To everyone who has been asking what's up with Wendy Bell's blog:
Thanks for taking the time to e-mail us... and please read this reply message from Wendy.



I asked the station managers to remove the blog. It has been very rewarding at some times, and very frustrating at others. I started to receive discouraging e-mails from some readers who made what was supposed to be an enjoyable outlet for me (and hopefully you) much less so.

I've always appreciated the positive feedback I've gotten, however. And I thank YOU for writing about it now. Perhaps there'll be a new adventure down the road.

All the best,

Wendy

So many of you have written, wondering why I've been holding out on the bed details. Gotta be honest with you. It only arrived about a week ago. Shipping takes a good month on that baby. And my camera batteries just conked out on me -- so you'll have to wait until tomorrow for the pics (as totally whacked out as that sounds). But in a word.. The Heavenly Bed is...

AWESOME!!

Oh my gosh, guys. If your bed is the worst... if you're tired of waking up feeling like a 100 year old pretzel... you gotta check out the Marriott Heavenly Bed!!
Only about 400 dollars more than my old mattress -- this baby sings. I love it. It has just the right squish. Just the right firmness. Just the right pillowtop. It's The Freaking Best.

LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT

Plus -- I splurged on four heavenly pillows. UNREAL!! The only problem? When El Diablo (Ryan, my 18 month old) wakes up screaming in the middle of the night (because he can and does far too painfully often) I'm seriously irritated to get out of my bed to soothe the little crapper. So I let Joe go in and get him.

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

Wow. I needed that. Thanks.

Seriously, there's that Cryin' Ryan moment of truth for me most nights. So I comfort my child... or lie in my new bed and pretend to ignore him? Hmmm. The decision is sometimes an arduous one. Sad, really.

So let me recharge these stinking camera batteries and get the snapshots to you. This bed is so COOL!!!!

I'm struggling tonight.

I'm mad at myself.

More disappointed, I guess.

The day started well enough. The spectacular morning had me airing out the house, hitting the yard for a mow job... then foostering around in the mud and dirt with my boys, pulling weeds, wondering if I should hose them off in the driveway or strip them in the garage and carry them to the tub. And when Ryan went down for his nap, Jack and I climbed on top of my new "heavenly bed" to watch Return of the Jedi as a breeze of freshly cut grass sort of whispered into the room. Seriously. Does life get any better?

Well. Now. In fact. Yes. It does.

Six scrumptious Chicken McNuggets would be the icing on my cake. I hadn't eaten all day. My mouth was watering for that hot mustard sauce... so when I left the boys for work... I detoured into the McD's drive through lane, pulled up to the order box... and saw him.

A homeless man. Maybe 75. Thin. Gaunt even. White hair and tired eyes. He looked at me and I looked right back. Then he slowly started to walk to my open window, smiled wearily and said simply...

"Ma'am, I'm Hungry."

I've seen him before. Same spot. Same situation.

But I was quicker then. I rolled my window up. Looked the other way. Turned up the radio. Pretended to be talking on the phone. I ignored the problem.

Today, I didn't. I couldn't. I didn't have time.

Maybe I'm tired of bad liars hitting me up at the gas station, telling me tales of their "broken down car" and the few bucks they need to get it towed. Maybe I remember in the back of my head that three people were shot and killed in 2000 in the same drive-through lane. Maybe I just don't trust people anymore.

But this man's eyes got me. He was hungry. His eyes looked hungry.

I asked him what he'd like for lunch, and he didn't much care. He did request a cold drink. I told him I'd meet him on the other side of the drive through. He smiled and turned around to slowly head that way.

When the girl at the window handed me my food, I asked her to put the 2 double cheeseburgers and sweet tea in a separate bag because I'd just bought them for the homeless man who hangs around the restaurant. She hardly acknowledged me, separated the food into two bags, handed them to me and closed the window behind her.

I drove around the corner to find the man sitting on a curb, waiting. I rolled down the window, handed him his sandwiches and drink, smiled and told him to be safe. He smiled back, said thank you, God Bless, and grabbed into the bag to get at his food.

I drove away... and felt awful.

Why did I tell the lady at the window that I'd bought food for this man? What? Like I deserved some medal or congratulations or a big pat on the back for spending a few bucks to give a stranger food? Did I really need that woman's praise or an atta boy for doing the right thing? Should I be congratulated for NOT closing my window? For NOT turning away? For NOT ignoring the problem?

Please.

I'm angry at myself for that.

