On Twitter last week, my lovely friend Sarah laughed at my use of the word “stabby” to describe my mood at the time.

(Stabby: A word that I can’t take credit for but am totally willing to be considered creative for using.)

Anyway, I was feeling stabby about traffic in the Atlanta metro area, which is worse than usual this summer because my state is currently tearing up our freeway, leading to traffic jams at 10pm on a weeknight 40 miles outside of the city. And turning my drive home from the mall from a 25 minute trip to a 65 minute trip. With two whiny daughters.

Awwww, now I’m all stabby again just thinking about it…

You know what else makes me stabby?

(Admit it; that segue was GENIUS.)

Charmin. Yes, the toilet paper.

First, Mr. Whipple told us to stop squeezing the Charmin. Which communicates… what?

That housewives in the the mid-20th century had no life? That they were so starved for affection from their workaholic husbands who commuted to the suburbs and left them alone every day to watch soaps and eat bonbons that they resorted to embracing rolls of paper? That every grocery clerk was as obsessed with guarding the TP as Mr. Whipple was? (Personally, if I encountered someone like him in my local Publix, I’d probably report him to the manager.)

Then after Mr. Whipple, we were subjected to TV ads with the double-ply and the triple-ply and the blue liquid and the soaking and the absorbing and the — WHAT THE H### DOES BLUE KOOLAID HAVE TO DO WITH TOILET PAPER???!!

(For that matter, why is blue the color of choice for all “liquid” absorbed by hygiene products? But that’s another post for another day: “Tampon ads make me choky.”)

Which brings us to the 21st century, the era of iPhones and Internet and international space stations.

In this advanced society, what images do we rely on to make informed decisions about butt-wiping products?

Well, Charmin believes that we need to see a cartoon baby bear.

Lately, with tiny  bits of paper stuck to his bare butt. Or his bear butt:

In other ads, Bare Bear is using too much toilet paper. Which his Mommy Bear solves by providing thicker, softer, cozier Charmin for his hiney hygiene.

Here are two reasons why I’m feeling stabby about Charmin:

1. They’re solving the wrong problem: shreddy paper.

I don’t know about you, but as a parent, the biggest issue I face with TP is NOT little bits of paper stuck to my kids’ butts.

Is there someone out there who does have this problem? Really, I want to know. Do some of you lose sleep at night over this?

Because I don’t really care. My kids’ posterior regions could be gaily festooned with TP confetti seven days a week… and I wouldn’t want to know.

2. They’re solving the right problem — kids using too much toilet paper — in a totally ludicrous way.

I agree that this IS the real problem.

But let me just say that anyone who thinks giving kids thicker TP will encourage them to use less has never been a parent.

When I purchased –one time– something other than our usual one-ply Scott tissue, do you know what happened?

My children did not notice any improvement in how it felt on their bums.

They did not decrease the number of TP squares twirled off of the roll. No, they used the exact same amount. (which would be 23 per wiping, according to my conservative estimate.)

And they clogged the toilet. Repeatedly.

They also applied about half a roll per potty visit per kid.

So Charmin, if you want me to buy your product, create a magical molecule-thin disappearing TP. You can make it soft and unshreddy if you want. I’ll even tolerate the bare-bottomed bear commercials.

But quit trying to sell me thick TP that comes in 45-square rolls and actually EXPANDS when wet.

Or I swear, I will do more than SQUEEZE the Charmin.

This Ranty Post was brought to you by Katdish, inventor of the katrant. And my hero in all things cranky.

This post is for Bridget Chumbley’s One Word Blog Carnival. Go visit to read more on this week’s word: Ego.

Two of my children are approaching their teen years. They’re tweens, in today’s language. And their tweenitude comes with a healthy dose of insecurity, embarrassment, and self-centeredness. Everyone else is looking at them, making fun of them, and trying to be better than them.

I remembered that phase of my life when looking at Facebook posts about my high school’s 25th reunion this month.

(Shut up. Yes, I’m THAT old.)

I couldn’t make it all the way back to California. But I didn’t need to be there to be affected by it. When I flipped through Facebook photos and my old yearbooks, all the old feelings came flooding back. Shyness. Insecurity. Fear. Intimidation.

That’s adolescence for all of us, right? Right? We were all insecure then, right?

