Wednesday, May 26, 2010


It always love it when a moment leaves me speechless. Just when you think you can't be surprised by other peoples actions or words, something happens and you just have no words to utter...

That happens quite a bit around here...and once in a while, even I do something so "crazy," that my kids are even left speechless...momentarily...

Take for example, "THE DIRTY BENCH INCIDENT."

I have a routine in the morning that I cherish. I wake up early, before the kids, get my beloved and very required coffee and sit down to watch the weather. I love the weather report. I really don't care about any other part of the news, sports, entertainment or whatever...I am totally addicted to the weather report. I watch it in the morning, in the evening, and if I make it to 10pm, I watch it then, too. I don't know why. But DO NOT interrupt my weather...

So some days, I hear those beautiful footsteps, that I obviously would never wish away, padding downstairs just as I am taking my first sip..."rats," I can't help thinking. "No quiet time this morning."

"I'm hungry."~Kiki
"MAAAA-MAAAA! I pooped! And it's a BIIIIIG WUUUUUUUN!"~Tyler will usually sing.
"Mama. Have you seen my hat/baseball socks/ipod?"~Nick.

Off I go.

The nice thing about the weather, its really on every 20 minutes. I like to catch at least one or two full seven day forecasts.

Now, Ty and Mackenzie are like any other siblings. Most of the time they get along great. Playing their own made up games, playing on their scooters or in the backyard...adorable.

But when they fight, they both have the loudest, screechiest, piercing, traffic stopping, blood curdling screams. I cannot stand to hear it.

Especially when my weather report is on.

"MAAA-MAAAA! Kiki took the clean bench!"
"I don't WANT the dirty bench."


The dirty bench.

The kids each have a little bench that they sit on to have snacks at the table in the family room. Mackenzie, my little artist, took it upon herself to "decorate" one of the benches. She wrote her name, drew faces, flowers, know, "Kiki" things.

But now it has been dubbed by both of them, "THE DIRTY BENCH," and they will fight to the finish to win the honor of sitting on the non-dirty bench.

Usually it ends with me yelling that "it doesn't matter what bench you sit on! JUST EEEEEEAAAAAT!!!!!" Or I reason that since Mackenzie was the dirty culprit, SHE has to suck it up and be the dirty bench sitter.

But when the DIRTY BENCH WAR interrupted my WEATHER REPORT~


I stormed up the stairs to find them in full-on-battle.

Without a word, I grabbed both little stools and stormed up to the kitchen where I madly wrote with a black sharpie ALL OVER BOTH BENCHES.



and drew mean faces all over them. I know. Crazy, right?

I calmly walked back downstairs and placed the stools down at the table.

"There. Now they're both dirty."



They both stood there with their mouths open for a good 30 seconds.

I turned around and went back to catch the weather and finish my now cold coffee.

The same two bickering wee-ones, will also be the biggest defender of the other, when faced with an offending Mama.

The other night, during story time, I was witness to a brother's love for his sister.

We were going to have story time on my bed. The kids love that. I guess I do, too.

I gave them both instructions to pick out books that we had not read before. Between ALL of the books they have, plus the books that Nick had when he was little, I would bet that we own almost every childrens story ever written. Including Bambi, which I still refuse to read.

They both came in with smiling faces and climbed up beside me with their selections. Of course, Tyler had picked a large book about construction vehicles (ask me about any excavator, tractor, bucket loader or grater...I bet I can name them all)! And Kiki put a strange looking hardcover book on my lap.

I am not going to say the name of the book, but it had a picture of a young boy, (can I say Eskimo)? And a dog and a wolf and what looked like a massive snowstorm. I didn't get the feeling that this would be anything like a Disney book...but I NEVER guessed how absolutely depressing this "children's" book would be.

It was the story of this young boy who's beloved dog gets killed by a wolf, and spends the whole story dreaming and planning on killing the wolf that killed his dog!

I know, right?!

Well, I started the story, hoping through the entire thing, that it would have this miraculous happy ending, or life lesson that would delight my babies.

UUUUUMMMMM, it did not.

The ending was depressing and a bit confusing, even for me! The kids had listened, hanging on every word through the whole story.

After looking frantically for an alternative ending, I closed the book with a huff.


WELL! Mackenzie burst into an all out soap-opera bawling fit.

"MAMA! THAT HURTS MY FEELINGS!" She wailed. Big Tears rolling down her face.

"What hurt your feelings?" I asked. Thinking it was the book that upset her.

"That you didn't like the book that I picked out!"

"Oh! Keek! I didn't mean..."

I turned to hug her and as I did felt a hard thump on the top of my head.

I turned to face Tyler standing up beside me.


"What was that for?" I asked, stunned, and rubbing the top of my head.

"You hurt my sistuh's feewings! I am so mad at you, Mama!"


Dirty benches and book-bonks on the head...

Just a couple of moments that have left us speechless at Crazy Road.

Thanks For Reading.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Skull Cap and Smoky Pickle

"If it appears too good to be true, it probably is."

How many times have we heard that?

Here is a story of a day that this statement came to life and kicked my a*&.

I was reminded the other day of my worst "job" ever. It may even rank on my "worst days of all time" list.

I have had many jobs in my life...summer camp counselor, waitress, mill-worker, bartender. I have sold clothes, office supplies, cell phones and and advertising. I'm sure there are more...but nothing...I mean NOTHING was worse than my very short stint in "Sports Marketing."

It all started after I moved back from St. John. Paradise, no less. I was waiting tables and working for a telemarketing company, and not very happy.

I can't believe it has been almost 15 years since this happened...but I remember every.single.detail.

Back in the 90's, cell phones and internet were still really thought of as this futuristic technology that only the very wealthy had...I still relied on newspapers and pay phones...I searched for jobs in the classified sections of the papers, and one day came across for an ad that looked something like this:



I had a Marketing degree, was a "people person," and the desire to advance my career! PERFECTO! I rotary dialed the number listed.

"ABC Marketing, where can I direct your call?"

"Yes. I am responding to an ad for a Sports Marketing Consultant?"

"One moment please."

Very professional.

I felt very grown up.

"Hi this is Jake." (of course, I won't use real names).


I got an interview!!

I was so excited! I called my mom and dad. I called my sister. I called my college advisor.

This was it.

I felt my future calling.

I felt like Mary Tyler-Moore. I ran out of my apartment and tossed up my hat.