My parents taught me better.

I remember hearing a homily at church not that long ago about opening up our homes and our hearts to strangers. To give selflessly. To love and appreciate and share.

I don't do enough of that.

It's easy to get mired in the window shopping and lousy mattresses, bad pitches, ear infections, daily discipline and general grind of making ends meet.

I hope next time I see that man -- he doesn't look so tired. Or hungry. If he does, perhaps I'll get out of the drive through lane and park. I'll ask him to come inside and have lunch with me. Bet he has some incredible stories to tell. Bet even more that I could learn a thing or two, listening.

Major props to all of you with a window story, an "in", connection, trade secret, friend, friend of a friend, grandma with a friend, or just plain ole consumer tale about what I've learned is the most painful process in the world. I am so discouraged, so confused, so belittled by the sale pitches and dizzying schpeels that I'm not getting new windows. Not now. Who knows when. Every sales person has a reason their windows are so revolutionary while "the other guys" are crooks. Enough. My 6 quotes ranged from $12,000 to $21,000. Yeah. Thank God I have that spare cash in my checking account.

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAH A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

Whew.

I needed that.

It's been a rough week. My little league pitching's been atrocious. Not only have I beaned every kid on the team, I'm fairly certain the parents want to bean me. I think I have Pirate sympathy. They stink. So should I. It really bothers me that I can't get the stupid ball in this coach pitch league over the plate. I feel like I'm sucking the enjoyment out of these boys. Makes me feel like crap. And I've hit my own boys the most. What a great mom.

On a positive note, our mattress should be delivered tomorrow or Friday. Many of you have asked "how I like it" .... and I'll be more than happy to tell you all about it when that bad boy gets lugged upstairs. Anything's got to be better than the pretzel sleep I'm having. I wake up in knots, barely able to bend over and touch my toes. Pathetic. The good news is the mattress is not refundable. Not exchangeable. Love it or hate it. Thank goodness it was so affordable.

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

Gosh. I'm full of it today. Whew.

Tomorrow will be a good day. Right?

We're buying new windows.

Shoot me now.

I'd rather dig a hole to China that learn about new windows.

Ever embarked on this journey? The extortion + creepy sales pitch = I need to take a shower NOW equation??

If you know me at all -- you're well aware that I'm a former consumer reporter. I never buy without shopping around. So, sure, I'm getting 6 estimates. Punishing? Of course. Low end. High end. People whose TV ads I recognize and little guy Mom and Pops who can hardly afford a line or two in the Yellow Pages. Everyone gets an equal shot at my business. I like to get everyone out to my house for a little "fun." But just like my grocery store self-check torture -- this, too -- is my own little world of pain.

I live in a nice neighborhood. In the city. Good people. Close to bad people. You know the drill. I have a good sized house with 16 windows. Bad drafts. No screens. Original windows from the 1960s. It's time for an overhaul.

I like to place half my calls for estimates under my maiden name, Bell, and half under my married name. About 70 percent of people who hear Wendy Bell recognize it in some fashion. No one who hears my married name would make any connection. Another ploy of mine. Does Wendy Bell get ripped off more than her married counterpart? Or does her TV self get a better deal? Bring it.

I've had three of my six estimates so far and am still not sold. Everyone has a different pitch. Rip this out, put this in, this window tilts, this one self cleans, this one serves no purpose but is cool nonetheless. And the prices are coming in all over the place. A $4,000 difference?? Come ON. And I'm just getting started!

So what's the average person to do? Carve out countless hours for window people and their tape measures to invade their privacy, take their "measurements" and snoop around? Yep. You got it. I'm carving as we speak. I intend for every window joint in town to stop by. And whomever gives me the best product and the best price will be shouted from the moutain tops. Do these people think we don't talk? Don't share?? Ha! I'll start my neighborhood's own Craig's List!!

So -- do me a favor. If you know of a quality window installer who's not intent on ripping me off... um... okay... IF that person exists... you have 'em contact me, won'tcha? Because this is going to make one HECK of a news story!!

As busy as life is....
As crazy as my schedule gets...
I still like a little healthy self-torture.

It's not physical pain. Not really emotional angst either. Just Pure mind-numbing, blood pressure raising, migraine bubbling Hell.

Grocery Shopping.

With three boys.

On this particular day -- I had to wait an hour for Ryan's ear infection antibiotic at The Pharmacy as he and his brothers pulled a circus clown stunt and tried to stuff themselves in one of those bright yellow car carts made to distract kids so parents can actually get anything coherent accomplished. Today's trip, though? My personal purgatory came later...

