So, tomorrow morning Southern Living magazine will be featuring me as their southern blogger of the week and my delusional mind has been working in overdrive thinking of all the fabulous accolades that will be coming my way.

Matt Lauer. Oprah. Katie Couric. Perez Hilton.

Yeah, I know. I have issues.

But even on the home front these delusions persist…

I will be awoken around 11 to breakfast in bed by my beautiful, perfectly coiffed children who will present me with a bouquet of pink lilies. They will kiss me and then each other and say out loud, “We are so lucky to have a mother like you!”

Rachel will put on a bra without being threatened with duct tape.

She will brush her teeth with water AND toothpaste….and be happy about it.

She will not argue with me as to why I won’t let her get on My Space and say all her friends are stupid for being on there.

She will announce that she’s tired of her room being a pig sty and promise it will always be clean.

Ella will have slept all night in her own bed.

She will announce that she is done with bologna….forever.

She will apologize for all the MAC lipstick she has ruined using it to write her name on her chalkboard and vow to never do it again.

Todd will not ask where his shirt, pants, shoes, boxers, socks or belt is located but will be all ready dressed when he serves me breakfast.

He will tell me that it really doesn’t matter how long the laundry stays in the basket but that he’s so grateful it’s clean.

And to top it off, a newly hired house cleaner will arrive and tackle this domestic hell-hole we call home.

I will then read them my acceptance speech with the grace and dramatic effect of Scarlett O’Hara. Nobody will roll their eyes…or hit their sister…or spill something on the floor.

By then, I will have awoken in the psych ward doing the Thorazine shuffle.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to find duct tape for Rachel’s bra.

Rico flew the coop tonight.

Why? Because he can and because he’s smart enough to come up with some excuse that seems plausible.

Me. I’m not that smart.

Yet.

So, when Rico leaves town for the night it becomes a free for all for the girls and me and mayhem ensues. Movies that don’t included shooting, big busty women or any form of hand to hand combat are obtained. Popcorn is eaten right in the bed (GASP!!!) and no one dies from sleeping in popcorn hulls.

Then the most amazing thing happens.

The girls get quiet. They behave and say things like, “Yes, Mother” and “You’re the Bestest!!” or maybe they say things like, “Get me some more Kool-Aid Woman” and “Stop eating all the dang popcorn Mom!”. Either way, it’s said with a warm inflection and that’s all that really matters.

But sooner or later, I beat them into submission and they go to sleep. Plus there are no witness to prove it.

I am then alone to eat the Oreos I’ve been hiding in the pantry all night.

And I don’t have to share with anyone.

(The following post includes a look into my trouble psyche. There will be proof that I suffer from delusions of granduer, boredom and love of all things southern. Thank you ahead of time for not calling the authorities as you surely will gather I am not sane enough to care for my children.)

Tonight I recieved this message in my email…

Hi, dejoniconley.

Southern Living (livehealthyblog) is now following your tweets on Twitter.

Lawd, have mercy.

I got the vapors.

Where’s a brown paper bag when you need one?

I had to place the back of my hand on my forehead and swoon.

Does anyone hand out brown paper bags anymore????

Southern Living is the epitome of all that is well and good in the southern world. The southern woman’s bible and best friend. The holy grail.

(Insert pipe organ music)

I have read Southern Living since I was knee high to a grasshopper. It’s still a staple in my house and my kids love looking at all the recipes.

Suddenly my mind was filled with dreams of being showcased in Southern Living. I would be famous and adored and worshipped by every man, woman and child south of the Mason-Dixon line.

(Insert bluegrass music)

I also had a sudden urge to tease my hair really big.

 I told my husband he better have sex with me now so he could brag to everyone abouting sleeping with someone famous. He laughed so hard he fell off the bed.

Troll.

Seeing as I’ve already been featured as one cover girl, I didn’t see Southern Living as that much of a stretch.

Anyway, a girl can dream.

In the bizarre instance that Southern Living ever checks me out, I am including my recipe for Seafood Gumbo. The only reason I’m giving it out is that soon you will be reading my recipes in the magazine and I won’t have to include it in my impending cookbook.

(Again, insert pipe organ music)

This recipe seems difficult but it’s not. A large number of ingredients are required and I recommend getting everything ready before you start. If you live in a rural area as I do, it’s not always easy to find fresh herbs. You can substitute dried but be sure to cut the measurements down to a 1/3.