Well, not really. But that's how I felt.

The next morning I prepared for the interview of a lifetime. I printed fresh copies of my resume and put them neatly into my initialed briefcase that was a graduation gift from my parents. (I know, right)?

I put on my very grown up business suit and put on my very grown up, but conservative, heels, my grown up lipstick and my grown up, well, I hadn't outgrown this yet, bright, blue eyeliner. (I had to be me, right)?

I drove into the city feeling on top of the world.

The building was right in the middle of the "Old Port." I had visions of driving in every day, getting a very metropolitan coffee and talking on my "flip phone" as I walked into my office, my assistant handing me really important messages from really important people who wanted to have really important meetings with me...I was a successful Marketing Consultant! Whatever THAT meant.

I was a bit disappointed in the wasn't the luxurious setting I had imagined. There didn't appear to be anything but a few folding chairs and a couple of desks. The phones were not ringing off the hook, and the girl who had the professional voice that answered my call was younger than me. She wasn't wearing red lipstick and chewing gum like the receptionist on "Moonlighting," she was decked out in jeans, maybe flip flops...ugh.

"I'm here to meet with Jake." I approached boldly.

"Have a seat, he'll be with you in a minute."

I went to sit on one of the few folding chairs, in between one very large guy in a knit hat(okay, we call them skull caps now) and a leather jacket, and a skinny kid who smelled like smoke and pickles or something, and had a rat-tail.

Where were their suits?

Their briefcases?

WTF. I would definitely get the job. Maybe I would go car-shopping later...

I walked into Jake's office when the "secretary" called my name.

I was nervous. It was an interview for crying out loud!!

Jake at least had a tie. He was much younger than I expected. But, he had a nameplate on his desk. That had to count for something.

The interview was like any other. He asked me about my work history, college, "where I saw myself in 5 years..."

I answered with all of my rehearsed responses. He seemed pleased.

He explained that he had been with the company for about a year, and had moved up the corporate ladder at a rapid pace. The "Sports Marketing" aspect never really even came up!

"I would like you to come back tomorrow and "shadow" one of our reps. Then you can see if you like it..."

"OF COURSE!" I would! I would!

"Wear comfortable shoes," he said as I was walking out.

"Okay." Didn't even ask why.

I was on my way to being Sports Marketing Director of the World!

The next morning was dark, cold and rainy.

My crazy ass curls would certainly not cooperate in this weather! I tried like hell to tame my frizz, but alas, put it into a ponytail and headed out. My expertise and professionalism would mask my wild hair.

I had my other suit on, a beautiful white one, with shoulder pads and gold(ish) buttons. Comfortable shoes? Not a chance. This was the big time. I would be fine in heels, thank you very much.

I drove into the city again in the pouring rain.

I ran into the office and was surprised to see skull cap guy and smoky-pickle kid! They were "shadowing," too? Something was wrong.

Jake and another young man came out.

"I'm glad you all came back." He squeaked. From behind the desk, District Manager Jake was a very short, bowlegged dude that may have weighed 100 pounds soaken wet.

"Today you will be going with Roy here on his route. If after a few stops you feel like you can make the approach, feel free. Roy has been at this for a few weeks now, and is soon to start in the manager's program." He said, patting Roy on the shoulder. Wow!

A few weeks? Roy? A manager? Route?

Roy spoke..."I can't fit all of you in my ride...can we take one of your vehicles?"

Skull-Cap: "We can take mine."

What in the world?

I followed that odd bunch right out the door. I had no idea what I was doing when I climbed into the backseat of the little black beater with the license plate "ISLAM 1."

That's right.

I listened as Roy explained our mission. We were going door-to-door selling packets of restaurant and sporting event vouchers.

"Sports Marketing."

The packets were filled with coupons for chain restaurants and passes to local sporting events, most of which I had never heard of.

"There is over $500 in value in these packets and folks are getting them for $20!" Roy was over the moon.

"So we are selling these today? In the rain?" Smoky Pickle asked timidly.

Skull Cap just drove in silence.

"Where are we going?" I finally managed to ask. I had no phone...and no one that cared about me knew what I was doing.

"We are gonna do the Old Orchard-Saco-Biddeford area today."


"You shoulda worn better shoes, hun." Roy said from behind the passenger seat of the Islamobile.

Rain. Wind. I watched My life passing by me out of the backseat of the beater.

Skull cap stopped when Roy asked.

"We'll park here. You can listen to my pitch a few times and then you can take turns trying."


Yup. I was once a Ding-Donger.(see, Roni? I told you).



"I guess nobodys home." Roy said.

I saw the old lady on the roof with binoculars. Of course they were home! Dumbass.


This went on for a few houses. Until finally, a door opened.


"Hi, I'm Roy, and I have a great deal for you tod-"


Next house.

I imagined phones lighting up all across town.


Dogs were barking, people were looking wearily out their windows at this motley crew of soaken wet peddlers of sports marketing.

Finally Roy gave up. "Lets go to another neighborhood."

Smoky Pickle seemed fine with this. So did Skull-Cap. After all, what else did they have to do? I'm pretty sure they were on parole.

They seemed as smitten with this plan as our fearless leader, Roy.

I was freezing cold and soaked. My grown up shoes were ruined. My shoulder pads were sopping wet. My blue eyeliner was running down my face.

Roy went over his pitch that we had yet to hear...

"yaddahyaddahyaddah...a great deal...blahblahblah, just twenty bucks for the standard...twenty five if they want the deluxe..."

"And if they say no?" Skull Cap asked in the deepest James Earl Jones voice I have ever heard...even deeper than the real James Earl Jones...

"I just ask...You ever eat? You ever have fun?"

Oh, yes, Roy. Yes. Of Course. These people will jump right on it after you put it that way. It was the dumbest thing ever.


We parked next to what is most likely the WORST neighborHOOD in Southern Maine. I doubted the inhabitants of these homes did much for fun. Except maybe rob banks and steal cars.

These places didn't even have doorbells to ring.

Roy knocked on the plastic covered area where there may have once been a door.

No answer.

Big Surprise.

We walked up and down streets of the ghetto for hours.

Soaked. Sopping. Dripping. Smoky Pickle with a butt hanging from his lip. He couldn't get it lit...Freezing, numb hands and toes.

And then, the turning point of my day.

The Cops.

Blue lights and all.

I was surprised that it took this long. I had seen several old ladies behind the window curtains on the phone. I would have called the cops, too!