I can't mention the particular store where I shop lest I infuriate some of you readers who'll then drop me nasty e-mails. Suffice to say it's a big store. With fuel incentives. Shelves whose contents always seem to get rearranged right after I figure out where everything is... and where Ryan is sure to dump a baggie of cheerios on the floor for everyone to squish to smithereens.

If grocery shopping isn't bad enough... I always forget four or five things after making one pass through every aisle. And THAT invariably takes me right back into the Bermuda Triangle of "Mom! Look! Can I have that? Can I? Huh??" and cell phone shoppers who blather as they block the aisle I'm trying to get down. One of these days I'm just not going to make it out alive.

And is it just me or do ALL kids feel the need to ride on the side of the carts? Their weight makes it all but impossible to steer and today, despite my requisite 200 warnings, Jack still got his pinky toe crunched to oblivion. Cry me a river. Like I couldn't see THAT coming. A mom can only warn so many times until a stinging injury comes to fruition. I try not to laugh in his face, I really do.

No, friends. It's not the actual selection of food and bartering with my sons that's problematic. It's not the mental meal making or imaginary recipes that frustrate me. Nope. It's all about Checking Out.

Sure. There are actual human beings who are paid to do this for us... but I prefer the torture of self check. My cart bursting, stuff literally spilling off the top -- and still I insist on scanning each item myself. Usually, if it's a good day, I can get through all the scanning, bagging and automated scolding before Ryan has fully disrobed... first kicking off his shoes, then pulling off the socks and digging at his pants. Today? Well today reminded me that my next GSA (grocery store adventure) has GOT to be easier.

That lady's automated voice haunts me. She throws off my groove -- barking for removing a bag too quickly or if the weight of what you scanned doesn't jive with what the system THINKS it should weigh.. and then the coupon slot?? Forget about it. I'm no rocket scientist, but come on. You can't be serious that a stupid slot with a blinking light is the BEST way to deposit coupons. Half of mine didn't register. Five got stuck in coupon limbo in that black metal box they fall into (keenly locked because GOD knows all of us want to steal it) and the whole computer froze up on me twice. My incentive for shopping at said store? 30 cents off per gallon of gas. That's good. But the coupon this dumb computer printed up for me....? It was for baby food. Infant baby food. I don't need baby food anymore. A free gallon of milk would have been nice, considering we go through FIVE A WEEK.

Alas, I made it out of there alive today. But the rock salt in my wound came at the elevator.... as I waited for my ride down to the garage where I'd parked. As I heaved that bursting cart and my three kids towards its stainless steel exit, a little old lady pushed in front of me. Burst past me in the most obnoxious and rude move I could imagine. I clenched my fist. My jaw tightened. I wanted to take her down.

When we got into the elevator... she looked back at me and gave me it. The Look. The "Oh! I recognize you!" look. I stared right back. Blank.

She stepped off the elevator and moved to the side to let me and my gaggle of groceries and boys go. Too little, too late, though.

Ryan had dropped a deuce in the elevator -- and as I walked my shopping cart past this woman so intent on getting by us, I walked extra slowly. Plodding. Purposeful. All to allow the green cloud wafting out of Ryan's pants drift in her direction.

Come to think of it?

My shopping trip today wasn't that bad. ;)

I don't have a picture to prove it -- but two days a week -- this makeup slathered hairspray accident helps coach Michael and Jack's little league team. The Muck Dogs. (They swear it's Mud Dogs because it sounds so much filthier. Go figure.) Now "coach", mind you, is a loose term. I'm not some whistle-blowing rule harper who hollers strategy and hits blooper grounders that bounce in the dirt up into the kids's faces. I'm the mom who lobs pop ups, tosses tricky grounders and pitches over hand hard ball to a group of 6 and 7 year olds who quite frankly only want to tally the runs and tackle each other between plays. This is a group that doesn't understand base running. Cares little about fielding. And whose concept of "backing each other up" means jumping on each other's back to see whose pants can get more grass stains. But when it comes to the plate... it's all about the biggest bat of the bunch, tapping the plate and slugging that bad boy into the next county. These boys hit. And they hit well.