Seafood Gumbo

Roux- 1/2 cup flour

            1/2 cup oil

Soup- 1/2 cup chopped onions

           1/4 cup chopped green onion

           1/2 Tbsp salt

           1 can whole tomatoes

          1 Tbsp minced shallots

          1/2 lb diced grouper or sea bass

          1/2-1 tsp hot pepper sauce

          1 Tbsp fresh basil 

          1 tsp fresh oregano

          1 tsp fresh thyme

          2 tsp Creole seasoning (more to taste for your preference)

          1/2 lb fresh peeled shrimp

          1/2 lb crab meat

          4 cups cooked, warm rice

          1/4 cup chopped celery

          1/4 cup chopped red peppers

         1/8 tsp black pepper

         2 Tbsp minced garlic

         2 qts chicken stock

         1 tsp Worchestshire sauce

         6 bay leaves

         1 lb Andouille sausage

First, you need to make the roux. Take a medium size cast iron skillet and heat oil on high until almost smoking. This is essential. Get it hot. Add flour and whisk continuously until it achieves a dark, mahogany color. This will take anywhere from 6 to 12 minutes depending on temperature.

Once desired color develops, add onions, celery and red/green peppers. Saute 1 minute. Add salt and pepper, tomatoes, garlic and shallots. Saute 4 minutes. Add stock, fish, Worchestershire sauce, hot pepper sauce, bay leaves, basil, oregano and thyme.

Bring to a boil and cook on high heat for 8 minutes. Stir occasionally. Reduce heat to medium and add Creole seasoning. After a few minutes, reduce heat to low and simmer at least 15 minutes.

Turn heat back to high adding shrimp, crab and Andouille sausage. Cook for 5 minutes.

Lower heat and simmer until ready to serve over warm rice.

Yesterday my mom picked up my two girls and left me home alone. And then Rico worked late and left me home alone. Then I ran around the house jumping up and down, yelling and screaming until I fell in a heap of exhaustion on my dirty floor.

For all you parents out there that wonder what they will do with yourselves after your children are grown and out of the house, I can’t relate to you. I will have no problem entertaining myself come 15 years from now. My life will be full and fun and rested.

Here is a rundown of the things I did over the last 24 hours…

1. Started a load of laundry in both washers yesterday at noon. They are still sitting there and will continue to stay there until I am forced to become responsible again.

2. Gotten bedsores on my backside from lying in bed watching Everyone Loves Raymond reruns. And Housewives of Orange County. And Antiques Roadshow. And all sorts of gossip filled news shows outing the latest Tiger Ho.

3. Didn’t act as a short order cook for dinner but fixed bacon and egg sandwiches for dinner because that’s what I wanted. No macaroni and cheese. No Hamburger Helper. No bologna sandwiches.

4. Never poured a single glass of Kool Aid. No hunting the house over for someones lost sippy cup. No cleaning up spilt tea off the floor. Only drinking highly caffeinated sugar filled soft drinks that make me pee all night long.

5. Never wiped anyone’s butt. Wait a minute, I wiped my own but that doesn’t count.

6. Took a shower by myself. Soaked in the garden tub by myself. Didn’t step or sit on toys in either instance. Took a shower with my husband without the threat of prying eyes. In case you didn’t notice, I like to be clean and to conserve water by bathing together. It’s not easy being green.

7. Slept until 9:30 this morning without interruption. Need I say more?

8. Slept naked in bed without someone asking why I don’t have clothes on. Funny how Rico never asks that question.

9. Ate a whole bowl of homemade fudge without sharing and NOT feeling guilty.

10. Thinking I could get used to this way of life but admitting to myself that it was a little lonely.

Merry Christmas from our family to yours!!

Today we ventured out of Hooterville to enjoy a little culture. 

The Kentucky Repertory Theatre has provided quality, professional theatre, particularly for the citizens of Southern Kentucky, by presenting a repertory of works from the best of our theatrical heritage and by developing plays by Kentucky playwrights since 1978. It’s such a wonderful addition to our community.

Robert Brock, their theatre director, was my college theatre professor and has one of the most enjoyable classes on campus. (Holla Mr. Brock!!!)

Anyhoo, today was special in the fact that it was Ella’s first theatrical experience and I was very nervous on how she would do. Thankfully it was a comedy, Christmas Belles.

The first half of the play was wonderful. Ella sat mesmerized by the actors, the lights, the comedy. Other than a few squirmy moments, she was fantastic.

Shortly after intermission, she got up in my lap, cuddled close, and hugged my neck so sweetly. Ahhh, my sweet baby girl.

Next thing I know, she started blowing the ass trumpet like Louis Armstrong. I’m not talking about a squeaker. I’m talking about one of those farts that rival a quarry blast.

To top it off, it was during one of those quiet moments of the play.

God is funny like that.

And because I wasn’t embarrassed enough, she starts asking loudly, “Momma, you smell something? MOMMA…MOMMA…YOU SMELL SOMETHING???”

I’m raising such a classy girl.

I am the laid back parent.

The one who lets things slide.

The fun parent.