"What are you out here doing today?" The officer asked. I was saved. Maybe he thought I had been kidnapped.

"Officer, we are with ABC..." I could barely hear his explanation. All I could think of was who was I going to call to bail me out of the clink. At least a prison uniform would be dry! I was ready to surrender.

"Could I have your i.d.s, please?"

I almost passed out.

I had left my bag in Islam1. Smoky Pickle said he would have to go back to the car, too.

Skull-Cap seemed at ease with it, as he pulled his out of his pocket, Roy proudly flashed his Company Name Tag.

"You can't be selling this in this neighborhood. No Soliciting unless you have a permit." The officer told us sternly.

Thank The Lord.

I was done.

We walked back to the car.

"Lets go get some lunch and figure out the next area," Roy said, a little rejection creeping into his voice.

Finally, I found my voice of reason.

"You are out of your mind." I told the group. "This is bullS*&t."

I glanced around. I was pretty sure I knew where I was. And I was NOT getting back into that car.

I got my briefcase from the backseat and walked away.

"You can't..." Roy started.

"See ya."

They didn't try to stop me. They piled in and drove off. Gentlemen.

I must have walked two or three miles until I came to town. I saw the oasis of lights from a Burger King sign and stumbled into the parking lot.

Payphone. Sweet, reliable payphone.

I pulled out my quarter and called a friend that I knew could come and rescue me.

I explained where I was, and how I got there.

I have never been so pissed off at myself.

"Don't even ask. Just please come and get me!" I think I was screaming.

He and one of his friends came to pick me up. I left those damned shoes right there under the pay phone. They were ugly, anyway.

Talk about too good to be true.

One of the worst.days.ever.

You know, I ended up with a great job soon after and I guess have been blessed to have a pretty succesful string of real marketing positions. But that lesson of being too good to be true is one that I will pass on to my kids and their kids and so on and so on.

I think I saw Smoky Pickle's mug shot on the news soon after, I don't know. I never got his name.

And ABC Sports Marketing no longer exists, just in case you were wondering.

Thanks For Reading.

Monday, May 17, 2010


There are a few things in this world that annoy me on a consistent basis.

The first is tailgaiting. The second is poor customer service. I am sure in the very near future I will write more on these two irritating phenomenons, but today I am inclined to share my feelings on a new annoyance that has become more and more frequent:

DINGDONGERS. This is the word that I use to refer to the people that go door-to-door peddling their religion.

Now this may offend some of you, but I assure you, that is not my intent.

I usually won't discuss Religion or Politics, as they, well, just don't make funny stories.

We all know the scenario: You're at home, you get the call from a neighbor:

"Just wanted to give you a heads up...the DINGDONGERS are going door to door...
They just left the Smiths and are heading your way!"

Its like a militant neighborhood watch. You can imagine every family sending out orders to other family members:

"Annie! You get in the closet and don't make a peep until I tell you the coast is clear!"

Johnny! You get on the roof with the binoculars. As they approach, signal with three knocks."

"I'll be in the garage waiting. Do NOT-Under any circumstances-Answer the door! Are we clear? Are we clear?!"

"Yes Ma'am."

"Good. Now get to your posts!"

And we wait.

We wait until the two young people with their backpacks walk back down the driveway, down the road to the next house.

Don't they know by now that this has been going on in our homes for years and years?

I wonder: Have they EVER had the door opened and actually CONVINCED the resident to change their beliefs?

Doubt it.

I remember just after I was divorced and living by myself for the first time, I got the call from my neighbor.

"They are in the neighborhood."

Great. Being the newly single mom on the block, I really had no back-up. I was on my own.



"Hi. We were wondering if you had a few minutes to hear about..."

"No. No I don't have a minute." And I did it. I simply closed the door.

The thing was, I felt TERRIBLE. I mean, here these kids were, on a Saturday morning, peddling what most likely were their parents beliefs. I really find it hard to believe this is what two 16 year olds REALLY wanted to be doing. I doubt they think that wearing suspenders and neckties is cool. Maybe I'm wrong, I don't know. But I remember thinking that it would have been better not to have opened the door at all. I vowed I would hide on them forever more.

So over the next few years, I hid. Hiding is not something I do well. Nor do I really feel I SHOULD hide. I am a good person. A good mom, and doggone it, I believe in God. I just don't like DINGDONGERS.

Now, the "typical" peddler isn't as recognizable. Now there are girls. And Grandparent types with kids. How would I know what they wanted if they rang the doorbell?

So recently, something funny happened here at 145 Crazy Road.

It was a sunny Saturday morning. We had been up a little the night before, both kids had colds. Nothing serious...just the typical stuffy-nose-cough that EVERYONE had this past year.

I was in the living room, the kids were downstairs...


Dog barks.

Kids run to the door before I could even look to see who it was.

My husband happened to be home that morning, Thank, um, well...God.

"Tyler!Get upstairs!Kristen take the kids!" Husband ordered in frantic whispers.

"Who is it for Heavens Sake?"

"I don't know, but I think their religious!"

I grabbed both of the kids and put them on the couch, my finger over my lips, eyes wide with pleading panic.

I was curious to see who was at our door, and was surprised to see a young woman getting two kids out of the backseat of her car. Now, any of you that have now or have had young children know what a freaking hassle it is to get two or more kids out of carseats, booster seats, seatbelts, etc..I avoid it at all costs!

But here this woman was, patiently walking up to our door. She couldn't POSSIBLY be doing this for...


"Hi...How are you today?...I hoped to talk with you a bit about Jesus..."

My husband politely interrupted:

"Look, I've been up all night with two sick kids..."

When suddenly both Mackenzie and Tyler bounded from the couch to the top of the stairs, jumping and giggling!

"We're nOt SiCk! DAddY! We'Re NoT SiCk!" They sing-songed, dancing around.

"Mommy! Come see! Daddy! Can they come in?"


My poor husband just stood there. How could he slam the door on a lady with two young kids? After all, he had just fibbed.


So he listened for a minute. She talked about Church, and Parenting, and Jesus.

I was still crouched at my post behind the curtain. Laughing quietly at the kids...oops.

"Thank you but we are all set."

"Would you just take a look at..."

"Nope. We're good. Have a good one!"

I watched her walk back to her car, put both kids back in their seats, toss in her huge bag, and drive right over to our neighbors house. She was going to be at this ALL damned day.