There is something remarkably absurd about the dual personality of my life. Practices are Saturday mornings at 8 to about 8:45, following by a 45 minute "game" -- which is nothing more than extended practice with opposing 7 year olds to heckle. My typical appearance is always the same. Shorts. Running shoes. T-shirt. Bandana to cover the crazy glued hair from Friday's 11PM news. No makeup. And a cup of Joe. Fast forward to Tuesday night practice and whoa, the kids are confused. I have sprayed curls, loads of mascara, full eye makeup (hate that more than anything) powder foundation, blush, sometimes an errant ear or neck accessory, and lipstick poorly schmeared off in the car but topped with a pinky's worth of petroleum jelly that's melted to a gooey glop in the middle console of my car. Ah. Little league. I love it.

We can get this group of 13 6 and 7 (Jack's only 5) years olds all up to the plate and on base in 8 minutes. There's no 20 pitches. Strike outs. Pop ups or do overs. It's overhand fast pitch (some bean balls, I must admit) that these kids can hit out of the park. Even the littlest guy on the team can crank 'em -- and nearly each boy has slugged me with a line drive or two.

I never thought a mad dash out of the station at 6:12PM on practice nights would be so enjoyable. Never thought the buzz of mosquitoes or the swirl of a dust cloud from the kids kicking the dirt on the diamond would make me cough...and smile. Never imagined that watching my kids slowly piece together the fundamentals of the game would be so... fulfilling.

Sure. I want a girl. To coach, perhaps. What's better than a mom that looks like a hooker on the mound?

Think she'll want to play baseball?

I told you a few weeks ago that I'd talk about the shark tale from our family's vacation to Captiva Island in Florida. Okay. Better late than never. I wish I had a picture of it, because I doubt you'll believe it. If you're a parent, you'll understand this 100 percent.

You can see the shot there with Mike and Jack fishing. If you look at the water and take three steps into it, that was where Ryan was splashing in waves up to his waist as he held onto my sister-in-law's hands. Things got a little chilly for him with the wind kicking up, so I took him out of the water and wrapped him up in a beach blanket (as he screamed angrily with snot running down his face... sorry... I just want to paint a TRUE picture for you here...) Not 30 seconds later... Joe's brother Jim yells SHARK!! And sure enough... in shin-deep water, a 5 foot hammerhead shark swims right through the spot where Ryan had been. 30 seconds before. Unreal. I'm a California girl. I grew up at the ocean. I LOVE the ocean. I love swimming in the ocean. But now I can't let my kids near it. It makes me so angry I can't even tell you. What do I do? Let my kids play in the water and not be afraid of what "may be"? Or fully embrace the fact that the water isn't safe. Be it because of rough surf or rip tides or sharks. Who knows. Where's the line? And where do you draw it?

When I was growing up, we didn't wear seatbelts until I was at least 8. There were no bike helmets or knee pads or stranger danger or sexual predators. At least none I knew about. We walked to school. We walked home. We played in the street. We drove on family vacations -- my sister would lie out on the back seat and I would lie in the "gully" behind the driver and passenger seats on the floor with the "hump" under my knees. We didn't get a zillion shots to prevent this disease or that. We weren't nuts about germs. We ate raw cookie dough with no fear of getting salmonella and we certainly never thought about taking a gun to school. I trusted everyone. There was virtually no reason to not. Kids weren't high in class, priests didn't touch us and teachers had no other idea than to teach.

What do I teach my kids today??

How to run if a stranger approaches them and tries to grab them. How it's never okay for anyone to touch their private parts. Not a teacher. Not a doctor. Not even a family member. How to distrust people they don't know who try to get too close. How not to smoke. Do drugs. Get tattoos. Or drink. How to run like the bejabbers out of someone's house if there's a gun inside. How to be honest and true. How to work hard and pray and love and laugh and be the beautiful little boys that they are.

I think I'm doing a good job. A pretty good job, at least. They've not been mauled by sharks. No broken bones (yet). Just two lost teeth, lots of bruises and cuts I don't even want to know about. They're good boys. And they know they're loved.

So you can imagine how shocking it was for me to hear this out of Jack today as we were driving around running errands. "Mom? When you die, can I have this car?" Touching, ain't it?

I don't think I've always been impulsive. But my track record tells otherwise. There was that episode in Vegas when my car broke down. I was on my way to college in Colorado when it happened... so with my car in the shop... I went next door and got a tattoo. (Hurts like heck to get those things burned off, by the way...) Never felt one way or another about tattoos. But still I got one. That was dumb.