Well, except for those cheerleaders. The ones in eighth grade who scowled when my friend accidentally launched a pushup popsicle across the lunch area toward their table. And my group dissolved in hysterics. Clearly, they really THOUGHT they were better than we were. THEY weren’t insecure. THEY were the enemy, out to get us.

And those volleyball players. And the drama geeks. And the band kids. And the FFA’ers. (I grew up in central California, okay? Future Farmers of America was BIG there.)

THEY weren’t insecure. THEIR egos were inflated. I could totally tell by how I felt when I was around them. CLEARLY they made it their goal to wound MY ego.

Clearly. I didn’t (don’t!) have an ego.

Right?

***

e·go [ee-goh, eg-oh]

egotism; conceit; self-importance: Her ego becomes more unbearable each day.

self-esteem or self-image; feelings: Your criticism wounded his ego.

***

How different are they, really? Does that cheerleader from 8th grade describe ME in the same way?

Something to think about.

HOW long has it been since my last post?

It feels like my summer has been kidnapped. Which is why I found this site so entertaining:

The Ransom Note Generator.

Simply type in the text of your ransom note, and it’s magically converted into your generic everyday disgruntled loner magazine letter script.

Take a look at what I made:

In case you don’t read disgruntled loner:

To Whom It May Concern:

We have your summer. It has not been harmed. Yet. Leave 504 hours in unmarked days at the corner of vacation and basement cleaning & your summer will be returned to you.

Technically, paying 504 hours won’t ransom my summer. It’ll ransom my school year, since we have only three weeks until the first day of school. GAAA.

I can make no promises, but I HOPE to be posting more than once a month by then.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA.

(Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.)

SNORT! HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAA.

(Sorry. It’s just that…um… EASY? … what was I THINKING?)

What’s really funny is that I started out writing a post about how this summer HAS been easy…-er. More easy. Easy-ish.

Seriously, it HAS been different from past years, when having all three kids home meant nonstop boredom, fights, and demands.

First I was gonna tell you about Charlie’s great idea of putting the kids to work, and how it’s actually working. They now do daily and weekly chores that include housework and laundry.

My bathroom has been cleaned more these past three weeks than it had in the previous three MONTHS. AND NOT BY ME.

…How the kids haven’t acted too bored or demanding.

Today they all got up and did their chores without being told to. Made their own breakfasts too. Then the girls worked together to build a “carnival” with dining room chairs and stuffed animals.

So I was all, “Oh yeah, uh huh, we are AMAZING parents!”

And, “I think I can take my laptop to my room and actually write a post this afternoon!”

So that’s what I did. I finished folding laundry as kids quietly watched TV together. I gathered up my stuff and slipped off down the hall.

And guess what happened NOT EVEN FIVE MINUTES AFTER I SAT DOWN ON MY BED.

GUESS.

Hannah, first from a distance, then closer, then bursting into my room:

“I don’t WANNA watch that show! I HATE you, you JERK!” THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP “MOMMMM!!!!”

Followed by Abby, slumping down the hall:

“MOoommm, I have a headaaaaache (whiny voice here). And I’m huuuuuuuungry.”

Then LC, also slumping in:

“I’m STARVING. And I don’t know what to do. The girls won’t let me play my video game on the TV.”

***

YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.

So now I’m all cranky and ungrateful. And creating a post that sounds decidedly less contented than it started out to be.

You know what?

I’m still gonna share with you my new lyrics for Gershwin’s “Summertime.”

Cuz THIS TOO SHALL PASS. Right?

RIGHT?

Summertime,
and the livin is easy.
Kids are workin’
And the bathroom is clean.
Oh your daughter’s home,
And your son is vacuumin’.
So hush little Momma,
Don’t you cry.

So I saw this picture on Twitter yesterday and wanted to share with you.

And now I can’t decide… Does it require a parental advisory?

Or an NSFW*?

(*Not suitable for work)

Help me out here… What do you think?

Ernestine just had to show off
the amazing results from
her recent butt-lift.
(caption credit: all mine)

***

Oh! And don’t forget to comment on my book review post! You could win some cool camping loot!

Comment there by 6/18.

I don’t enjoy Christian fiction. There. I said it.

So why am I participating in a blog tour + giveaway + review of an overtly-Christian novel?

Well, because I read it. And enjoyed it.

Before I even received the book for review, the tag line had intrigued me:

“She’d leave her husband…if she could find him.”