And boy, did I get in trouble!

"You were supposed to hide the kids!"

"I know. Sorry."

Just this weekend I was walking my dog.

Now. When I walk, I WALK. I walk fast. I have those crazy puffy "Shape-Up" sneakers that come with a video to teach you the correct way to walk IN them. When I Walk, I mean business.

I was just about at the top of a hill when I saw an older gentleman and a young(ish) boy walking toward me on the sidewalk.

My dog Casey is very friendly. Most of the time its a good thing. Sometimes.Its.Not.

He walked right up to the men.

"What a great dog! Is it a Golden?"

"Yes." breathebreathesweatalittlebreathe.

"She's beautiful!" The older man gushed. Scratching Casey's ears.

I instictively backed away. Even though he was older, and I could have easily taken down the chubby kid, you never know..

"How often do you walk him/her?"

"Him. I walk him every day."

Then I saw it. THE BIG BAG.


Then out of the blue, the man asked, "Do you believe you will go to heaven?"

Say, What?

He handed me this little blue flyer.

Drat! Now not only do they not LOOK like they used to, but now they approach you on the street!


"Look. My heart rate is coming down. I really have to..."

By now Casey had plunked down in the street and would not get up when I pulled the

"So, DO you believe..."

Flashbacks to all of the times I was forced to hide, or make the call to the neighbors, or get on the roof with binoculars...And I realized how intrusive this was.


A puzzled look washed over his face.

"I am probably NOT going to get to heaven. No way. In fact, I'm pretty sure I am the Captain of the GoingToHell Boat."


"Why do you say that?"

I dragged my dog up and started back on my merry way...

"Well, because I say bad words and think bad thoughts. And I am going to think of more things that I could have said as I continue on with my walk that you interrupted!"

I felt a little sorry. I felt the adrenaline rush that I always feel when in a confrontation. But when words are out, they can't go back in.

I left the two standing there. I didn't look back. I crunched the little blue piece of paper up in my hand.

But I didn't throw it on the ground.

That would be littering.

Littering is bad.

And I plan on going to heaven.

I wonder if there is a doorbell on Heaven's Gate?

Thanks for Reading.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Sweat Shops and A Labor Union

By now we've all seen the cover of the book, "What to Expect When You're Expecting," right?

If you haven't, the cover features a young lady, in a rocking chair, a serene look on her face...It implies that she is expecting her labor to go a smoothly as her last 8 months...and that a Norman Rockwell scene will play out something like this...

"Ooh. Honey, my water just broke!" Yippee!

The young husband grabs the overnight bag that has been packed for weeks, they calmly get into the car and drive to the hospital, where she diligently practices her breathing. The husband holds her hand and wipes her brow, encouraging her lovingly...


Let's just say that I didn't even come close to this.

Here is the story of the magnificent day that Tyler was born.


He was due in September. Of course that meant the last three months of being monstrously preggers would be spent in the hottest months of the year. Typical me.

Here's something you should also know:

I was a terrible pregnant person.

I was uncomfortable from day one.

I gained about 60 pounds each time.

My nose even gained weight.

I would snap at people who told me I was "aglow" by saying, "I am NOT glowing. I AM SWEATING BULLETS."

I craved beef any way I could get it. I was exhausted. I wore the same huge t-shirt for 7 months straight. I was lovely.

So it suffices to say that I did NOT reflect the cover of that book. Not the first time. Not the second time. Not the third.

But I will say that I felt like an expert on labor and delivery by the time it was time to think about having Tyler. The difference was that I was going to have a C-Section. Quite frankly, it sounded Heavenly, and the procedure was scheduled for mid-September.

In July, like with Nick and Mackenzie, I went into early labor. What most women call, "Braxton-Hicks," were full-on contractions that sent me to the hospital each time.

Labor again stopped, and "bed-rest" prescribed, I was ordered to weekly Doctor visits until he was due.

The sweaty, fat, carnivorous beast that was me would be forced full-time on my loved ones for a few more months. (Still sorry, guys).

So it was a HOTHOTHOT day in early August that while in the waiting room at the doctors office, I felt the twingy, twangy, crampiness that I had been feeling for a couple of days.

"Kristen?" The cheerful, skinny, impossibly cute nurse called.

"Right here." I chugged and pushed my massive self off of the chair, sweating like a prize fighter.

I scuffed behind her and just as I was being asked to "Please, step on the scale..." I felt it.



"Are you okay?" She asked as she slid that effing weight down a few more notches.

"Perfect." I growled. "Loving this."

She led me into the room, where a dear friend poked her head in.

"You Okay?"


"The nurse said you were uncomfortable."


The doctor came in finally.

"How are we today."

(Don't you know I wanted to say..."WE are freaking on the cusp of breaking 200 pounds! WE are so fat that WE cannot fit behind the steering wheel! WE are keeping Tums and Maalox in business because WE are chowing Steak Bombs at 7am!")

I didn't say that. Of course.


"Hmmmm. Do you think I should check?"

Now, I am not going to go into graphic detail about what it means to be "checked." Let's just say, if it is presented as an option, I would advise to go with "No."


"Kristen, the nurses said you were showing signs of..."



"Please go ahead and lie back for me."


"Well, Kristen," she said happily, snapping off the gloves. "I hope you don't have any plans today."

"Actually, I am going to Auburn to pick up a dresser." I tried to sound nonchalant.

"You can either go home and rest for a while, or you can go right to the hospital. You are about 4 centime..."


Now, the "expert" should have remembered that in both of my previous labors, it started slow, but sped up reeeeeeeaallllly fast.

"I really feel okay. I think I'll go home and call my husband. He's working in Augusta."

So with a bit of reluctance, she agreed, and said on my way out, "see you later!" She's a funny one.

The doctors office was just about 6 miles from my house. I really didn't think there would be a problem. I had instructions to call the scheduled doctor, and head in when I felt too uncomfortable.

I had no sooner turned from the parking lot when another contraction gripped me.

Cuss words, baby. Cuss words.

By the time I was half-way home, I couldn't even breathe. I'm pretty sure I took the turn into my driveway on two wheels going about 65 miles per hour.

"Oh, My GOD!" Thankfully, my mom was watching the kids.

"Mom. I have got to go NOOOOOOOWWWWW!"


"Holy expletiveexpletiveexpletive!"

"I can't drive! You have to stay with the kids! Chris is in Augusta!(a good 45 minutes away, even for a cop)...

