"F" Is For Fluffer Nutter

One of our favorite games to play growing up was Trivial Pursuit for Juniors.  The age levels were like 6-10 and we played well into our teen years and prided ourselves on our intelligence.  For knowing things like the proper name of the Big Dipper (Ursula Major) and all the characters on the Rice Krispies box (Snap, Krackle, and Pop).

One of the questions that would really get us rolling was:
What do you call a sandwich that's made with peanut butter and marshmallow cream?
Answer:  Fluffer Nutter.

This made us laugh. 

You see, in our house (of 5 girls), if someone...passed gas... we called it a "fluff."  Or if you smelled something you'd say, "Who fluffed?"  In the house I grew up in the "f-word" was "Fart."  I didn't even know there was a much, much worse f-word.  Swearing was completely prohibited and besides the basic run down of bad words... we weren't allowed to say "Stupid," "Hate," "Kill," or "Shut Up."  And when "Suck" became popular we weren't allowed to say that either.  And, as ladies (of the 17th century), we called the  foulest of bodily movements... a fluff.  How dainty.

"Fluff" has always stuck with me.  Maybe because NO ONE uses that word or knows what it means when you say it.  We originally called passing gas "Bursting."  Someone bursted.  Which, if you think about it, yeah.  Someone did literally burst.  Out of their bum.  But then Cinn-a-Burst and Fruit-a-Burst Gum came along.  Sorta bursted our bursting bubble.  We came back to earth and renamed the function "Fluffing."  No idea why.  But, after Dad watched a game on Saturday, we'd go down to the TV room and cringe our noses and say, "It smells like fluffs down here."

Since then it has evolved into "tooting."  Which is likely the best of the three and what I will call it until my dying day.  I use "toot" in my home when one of the boys fluffs and laughs about it.  Yeah, even 20 month old Kole will fluff and smile.  He wants to be just like Ken. 
I just get uncomfortable saying "fart."  It sounds so dirty.  And stinky. 
I find burst, fluff, and toot to be much more likable alternatives.
Though the terms have stopped me from ever trying a Fluffer Nutter.  Or becoming a big Fruit-a-Burst gum chewer.
Just can't do it.

"E" Is For Everything As It Should Be

Uh... except for it's not.
...for anyone really.
And I get so angry reading these blogs where life is portrayed that way.
You know the ones:
The housewife is slim (from stupid old Zumba classes) and has a great butt and a perfect complexion (made so by layers of makeup.... or Photoshop).  Wears either skinny jeans or dresses every day.  Even just GETS dressed every day.  She takes pictures of herself and three kids on the web cam.  She makes up her own recipes and eats all organic and sets a fancy table every night.  With, like... name tags made on her Cricut machine.  They have parties for no reason and are moving into an even bigger house.  Nothing costs too much money with the killer job her "hubby" has and even trials "aren't that bad" or she considers them "a gift from God."  (Oh.  And she uses words like "killer," "awesome," "radical," and "angels."  I just don't like those words.)  She probably wears those patterned rained goulashes to the play ground on Spring days in case there is mud.  And takes lots of pictures of her feet/shoes.

You know the blogs that make you throw up a little in your mouth?
I gag because there is no way that's all true.

One of my best friends told me, "Everyone smiles in pictures."
Which is true.  We all put our best face on when we hear the word "Cheese." 
But... when do these women get relief?  When do they face reality?  Or is life a game to them?

I've got my uppers and my downers for days. 
I find liberation and reinforcement when I share what is really going on. 
When I say "This blows"  I inevitably feel better.  Maybe it's the whole taking ownership.
It doesn't make me weak.
It doesn't make me less or more likable.
And it doesn't make me better than those woman who write blogs that I hate.  (Point of Interest:  I don't hate those women... I just can't read their blogs.  It's not personal... it's blog-onal.)

I will give myself points for being more honest than them though. *wink*

It's not a competition.  Life is never going to be a competition. 
Which is good. 
Because the score would be something like:
Patty:12         
FEMBOTS: 4,899,673,456,165,098

"D" is for Didn't Know That

I've been married to ol' Kenner-roo for almost 7 years now.  To me, that's a long time.  That's the longest I've been married to anyone. 

Didn't know he sleeps in the middle of the bed every night.  Even when I try to nudge him out of the way.  Even when I politely whisper for a little space.  I don't get an inch.  The only thing I ever get is an elbow to the rib cage and some muttered nonsense about leaving him alone.

Didn't know he'd be so good at the volume control on the TV.  I'm young to be hard of hearing- but I am nonetheless.  And I (like my Dad) constantly adjust the volume through a movie.  So those bright green bars show up on the screen.  And linger.  Ken can grab the remote, set a number, and I can hear the whole movie without ever adjusting the volume.  Even when I set it to the same number (our magic number is 22)... it doesn't work for me.  So if I am watching a movie sans Ken... I still have him come down and set the volume for me.  It's the only way I can truly enjoy a cinematic feature.

Didn't know boys were so stinky.  I grew up with 4 sisters.  So I didn't fully comprehend things like sweat and "swass" (also known as Grumbus) and stank... to the level it reaches... until I married Ken.  Nor did I know how vital baby powder is.  For a grown man.

Didn't know he hates the way I drive.  We dated and I drove lots.  He never said anything.  Now I hear it all the time.  "Give that driver some space."  "Slow down!"  "Use your brakes."  "Don't use your brakes, just coast."  "Turn the steering wheel smoother."  Aye Aye Aye!  How did I survive on the wide open road without him?

Didn't know I didn't know how to cook.  Ken cooks every night.  In the seven years we've been married I think I've made 10 dinners.  All of which were mediocre.  3 of which were pancakes.  I really thought I'd be that all-star housewife.  Turns out I prefer to be cooked for, served, and cleaned up after.

Didn't know there'd be ups and downs sometimes several in the same day.  Living and coping with another human being, even someone you love, is trying.  For both of us.  And it's hard to talk about everything and be honest about feelings and maintain sexiness and figure out who does what and not be offended about the bed hogging and the grumbus and the driving remarks and the tickles that hurt more than they tickle.  And the chubby jokes.  I'm pregnant, remember?  I can eat all these Cool Ranch Doritos if I want to. 

Didn't know it would always be alright.  No matter what.  I figured it'd be a little more like the movies.  Call it naive.  But I figured there's be a few lamp-throwing fights.  One or two nights with one of us on the couch.  A few days of silence.  But there hasn't been.  Ever.  It's always been alright.  We smooth it over.  Talk it out.  And reassure each other that we're in it to win it.  Our Marital Motto is:  Team Work Makes The Dream Work.

Oh come on!  You don't have a marital motto? 
Phst.  Slackers.

Check out my double chin.  I'm sexy and I know it.