it happened. again.

The key to nowhere happened…again.

Tim is convinced our post office dude dudette (as I learned from the post office) is smoking the Mary Jane. I’m inclined to agree.

We cannot even figure out how this happens. A mail person has a package for us. It’s too big to fit in the small, personal mailbox. So, instead, they place it in a larger mailbox. The larger mailbox has a key. The large box and the key have a matching number, say 2.

That key – the one that opens the larger box where our package is, is placed into our small, personal mailbox, so when we get our mail, we see the key, look at the number on the attached keychain, and then open the larger box matching that number.

Inside the larger box?

Our package?

Nope.

The key to nowhere.

Shouldn’t that be Mail Delivery 101?

PACKAGES ONLY IN THE GIANT BOX. NO KEYS. ALWAYS.

The next morning, I took the key up to the post office. I pressed for answers but the post office people couldn’t even explain it, other than to stare at me blankly, write my address on a post it, tell me they’d look for my package, and that they had “a lot of mail yesterday.“

Ok…ummm….that’s your…job?….

So, later that afternoon, I go and retrieve the mail, with a very low expectation as to what I would find.

And then this happened.

I had to take a picture because I couldn’t even believe it myself.

(And yes, my address is blurred out but that’s THE POST IT from earlier in this story.)

Does that look like #3 to you???

Me either.

Want to see what was in Box #3 – which was broken, by the way?

And to make it even more amusing?

That certainly does not look like the third box from the left.

I’M JUST SAYING.

Dear USPS: Your mail delivery people apparently never learned their numbers OR how to count. In other words, they need HALP.

******

Also? Before this key debacle, Kellan received this in the mail. I meant to share it earlier this week but I currently have a child who wants me to help him walk EVERYWHERE and that leaves little time for anything else, including eating. We got to the bathroom in pairs, now, in case you’re wondering how that all works out.

Anyhow…

To make a fairly long story short, I’ve been on the hunt for dragon baby stuff, since Kellan was born in the year of the dragon in Chinese culture. I know I talked about this a loooooong time ago – probably a year ago – on here.

Except, I’m just now realizing that I should have probably collected neat dragon things for Kellan’s box like, a year ago, but, that never happened and now, hello, baby requiring 110% of my time.

Anyway, so I come across this book all about the year of the dragon and decide that, like those Wolf Creek blocks (that I found and purchased, by the way), I must have it. The book is perfect. Kellan will love it (when he’s old enough to appreciate it)!

And, yooooou guessed it: CAN’T FIND IT ANYWHERE. The 2013 book? No problem. Same with every other year except 2012.

So, what’s a girl who can’t take a baby on a wild goose chase to do?

Email the author on a whim, hoping he can help.

And help he did – what a sweet and thoughtful gesture!! Not only does Kellan get to have this book as a keepsake, it is signed by the author and also contains a nice note to Kellan on a card.

I was truly blown away.

There are still amazing, kindhearted people in the world who will do something special for a complete stranger.

And I am so thankful that I have come across one those people.

i’m judging you

Is it bad that I judge people based on their cars?

Wait. It’s deeper than that (not really, but let’s pretend).

If you have a sketchy looking beater car with dents and rust and scratches?

I am afraid of you.

Well, maybe bot afraid, per se, but I definitely give you a leery eye all, “I’m onto you.”

Lucky for me? There are two of these particular kinds of cars in our neighborhood. One with rust, one without. Both fitting the sketchy, you belong on CSI and not in the crime fighter type way description.

Every time Kellan and I go on a run (which hasn’t happen in awhile…no judgement…I’m already judging myself for you), I am terrified someone is going to jump out with a shank and rob me. Or something. Kind of pointless to rob a runner (“Give me your….your….hmm….your….damn….YOUR SHOES!…?”).

But that’s beside the point.

I give both cars the Bold eye (I learned from Tim. Ask him to do it for you sometime. You’ll turn to stone. Immediately.) because *if* anyone *is* in there or behind it or watching me?

I want them to know I mean business and my kid looks weak but he’ll kick the crap out of your balls…just ask my husband…AND I HAVE PEPPER SPRAY! SEE! SEE IT?!

