As many know, what first inspired the magazine were the emails we received each week in response to our “Telling Tales” column published in the Wednesday edition of The Wilson Post.
Our “tongue in cheek” column is about our “normal” life as working mothers and busy wives who go about our days in Wilson county - muddling through it all – but at the end of the day – thankful for every minute of it.
Our favorite part about writing for the local paper, is when we are stopped at the grocery or the hair salon by someone who enjoys reading our columns and they share with us which of them are their favorites.
We will continue to share our most recent tales with you each Wednesday in the Wilson Post. But now you will be able to enjoy your favorites in the magazine.
We hope they bring you a chuckle at the end of your busy day!
Angel & Becky
Social Media vs. Real Life
By:Becky Andrews
Bikini Waxes and other tasks that are better left to the professionals…
Pinterest has created a lot of arrogance. Making us think turning an old door into a headboard for the guest room is a piece of cake or turning old wine bottles into tea glasses is an easy task. Over the years, I’ve tried my hand at many things. Sometimes with success-hello boeuf bourguignon and other times, not so much-at home hair highlight. Because we all seem to be in a hurry when it comes to…EVERYTHING, I’ve compiled a list of things you shouldn’t waste your time trying at home! And please trust me on this, I’ve done the leg work. So here it goes:
Telling Tales
By Angel Kane
Wilson Living Magazine
Who will it be?
Like most parents, my husband and I have each assumed our parental roles.
I’m the Mom that requires good grades and clean rooms, reminds them to say “please” as well as “thank-you”, and returns them to their room when skirts are too short, shirts are too wrinkled or hair is disheveled.
And their Dad, like many other dads, is the fun one.
The Dad who takes them on roller coasters while I sit waiting, on the bench, holding backpacks, jackets and caps.
The Dad who lets them jump off the side of the boat into the deep ocean or ride the wave runners while I scream “be careful!” from the dock, in my oversized life-jacket whilst clutching their SPF 100 sunscreen.
The Dad who avidly cheers them on at tennis, cross country, soccer, baseball and basketball in his matching team shirt while I desperately try to find a signal - - any signal - - on my phone.
So it won’t come as shock to any of you that when it comes to field trips, any time the list of items to bring includes: bug spray, hiking boots, flashlight or your own pillow - - I’m basically out. Likewise, you’ll understand then that during a recent parents meeting for our eldest daughter’s upcoming missions trip to Honduras, when the words: rebels, malaria pills, no running water, tent and jungle - were uttered, in perfectly legible writing (so that there could be no mistake), I wrote down: Brody Kane will be attending as Guardian.
I didn’t even let the fact that the teacher had advised he really didn’t need dads on the trip but instead needed moms, stop me from writing down: Brody Kane will be attending as Guardian.
Brody then whispered, “Didn’t you hear him, he wants mothers to go, not fathers. This one is yours.”
I whispered back, “Are you kidding me, the rebels will smell my fear one mile away. I might as well tatoo - “take me” on my forehead.”
“The rebels don’t want you! After three days they’d give you back. I can hear it now - ‘there isn’t hot water in my cage, my coffee is too strong, are you kidding me, you guys don’t have wi-fi in this camp!’
Laugh all you want funny man, this one is yours! (And for the record, I’m pretty sure my ransom would be double his.)
So I was completely taken aback, when two weeks later, while visiting colleges with our eldest, it hit me like a ton of bricks - - her leaving us forever was imminent. Soon, there would be no more field trips, no more lists of what to bring, no more permission slips to sign, she would be gone and I’d regret that we’d not experienced this trip together.
After a few days of thoughtful consideration, I announced over breakfast, “I’m going to Honduras with you!”
The silence was deafening.
And then it started...first they all just looked at each other, then nervous giggles and then outward, hysterical laughter.
“Mama, you won’t make it! They said the landing is one of the most dangerous ones in the world. There is a mountain right before landing and the plane has to take this nose-dive to miss it. You’d freak out even before we got there.”
Huh? Malaria pills, no running water, and now....a nose-diving plane.
And just like that I remembered that I still have two other kids I can attend field trips with. Sounds like fun dad is going to have the time of his life!
To read more of Angel and Becky’s columns go to www.wilsonlivingmagazine.com or www.wilsonnpost.com.
By Angel Kane
Wilson Living Magazine
People often ask Becky and I how we met. Like many other women, we bonded over “motherhood” when our children attended the same Preschool. Through the years, we‘ve been there as our babies have grown into teenagers and along the way, laughed until it hurt and cried until there were no more tears, always thankful, that there was another Mom out there experiencing the same adventure.
In honor of all Mothers this upcoming Mother’s Day - we bring you an Ode To Motherhood.
And so it began...
1. Buying not not one but four pregnancy tests - confirming and reconfirming that there really is a baby in there! Going to the OB/GYN and being utterly horrified when he explains EXACTLY how that baby will come out!
Thinking...the hell it will!
2. Reading “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” three times. Buying maternity clothes long before they’re needed. Stocking up on baby must-haves way before they’re necessary. Decorating the nursery before one should. Telling everyone you can about your birth plan. Picking a name that is perfectly perfect....and then waiting....waiting...waiting.....
3. Feeling the first contraction and realizing what you’ve always known - you don’t do anything in life naturally. You eat processed food, you don’t recycle, your carbon footprint is enormous, you medicate to fly and aging gracefully just seems moronic.
Give me the big needle in the back please and make it a double dose - I feel more pain than the average person.
4. Seeing, for the first time, this tiny, pink, wrinkled up creature whose piercing cry is like nails on a chalkboard.
Oh hell, what have I done?
Watching her sleep for hours on end, poking her every 15 minutes to make sure she is breathing. Terrified she will flip onto her stomach and suffocate. Thankful each morning when she’s still alive!