"I'll call your Dad!"


So in moments MY FATHER comes bombing up the driveway. There was no time for a bag, or hugs goodbye. Just screaming in between contractions to call the hospital and Chris and to pray that we made it.

Here's the thing about that Norman Rockwell image: You hear about things going smoothly. You hear about husbands delivering babies in the back seats of cars in the middle of the night. I can honestly say, that AS MUCH as I adore my Dad, the thought of him having to deliver my kid in the back seat of his (relatively, sorry, Dad),beat up Jimmy was really not appealing.

"I'm not going to maaaaaaakeit!!!!!"

Now, not to embarass anyone, but those of you who REALLY know my Dad know that he is a sweat-er. Yeah, thats right. In any given situation, weather condition, red-pepper overloaded, cajun spice covered whatever, my dad sweats bullets. I think its what keeps him sane.

He was dripping, white knuckling that steering wheel. I'm not sure how fast he was going, but I can assure you that he did not want to deliver his grandson in the backseat of his Jimmy, either.

"Just hold on. Jesus Christ, hold on!"

We bombed down the road, Dukes-Of-Hazzard style, and I am pretty sure we were airborn when we arrived in the parking lot of Franklin Memorial.

I think I got into a wheelchair by myself and went right past the greeters.

"Labor?" The asked in unison.

"You think?" I snorted, taking advantage of the last moments I could behave like that and get away with it.

The next thing I remember was being strapped into the monitor, the contraction thingy registering volcanic activity and sending the blips into a screaming, flashing, blur.

I was yelling at my Dad.

He was yelling at the Doctor.


My poor Dad was soaked. I had a death grip on his arm. He couldn't go anywhere.

"Dis bebe ees comeeeng now." This particular doctor has a thick French accent. "What ah you go-eeeng to du?"

"I am supposed to have a c-section!" I managed.

"The father is in Augusta." Dad explained. The contraction machine was on overload. I think it started smoking. I think I also saw smoke steaming from my dad's ears.

"There is no time to wait." The doctor frenched. "If you are going to have c-section, we need to go." He said as he put on a glove.


He was going to ""

Not with my Dad beside me. No Way. It had been traumatic enough already. I was pretty sure that would be a bit too much for Don to take.


After that, I remember seeing him as they wheeled me into "PREP."

I remember seeing smiling people hovering over me. I remember a frantic nurse go past. Hurried whispers. Doors opening and closing.

Where was my HUSBAND? Would he make it in time?

Epidural. Sweet Epidural. All was well.

I felt flippin' fine, as my husband walked into the operating room and sat down behind me.

"They wouldn't let me in with my gun."

"Huh?" I replied dreamily. Forgetting that he came right from work, and well, cops are required to carry a weapon.

He was sweating, too. Lots of perspiration, that day.

The nurses and doctors worked around me, my husband watched. Gross. But, pain free. Fabulous.

Tyler was here.

Now, there is more to this story, but I don't have the time now, and, really, it's not at all funny.

But that day I was reminded just how far a Dad will go to take care of his daughter. And how lucky I am to live so close to my wonderful family. Tyler and my Dad have a special bond, one that some day will be explained by this story told to Tyler, and his un-book-cover-like entry to this world.

If I haven't said it before, Thanks, Dad and Mom.

Thanks, Dr. Bellaire. (You ees truuly de beest).

Thanks, Nurse Manager Who Finally Let My Husband In.

Thanks, Nurses and Doctors who had to check me and weigh me for 7 months.

And, Sorry, Greeters. I was in a bit of a hurry that day.

I'll never be a poster gal for pre-natal stuff, but I make a darn good mom.


I recently torched my copy of the book.

Thanks For Reading.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Table Talk

It's been quite a week already at Crazy Road~I am one tired MAMA!

The last few days have proved a bit, let's say, trying.

My Mom's birthday, Mother's Day, Kiki's Party, Kiki's "ACTUAL" Birthday all falling consecutively.

All of the parties went off without a hitch~except the meltdown that my now "5" year old had when she realized that she had already received her presents during her party, and not on her ACTUAL birthday. Where did she learn the word "actual," anyway? Ugh...onward...

Along with every pink party favor, Barbie cake, pink and purple baloons, Barbie Mermaid dolls, Barbie EVERYTHINGEVERMADE, a ZuZu pet that Casey has fallen in love with and "PLAY MAKEUP" (Thanks, Julie. A Do-It-Yourself-Bubble-Blowing-Confetti-Making-Trampoline will be delivered to your home in a few days. Enjoy.) Kiki got a Baby Doll.

She named her Lola.

I told her once she named a baby, she couldn't change it.

She huffed at me and told me she wished that I had named HER Lola.

"Too late." I reasoned. "Your backpack already has your intitials."


She loves this baby, and I am fascinated with how she takes care of her.

So, onto our recent dinner conversation~

One thing I must tell you is that both of my sons inexplicably despise eating meat. Both Nick and Tyler will gnaw on pork chops for hours before gagging it down with gallons of water, or any other liquid they can get their hands on. Nick has gotten better about pretending he is okay with it, but TYLER will sit at the table for hours after dinner, in the dark, chewing,chewing,chewing the SAME bite before either:

a)I give in and allow him to spit it out


b)he chokes it down, shred by shred, until he opens wide in victory to show me his foodless little monster-mouth.

In any case, it is a continuous struggle.

Last night, I was exhausted, and after sitting down to Kiki's birthday dinner (her favorites: pork chops, garlic shells and "cooked" carrots)I was looking forward to hearing about everyone's day.

"Kiki, how was your morning at school?"


"Hmmm. What else happened?" (Like pulling teeth).

"Well, Lola has to go to the hospital. Can you take us tonight?"

"Nannie and Bup are coming over for cake tonight...What's wrong with her?"

"She has a feeve. I think she has 'slu-ergies."

"SLU-ERGIES? That sounds terrible!"

"FLU-ergies. You know, the SNOTS?"(she sometimes replaces "fl" with "sl").

She looked so cute in her yellow shirt and braids...I had to laugh.

"You mean ALLERGIES?"

"Yes. I need to go check on her." And off she went, to check on her snotty, slu-ergy baby doll, Lola.

So that left me and Tyler. With a mouth full of chops.

I started glancing at a Victoria's Secret magazine that came in the mail. It was going to be a while before he finished.