And these people who own these cars?

They play right into the sterotype and park the things ON THE SIDE OF THE STREET instead of in the garage or the driveway.

So you can see my fear is totally founded in facts. Solid. Facts.

****BACK STORY****

I feel obligated, now, to say something else. I never grew up with new cars. We had this blue Toyota van that had zero air conditioner (hello, blistering hot Georgia summers and eight hour drives to Florida) and is actually probably still running, somewhere. That car WILL. NOT. DIE. After my mom finally decided to part ways with it, it went to someone else…and then someone else after that…and now it’ll probably end up in our driveway one day soon…like a lost dog finds it’s way…anyhow. *I* never had a new car, either. I had old cars. Used cars. Cars with 100k plus mileage on them by the time they made their way to me. So, I have nothing against keeping a car or having an old car. I just have issues with scary looking cars because I actually had one follow me during a run once and the giant dudes – three of them – inside were up to no good and let’s just say had I not had the wherewithal to dive into and hide in the bushes while they drove past me, at a snails pace, I might not be here right now, writing this.

****END BACK STORY****

Then, one day not too long ago, on our way home from a run, we met the owner of the non-rusty beater car while he was standing in the driveway coming at me with a shank retrieving a ping pong ball.

His young son was waiting in the garage behind a ping pong table.

The dude smiled and said hello.

I froze.

Do I smile? You have a kid! You are normal! And you are not scary!

BUT YOU HAVE A SKETCHY CAR!

My brain still isn’t even sure what to think about this whole “situation.”

I’m going to wrap Christmas presents now. That seems like a safe plan.

i made that

For anyone who is a parent…have you ever had a moment where you sat back and looked at your child like, “Wow. I MADE THAT.”

Especially us women.

Because, really, we actually made that.

I’ll never forget the first time I looked at Kellan and thought, “So that’s you.”

The you who kicked me at 3am or who stuck their little bum up in my ribs or who got the hiccups all the time and I’d put my hand on my belly, hoping to pacify you, if only just a little bit.

You.

It is kind of an otherworldly experience, really, because that tiny person started out as two cells – TWO CELLS – and now, look at him.

Mr. Personality.

Mind blowing.

This little person who I knew last year as – literally – a bump that moved and punched and hiccuped and gave me heartburn. One year later, he’s a lively baby boy who does all of that, still, minus the heartburn.

They are born…and then they grow…it’s a little person. A teeny, tiny human.

I made a teeny tiny human.

MADE ONE.

From basically nothing.

That’s like, crazy alien type stuff right there.

I legit grew another person.

Until this actually happens to you, you really have no idea how crazy weird that it all really is. I think seeing the end result – a la baby – is where it finally hits you like WHOA.

TEENY TINY PERSON.

I did that.

Obviously, I am failing miserably to find an eloquent way to say this. You know, I don’t think there is an eloquent way to explain the feeling and the reality behind tiny person creation. If you find any, it was probably written by a man who has no idea what he’s talking about.

Their “part” in the creation process is all of two seconds…or five seconds…minutes…whatever.

They don’t…they can’t know.

Well, until the baby is actually here, in the flesh, and then their eyes get all big and they’re like, WHOA.

YOU MADE THAT.

y-o-u

I know I don’t say it enough. Let’s be honest. Who does, really?

I am thankful for you.

You who listen to me drone on and on and on about NO SLEEP and BABY and WHY ME.

You who subscribe to my blog – I get so, so excited whenever I see an email saying someone has subscribed. It doesn’t happen all the time but when it does?

Happy face!

You who comment…even though I rarely comment back. I read all of them. I comment to all of you in my brain, each and every time. And then Kellan needs something or I forgot I was supposed to be doing something or I start thinking about something and completely forget what I was doing previously. All excuses, really, and pretty poor ones at that. I will try to be better. Just know I love your comments and they are never unnoticed or unappreciated. EVER.

I used to be so crazy about blog stats – like obsessive crazy – to the point I would check them all the time, hourly…by the minute if I thought I had posted something extraordinarily fantastic. I told myself I had to stop caring.

Having a baby will make it happen.