5. Boiling bottles, fretting over the fact her IQ may be lower because you started her on formula, the guilt of returning to work and the secret guilt that it’s kind of nice to be back there.
Getting out of the house takes a good 45 minutes, packing the matching baby bag and diaper bag, the stroller that weighs at least 55 pounds, the car seat that never quite fits back into it’s holder, goldfish and cheerios in those perfectly proportioned plastic baby cups.
Driving back up the driveway 5 minutes later because you forgot her blanket.
6. Deciding the most special baby in the world is lonely and needs a sibling.
Hoping the second one is as cute as the first!
7. It all works out perfectly because you’re still wearing the majority of the maternity clothes from the first baby.
Who cares - all you do is work, take care of the baby, eat and sleep.
The new doctor tries to talk you into Lamaze classes again - - explain this is not your first rodeo. You have absolutely no desire to breathe through any plan that doesn’t include high powered meds.
Oh Hell, what is she writing down in your chart??
8. Baby #1 tries to feed Baby #2 dog food! She looked so innocent while doing it...but it’s obvious she hates her. You’ve ruined her life.
They both cry in unison. That blood curdling, open mouth, closed eyes, turing bright red, then blue, cry!
This must be the 10th level of Hell!
9. Two baby seats, and a stroller for two - cute matching bags go out the window, any old bag will do. Hoping against all hope you packed the right size diapers and formula, knowing you can find some cheerios at the bottom of the bags.
Throw up in the van, throw up on the rug, throw up all over your new shirt. Ear infections, fifths disease, rashes and strep. Antibiotics, cough syrups, baby Tylenol, Vicks and cold compresses.
Fish sticks become a complete meal, add Mac & Cheese and it must be your hubby’s birthday!
Where are the matching bows??? They must have matching bows! Heads will roll if I don’t find those bows!
10. Dance class, tumbling, four year olds playing soccer while skipping down the field,
the Easter Bunny and Santa photos scar them for life, finally doing Disney and realizing you are more excited about seeing Mulan than they are.
Suddenly wake up from this hazy dream to find there are clones of you and your husband everywhere you go...they look crazed and tired.
11. Number 3 is almost here - most people think you’re crazy, others outwardly pity you, no one believes it was planned.
Building a new house, selling the old one, moving into a rental when the new one isn’t ready. The builder becomes your mortal enemy, your husband is just glad you’re not yelling at him anymore.
Outraged when the nurse at the hospital tells you its too early for the epidural. Lose your mind, your chart is checked, shot administered, emergency averted.
12. It’s a boy!!!
He wears pink onesies and pick socks, eats dog food every so often (you checked - its actually not a bad source of protein), the girls carry him around and you’re just thankful for the help. Hope against all hope he’s as smart as the other two, convincing yourself he’ll be fine - a kid can learn a lot from watching every episode of Zack and Cody.
13. Homework and class projects that keep you up all night, Christmas programs that never end, field trips you forget to sign up for, much less pay for. Basketball, tennis, baseball, cross country, soccer, birthday parties, movie parties, bowling parties, painting parties...I am seriously out of money!
14. Uncontrollable giggles, slumber parties where no one sleeps, crushes and tears.
Deciding the meanest human being on earth comes in the form of an 11 year old girl!
Hair pulling, screaming out “MOM” at the top of their lungs just to ask you a question, footballs and baseballs in every corner of the house, name calling, closet raiding, clean clothes on the kitchen table, dirty clothes everywhere else, threatening to put the dog to sleep if someone doesn’t feed him.
I don’t know - made sense at the time.
15. Grades matter, permits, licenses, ACTs, SATs, everyone has an I-pad, I-pod, I-phone - except you! Confirming there is no greater power on earth than taking away I-pads, I-pods and I-phones!
16. Oh Hell No!! How much do I weigh!?
Stalking old friends on Facebook and noticing how much they look like their mothers.
Joining a gym, planting a garden, reading a book, taking a trip that doesn’t include visiting an aquarium, a zoo or having breakfast with a princess.
17. Watching your eldest drive away one morning, with the younger two smiling and waving out the back window.
Googling - how old is too old to have a baby?
Buying a new car instead.
18. Seeing a random stranger out with her precious new baby.
Oh Hell....really wishing you could do it all again. But this time you’ll do it all perfectly! Promise...
By Becky Andrews
Remember when we were kids and all you ever wanted was to be treated like a grown up? Grown-ups got to all the fun stuff; drive, go to bed when they wanted to, wear makeup, talk on the phone all night, eat cookies before dinner, date who they wanted, watch rated R movies, and they only talked to their parents when they wanted to. Adults could also curse anytime they wanted to.
The most insulting part was grownups, like my parents, didn’t even appreciate the fact that they had these freedoms. Instead they would show off their power and spout off things like,
“Go to bed!”
“You are too young to wear makeup”
“Sex kills! Seriously, it does! Ask your father!” My dad agreed, but he wouldn’t even say the word. It wasn’t until later that I realized being one of six children my parents obviously had nine lives.
“You want to go to the movies with a boy? Sure, but first let me inject myself with the plague.”
“When you have a car of your own, you can pick the music.”
“Stop putting makeup on your little brother.” That’s the price he paid for my parents not having cable.
“You do get paid to work in the family business. You get a roof over your head, food, and we paid for your braces. If anything, you should be paying us.”
“We are having a family night tonight. That means only those with your last name can stop by, sleep over, or eat at this house.” Family night meant we watched Gunsmoke reruns and had to go to bed by 8pm. My parents loved family night!