I knew the minute I saw Joe that he was the man I'd marry. Thank goodness he was smart, funny and charismatic and not another blithering dolt I always managed to date. (Meeting him turned out way better than my Grateful Dead dancing bear, for sure.)

And the last car I bought -- I test drove for all of 8 minutes before I bought it. Probably not the smartest move. I only learned after I drove the thing home that my stroller didn't fit in the back.

Tonight?

I bought a mattress.

An expensive one.

Sight unseen.

Untested. Unknown.

Anything's got to be better than the 9 years of cruddy sleep Joe and I have muddled through on our current model. Neither of us sleeps through the night anymore and I can't even blame the boys. They snooze soundly while he and I toss and turn and wake up feeling a million years old. I never knew I had so many muscles in my neck and back that could hurt until we bought this thing. I can't even blame Joe's snoring anymore. I can't sleep anymore. Period.

So I splurged.

I work hard, after all. Joe works hard. We earn our pay. We deserve good sleep. No. We DEMAND good sleep.

I've heard about the Westin's Heavenly Bed for years now. Never slept on one, but I've thought of it -- oh, at least 10,000 times in the last 9 years. Enough already. I went online. Clicked on three boxes, entered some information and BAM. I bought a king sized Heavenly Bed.

Who knows when it'll come.

There's no money-back refund. No returning it to sender. No idea who's even sending it.

But the thought of that delicious king sized pillow top sleep maker has my head spinning. I may be giddy. (I splurged on four king sized pillows, too. Better be good for the extra $350 that cost.)

Impulsive? Absolutely. But I've had enough complaining about bad rest. Quite frankly -- me lying in some store for 30 seconds on a mattress and making a decision about where I'll spend one-third of my life is as equally absurd as buying a mattress online.

At least for the next 2 to 6 weeks I'll jump at every phone call, wondering if it's Phil or Steve or Mike wanting to deliver my precious purchase. They'll probably conk a lamp or ding the wallpaper as they drag the little slice of heaven upstairs... and they won't even take my old mattress away.

No matter.

I'll have good sleep.

And if the mattress stinks?

I'll just blame Joe.

I've had plenty of bad days. Things have gone wrong. I've made mistakes. I've done and said enough stupid things to last a lifetime. But nothing -- no lost job or embarassing moment or heartbreak -- has ever felt as awful as the last 15 minutes of my life.

I lost Jack.

One of my 5 year old's classmates has a birthday party this afternoon. I couldn't drive Jack to it because the party (at a big noisy place where they serve pizza and have "shows" and video games... you know where I mean...) started in Monroeville at 4... and I'm obviously working at that time. So the birthday boy's mom offered to take the kids to the party after school and drop Jack off at home when it was over. I thought that was very nice. Jack wouldn't miss a fun afternoon with his friends because his dumb old mom works. He could go and have fun, too.

The party started at 4.

Joe started to call me here at the station around 7. Jack wasn't home yet. Where was he? What time was this party? Who was he with? Joe asked it all.

By 7:30 Joe's calls turned frantic. We couldn't find cell numbers for either of this boy's parents. We got machines when we called Jack's other classmates' parents.

At 8 PM -- Jack still wasn't home.

I called the place where the party was held -- but the phone number connects you to automated hell. No person ever picks up. It didn't matter the number of times I pressed "0" frantically -- no operator ever answered. No one ever would.

I knew nothing.

I could find out nothing.

And still no Jack.

If it weren't for Mike Clark knowing a girl who once worked at this birthday place, I would never have gotten through to the "backstage" line. Yes, the teenager on the line told me. Jack had just left with the birthday boy and his folks.

It's 8:30 now and my son still isn't home.

He will be soon, but I won't be there to sweep him into my arms and squeeze the bejabbers out of him. I won't be there to yell at him -- even though it's not his fault he's late and has no concept of time. I won't be there to hold him a minute longer than usual, to brush his teeth with more meaning, to help him with his jammies and harp at him for leaving his dirty clothes on his bedroom floor.

And he won't have a clue that Joe and I aged 5 years in 15 minutes.

Jack is fine.

He was always fine.

There was no danger.

The parents at the party let the kids stay long because they were having so much fun. And the birthday boys' folks were sweet to be Jack's driver.

But the next time a high school girl calls or e-mails me here at the station to see if she can "shadow" me for the day and asks if it's hard being a full-time mother and full-time worker, I'm going to think about my answer a moment longer.

The answer is yes.

It's the hardest thing I've ever done.

And I know you know exactly what I'm talking about.