The one who lets the kids pick out their own hideous outfits and lets them wear them in public. The one who raps Flo-rida in the grocery store to embarrass her kids. And sings Andrea Bocelli at the top of her lungs while dropping the oldest off at school.

She loves when I do that…

Fifth graders don’t appreciate opera.

My husband is the disciplinarian.

He makes the kids tow the line. Makes them dress appropriately.

The one who is always saying to me, “Why did you let them do that?”

So it ’twas with much delight that my husband made a bone headed move. A move that required sirens. And hot firemen. And lots of hysterical laughing from me.

While at the beach, my “I was on the National Problem Solving Team” husband decided we should take the girls out for a ride. We dressed appropriately and packed all necessary items (cause he’s anal like that) and took off.

First stop, the condo elevator.

Once inside, he got the bright idea to start jumping. In the elevator. With me and the kids.

Duh.

And then it stopped….in between floors.

Big Duh.

And the doors wouldn’t open and he had to push this little red button.

Super Duh.

And the firemen of the Gulf Shores Fire Department had to come rescue us…

in…

a…

FIRETRUCK.

Super Duper Duh.

And as the nice fireman were getting us out, my eleven year old says to Rico…

“You’re not supposed to jump in elevators. They’ll get stuck.”

Gas to Gulf Shores:   $200

Blackberry with camera to capture the evidence:     $400

Having your husband finally make a stupid parent move:    PRICELESS!

Living in the country has it’s perks.

I don’t have to close my blinds when I change my clothes. I can burn crap in my yard.

I can even shuck my shorts and pee in my backyard.

Not that I would do anything like that cause I’m a lady and all…but I could if I wanted too.

However, living in the country has it’s downfalls and you can run into the majority of them in one November week.

Like snakes…

Yes, people. A snake…in November. Is it ever safe?

This made me pee on myself in the backyard.

This is one of the reasons I married my husband. ‘Cause he ain’t afraid of snakes.

And I am afraid of snakes.

The other reasons I married my husband are:

1. Parallel parking.

2. Killing wasps.

3. Sex.

And for those times when I go out to feed the farm cats in my screened in porch during the wee hours of the night and scream hysterically, he comes running with a flashlight.

And when he hollers for a gun and I bring a pistol, he doesn’t laugh but patiently explains which rifle he needs…

So he can shoot a rabies infested critter in my porch without shooting the gas grill tank and blowing up our house…

Yes, I married him because he’s a sharp shooter who can kill raccoons on my porch.

There, I said it.

And because he will clean up all this after the massacre…

He married me ’cause I’m FABULOUS.

Dear Ella,

Happy Birthday Love.

I can’t believe you’re three.

Wait, yes I can. I haven’t slept for three years.

For the last 1,095 nights I have been up and down, kicked and thrashed. I have been flooded with pee. I have run up and down the steps all hours of the night getting you bologna…peperoni’s….Kool-Aid….ANYTHING that might give me twenty more minutes of precious sleep.

Dazed, confused and waking up with dried pepperoni’s stuck to my head. You never gave in, all those nights, seeing me suffer. 

Then I finally said to myself, “You know what, she may never sleep all night. She may never sleep in her own bed but at least I’ll know if she’s late for curfew when she comes home from a date…AND IT’S OK. IT DOESN’T MAKE ME A BAD MOTHER!”

I’ll give it to ya kid, you’ve got stamina.

A week after your third birthday, you decided I’d been punished enough. You slept all night in your own bed. 10 WHOLE HOURS.

Now that we know you can do it, if you don’t repeat it again tonight we’re gonna duct tape you to the bed.

Happy Birthday Chicken Little

Love,

Mom

My husband loves me.

Really, really loves me.

But sometimes he does stupid things.

Really, really stupid things.

Like last week when I was getting out of the shower. He thought it’d be cute to play Playboy photographer and take some pictures of his smokin’ hot wife.

Well, he had his five minutes of fun and then my dimpled ass was to be deleted.

Cut to this weekend. Ella’s birthday party with the whole family.

My mom arrived and I was so excited to show her pictures from the costume party the night before. I whipped out my camera and she and my father in law gathered around. I pushed the button on the camera to find the costume pictures and it was soooo slow that I decided to keep pushing it more and more and more….until it got stuck.

When it finally stopped, there in all my glory was my big ol’ BADONKADONK.

Not only did I show my mother the naughty picture taken by my super genius husband but I also flashed my father in law the junk in my trunk.

Oh, yeah. I did.

His only response, “That’s why you should never get your pictures developed at Walmart.”

Point taken.

Love and Marriage…Love and Marriage.

Yes, we were the Bundy’s for Halloween

Sorry it’s been so long since I’ve posted. Check back tomorrow night for a regular post.

For a good laugh tonight, here’s Rico looking like a ding dong…