And my personal favorite,
“This hurts us worse than it hurts you.” A few years after my first child was born my mom fessed up. “It didn’t really hurt us at all. In fact, sometimes it felt wonderful to teach you little twits a lesson.”
At the time, it seemed so unfair to have to wait 18 years to be considered a grown up. More than two decades after becoming an adult I can proudly say, being a grownup isn’t exactly what I thought it would be. There are even days when it sucks!
Sure I go to bed when I want. I can stay up ALL.NIGHT.LONG. Although it’s usually because of a fussy baby, pending deadline or marathon house cleaning before out of town relatives arrive the next day.
Thank God I can wear as much makeup as I want to now. I use it to cover the dark circles, freckles (i.e. age spots) and sun damage.
I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want…until my fat pants get snug.
As an adult, I also get to pay a mortgage, taxes, and pay for braces, insurance, and batting/guitar/drum/shooting lessons for our children.
So whenever I hear my kids complain about how rough they have it, I just remind them that it won’t be too many years before they will have their own car, mortgage and fat pants. For now, they are stuck with me and their dad for family night. Mom was right, this feels awesome!
Comments? You can email Becky at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
Control-ALT-Delete…
By BECKY ANDREWS
Wilson Living Magazine
There were seven beeps then nothing. When I tried rebooting, the same seven beeps and blank screen. That’s how a device that weighs less than a newborn, has no conscience or sense of urgency turned my life completely upside down for SEVEN FULL DAYS!
When I took my tech baby to the doctor, I got the standard battery of questions. If there’s anything that will make you feel more inept as a human being it’s being questioned by an IT Specialist, Programmer, System Administrator or any other computer person title you can think of that means, “You are a complete moron and a disgrace to Silicon Valley.”
By the grace of Steve Jobs I found a guy that is cool with me not worshipping at the altar of Apple to fix my super inefficient Windows-operating laptop without using inside words like “PITA” to describe me. (LOOK IT UP)
Here’s how the conversation went:
“Did you notice your processor overheating?”
“What’s a processor?”
“It’s the brain of your computer; the memory, everything. When it overheats for an extended amount of time, it will completely shut down and take everything with it.”
He acted like it was no big deal, so I really didn’t think there was a reason to worry. I felt super smart. We were getting each other. For a moment, I felt technically superior, even thinking that I may adopt all hoodie/flip flop wardrobe and listening to continuous loop of dub step. But then, he continued.
“Since everybody backs up these days, it’s not that big of a deal to lose your information.”
“Right. Wait, what? What do you mean? I’ve lost everything on my computer?”
“Probably, but as long as you saved it on your external hard drive, don’t worry about it.”
“My what? Is that another name for a thumb drive?”
He looked over the top of his reading glasses as if he was trying to decide if I was joking or a complete moron. That’s when he realized that, yes, I am a complete moron and not really that funny. In fact, it was just a few months ago I learned that Google is considered a verb.
This is probably where his story and my story will differ.
He might say I got emotional and tried talking him out of giving up so easy. He might even say that I blamed this whole fiasco on my children, my husband, the Harlem Shake or the fact that I was a Jehovah’s Witness as a child.
I would like to say this is NOT how it happened. But, because this person recovered all of that very valuable information, I’m not going to call him a liar. I’m not even going to blame it on PMS. I will just say this: I may be an idiot. I may not know the difference between MB and RAM. I may have outdated software, still use Internet Explorer, and prefer Facebook to Twitter. HOWEVER, I do know the computer I just ordered is already obsolete, techie people are 21st century mechanics spouting off a dialect mere mortals can’t understand, and the next time someone asks about backing up, I’ll know they are not talking about a person’s driving abilities.
Email any comments to This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it because luckily she knows how to check email.
Blessings
Thank You Sweet Jesus for giving me, not one, but two, teenage daughters at the same time. For were it not for them, I:
Except for Ms. Jamie, and “that’s just weird, Mom.”
“Who are those people? They sound old.”
For that one and for their iPad, iPhone and iAnything capabilities, I do thank you, sweet baby Jesus!
“Why are you wearing those, you are not a nurse.”
Madison-Zoeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!! It’s just become one word.
And for that one, Jesus, I may never forgive you.
That one, I’m going to have to go to confession for, Lord Jesus, because I know
You know what I was thinking when I had to partake of that fun fest.
“Please, just this one scarf, I’ll pay you back.” Really, how? You don’t have a
job! No, cleaning your room is not a paying job.
But honestly, Jesus, Taylor Swift? There had to be another way to prove you are a miracle worker.
By Angel Kane
I consider myself a pretty patient person. So patient, in fact, that one of my claims to fame are my outstanding blood pressure numbers.
They are incredibly low. Low enough that medical professionals sometimes find it concerning. I just smile and inform them, “Oh no, that’s just normal for me.”
But, I’m pretty certain that if I were to run by Walgreens this morning and stick my arm in that cuff, SIRENS WOULD GO OFF! (And men in white jackets would come cart me away!)
As I write this today, Brody and my three children are begging me not to tell you about the subject, or should I say subjects that have basically ruined my life.
But I have reached my limit!
It all started so innocently as I perused Pinterest and came upon the most lovely of all pantries. It was a walk in, with shelving, and on each shelf the food products were laid out; first all the tin cans, then the baking products, then the cereals and so on.
It was so ordered, so organized, so OCD, that it literally spoke to me. (Yes, I know, my family has the men in white jackets on speed dial.)
Three weeks later, I converted one of the small rooms off our kitchen into a walk in pantry. I had shelves put in and then spent an entire Saturday moving the food into the pantry, lining everything up, labeling tins, putting like food groups with like food groups …it was my own, personal heaven-on-earth.
One week later, I reached for a bag of flour and the bottom fell out!