Now THAT’S a sentence you don’t read often in the religious section of the bookstore.

Then within the book:

One of his suit jackets is facing the wrong way on the hanger. Everyone knows buttons face left in the closet. Correcting it is life-or-death important  to me at the moment. There. Order. As it should be. I smooth the collar of the jacket and stir up the scent of Aspen for Men. The boa constrictor around my neck flexes its muscles.

What’s this? Simple, elegant symbolism?

And:

The phone rings. I check the caller ID screen, expecting to see the French words for ‘No Tell Motel.’ Isn’t the word morgue French already?

It’s one of the other coordinators on the prayer chain. Lord, this better be more significant than Myrna’s cat’s digestive problems again or I may have to develop a swear language.

Was that HUMOR? Might I even call it SNARK?

I am ALL OVER this novel.

(By the way, I read it almost in one sitting. Not a long or difficult read, but definitely one that drew me in and kept me there until the last page. And that I had to stop reading at one point in Starbucks to avoid the embarrassment of public tears.)

***

ABOUT THE BOOK:

(Wausau, WI) – At the foundation of each relationship resides the need to know love can survive even when feelings fade. In Cynthia Ruchti’s debut novel, They Almost Always Come Home, readers feel the desperation of this foundational yearning in a marriage clearly pulling loose from its moorings. Compounded by other issues—an unrewarding career and mismatched dreams—it’s enough to drive a man into the arms of the Canadian wilderness. When Greg Holden doesn’t return home from a wilderness canoe trip, his wife Libby wrestles with survivor guilt, a new layer of grief, and the belief that she was supposed to know how to fix her marriage. She planned to leave him—but how can she leave a man who’s no longer there? He was supposed to go fishing, not missing.

Libby has to find him before she can discover how their marriage ends. She plunges into the wilderness on an adventurous and risky manhunt, unsure what she will do if she finds him…or if she doesn’t. She expects to meet hardship, discomfort, and danger in the wilderness. She doesn’t expect to face the stark reality of her spiritual longing and a faint, but steady pulse that promises hope for reviving her marriage. If Greg’s still alive.

They Almost Always Come Home provides a glimpse into common, however uncomfortable, marital conflicts. Cynthia weaves a page-turning story, suspense building scene by scene. Her characters mirror ordinary people, living real-to-life situations, allowing readers to relate and sort through a myriad of emotions and life decisions. If fiction can contain adventure, riveting self-awareness, and romance all between the same covers, this is the book!

***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Cynthia Ruchti writes stories of “hope that glows in the dark.” She writes and produces The Heartbeat of the Home, a syndicated drama/devotional radio broadcast, and is editor for the ministry’s Backyard Friends magazine. She also serves as current president of American Christian Fiction Writers. Cynthia married her childhood sweetheart, who tells his own tales of wilderness adventures.

The Interview:

1. How would you describe your book?

The tagline for the book is “She’d leave her husband…if she could find him.”

When Libby’s husband Greg doesn’t return from a two-week canoe trip to the Canadian wilderness, the authorities write off his disappearance as an unhappy husband’s escape from an oatmeal marriage and mind-numbing career. Their marriage might have survived if their daughter Lacey hadn’t died and if Greg hadn’t been responsible. Libby enlists the aid of her wilderness-savvy father-in-law and her faith-walking best friend to help her search for clues to her husband’s disappearance. What the trio discovers in the wilderness search upends Libby’s assumptions about her husband and rearranges her faith.

It’s my prayer that this fictional adventure story and emotional journey will reveal its own hope-laden clues for those struggling to survive or longing to exit what they believe are uninspiring marriages. How can a woman survive a season or a lifetime when she finds it difficult to like the man she loves?

2. How were you different as a writer and as a person when you finished writing They Almost Always Come Home?

This book changed me in a profound way. It forced me to take a more honest look at myself and my reactions to crises so I could write Libby’s character with authenticity. Libby is a composite of many women. I haven’t experienced what she did, but I identify with some of her struggles and longings, as I hope my readers will. I see my friends in her eyes and know that her tears aren’t hers alone. Her shining moments feed my courage. Libby speaks for me and for many others when she discovers that she is stronger than she realized and weaker than she wanted to admit.

Writing her story was a journey for the author as much as for the character.