It’s not that I don’t care about YOU WHO READ. It’s that I no longer care if I have more people read than yesterday or if my stat graph starts to look super sad and low. If you come to read, you are awesome. If you don’t, I’m ok with that, too. I know I’m not always super interesting. I think I’m pretty boring, actually, so I’m impressed you’ve hung on this long.

Impressed…and grateful.

For some reason, just writing words without people reading them does not have the same cathartic effect as writing them and you reading. YOU reading is what makes the difference. I’m not sure why. However, if you stopped reading, I would want to stop writing…in a way…and that would be sad, right?

Some of you are actual, in real life friends. Some are bloggy friends. Some of you I don’t even know and have no idea you’re reading in the first place. Some of you may come and go…I have no idea.

Point is, I am happy you are here. I am grateful you come to my little corner of obscurity. I am glad you share a little bit of our life with us.

Thank you.

I’ve set aside a nice chunk of my advertising revenue each month for giveaways, like a KitchenAid mixer. I like buying them for the audience, because without the audience I wouldn’t have the blog or the revenue in the first place. Ree Drummond

(and for the record, I make zero dollars from this blog, so I can’t give away a KitchenAid mixer, though I wish I did and could…maybe one day…)

(also for the record, Ree Drummond – aka The Pioneer Woman - is all sorts of awesome. I’d like her to teach me how to cook…just sayin)

woe, woe, the ravages of time

I go through these cycles – maybe I’m not alone in this – where I feel just…wiped.

Exhausted.

Burnt.

I have zero energy even though I’m getting the same amount of sleep. It’s like one day bleeds into another and there is just no….end.

I think I am finally coming out of another one of these…episodes? I have no idea what to call them? It’s like the magical energy fairy comes in the middle of the night and breathes life back into me. Or maybe it’s because I’m exercising more days of the week than not. Something.

Randomly, I was reading about breast feeding and the hormones that go along with it and how sometimes a mother will almost feel depressed when her child weans because of the hormones that go along with weaning.

YIKES.

Lately, Kellan has stopped nursing AS MUCH as he used to (read: all night long most nights, a handful of times throughout the day and now down to once – maybe twice – at night and a handful of times throughout the day), so maybe I’m getting a small taste of what those hormones feel like? It’s probably a good thing it has been a slow process so far (the decrease in nursing) because WOW if I had to stop cold turkey.

White room, padded walls, please.

I really had no idea how crazy hormones could make a person until now. The imbalance? Your body trying to get back into balance?

WHOA.

No thank you.

I already had a difficult enough time every few months (because why would I be *normal?* Exactly).

But I had my cues and those would clue me on onto why I was feeling all “Oh, woe, woe, the ravages of time….”

For instance?

I MUST HAVE CHEESE FOR DINNER?

It was only a matter of time (read: hours) before my (not)BFF was coming to town.

Now?

I have no cues. No clue. And lots of up and down. Not like down like I’m crying in a corner, feeling like the world is caving in on me. More like sheer exhaustion, frustration over little things (but never with Kellan), wanting to not feel like a frumpy mom, the desire to just have a short break to be able to pee in peace and the constant “I never seem to have enough time to do X and Y and LMNOP.”

THAT kind of down. But not sadness down. Just over-tired, down.

Though right now, I feel really “up” but I am attributing that to Kellan and my play date today where I learned that I am NOT. ALONE.

However, with the “down,” the hormones seem to make it worse because the hormones make the big picture hazy and that is hard to see through, sometimes.

Tack on Tim and I still trying to find our own balance being married with a child (because that is totally different from just being married) and WOE, WOE, THE RAVAGES OF TIME.

I have never been more grateful to have found friends in the mom’s group I joined however long ago.

They definitely help clear the haze and show me that I’m not abnormal when it comes to things like this.

It just is…like this…until Kellan gets older and things get better and life gets just a little bit easier.

(and until the hormones finally stabilize…which isn’t going to happen until well after Kellan weans himself…and I have no idea when that is going to take place because I’m taking a passive approach to that as in: WHENEVER YOU’RE READY, BUDDY)

i am who i am

There was a time (read: my freshman year, between weeks one and maybe four) in college when I REALLY wanted to be in a sorority. I wanted to break out of my little shy shell and try to be more outgoing and fun and RAH! RAH! (I really have no idea if that’s what happened in sororities).