Flour went everywhere. I was covered, my tins were covered, my walls were covered, my pretty multi-colored floor mat was covered, and as I reached down to look at the mess, I noticed the bite marks on the bag and the little black specks of…………..AGGGHHH!!!
When I’m 65 years old, and go in for my first MRI - I’m quite certain the Doctor will ask me, “Mrs. Kane it appears you’ve had a stroke sometime in your past, can you recall when that may have happened?”
And I’m going to know EXACTLY when it happened!
You see my friends, we have RATS. A word Brody can’t quite commit to.
“Would you please stop calling them rats, they are field mice. And stop telling everyone about them.”
It appears I’m not the only one who coveted my pantry. Apparently a friendly field mouse also thought it was smoking hot, so he told all the other field mice in town about it, who are now having a convention in my pantry.
Since that fateful day, I have been purging, cleaning, scrubbing, bleaching, re-bleaching, screaming, yelling, googling…fighting an all-out losing battle…against field mice.
Most evenings as Brody walks by the pantry and sees me crazed, on hands and knees, checking my traps, he says in a quiet voice …so as not to antagonize…”Field mice just come in when it’s cold. They leave in the spring. I think you’re going overboard.”
“Overboard. Overboard? Google Haute Virus or the Plague! And by the way, these are RATS…if you say the word field mice one more time, I’m going to lose my mind!” (He clutches the phone. Go ahead, call the men with the jacket, I don’t care.)
And don’t even get me started about the cashier at Lowes. I’ve been in there three Sundays in a row.
First, I started with the glue pads, six boxes of them. “They are for my son’s class project,” I said. She nodded and looked sad for me.
The next week, I got the poison. The big bag - the one with the scoop. Eyes averted, I whispered “Our neighbors have field mice. They’re getting into our shed.” She pities me, I can tell. I hate her.
This last weekend, when I went to Lowes, I spent over $150 on equipment that I read about on an online Rat Forum. These Plug-Ins emit a piercing sound that field mice hate but humans can‘t hear. I handed her eight of them to ring up.
We made eye contact. “We have Rats.” I said and smiled. She looked away.
As soon as I got home, I plugged them all in.
Oh God….I think I can hear the buzzing sound! (At least my padded room won’t be infested.)
By BECKY ANDREWS
Wilson Living Magazine
Besides religion, politics and sex there’s one more hot button issue that should be added to that list of taboo topics never discussed in mixed company. Not war. Not equal pay. Not even the latest shocking elimination on “Dancing with the Stars.” Nope, it’s breastfeeding. I understand that because this word actually includes part of the female anatomy some would argue it falls under the “sex” category, but trust me, it’s shouldn’t.
When my oldest child was born, I had every intention of doing things the “right” way. No television, strict feeding and sleeping schedule, classical music piped in the nursery daily, cloth diapers and because all the books and medical research proved that breastfeeding would make my little genius even smarter and healthier, I would breastfeed for at least a year. After six months and six brand new razor sharp teeth emerged, I decided to quit.
A few weeks later I was out to lunch with a friend when a lady approached asking the standard questions, “How old is he? Is he crawling? Eating solids?” And out of left field, “Are you breastfeeding?” I explained that I did for “SIX WHOLE MONTHS!” With a disappointed look, she introduced herself as a member of La Leche and went on to explain how much smarter my child would have been had I continued to breastfeed. Now because of my selfishness he would probably be overweight as an adult and struggle with low self-esteem. I was crippled with fear.
Shortly after this incident, my little guy was diagnosed with an ear infection. When my dad found out, he insisted that if I’d continued breastfeeding his grandson wouldn’t be sick. He went on and on about how it was so good for the baby and how my mother enjoyed every minute of it and blah, blah, blah. When my mother explained to him that unless you possess a uterus, you have ZERO credibility in this matter, he let it go.
Four years later my youngest joined the family. I decided that nothing would stop me from breastfeeding for at least a year. I was going to prove to myself, La Leche and everyone else that I could be a weapon of mass lactation. As most of you know, when that second or third child comes along your “plans” change. Two weeks after he was born, I stopped breastfeeding.
For the next three months, when we were out at the grocery or any public place, I was prepared for strangers to ask a question whose answer would reveal my status as an unfit mother.
At his next well-baby visit my pediatrician went over all the usual items; weight, length, where he ranked compared to other babies, etc. Then she asked if he was taking a bottle or breast. That was it! I don’t care how many degrees she had, she wasn’t going to bully me into feeling bad.
“No, I’m not breastfeeding. It’s not for me. And, yes I know that this means he won’t be as smart as his peers. What is so wrong with being average? My mom breastfeed all six of my brothers and sisters for two years, and my younger brother never finished college. And so what if he’s overweight as an adult, who isn’t in America? Not that it’s any of your business, but I can bond just as well by feeding him a bottle. He coos just as much as his big brother did at this age. I also know I’d probably lose all this baby weight faster, whatever! I am so sick of people asking me about this. I’d feel more comfortable telling you who I was going to vote for in the next presidential election.”
The doctor made a quick note in the chart, looked up with a smile and said, “So… Who ARE you voting for?”
Comments about anything besides Politics, religion, sex or breastfeeding? Email Becky at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
By ANGEL KANE
Wilson Living Magazine
I consider myself a pretty patient person. So patient, in fact, that one of my claims to fame are my outstanding blood pressure numbers.
They are incredibly low. Low enough that medical professionals sometimes find it concerning. I just smile and inform them, “Oh no, that’s just normal for me.”
But, I’m pretty certain that if I were to run by Walgreens this morning and stick my arm in that cuff, SIRENS WOULD GO OFF! (And men in white jackets would come cart me away!)