3. When did you feel the tug on your heart to become a writer?

My journey toward a lifetime of writing began by reading books that stirred me, changed me, convinced me that imagination is a gift from an imaginative Creator. As a child, I read when I should have been sleeping…and still do. I couldn’t wait for the BookMobile (library on wheels) to pull up in front of the post office in our small town and open its arms to me. Somewhere between the pages of a book, my heart warmed to the idea that one day I too might tell stories that made readers stay up past their bedtimes.

4. What books line your bookshelves?

My bookshelves—don’t ask how many!—hold a wide variety of genres. The collection expands faster than a good yeast dough. I’m a mood reader, grabbing a light comedy one day and a literarily rich work the next. Although I appreciate well-written nonfiction, I gravitate toward an emotionally engaging contemporary women’s fiction story.

NOW FOR THE GIVEAWAY:

And this is creative. Instead of just a book to give away, the publishers have prepared a “themed” gift bag:

To enter in the giveaway, just leave a comment on this blog between now and June 18. On that date, I’ll choose at random the name and email address of one commenter. Then I’ll forward it to be entered in the grand prize drawing.

(Note: You’re much more likely to find out if you won if you actually enter an email address when you comment. You don’t expect us to launch a search party for YOU, do you?)

A VERY IMPORTANT P.S.

They Almost Always Come Home is available
on Amazon’s Kindle right now for FREE.
So if you have a Kindle (or Kindle app for some other device),
hop on over to Amazon to download while it’s still there!

With the kids home from school, I’ve been questioning my parenting even more than usual.

It got me pondering, and I started to write something new. But then I remembered and reread this post from May of last year.

And I decided it said most of what I was feeling AND offered me some encouragement. So I figured I might not be the only woman who needs to hear the message. Here’s an updated version of that post.

When does the Proverbs 31 Woman sleep?

(Original post May 11, 2009)

Inadequate.

Not enough.

That’s how I’ve been feeling lately. I don’t have enough…

time                     brainpower

self-discipline            selflessness

courage                 confidence

I’m not organized enough. I’m not loving enough.
I’m not content enough.

Just. Not. Enough.

I’ve heard it said that if your dream feels manageable, then your dream is too small.

Then I must be quite the dreamer. Because nothing in my life lately seems manageable. I can’t even manage the LIST of everything I need to be doing.

(Seriously. I lost the list. Again.)

You know the Proverbs 31 Woman?

Most evangelical Christian females have beaten themselves about the head and neck with HER standard:

Practically Perfect in Every Way.

i.e. Mary Poppins.

IF she’d been a mom with an emotional investment in the kids & no days off.

Besides sewing and gardening and running her own business and feeding and clothing her children, this woman apparently never sleeps.

(Read it yourself: her lamp never goes out AND she rises before dawn. –vv 15 & 18)

***

Yesterday at my church, 12Stone, Pastor Kevin (PK) actually preached from Proverbs 31:10-31.

(I think many of us wondered if PK had a death wish. C’mon, no male pastor does that on Mother’s Day.)

Didn’t he know he was supposed to just give all the women carnations and a round of applause, then direct his sermon at our husbands and/or kids, telling them how they need to appreciate us more?

***

Instead, he actually focused on the abilities  and actions of this paragon of female perfection.

Courageous or stupid?

I believe my pastor is alive today because he zeroed in on this verse, which he considered the foundation of the whole passage:

Verse 30b: “but a woman who fears the Lord shall be praised.”

No wait. Read that again. I know it feels like a “no duh”

(a phrase that I think needs to be reintroduced into the modern lexicon).

But just assume with me here that it IS foundational. If that’s true, then everything else in the chapter is less of a checklist than a description.

The message of the proverb becomes:

“THIS is what a woman who fears the Lord is capable of.”

NOT

“THIS is EVERYTHING she should be doing or she’s an abject failure.”

In other words, FEAR (worship, respect, submission) OF THE LORD is what’s most important. The qualities of a Proverbs 31 Woman are possible only as a result of that.

PK said as much: “Maybe this motherhood thing was never meant to be attempted alone.”

Which of course is just a corollary to “This life was never meant to be attempted alone.”

Either way, I need to take it to heart.

The first task on my to-do list EVERY DAY needs to be…

ASK GOD FOR HELP & GUIDANCE.

Because I’m not enough to do any of this on my own.