After arguing, pleading, negotiating and mind-gaming about why he needed to take just a couple more bites, he looked at me with those huge, dark brown, impossibly long lashed eyes and said,

"Don't woowy Mama, I won't let you down."

And that little bugger chewedandchewedandchewed aaaaaannd....



He is always so proud when he accomplishes this.

He came over to me, crawled up on my lap and looked at the "BOMBSHELL" edition of Vicky's that I was glancing through.

"What's that?"

"It's for girls, Tyler."

He pointed at the just-turned-16-year-olds fanny.

"She's in huh unda-waya!"

"Yes, Ty. She is."

"THATS DISGUSTING!" He said, still looking closely.

"Yes, Ty. It is."

"On second thought. She's pwetty."

Oh, God.

"Does yowah fanny wook wike dat?"

"No, Ty. It doesn't. Go wash your hands."

"Can I take this and show Nick?"

"No Ty."


Later that night, I was doing our ritual "Rock-A-Baby" with him.

"Tyler, I'm proud of you for finishing your dinner tonight. You didn't let me down."

He looked at me, nose to nose and said,

"Mama. I'm being honest hee-ah. I just about frew up. Pork chops suck. Gnight!"

He hopped off and onto his cute little Thomas The Tank bed, grabbed E-WAH, and rolled right over, falling asleep instantly.

I rocked for a few seconds more, thinking of the crazy things kids say and do and think.

Dinner conversations about flu-ergies and fannies...invisible friends and cooked carrots. All normal stuff here at 145 Crazy Road...and I'm loving it.

Thanks For Reading.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Here's To You

Here's to the MOM with the crazy life
Here's to the MOM, the worker, the wife
Here's to the MOM, the teacher, the cook
To the MOM who can silence with
Here's to the MOM who works full time
Balances checkbooks to the dime
Here's to the MOM in the grocery store
3 kids screaming, fits on the floor
Here's to the MOM who wipes away tears
To the one who calms the deepest fears
To the MOM still trying to lose the belly
Who cleans kids "everythings" that are filthy and smelly
The Easter Bunny, Santa, and of course The Tooth Fairy
Who keeps it together, no matter how weary.
To the MOM who has a child overseas
Fighting for Freedom~pray for them, please.
To the MOM who has suffered the heartbreak and pain
Of losing a child, pray the sadness will wan
To the single MOM who is doing her best
To the MOM who helps study for the algebra test
Here's to the DAD who has become Mommy, too
And the GRANDMOMS raising kids again, Here's to you!
Here's to the STEPMOMS who love just as much
Here's to the PETMOMS, of Dogs, Cats and such~
If you're potty training, nose wiping, doing your best
If you are facing graduation, a new empty nest~
To the MOM who is searching for the perfect dress
For the prom or wedding(or two~no less)!
Thanks to the MOM who packs healthy lunches
Who loves to get dandelions help up in bunches~
Here's to the MOM finding new gray hair
And crying a bit at the wear and tear!
Who throws away her "mommy jeans"
And worries about the perils of teens
Here's to the MOM going back to school
Here's to the MOM who is nobodys fool
Here's to the MOM whos child may be ill,
Her faith may be tested by what is God's will
Here's to the MOM figuring out how to text~
Who takes on each challenge, then says, "NOW, WHAT'S NEXT?"
The MOM in a mini-van, every seat packed
The MOM who sees to it~laundry folded and stacked
The MOM who picks up, drops off, runs around crazy
To the MOM who no-one had better call lazy
To the MOM who is feeling too heavy, too old
To the MOM who powers through seasons of flu and cold
She truly IS too tired for sex.
To the MOM who waits in the pouring rain
Through extra innings in a tie-game
Who comforts that player, when that game is lost
Or Celebrates victory, no matter the cost~
Here's to the MOM who doesn't get "twitter"
Who worries through "date night" about a new sitter
Here's to the MOM who sticks to what's right
Even when her "grown up" puts up a fight.
She closes the door to have a good cry
Sometimes she doesn't even really know why
Here's to the MOM who listens and smiles
Who silently sorts through laundry piles
Here's to the MOM who waits up nights
Till she sees the relief of the cars headlights~
Pulling in, kids home safe again
Wondering where in the world they have been
Balancing everything, come what may
Never letting anything get in her way~
For all that you are, for ALL that you do~
Happy Mother's Day everyday...
Here's to YOU!

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Taking Care of Fishness

"UUUMMMMM...What is THAT?" I asked with a tone of clear dismay. I was picking Nick up from school a couple of months ago.

"It's my project. I have to bring it home. My teacher said so." Nick replied, not daring to look at my shocked face.

THAT~was a plastic soda bottle, filled with brownish water, green "algae-ish" stuff floating on top, and rocks on the bottom.

"What's in there?"

"A fish. And two snails." He said matter-of-factly. He was holding onto it for dear life.

"OOOOH NOO. No Way. You are not going to bring that in the house."

"But Mama! I have to! What else am I gonna do with it?"

Flashbacks. Bird. Dennis.(A prior "temporary" pet. R.I.P)

"I am NOT taking care of it. I can see exactly what is going to happen," as I watched the murky mini-swamp splach up the sides of the makeshift "fishtank."

"Mama. We don't have to do anything. The fish(named "FISHY")eats the algae and the snails clean the water."

"The snails?"

"Yeah. They're on the bottom, SEE?"

I swerved as he put the bottle close to my face.

"GET IT AWAY!" I screamed. "Nick! For crying out loud!"

Nick cackled in what I can only describe as a "sinister" laugh. He knew. Oh, he knew.

"What do you think the rugrats are gonna do when they find out whats in there?"

"I'll put it up high on the shelf." He had this all figured out.

Gross. I was going to have to go along with it. I could see this clearly. I could visualize the moment that thing got knocked off the shelf, the brown life-water soaking the carpet, leaving fishy smell in its wake for years. The fish, pathetically flopping around, the snails rolling into places that I would end up finding years later...the green slimy stuff, plastered all over the walls....

"You are NOT to touch this ~ EVER!" I said, knowing I sounded like a lunatic.

"It's a mosquito-fish." he told me.

"Even better," I thought. "Even better."

And so Nick brought his aquarium into his room and placed it high on the shelf, and, for the most part, it went un-noticed.

I did check on that thing every once in a while. I couldn't help it. I didn't say it, but I guess I grew a bit fond of it. I marveled at the fact that it WAS self sufficient, and wondered if I took the little black snails out every once and a while and set them about, would they clean my house?