As I write this today, Brody and my three children are begging me not to tell you about the subject, or should I say subjects that have basically ruined my life.
But I have reached my limit!
It all started so innocently as I perused Pinterest and came upon the most lovely of all pantries. It was a walk in, with shelving, and on each shelf the food products were laid out; first all the tin cans, then the baking products, then the cereals and so on.
It was so ordered, so organized, so OCD, that it literally spoke to me. (Yes, I know, my family has the men in white jackets on speed dial.)
Three weeks later, I converted one of the small rooms off our kitchen into a walk in pantry. I had shelves put in and then spent an entire Saturday moving the food into the pantry, lining everything up, labeling tins, putting like food groups with like food groups …it was my own, personal heaven-on-earth.
One week later, I reached for a bag of flour and the bottom fell out!
Flour went everywhere. I was covered, my tins were covered, my walls were covered, my pretty multi-colored floor mat was covered, and as I reached down to look at the mess, I noticed the bite marks on the bag and the little black specks of…………..AGGGHHH!!!
When I’m 65 years old, and go in for my first MRI - I’m quite certain the Doctor will ask me, “Mrs. Kane it appears you’ve had a stroke sometime in your past, can you recall when that may have happened?”
And I’m going to know EXACTLY when it happened!
You see my friends, we have RATS. A word Brody can’t quite commit to.
“Would you please stop calling them rats, they are field mice. And stop telling everyone about them.”
It appears I’m not the only one who coveted my pantry. Apparently a friendly field mouse also thought it was smoking hot, so he told all the other field mice in town about it, who are now having a convention in my pantry.
Since that fateful day, I have been purging, cleaning, scrubbing, bleaching, re-bleaching, screaming, yelling, googling…fighting an all-out losing battle…against field mice.
Most evenings as Brody walks by the pantry and sees me crazed, on hands and knees, checking my traps, he says in a quiet voice …so as not to antagonize…”Field mice just come in when it’s cold. They leave in the spring. I think you’re going overboard.”
“Overboard. Overboard? Google Haute Virus or the Plague! And by the way, these are RATS…if you say the word field mice one more time, I’m going to lose my mind!” (He clutches the phone. Go ahead, call the men with the jacket, I don’t care.)
And don’t even get me started about the cashier at Lowes. I’ve been in there three Sundays in a row.
First, I started with the glue pads, six boxes of them. “They are for my son’s class project,” I said. She nodded and looked sad for me.
The next week, I got the poison. The big bag - the one with the scoop. Eyes averted, I whispered “Our neighbors have field mice. They’re getting into our shed.” She pities me, I can tell. I hate her.
This last weekend, when I went to Lowes, I spent over $150 on equipment that I read about on an online Rat Forum. These Plug-Ins emit a piercing sound that field mice hate but humans can‘t hear. I handed her eight of them to ring up.
We made eye contact. “We have Rats.” I said and smiled. She looked away.
As soon as I got home, I plugged them all in.
Oh God….I think I can hear the buzzing sound! (At least my padded room won’t be infested.)
To read more of Angel and Becky’s columns go to www.wilsonpost.com.
By Becky Andrews
It was a 1971 Ford Torino and it was mine! Who cares that it was 1992 and the new car smell disappeared around the time ‘lap only’ seat belts were replaced with those fancy shoulder belts or that the AM radio no longer worked or that every time I pressed the brake water would rush up to the pedals. It was my first car and it was new to me. The newness wore off the third time I had to take it in for repairs. Honestly, I got sick of the mechanics and their lingo.
‘She’s a classic!’
“You need to take care of her.”
I was barely old enough to vote but because she was only fed low grade gasoline and barely bathed, I was the neglectful mother of an inanimate object.
That new car smell applies to many things…jobs, homes, marriage, and yes, even those little bundles of joy who call us mommy.
That new job is perfect until you realize more money means more responsibility. That new home is perfect until that first major repair bill or you visit a friend’s house and realize you should have gone with a different floor plan. The honeymoon stage ends when your husband buys you a new vacuum for your first anniversary. Finally the new car smell of your little boy is nearly impossible to detect once they reach their teens who live in a messy room, have a smart mouth and would rather spend a week without Wi-Fi than give his mother a kiss before getting out of the car on morning drop off.
After 7 long years, more than 40 road trips, countless seasons of baseball, soccer, football, and basketball, at least 1,000 showings of Cars and Happy Feet (whoever decided to put televisions in a vehicle, I’m forever indebted to you), and ten sets of tires, the new car smell had long worn off and that meant it was time to finally retire our family car-my minivan. For me it was like giving away a very important piece of our family history. For my husband, a new car meant he would be getting respect on the roadways once again. He’s always been convinced that no one takes a man in a minivan seriously.
With a new(er) vehicle, it was my goal to keep it cleaner. At 13 and 9 years old, it shouldn’t be that hard for my boys to comply with our new rules. A few days after our purchase, it looked like my new rules were being followed. No longer would I feel embarrassed opening my car door where empty fast food containers, gum, overdue library books and loose change were peppered all over the floor. I patted myself on the back because finally they got it. About that time, my youngest shouted from the back,
“Can we get this car dirty yet? I’m hungry!”
I knew I was getting too cocky.
Email Becky with comments… This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
For more Telling Tales visit www.tellingtalesblog.com or the style section at www.wilsonpost.com
By Becky Andrews
Let me introduce you to my children…
Many of us know someone who has perfect children. The children who never talk back (even though they started talking in complete sentences at 6 weeks old), their children began reading and could recite all the amendments of the Bill of Rights by age 2, could kick a field goal from the 50 yard line at 8 years old and now colleges from the top 10 have already reserved a full scholarship for Junior. Of course all of the above is according to the parents, who tend to embellish at times. These are also the parents that you can tell take secret joy in discovering that your youngest didn’t learn how to tie his shoes until 2nd grade.