So, what’s a girl who wants to bust out of her shell do during her first few weeks in college?

RUSH.

I went to a small school and there were only three different sororities, so choices were slim. I knew which one I *really* wanted to be in, which one I would be happy in and which one I definitely didn’t want to be part of.

Apparently, I was not at all prepared for what I was supposed to do during these “meet and greet” things with each sorority (I feel like I write ororororo too many times with that word). I mean, talk about pressure.

I had one night for about thirty minutes to try and impress the person, who was already in the sorority that you are randomly buddied up with, enough to suggest I be invited back for round two.

(I can’t seem to make that sentence make sense…you get what I’m trying to say…)

That whole small talk, “Pick me I’m awesome!” situation didn’t go very well for me.

The first person in the sorority I *really* wanted to be in didn’t really seem to click with me or maybe I didn’t click with her. I don’t know. There was a lot of awkward silence. And that’s not a good thing – FYI.

In the second sorority meet and greet, the sorority I would be happy with but wasn’t my first choice, the person I was buddied up with was all, “Technically, I’m on probation so my opinion doesn’t exactly count when it comes to bringing in new members.”

Grrrrreat.

I remember mostly nothing about the third sorority – one because I wasn’t really interested in even being there but had to (if you rushed, you had to go to all three the first night…I think…or so I remember…maybe I’m remembering wrong and didn’t even have to go…I digress) and two because I was already so defeated from what happened in the other two that I was just…wiped. Drained. Defeated.

The next step?

We had to wait to see if we got a slip of paper in an envelope on our dorm door with the name of each sorority (if any) that wanted to see you again the next night.

Go ahead. Guess which ones *I* was invited back to?

Yup.

The third one.

And only the third one.

Punch right to the gut.

It’s like “Welcome to college!!” annnnnnnd rejection!

They really should plan that part better. I mean, who wants to go to class when the sororities you wanted to be part of just rejected you?

When half the basketball team was already in – or accepted into – the sorority you wanted to be in?

When a member of that same sorority is also your peer mentor in your college 101 class?

FAIL.

You can imagine I just crawled right back into my little shy shell and stayed there, all throughout college. I went to class. I went to practice. I was quiet and nice and was again known for the same things as I was in high school. I was ‘the basketball player.’ The quiet basketball player that no one *really* knew.

I am still sometimes bothered about that whole experience – and by whole I mean more than my complete crash and burn when it came to RUSH. Do I think that had I actually been *in* a sorority that I would have come out of my shell?

Probably.

Would I have better learned to make and keep friends that were girls?

Probably.

Am I bitter?

Not really.

It has taken me this long to actually come out of that shell and say to hell with anyone who decides they don’t want to be my friend or they don’t want me in their little circle. I’m ok with that because, hello. I was rejected from little circles already once and there is not a more public feeling of rejection than the one that comes with sorority selection. Or lack thereof.

So, I’m probably a stronger person when it comes to being “rejected” so to speak (I know rushing isn’t technically REJECTION – but it certainly feels like that when you’re on the outside, looking in) and I am also less afraid to put myself out there – the real “me” – than I was in college. I think that came with inner growth and maturity and realizing that I mean, really, what is there to lose in the grand scheme of things?

Nothing.

In my college brain, after getting the shun from the sororities, I figured you can’t lose if you don’t play, right?

But you can’t win, either.

So, I finally decided to play instead of sit on the sidelines.

Shy girl has gone by the wayside. Finally.

And if you like my dry sarcasm, goofiness, and general lack of brain-to-mouth filter?

Awesome.

If not?

……..your….loss?

PS: Buffness still in action. Did a late afternoon run with Tim and Kellan yesterday and planning to do another today as well. It is FREEZING in the morning (20s), so….yah.

it was supposed to happen yesterday…

(Just pretend you read all of this yesterday…or that it is yesterday…because that’s when it all happened and not when this was posted because life happened and hitting the ‘Publish’ button didn’t. The end)

Day one. Well, technically, day two. Either way, Tim was out the door this morning at 3-something to get his run in and Kellan and I went later on, so we’re both working on our daily buff. Apparently there are 100 days until the end of this competition he has at work.