It brought me back to a time when I "adopted" a fish from a co-worker. We named him Dennis. My friend Tina had him in her office for a while, and asked me one day if Nick would like to have him. "YES." Of course he would. She told me that he probably wouldn't live too long. Hhmmmm.

I decked that fishbowl out Sex-In-The-City style and put it on my kitchen counter. The fish was actually beautiful. Nick could not have cared less. So, it became my fish. And for the next two years, I fed that thing, and even cleaned the bowl. I would scoop him into a cup while I cleaned and arranged his "fish-pad." I talked to him about my problems, made kissy-fishy faces at him. Nuts.

We named him Dennis, at the time there was a Disney show with a very smart talking fish named Dennis. He was like a little swimming encyclopedia. Our Dennis couldn't talk of course, but I think he was very jealous if there was ever another male around. I was Ariel. He was my Flounder.

Dennis lived for more than two years, and on the day that I found him belly-up. I really did tear up as I flushed. I think I loved him.

Anyway, back to the present.

About last night:

It was a rainy day, as some of you know. Nick came home from his baseball game, and went right up to his room.

I was cleaning up in the kitchen and Nick came down and hugged me.

"Fishy is dead."


"Dead." He said, and bounded up to his room.

"Crap. He IS dead." I wondered if there was something more I could have done. He was just floating there.

Nick started to reach for it.

"NO!" I snapped. "I'LL take it."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"I'm going to toss it into the woods."

"Right now?" He asked.

"Yes. I don't want dead fish hanging around...And knowing there are snails in the house creeps me out."

So I gently lifted the bottle off the shelf and carefully went downstairs. I didn't want the kids to know what was doing, I didn't need an audience. I only trusted myself to do this deed. No more hands in the cookie jar.

I was barefoot as I stepped onto the back steps, not really thinking about the fact that is had been raining, and with rain comes...


"Oh JeEEEEEeeeeZZz..." I looked down and what looked like hundreds of brown, slithering goobies slimed around my bare feet. I turned to go back up the stairs, tripped, and dropped "Fishy" onto the backstairs.

The exact scenario that I had imagined played out to a tee, only the water splashed onto the screen door, the rocks and green stuff went flying, and God only knows where the fish and snails went.

They are currently missing.

"Nice going, Mama." Nick could not control his giggles.

"Quiet down. Go to bed."

Then the husband entered.



"What? It doesn't smell." Yes.It.Did.

I simply closed the screen and prayed for more rain to wash my mess away. I hopped in the shower and scrubbed away any remnants of Fishy.

I sprayed everything with Febreez and Lysol and thought I had done a pretty good job of masking the smell...

"Could you check this milk?" My husband asked, as my youngest came running into the kitchen.

"MAMA! The milk smells like fwow-up!"


Now the smell of milk-gone-bad was mixing with the dead fishy water puddle on the back steps.



I had all I could take.

Dennis, if you're up there in "Kevin," be on the look out for Fishy. He may have two snails in tow. I am certain you will have a fishy laugh at my expense.

Oh, the things we Mamas do.

Today is a new day. I am plugging my nose.

Thanks for reading.

Monday, May 3, 2010

All Dogs Go To Kevin: A Glossary Of Terms

If you are going to continue to read this blog, even occasionally, there are some terms you might need to know. Here are a few, with some explanations, and how they fit into our life here at 145 Crazy Road:

Warning: Some of these are a little gross.

Bup: Nickname for my dad, the kids grandfather and all-around hero. He is the best "daycare" around. The Lego-building expert, The Teacher of Willie Nelson's "Blue Skies," The rescuer, The FishermanOutdoorsManFireTruckseeker,
The coffee-bringer-when-i-really-need-one, best labor-partner(story to follow), a gal and her kids could ever ask for.

Boogah-pickas: The term my husband gave to my beloved tweezers when he started using them to get boogers out of my kids' noses. Now, whenever I am using my NEW tweezers the way they are intended, one of my kids inevitably shows up and asks me if I have boogers in my eyebrows. Thanks, Honey.

Butter-sly: Mackenzie sometimes slips and replaces "fl" with "sl." Buttersly, Sloor, slip-slops. Too cute to correct just yet.

Caramel-Sue: Mackenzie's translation of the ever-popular Italian classic, Tiramisu. I started making this dessert(an easy recipe)around Christmastime and everyone in my family loves it. Mackenzie just cannot grasp the real word, and when she asks if I'm making CARAMEL-SUE, it's again, just too cute to correct her.

Casey: Our beloved Golden Retriever

Cuckah-Suckah: The term that Bup made up for the septic trucks that pass by our house, and pounded into Tylers personal bank of language. "Look, Mama, it's a CUCKAH-SUCKAH!" Sometimes, he uses it when he's mad at me and wants to call me names. "MAMA! You Cuckah-Suckah!" Thanks, Bup!

E-WAH: Tyler's beloved stuffed "EEYORE" from Winnie-The-Pooh. This pathetic-looking stuffed donkey is his pride and joy, and Heaven help us if he is temporarily missing at bedtime. The whole family goes into search and destroy mode until he is found. The fact that his tail is STILL attached is unbelievable to me, as Tyler totes him, swings him, twists him and drags him by it, day in, and day out.

FWANK: Tyler's name for Nick's dad FRank.

Goobie-Gettahs: Q-tips. Enough said.

Joe: Tyler's imaginary friend. Joe steals things, but then loses what he steals. He is currently in the hospital having shots. He got sick from drinking too much chocolate milk.

Kevin: Mackenzie's misunderstood version of HEAVEN. Recently, Bup and Nannies dog "Buddy" passed away. We explained that he went to Heaven, where he would be comfortable and happy. Mackenzie asked us the other night when we could go see "Kevin."

"Who is Kevin?" I asked.

"You know, KEVIN! Where Buddy and MayMay(my memere)went!"

"Oh! You mean HEAVEN!" I asked.

"Yeah. Whatever. Can we take the bid red truck there?" She asked.

"Well, no, Keek. We can't take the truck. We need wings." This would take a while.

"Like Tinkerbelle?"

"Sort of."

"Do all dogs go to Kevin?"

"Yes, Kiki. All dogs go to Kevin."

Kiki, Keek: Tyler's nickname for his big sister, Mackenzie. He started saying it when he first started talking and it stuck.