This type of parent never seemed to faze my mother. I’d like to think she was so incredibly open about the failings of her children because she simply liked to make others feel better. But part of me knows better. When I would ask her why she insisted on telling the parents of my classmates I sucked my thumb until age 11 she’d reply,
“But look at you now. You don’t suck your thumb anymore.”
She did this quite often. We (my brothers and sisters) like to reminisce about how mom introduced us to complete strangers. It always went a little like this,
“This is my oldest son, Mike. He’s very creative and so sensitive. Don’t offer him a drink though. He’s a recovering alcoholic.”
“This is Laura. She’s our oldest daughter. Isn’t she pretty? You should have seen her before she gained all that weight from the kids. Talk about a knockout.”
“Here’s Kathy. She is the most reliable of our children. I don’t know where she got her chest from though.”
I cringed when it was my turn. Out of all of my brothers and sisters, I provided the most entertainment and disappointment so there was no telling where this introduction would go.
“Becky is our fourth. Look how pretty her teeth are. Thank God she quit sucking her thumb.” “She’s on another diet so keep an eye on your dessert. She has a sweet tooth, don’t you, Beck?”
“This is Christy. She’s our baby girl. She’s also agnostic. You know, she doesn’t believe in God. I’ve told her about hell. But, she’s my stubborn child. I guess some of us just have to learn the hard way.”
“And our baby, Tony. He’s just precious. You’d never know his big sisters dressed him in drag when he was little. Although, who knows what he’s wearing under those jeans.”
I can’t wait to create similar memories for my children. Some traditions should never be lost.
Email your embarrassing stories to Becky! This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
So Valentines Day went down like it usually does each year.
A few days before the big day, I issue my warning, “I don’t want flowers. Do not buy me flowers. I will lose my mind if I get flowers!” (I know what you are thinking, what a joy to be married to me, right?)
But in all fairness, how can anything that rots and dies be considered a gift?
Let me introduce you to my children…
By Becky Andrews
Many of us know someone who has perfect children. The children who never talk back (even though they started talking in complete sentences at 6 weeks old), their children began reading and could recite all the amendments of the Bill of Rights by age 2, could kick a field goal from the 50 yard line at 8 years old and now colleges from the top 10 have already reserved a full scholarship for Junior. Of course all of the above is according to the parents, who tend to embellish at times. These are also the parents that you can tell take secret joy in discovering that your youngest didn’t learn how to tie his shoes until 2nd grade.
This type of parent never seemed to faze my mother. I’d like to think she was so incredibly open about the failings of her children because she simply liked to make others feel better. But part of me knows better. When I would ask her why she insisted on telling the parents of my classmates I sucked my thumb until age 11 she’d reply,
“But look at you now. You don’t suck your thumb anymore.”
She did this quite often. We (my brothers and sisters) like to reminisce about how mom introduced us to complete strangers. It always went a little like this,
“This is my oldest son, Mike. He’s very creative and so sensitive. Don’t offer him a drink though. He’s a recovering alcoholic.”
“This is Laura. She’s our oldest daughter. Isn’t she pretty? You should have seen her before she gained all that weight from the kids. Talk about a knockout.”
“Here’s Kathy. She is the most reliable of our children. I don’t know where she got her chest from though.”
I cringed when it was my turn. Out of all of my brothers and sisters, I provided the most entertainment and disappointment so there was no telling where this introduction would go.
“Becky is our fourth. Look how pretty her teeth are. Thank God she quit sucking her thumb.” “She’s on another diet so keep an eye on your dessert. She has a sweet tooth, don’t you, Beck?”
“This is Christy. She’s our baby girl. She’s also agnostic. You know, she doesn’t believe in God. I’ve told her about hell. But, she’s my stubborn child. I guess some of us just have to learn the hard way.”
“And our baby, Tony. He’s just precious. You’d never know his big sisters dressed him in drag when he was little. Although, who knows what he’s wearing under those jeans.”
I can’t wait to create similar memories for my children. Some traditions should never be lost.
Email your embarrassing stories to Becky! This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
My Arrogant Ways
By ANGEL KANE
Wilson Living Magazine
My husband says being late is a sign of arrogance
I think he says that because he knows that I’m better than him
Being late is a family trait…on my side of the family. My family is from the old country, so when somebody says “Be there at 7”, I was raised to believe 7 was merely a suggestion.
It’s as if they’re saying, “We suggest you come at 7, but really at 7 we will barely be ready, so in all honesty, we prefer you come at 7:45.”
Brody on the other hand, would like to be in their driveway at 6:58, so that we can ring their doorbell promptly at 7.
As you can imagine since I have to live with his man, on a daily basis now, going on 18 years, this is turning into a problem.
At first it really didn’t bother me. I mean, what’s he going to do, drive off without me? (Being completely nuts is another family trait …so he knows better than to take that option.)
Instead, he stands over me. Right over me.
Pacing back and forth…back and forth…and back and forth…
“Are you ready?”
“Let’s go.”
“You always make us late.”
“Geez, get the rollers out of your hair, we should have been there by now.”
“I’m going to the car.”
“Do not change your clothes again.”
“Really, really, you are changing again? I’m just going to sit in the car until you are ready!”
And then he honks. Two short ones. To test me.
And then he honks again…the long kind!
(Using words in ways others may not think they can be used, comes from my Mother’s side….) So when he gets to the long honk, my children flee the scene.
And this is where the problem has really found footing.
It would appear, these children of mine, these children that I carried in my womb for 9 plus months, who have given me stretch marks, grey hairs and sleepless nights, who have depleted every bank account I ever wished to have…these children of mine…have inherited their Daddy’s punctuality gene.
