I know, I wasn’t going to blog, but I had to put this out as its so damn absurd.
My father in law is the biggest pain in the ass. Period. He wins. Anyway, we’re in the process of trying to put him in an independent living facility and he’s kicking and screaming the whole way, but it has to be done.
Now when he gets bored, he calls ME. He will find some excuse to want to come see the boys. I live in the sticks. Sometimes, he’ll just want to sit in his car and watch my boys play outside, or rather sleep in his car while the boys play outside. And I always acquiesce as it is their grandfather and they need to see him as much as possible.
But today really was a crappy day and I wasn’t in the mood for his drama and HE IS the drama King. So when he called the first time, I let the answering machine pick up. He was saying he wanted to buy Lady and the Tramp for the boys from WalMart and wanted to see if they wanted it.
Being the dutiful daughter in law, I asked the boys and of course I got the squished up face, but then a very polite, “Tell Pop thank you, but we’re don’t need that one.” I was impressed.
So I sucked it up and called him back, waiting for him to ask if he could come over, knowing I was going to have to tell him we had baseball and I was taking the kids out of dinner and then he’d ask to join us. That whole ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ scenario. I was dreading it.
“If you pick up the phone to talk to Pop, he’ll ask you what you’re doing, and when you tell him you’re going to dinner and the kids baseball game, he’ll ask to join you, and if you let him join you, you get to sit there and listen to his tales of woe…”
That’s the ‘If you give the mouse a cookie” scenario. Great book if you’ve never read it.
He didn’t ask what we were doing or if he could come over and so I took it that the great daughter in law Karmic Gods were shining upon me today.
And this is where I start to laugh at how frickin’ absurd it is. My sister in laws know how he is and how he will track me down. I’m the closest, so I get the brunt of it.
Folks, I could devote an entire blog just to my father in law. I swear.
I missed a call on my cell and it was Pop. He was trying to find the boys at baseball, he realized they had practice and couldn’t find us. I need to mentally brace myself for his attending practice with us as well as EVERY game, so I’m OK that he missed this practice.
And for those of you thinking, “Oh, that’s so sad he missed his grandsons’ baseball practice”, think again, dear readers as having him at a game is like having Tony Soprano in attendance. He brings his best buddy and its like something out of a movie. I cannot imitate the accent or the loud voice, but trust me, I have to mentally prepare myself for it.
Anyway, I missed one more call and it was my sister in law in NJ, who I really love dearly. She is a high strung Italian woman, and makes me look MELLLLLOOOOW. I called her back and she said in a panic, “Bou, I was calling you to warn you! My Dad is trying to track you down!”
Heh. For some reason that cracked me up. I’m getting phone calls from my sister in law in Joisey about her father stalking me in West Palm Beach. Almost a “HIDE!” call.
And to think I thought I couldn’t blog tonight… Damn… I feel so much better now. Sheesh.
No blogging tonight... things appear to be going to hell in a handbasket some days, even for those of us who live in utopia. The low grade headache assured there would be no blogging.
Lots of stories, for sure, but I just need to be in a better frame of mind. Can't be funny when you feel like your eyes are about to bust out of your head. Nope. Doesn't work.
Surely I am not the only one who received the Victoria’s Secret flyer in the mail today? Tall lean woman, flat tummy, all pieces and parts in all the right places and doing what all we women do… wear high heels with our panties and bras. I mean, really, I don’t know about other women, but I walk around like that in my house all day long!
Because I just LOVE how high heels feel! Oh yeah!
OK. So that’s the first thing I noticed, but I glommed onto two other things as well. First, the mailing is for a wireless bra and I know, I can hear my readers now, “No! SAY IT ISN’T SO! Not MORE bra blogging!” Yes. Oh yes. In the search of the perfect bra, VS has again made it to my list as I SHALL be trying their new wireless bra. Expect a report. Something to look forward to. The proverbial carrot and all that stuff.
But also, with this ad, I saw I got a coupon for… ten dollars off any bra (which is nothing when bras cost a small fortune) as well as… FREE PANTIES! Yahoo! A girl can never have enough of those.
Yes, I have stooped from bra blogging to panty blogging. Oh and with my sister Mo’s permission, I have got some VS blog fodder.
It would seem that Mo and her best friend were in VS one day shopping as girls shop. As they stood in line, in front of them was a young Marine. And in case some of you not so familiar with the military don’t know, even though it’s a Navy town, Pensacola, Florida, Home of Naval Aviation etcetra, etcetra, and etcetraaaaa, you can pick out a Marine a mile away. I don’t know… maybe its the high and tight that gives them away, but typically, they carry themselves differently.
