking all these memories:

The dog asleep beside your bed, snug as a bug inside his metal crate. 

My devil dog. I should have named him 'Pilgrim.'

It's not his panting or his occasional sleepy yips that keeps me awake. It's not the rhythmic huff of his giant beastie breathing or how he gets up, walks a few circles and then flops down so hard the world shakes. None of that keeps me awake. In fact, those are the things that chase away my demons and keep my nightmares at bay by reminding me I'm not alone.

No. 

It's the sound of his nails, rattling against his crate bars. 

It's the same sound of some Hollywood cowboy clanging his tin cup against the one-room jailhouse bars. 

Every night I'm trapped in a Spaghetti western.

One where there are no cute cowboys named Duke. Not a Festus in sight. There is no pot roast in the oven, no velvet furniture, no television with rabbit ears on top and the tingle of my grandmother's laugh echoes only in the memories of those who loved her. 

And still, every night, as Abbott rattles his bars, I lay awake, remembering those lazy Sunday evenings. I'm kept awake by the reruns of my life; remembering instead of sleeping.

And every morning as I pull myself from bed, exhausted and sleep deprived, I'm torn between smothering my dog with a pillow and smothering him with gratitude for reminding me of how much those spaghetti westerns mean to me.

One thing is certain, as I stumble to the kitchen to try and wake myself up with a jolt of coffee. I've got one John Wayne impression perfected:

Don't say it's a fine morning or I'll shoot ya! 

It's a hidden talent. Blame it on the Duke and my damn dog.