To the point, that I now have four people menacing me as I try to get ready.
“Mama, hurry up, we can’t be late for school again.”
“Oh my God, you are not painting your nails right now!”
“We need to leave now, or I’ll miss the beginning of the movie!”
“Pleaaaaseeee can we go?! The game starts in five minutes and it takes us 15 minutes to get there.”
“Daddy, can we just leave her.”
Seriously, given the conditions under which I now live, the fact that I don’t drink and do pills is a miracle!
So on Friday night, everyone was anxiously pacing.
Madison had the ACT test Saturday morning and had to be there at 7:30. Brody had to be in Smyrna with Neill at 7.
All eyes were on me…judging me.
Yes, of course, I got her there on time. (I figured the ACT people weren’t going to buy my “old country” garbage.)
Only to find out, when we got there, ON TIME, she had forgotten her I.D.
And she doesn’t get that from my side either!
To read more of Angel & Becky’s columns go to www.wilsonpost.com and hit Blogs.
50 strands of grey…
It happens every time I go to the hairdresser. After sitting in the chair, she spins me around, surveys dry, split and graying tresses then asks,
“So what are we going to do today?”
This is where I get nervous. Not at my hairdresser. She’s a pro. It’s just that I never know the right answer. It sounds so boring to say, “Keep it the same as last time” and unrealistic to show her a picture of Jennifer Anniston and say, “Make me look like this”. Instead, we begin an exchange I’m positive makes her want to hold my head a little longer under the water as she’s washing my hair.
“I’d like a cut that makes me look 20 pounds lighter, 10 years younger and requires no maintenance.”
“I left my wand at home, Becky. How did you like the color last time?”
“Loved it, but it didn’t last long enough. Look at all of this gray.”
“I see it but it’s been four months since your last appointment. What kind of shampoo have you been using? Are you washing it every other day like we talked about last time?”
She already knows the answer to those questions. Kind of like when I ask my husband if he thinks I’m prettier than Beyoncé.
“Don’t you have a color that will last at least six months and can withstand daily washings with dish detergent? Not that I use dish detergent. I mean, I have in a pinch but not all the time.”
I can tell she’s exhausted with me.
“No I am 99% positive there is nothing like that on the market. If you will stop washing it every day and use the correct shampoo, your color will last longer.”
“What about something that will stop all of this gray?” I can tell my time is limited in her chair today so before she fires me, we collectively decide that a few extra highlights and a bit of razoring around my face will do the trick.
After my blow out, I think about how my hair will never look this good again until my next appointment. I also think of alternate names for the term ‘Blow out’.
She always pulls off the perfect look with very little (i.e.-realistic) direction from me. Before leaving, I promise to use the expensive sulfate-free hair products, only wash my hair every other day and return in 6-8 weeks so I don’t monopolize her chair for half a day. She gives me a hopeful smile but I can tell she knows better.
“I’ll block off five hours four months from now. See ya then!”
Comments? This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
Mama is M.I.A.
By Angel Kane
Wilson Living Magazine
Do you ever wonder what life will be like when you die?
Will my kids be ok? Will Brody remarry? Will my friends like his new wife?
I’ve never really thought about it – as the odds are Brody is going first.
But just this past week, I had a glimpse into this world and let me just say, for all our sakes, I need to start taking a multi-vitamin.
I was supposed to be out of town for just one day. One day turned into five.
By day three, Brody was in a panic.
“Seriously, would you please answer your phone when I call! I’m not calling to chat. I need you to tell me where they keep their clothes. We’ve run out.”
The calls, texts and emails continued, including one from my middle child titled “HELP!”
Needless to say Friday night when I arrived home, I was a tad bit hesitant as I drove up the driveway.
As I tried to push open the back door, I noticed that something was keeping it from opening all the way. As I continued to push, there stood a mound of dirty clothes keeping it from opening.
Well, I say they were dirty.
In actuality the mound appeared to consist of a combination of dirty clothes on the floor and clean ones in the dryer, half way falling onto the floor and into this mound.
Apparently Brody had found their clothes! Every last one of them!
The clothes led to backpacks, backpacks led to coats, cleats, basketballs, tennis balls and books that lined the way from the back door, all the way to the kitchen.
The kitchen counters were filled with empty bags of Wendys, Painturos and Jersey Mikes. And it did appear, from the 100 bowls in the sink, that their father had fed them breakfast every morning as well.
Between the kitchen and the den, I saw books and pencils all over the floor as well as my new laptop – homework – check!
I went from room to room finding destruction everywhere I turned.
It seemed as they destroyed one room, they would move on to the next. It also appeared that at some point during the week, they had decided to break my rule and allowed the dog back into the house.
Finally I found them all, sitting in our office.
Our office consists of a desk and computer. We have one over-sized leather chair and a television in there, basically for one person. All four of them were huddled together in the dark, in the chair, watching television. The dog was sitting beside them. Brody was asleep.
Their clothes looked un-ironed, their pony tales looked askew and I’m pretty sure my youngest had failed to bathe all week.
They looked happy and content.
If I were to die first, my kids will be ok.
And given the state of my house, I seriously doubt Brody could remarry anytime soon.
To read more of Angel and Becky’s columns go to www.wilsonpost.com and hit Blogs.
“Where do babies come from?” or having THE TALK
By Becky Andrews
When I had my children I knew that I would be a cool parent. My kids were going to be fully aware that the only thing a stork drops as he flies over our house is something that likely carries the bird flu. When it comes time for “the talk” we-my husband and I- were going to be honest and open for any questions.