Mini-Mouse, Mini-Me, Mini: My nicknames for my daughter, who, indeed, looks just like me.

Nannie: My Mom. The world's busiest, most beautiful, stylish, clever, problem solving, baseball to barbie expert there ever was. Retired? HAHAHA!
She takes care of ALL of us. She is the frog-fearing originator of almost all of my traits, habits and quirks, including over-the-top party planning, worrying non-stop, and possibly loving my children more than I ever thought possible. Love you, CB!

Pink-Oh-Boy: Kiki's pink satin blanket that has slept beside her since she was a baby. We used to rub her little face with the satin side and say, "oh, boy! doesn't that feel soft?" Hence, "Pink-oh-boy." There is also a "Black-oh-boy" that is actually blue, but at this point, who cares?

Stacy: Kiki's imaginary friend. Stacy and Kiki have amazing conversations on the phone at night. Stacy has purple nail polish and picks her nose. She frequently spends the nights with us because her mom owns a restaurant.
She recently suffered a case "of the ticks." It put her in the hospital for almost a week, after going on a "hunt" with her father.

Turd-Alert: (tauw-d-a-lauwt)Thanks again to my husband, who taught Tyler that when he passes gas before pooping, that is called a turd-alert. Can't wait for him to inform his new classmates next year of this one.

TylerRamma-Bo-Bamma-Alabama-Slamma-In-His-PAJAMAS: The little song I sing to him every morning when he wakes up and comes into the room, dragging E-WAH, and crawls into my lap for our morning snuggle.

Tyler-Riffic: Another nickname for him.

Well, those are some of the terms I hear on a daily basis. Some funny, some gross, but all endearing~ All certain to make me smile, shake my head, and at the end of the day, find a little humor.

Thanks For Reading.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

A Few Funny Moments

Whats been happening around here?

All kinds of things. Sports. Work. Planning. Kids. Broken doors and grocery stores. Unscheduled mishaps and deadlines.

So many things I can't remember all of the details, but here are a few that have brought a little laughter to my life in the past few days, hope these snipets bring a little laughter to your day, today.

Stacy update:

Kiki informed me that Stacy will be staying with us for a while longer.

Why? Oh, because she went on a hunt(?)with her dad and got a "case of the ticks" on her back. She's gonna be fine, though. The doctor said she could start eating again this week. That's a relief!

2) We Need To Have A Talk

The other night Kiki and Ty were at each others throats about who was going to sit on the "dirty bench." (The dirty bench is the one that Kiki wrote her name all over with black sharpie). I had had enough of the bickering and took both benches away, forcing the bandits to stand and eat their snack. Kiki did NOT like this tactic and stormed off to her room, leaving Tyler by himself.

"There, Ty." I reasoned. "Are you happy now?"

"No. I miss her."

"Well. Was it worth fighting over a dumb thing like who sits on what bench?"

"No." Tyler said, hanging his head. He left the room and headed upstairs.

"KIIIIIK?" He sang, banging on her slammed-shut bedroom door.

"Kiki?" He said, sounding very much like a grown up. "We need to have a talk."

Her door opened, the reconciliation began.

For a three-year-old, that kid is a damned good maker-upper.


By Friday evening, we were two worn out 'rents. It had been a crazy week of traveling around, working, scheduling...and the two little ones had been less than co-operative for a few days. The effects of the hectic week had clearly taken it's toll on all of us. Just before bedtime, the last "mommy straw" had snapped. The whining, sassy tone that was coming from my usually sweet, polite daughter was something that I simply could not tolerate. Thankfully, my husband honed in on my near meltdown, and swiftly stepped in to play "the nice parent."

"Kiki, go in your room and get your p.js on, then we'll read your new books."

"No."(Sometimes, I cannot believe that they JUST DON'T KNOW WHEN TO QUIT)!


So Kiki defiantly went to her room. I sat down on my bed, exhausted. (I rarely sit anywhere until after 9pm.
After dinner. After clean-up. After bedtime stories.
After singing "twinkle-twinkle."
After work report.
After...well, you get the picture.

Mommy was fried.

I heard my husband go into her room to check on her progress.


wait for it...


"OOOOH!" I thought as I sat there listening to my poor husband struggle, trying to find the words to get his point across. He was exhausted, too.

There was my laugh of the day.

He came into the bedroom where I was still sitting, paralyzed with laughter.

"What are you laughing at?"

" little...girl?..." I could barely get the words out between giggles.

Then he started laughing. "I don't even know what to say anymore!"

Then both of the kids started fussing about something or other, and I told my husband to shut the door.

He looked at me like he was seeing a crazy person.

I felt like one.


Once the kids heard the door shut, they came running to it.


"Go Away." I said sternly.


"GO. Go do whatever you want! Go get your own milk! Go fight with each other. I am done for the day. So is your poor father!" I couldn't believe what I was saying.


My husband and I just sat there, staring at each other. What were we doing?!

Then, the negotiations began. Them on one side of the door. Us on the other.

"FINE! We are going to watch a movie!"(KIKI)


"FINE! GO AHEAD!" Yikes. They were just smart enough to get the movies(see prior story) AND get the new box of ice-cream-bars from the freezer.

It was getting late. They couldn't have ice cream now!

We listened. I think they briefly went downstairs, but realized there were no lights on.

HAHA! Score one for the MAMA AND DADDY!


Thump. Thump. More Footsteps.

Then we heard the music.

Kiki was strumming her guitar, and Tyler "playing" his electronic(ish) guitar(big mistake, Santa).

Then. Our little rock stars began belting out their musical plea:


strum. strum. strum.


good stuff!


This was priceless.

Daddy and I were in a fit of laughter, both shushing each other so we could hear these woe-ful lyrics, with Tylers rendition of "Don't Stop Be-weevin," artfully mixed into Kiki's loud, pleading original.

Then, more silence.

Concert over.


"Yes?" I answered.


"Yes we did."

"Can you open the door and be our parents again?"

I opened that door so fast. This whole occurrence took less than 15 minutes. I really missed them. Whining. Fussing. Sassiness. and all.

Kiki came in and hugged us.

Tyler strolled in next.

Looked at us with his "mean" face. Shook his head, turned to walk out, and said simply:

"You guys are weirdos."(wee-id-ows).

Aaahh. Another Day In Paradise.

Now you are caught up on some crazy, funny, loving moments here at Crazy Road.

Thanks For Reading.