And we all know I love the Marines, so I’m not dissin’ them, I’m just saying, that in the masses of military men and women in Penacola, Florida, you can pick out the Marines.
And there stood one of them, in line, at VS, with Mo and her friend. According to Mo, the young Marine looked rather embarrassed to be in this store, surrounded by all things frilly, pink, womanly and overtly sexual, not to mention he was probably the only man in the place. Self conscious doesn’t do it justice.
And so as the young Marine nervously made it to the counter, placing his items to be rung up, Mo and her friend behind him, the clerk addressed him and said (Mo says this in a sing songy blonde stupid voice), “Is this a gift?”
At that, Mo’s friend, who has this hugely loud laugh, busts out laughing, and the poor man is even more horribly embarrassed than he was before. Mo said, “Oh we felt so bad for him. He looked mortified! But we didn’t feel so bad that we didn’t bust a gut laughing at the clerk for asking her stupid question!”
Poor guy. I hope he at least got to enjoy his gift in the end and that the stupid clerk and the laughing girls didn't damage him too badly.
And lastly and the reason for the title of this post… Mo was in VS buying her stuff and as she paid for her items, the sales clerk says after her (Mo says this as well in a sing songy blonde stupid voice), ‘ENJOY YOUR PANTIES!’
Mo said she thought, “What?! WHO says that?! Enjoy your PANTIES?!”
And so whenever anyone mentions going to VS, you can hear Mo or my bro, TN, say, “Enjoy your panties!”
So tonight when Mo and I were talking and I told her about this coupon I got for $10 off a new wireless bra and free panties, before I could breathe I heard from the other end of the phone, “Enjoy your panties!” Oh I will!!
But I’ll tell you, VS would do much better if they could promise me if I bought a bra and panties like the model is wearing in the ad (also seen on TV), that I would suddenly transform to look like her, I’d be in that mall tomorrow… waiting on those damn doors to open!
My eldest turns 11 on Friday and as is tradition in this household, each child gets to pick their birthday meal. Keep in mind my children are not picky eaters. From the day they started on solids, they ate what I ate. No question. So they have had Italian food, filet mignon, lobster, shell fish, French, Mexican, Asian (including sushi) foods, and my children have tried it and more than likely liked it. It is a good thing, but on the flip side, they have started to differentiate the finer foods and will occasionally ask for them, like “Hey Mom! Can we have filet mignon with crab and béarnaise sauce for dinner?” Great.
That is met with a "No", by the way.
And so today I asked, “What do you want for dinner on Friday?” and the reply came with a, “Mom. What was the name of that soup we had for dinner a couple weeks ago?” And the following conversation ensued to the best of my recollection.
Me: Lobster bisque. I bought it from the fish market.
Son#1: OK, then. I would like to start off with Lobster Bisque and a salad. Then I’d like stuffed lobster with your twice baked potatoes. And for dessert, I’d like the peach and blueberry cobbler that Big Daddy makes, with vanilla ice cream and a tub of that Cool Whip stuff.
Me: Okey doke. I can do that. You know that decorating that pie crust with Happy Birthday could taste kind ‘o funky.
Son#1: I don’t want anything written on it. Just give me trick candles. That’ll be fun!
So there you have it. My child who will think out of the box… forget birthday cake, he wants peach and blueberry cobbler for his birthday, complete with trick candles.
Oh and I convinced him that lobster was not such a good idea. We’re having yellow tail snapper baked in a parmesan cheese coating. Yummy.
*** Sidenote to TGOO: Dad. I need your recipe. It's for a good cause. I want the one that is blueberry on one side and peach on the other.***
I cannot believe it. I cannot. I keep going back to my pantry, yet I cannot believe it.
There is NOT ONE can of tomato paste in this half Italian household. NOT ONE. How can that be as this Celt does all the cooking for her Italian husband and their brood? I do all the shopping and I keep my pantry stocked. Yet, it is true. I am cooking something that requires tomato paste and when I went to my pantry to get my can… there was NONE!
Have you ever misplaced something but KNOWN it where it was supposed to be, so while you search and search, you keep going back to that place… and its still not there? And maybe you go back 10, 20 or 30 times and it still isn’t there! Yeah, that was me with the tomato paste. After the 50th time, a can did not appear. GRRR
And I know damn well what happened, the same thing that happened to my garlic powder. The Italian decided to cook one night, whether it be his Mom’s sauce or his special London Broil he made for our British guests, who by the way said if we come to visit they’re fixing Florida Fish, and used up ingredients and didn’t put it on the grocery list! Hence my shock and horror when I went to get garlic powder the other day, something we buy in an ENORMOUS canister and found it empty! Egads!