From the time my children could talk, I thought it necessary to call a body part what it was. None of the cutesy little names like oo-ah’s and tete’s for my kids. This was all in preparation for the questions they would have later. I was determined to answer those inquiries better than my parents. While I loved my mom, when it came to “the talk” she simply said, “That’s none of your business, Becky. Sometimes you talk too much.” I couldn’t understand what the big deal was. Yes, my parents were raised in a different time -where having the talk meant giving your children brochures and telling them to see the school nurse with any questions- but there had to be a better way.
My decision to be open with my kids was derailed for a short time when I was pregnant with my youngest and my oldest asked me how the baby was going to get out. I knew this was a pivotal moment for my little boy. He was almost 5. I gave him an answer and he was satisfied. No more questions. He was brilliant. The next day I picked him up from preschool. After the teacher buckled his seatbelt, she looked at me and said with an enthusiastic tone, “He was so excited today! He let everyone in the class know that his new brother was going to come out of his mama’s BAGINA.” That should have been my first clue that maybe its better if the stork visits instead of honesty.
When I hear people fret about how they are dreading the talk I don’t understand. I say the more uncomfortable the better. In other words, BRING IT! But this probably has a lot to do with me being so cool.
I was brought down a few notches recently and it turns out I’m not as cool and cavalier as I thought. My boys and I were getting ready for school and as everyone was putting on their coats my youngest said, “Mom, what’s a period?” I thought for a moment about how this could be yet another pivotal moment in his life then answered, “It’s what comes after a sentence. Sometimes you talk too much.”
You can reach Becky Andrews at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
Letters from the edge…
By Becky Andrews
A few weeks ago I found some old letters that my mother had written. Letters sent to her mother, my grandmother, who lived on the Carolina coast; a 12 hour drive away from our home in Tennessee. My grandmother saved everything, and letters from her only daughter were no exception. I read page after page of correspondence between a very young mom asking for recipes and advice on colic, then letters from a middle aged mom of 6 asking for advice on teenage sons and daughters and wondering if the boys will ever talk again and if the girls ever ‘shut up’. Finally there were letters from a post-menopausal woman asking her mom if she’s eating well and updating her on the children;
“Mike is dating a super nice woman. Not sure what she sees in him since he’s been married twice before? I can’t get over what a fabulous mom Laura has become with her two boys. She is so organized about everything. You should see the arts and crafts she does with both of them. I told her she needs a hobby that doesn’t involve pipe cleaners and glitter or she’ll end up like crazy Aunt Madge. Kathy is enjoying the newly married life and wants to start a family. I told her to get a cat first. Becky just finished her first semester of college and she let us know that she’s changing her major from nursing to English Literature because, and I quote, ‘you and dad are NOT the boss of me anymore!’ Who really needs the stability a nursing career can bring? The world just doesn’t have enough struggling writers. Christy is biding her time before she leaves for college in two years. She almost hisses in the morning when I wake her for school. When she doesn’t have her nose in a book, she’s arguing with me about the importance of recycling and can’t believe her parents are so irresponsible with refuse. I told that the same two breasts fed all 6 of my children and that alone gives me a free pass to do whatever I want to with my ‘refuse’. Ralph says it’s because she was being reared in the middle of our obsession with Peter, Paul and Mary. Tony is still doing wonderful in school and he’s now the very proud wearer of contact lenses. It was tough on Christy and Becky when he retired those coke bottle glasses. They really miss seeing how big his eyes could get when he’d pull the glasses away from his face. What can I say…? Kids come up with their own fun when you don’t have cable.”
She signed off every letter with a clever little valediction like ‘Love your eternally unorganized daughter’ or ‘Love from your NOT pregnant daughter’
Letter writing has become sort of a communication anomaly these days. We are more likely to see hand written letters hanging in the Smithsonian next to the stone etched hieroglyphics display, than pulling one out of a mailbox. I may decide to start writing letters again. Not to my mom of course, because I have no idea where to send it? But if I could write her a letter I’d probably ask her opinion on the one thing I just can’t figure out… ‘Why do the housewives continue to have dinner parties if they all end in a disaster or lawsuit?’ She’d totally understand!
If you know why the housewives keep having dinner parties, please email Becky the answer at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
IT’S A WEIGHTY ISSUE
By Angel Kane
Wilson Living Magazine
By the time, you read this article, I will have been eating meat and only meat for a solid week!
So, about six months ago, I woke up with the worst back pain. And like any sane person, I refused to go the doctor. So month after month, I have just wallowed in my pain.
Finally, those around me couldn’t take my complaining anymore, demanding I see a doctor.
As I explained my symptoms to the nurse, she required I get on the scale.
And herein lies the problem with doctors.
No matter what the symptom…be it a raging cold, fiery rash or bulging disc…for some reason, only known to these so called medical professionals, they insist on knowing my weight.
And honestly, if they would just ask me, I’d tell them.
I weigh 110 pounds. The same amount I have weighed since high school. See, I don’t mind saying it out loud.
But Nurse Hatchet didn’t buy it, insisting I get on that scale to prove it.
So, Becky called me after I was done with the X-ray.
“Did the doctor find anything?”
“He is supposed to call me tomorrow but I’m sure that X-ray is going to show I’m secretly pregnant with a 12 pound baby, because if it doesn’t, I am going to blow up his stupid scale!”
Unfortunately, the X-ray was fine and it turns out the only bundle of joy I’ve had lately, consists of my late night hot chocolates made with whole milk and my deliciously warm peanut butter, chocolate chip cookies.
As a result of my regrettable run in, with that clearly malfunctioning scale, I convinced Becky to start dieting with me. But this time we are doing it right! We joined an actual diet center.
You know, the ones where you hand people hard earned money so they can tell you all the things you can not eat and then they ….weigh you.
Because that’s not insane.