2 down.

98 to go.

Now, can we talk about something else that is entirely more pertinent?

Like this bird situation we are STILL having?

Kellan and I came home from our run this morning and found that a bird sacrifice had taken place in our front lawn.

I’m pretty sure that is a headless bird by our new tree that I was planning on watering today. I can’t be for certain because I’m not about to get close to it and it go all voodoo on me.

I have no idea why the birds would decide to do something like this. It’s not like it will help their situation. Like, at all.

Strength in numbers, fellas.

Over the weekend, Tim had to clean up two more dead birds in our side yard.

It’s getting beyond ridiculous. BIRDS. Who knew they could be so damn irritating. Nowhere is safe or sanitary.

An hour after we wash off the driveway and porch?

Bird feathers and poo and disgustingness is everywhere. Again.

The county? Why don’t I get help there?

WELL. Let’s talk about that.

They aren’t helping.

Even though they said to call back if we had more than five dead birds “on our property.”

Newsflash: We are well over having five dead birds “on our property” at this point.

WELL. OVER.

They consider them – the pigeons, because let’s call them what they are – a “nuisance” and suggest I “google” ways to deter them.

Really?

REALLY?

Gee, thanks.

I’m not exactly sure google can help me figure out why they’re just flat out falling from the sky, dead as a doornail, and landing in our yard.

But, I guess you know what you’re talking about

You’re the expert….

PS: If you’re shy but are definitely going to do this buffness with me…with us…can you just repeat, over and over, “I will be BUFF!” That way, I’ll feel your buffness vibes.

i’m throwing this out there to you, to the universe

Thank you all for voting for Kellan this past month!! I have no idea if he won…but I really appreciate your support! He’s in another contest, now, but I hate to ask you to vote for that, too, coming off a month of clicking buttons…so I won’t. We’ll just move right along…

I’m going to just throw this out there – to you, to the universe – and see what happens. Sometimes magical things happen…sometimes nothing happens…but I’ve got to try.

Backstory: over the weekend, Tim and I were looking for wooden alphabet blocks for a project.

During my search, I, OF COURSE, stumble upon a set of blocks that I think are freaking awesome and I want them and must make them my own to love and to have…to share and to hold……….

Annnnnnnnnnd of course.

Why can I not find them anywhere?

Oh, because they are antiques.

OF COURSE.

STORY OF MY LIFE.

I always seem to find – and get my heart set on – the one thing that cannot be found.

Why do I do this to myself?!

So, what are these super special blocks?

They are called All Season’s Blocks by Wolf Creek Folk Art. Set of 16.

So….if by some random chance you happen to be antique shopping one day and come across a set of these…or if someone you know has them and doesn’t want them anymore (in other words – collecting dust somewhere)…or if the universe puts these blocks in front of your face…..PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE GET THEM FOR ME.

I will pay you back. I will pay for shipping. I will buy you dinner and will forever be indebted to you.

I’m on a lifelong hunt for these damn blocks, now, and I don’t think I will ever be able to find them without a little help from my friends (YOU).

I blame Pintrest because had I not done this calendar project over the weekend…..(SO CUTE, right?!)

I would have never needed these dumb old blocks.

But now, I do.

And now, I’m asking for help.

i can’t really believe it’s come to this, either, pigeons

***Obligatory “please vote for Kellan by clicking here” header***

Based on what I blog about, you would think the entire world has completely stopped turning, save this new little person who came about in February.

Wouldn’t that be nice? Everything just *happens* while you take care of the baby. Like the magical fairies in Sleeping Beauty who clean the house and sew things and do the dishes all while you’re away…

Ah…….

Speaking of, where are *my* fairies? Because I’ve got about seventy loads of laundry to do and I can’t sew worth a damn (There is a checkered pillow somewhere in this house with crooked corners I made in Home Ec as evidence).

See, the thing is, I need them, these fairies, what with their magic wands, to handle all of this *stuff* ……along with THE PIGEONS.