I’m inadequate.

Suddenly not such a bad thing.

And something important to keep in mind.

What you are about to read is NOT fictional. Any resemblance to actual people or events is 100% accurate. This kind of thing really does happen here. Way too often.

Abby was upside-down on the couch again. Stomach to the seat, legs against the back, head hanging down toward floor.

THUD. Her head made floor contact.

“Mom! There’s a Callie poo under the couch!”

A few things you need to know: Callie is our dog. Callie spent the past six months poo-ing in the house. Callie stopped being a small dog at 3 months of age (i.e. not under-sofa size). Callie turned 14 (years) in December.

Oh. And Callie died earlier this month.

So of course, Abby’s pronouncement was taken with poo-size grain of salt (of the large dog variety).

LC was flat on his stomach beside the couch in a split second. He gazed into the two-inch opening.

“No! That’s not a poo! Oh, I bet it’s some old candy! From Easter!”

(This pronouncement was accepted a LOT more readily. After all, the kids’ Easter baskets are still in the dining room.)

(Don’t judge me.)

“Noooo, THAT’S a POO.” Abby would not be deterred.

“I think it’s a chocolate egg. Covered with dog hair,” insisted LC.

“It’s a poo.”

“HOW would a Callie poo get all the way under there?” I asked as I squeezed my face down next to LC’s. “That’s under the MIDDLE of the couch!”

“Iiiiiit’s a poo.”

“Easter candy.”

“Poo.”

“Chocolate egg.”

“It’s too lumpy. It’s a poo.”

“Wouldn’t we have smelled it?”

“I don’t know. But I know it’s a poo.”

By this time Abby’s face was red from hanging upside-down off the couch.

I ran to the kitchen and came back with the first thing I could think of to swipe the “chocolate egg” out with: A flyswatter.

(What? Yeah, I don’t know either. Charlie looked at me like I was an idiot.)

One swipe later, something brown shot out into the middle of the room.

Any wagers on what it was?

Yep.

Somehow my dog left us a message last week in the form of a turd. A turd message FROM THE GRAVE.

(Cue ominous music…)

(Or technically, from a blue cookie tin on the mantle. Not quite the same effect. Anyway.)

All we can figure is that she deposited it at some point in the past few months. As it had gotten more and more difficult for her to get up from the floor, sometimes all the straining and struggling would just squeeze a poo out. This time, I guess she then kicked it under the couch.

What I learned:

1. Abby, who is always confident in her opinion, even when it’s wrong, can sometimes be right.

2. Flyswatters, while effective as turd-retrieving implements, are not recommended for this application. (Although I’m not sure why. It’s not like fly guts are that much more sanitary than dog poo.)

3. Callie left more for us to remember her by than the drifts of dog hair and a lingering old-dog smell.

A riddle for you:

What do you get when you combine the end of school, a dumb workbook deadline,

(Oops, I mean “a workbook deadline imposed by my Beloved that is a blessing because it brings in some much-needed income”),

…and my Beloved’s 50th birthday?

Ready for the answer?

An absentee blogger.

(Or yet ANOTHER “good” excuse for my somehow-all-too-frequent absences from the Interwebs.)

Anywho,

Today is Charlie’s birthday. He’s celebrating by taking the day off to hang out with us. So I have about 5 minutes to say hi before I’m at his mercy.

(I mean,” blessed with his presence”)

I’ve got loads that I could blog about from the past week, and I HOPE to actually do so next week.

Plus, I’m sure I’ll add a post about THIS weekend. Because Charlie and I will be attempting to celebrate his birthday by…

Dining with our three children at a nice restaurant on Saturday night.

(Because we are clearly insane.)

Watch this space for reports of loud restaurant talking (i.e. shouting), cloth napkins worn on heads, and at least one sibling battle at the table.

(You might also want to pay attention to the Atlanta news reports.)

We’re still brainstorming ideas for “offspring containment.” But so far the best thing we’ve come up with is Duck Tape.

All suggestions welcome. Just be sure to comment before Saturday afternoon.

So we can obtain necessary supplies.

(and permits, licenses, places to dispose of the bodies, etc.)

Mother’s Day at church:

Corsages, applause, sappy songs, a sermon exhorting men to love their wives and kids to honor their moms…

Or…

If you attend 12Stone Church in Lawrenceville, Georgia…

This…