By now, you know I don’t deal with dead birds.

And while we’re at it, I also don’t deal with flocks of birds that have decided to live on our roof.

Thanks to geography or a pigeon friendly neighborhood or something just as asinine, it’s like we have this infestation of pigeons. No, it’s not “like.” WE HAVE.

In all the things I thought would be something I would have to worry about, infestations of pigeons was definitely not on the list.

We have no idea where they came from but all of a sudden we – as in our neighbors and us – have this issue with this ginormous flock of pigeons deciding to LIVE ON OUR ROOFS.

It is disgusting.

Pigeons are disgusting and they drop dead ON MY WALKWAY.

Our next door neighbor’s roof seems to be deemed “the loo” by the pigeons. It is COVERED in pigeon droppings. That’s not to say these pigeons don’t do their “thing” over other people’s houses – like ours – because we have feathers and random poo droppings and just pigeon YUCK that land in the driveway and in the grass and it is just…gross. But, based on our little surprise from the other week, the pigeons must have deemed our house as “the graveyard.”

Needless to say, I can’t handle it anymore and the things are multiplying. Exponentially.

It’s like we started with five and now there are fifty.

I’m dead serious.

If you startle them, you hear this giant SWOOSH of feathers and wings and flying rat (as Tim calls them) bodies while the entire flock moves from one roof to the next, only to come right back to wherever it was they were roosting initially, once the “noise” or “irritant” has gone away.

I don’t want Kellan (or me…or Tim…for that matter) around any of that nastiness. It’s like our own house isn’t even safe because the pigeons are trying to take over all, “WE LIVE HERE.”

Uhmmmm…no.

We all (ie: the neighborhood) have gotten to the point where we’ve decided we are going to wage battle against the flying rats. One neighbor is calling the city to see if they’ll do anything and we are all researching ways to deter them.

They have to go.

I don’t care where, as long as it isn’t here. These stupid ass birds (because that’s what they are) are on my last nerve and once that happens?

Whoever is the target in my path of destruction is S.O.L.

So, if you have any suggestions as to how to get rid of these things that will not result in MORE DEAD BIRDY BODIES ON MY WALKWAY (ie: alkaseltzer, poison, etc), I’m all ears.

My suggestion?

EMFs.

Because WHY. NOT.

Tim, at first, looked at me like, “You craaaaaazy, woman.” and then he thought about it for a second and was like, “THAT IS BRILLIANT.”

Turns out, I’m not the first person to hatch this idea (ha…punny), as I found Tim doing research on “pigeon sonic deterrents.”

You read that right.

Pigeon sonic deterrents.

I really can’t believe it has come to this, either.

the police…and no pants.

Two things you need to know before reading this:

1. Tim sleeps in a t-shirt and boxers (you’re welcome)

2. Tim’s Puzzle Theory – which is if something doesn’t work/fit, then push, pull, do whatever it is more and harder until it works/fits (all of Tim’s wooden puzzles had rounded edges as a kid because he’d bang them into a spot even if they didn’t fit….until they did).

Our house has a security system. I may have mentioned that before…maybe not. Either way, around 3:45 this morning (it could have been closer to 4…either way, EARLY), I wake up to the shrieking of the sirens of the alarm going off, full bore.

I sat up in bed, waiting to see if I actually needed to start panicking or not, keeping one hand on Kellan, wondering what I was going to do with him if I was, indeed, to panic. Tim sleeps in the guest bedroom because Kellan still doesn’t sleep through the night and he also takes up 95% of the queen size bed…another story for another time…

I listened as the alarm continued to go off for at least thirty seconds or so, part of my brain wondering why in the hell Tim didn’t just push the button on the remote key fob we have (and that he keeps with him at night) to turn the thing off.

My first thought was that one of the dogs had somehow set it off and then before I really had a chance to ponder any more theories, I hear Tim open the guest bedroom door and go downstairs.

A few seconds later, I finally hear the disarm beep and Tim trudge back upstairs.

I decided I didn’t need to panic. Ok. This is good. False alarm. We can all relax and try to go back to sleep…..

Not two minutes later, I hear the guest bedroom door open again and a flurry of activity follows with Tim yell-whispering, “Lexi! No! Stay!” and then I hear him run down the stairs.

Again, my first thought was centered around the dogs. Maybe Maddie, our golden, was having bowel issues and Tim was going down to let her out because she needed to GO. NOW.

And then my second thought was, “What if Lexi needed to go out, too? That wasn’t very nice…”

I waited….and waited….and waited….the back sliding glass door never opened to let Maddie outside….what was going on, now?

Finally, Tim comes upstairs and into the master bedroom where I’m laying there, waiting on him. The second he walks in I’m all, “WHAT IS GOING ON?”

Tim comes over to the bed where Kellan is wide awake and rolling around, and was all, “I squished the wrong button!”

Me: What?

Tim: That was the police, by the way. At the door?

Me: WHAT?! What happened?

[BACKGROUND: Apparently, a thought of sheer panic happened around 3:45 this morning in Tim's brain. See, we are having trees planted and last night, Tim wanted to make sure he turned off the sprinklers because we just had the yard marked with the gas lines and he didn't want the paint on the grass to wash away. Obviously, the sprinklers were never turned off, so at 3:45, Tim rockets up out of bed to run downstairs and turn off the sprinklers before the timer goes off and they turn on automatically]

Tim: So I wake up in a panic and I grab the key fob and I squish the off button…and the alarm starts going off. And I keep squishing the button again and again and again….all the way down the stairs…wondering why it isn’t working…until I realize that I’m squishing the panic button….

(At this point I can only imagine Tim looking at the key fob like it has just grown two heads like, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” followed by, “OMG. IT’S NOT YOU. IT’S ME.”)

….and after I realized I had repeatedly squished the panic button I just knew the police were going to call so I ran back upstairs to get my phone annnnnnd sure enough. They called, asking if I was ok and if you were ok and if I was the only person in the house. I said everyone was ok and that no one else was in the house…but either they didn’t believe me or they didn’t believe me because the dispatcher was all, “I’m sending someone out anyway.”

So, I’m rummaging around trying to find pants and not two minutes after I get off the phone, they’re knocking on the door.

The police are knocking on our door and I DON’T HAVE ANY PANTS ON.

I realized I didn’t even have time to find any pants because if I took too long then they would for sure bust down the door so I ran downstairs and opened the door to greet them to let them know everything was ok and the second I open the door I realize our house was lit up like Christmas freaking morning. Flashlights all in our windows and the damn spotlight from their police car centered right on our house and I DON’T HAVE ANY PANTS ON.

The police officer at the front door wanted to know if I was ok…and if you were ok…and during this exchange, his partner was standing there, in our front yard, hand on holster.

I just stood there, stripped of my dignity, shaking my head back and forth in my hands all, “I squished the wrong button…I just squished the wrong button!”

I guess he finally believed me because I probably looked like I came straight out of an episode of Cops where the officer drags someone straight out of bed, hair all crazy, half dressed, mostly disoriented, and start asking them questions. You realize even doing simple math when you’re half awake is nearly impossible, right? Anyway, he gave me his card and left…OMG.

Me: What?

Tim: What is our information for the security company to let them know everything is ok? They still haven’t called. WHAT IS THE CODE?

Me: It is [censored information because I'm not giving you that]?

Tim: That’s the hostage code. I’m going to give them the hostage code? After all this???

Me: Oh…right. That probably wouldn’t be a good idea. You’d definitely end up cuffed in the backseat of their car.

Tim ran downstairs to find the right information because he wasn’t about to have another visit from our new friends from the local PD.

Fifteen or so minutes later, the security company called all, “Do we need to call the police?”

Tim was like, “Um….They were already here?”

He gives the person on the phone whatever it is that they need when you accidentally hit the panic button and hung up the phone all, “I’m going to take a shower, now. I feel like a moron. I cannot believe I just squished the wrong button and had to answer the door in front of two police officers WITHOUT ANY PANTS.”

A few seconds after Tim finished showering, he popped his head out of the bathroom door all, “Do you think we’ll make the police blotter??”

I smiled like, “That would be hysterical.”

Tim: “I would be mortified.”

Husband of the year, right here, folks.