Perhaps I should fire a warning shot to the Italian who resides under this roof… the Italian who dabbles in cooking nowadays, since it is the Celt who is now the head chef. Although I know for a fact that the Boudicca legend was not started over her arguing used and not restocked items from a shared pantry with a Roman, perhaps that real story should be a reminder.
Roman men should not mess with Celtic women…
Does she die? Does the President kill his wife???
* I think Mike's not praying. I think he's faking it.*
*** The President really really needs to die in this. I hope the 1st Lady finds out her husband was ready to kill her off... and blame it on herself. WHAT A LOSER! And Aaron and Curtis are my heroes. Aaron should have died of course, but he's one of my faves. Mike needs some personality. Has that man ever laughed?!**
We had dinner with my husband’s family tonight. I do love them. I love them all. But I have one thing to say with regard to this evening’s dinner:
Family, you can’t live without ‘em and you just can’t shoot ‘em.
From Caltechgirl, I got this quiz on past life diagnosis. There was never any doubt in my mind that if there was such a thing as reincarnation, I was a man. Never.
Some of it makes me laugh for unbloggable reasons, but that whole dark force thing? Not so much. I feel certain I've always wanted to use my powers for the good and not evil!
Your past life diagnosis:
I don't know how you feel about it, but you were male in your last earthly incarnation.
You were born somewhere in the territory of modern Ireland around the year 1475.
Your profession was that of an artist, magician or fortune teller.
Your brief psychological profile in your past life:
Bohemian personality, mysterious, highly gifted, capable to understand ancient books. With a magician's abilities, you could have been a servant of dark forces.
The lesson that your last past life brought to your present incarnation:
Your task is to learn, to love and to trust the universe. You are bound to think, study, reflect, and to develop inner wisdom.
Do you remember now?
While at the zoo yesterday, I was minding my own business, with Bones off playing with the kids on a playground, everyone having just eaten lunch, when two Moms came and sat down beside me.
A little background… some old and some new. It would seem that the little girl who is bossy and picks her nose is no longer in the bad books with Bones, but is now his best girl. And for the record, she happens to be the most beautiful girl in the class, one of the most beautiful in the school. A truly angelic lass.
I am thinking she doesn’t really pick her nose. And may not be that bossy. That it may have been things conjured up by his two buddies who hate her because…
Bones is the 3rd musketeer. The more time he spends with her, is less he spends with them, which I am FINE with as these are the two other boys involved with the pocket knife incident.
OK, so fast forward to yesterday at the zoo where the two Moms come up to me at my table, where I am watching Bones in the distance, hanging with his best girl, who I was just now realizing was once again his best girl. I seem to be rather slow on the take.
The one Mom is a Mom of one of the musketeers and she says to me, “Did you know that Charles and Jason are really really mad at Bones?”
Me: No. No clue. Why would that be?
C’s Mom: Because Bones spends so much time with his best girl and Charles says no time with them. I think he said to me, “Bones is OUR friend! She needs to leave him alone! We HATE HER! We’re going to see if we can get them to break up!”
Break up? We’re talking 1st grade here, right?
I was shocked. Why am I always the last to know any of this stuff? It was evident to me that best girl’s Mom knew they were sweet on each other again. I kept seeing him gravitate to them wondering in my small little mind what was going on. She seemed… knowing!
And I can see it already, being the Mom of the boy, I will lose my son to another family. I can feel it.
So said C’s Mom, “He said to me last night, ‘We have to break them up! We have to get him away from that Evil Woman!’”
Ack! Wait. Did I say this was 1st grade?
And the other mother said to me, “Ahhh, 1st grade romance. Its just so fun to watch!” to which I replied, “Yeah, because its not happening to YOUR son! It’s mine!”
They both laughed and thought it fitting for some reason and then made mention that he must have learned this from his brothers.
I said, “Are you nuts?! My eldest doesn’t even know girls exist! And my 2nd, although he does, he NEVER talks about them and doesn’t have a girlfriend!”
They seemed surprised and they think its funny.
I’m more… aghast. And as he strutted off to the car for us to make our way back to school all I kept thinking was, "Oh.My.God. What age am I going to have to talk to him about birth control and all that stuff?" 12? Holy crap. He is so taking a different path from his brothers.
A bumpier, and less traveled path...
I chaperoned a field trip to the zoo today for first grade. Thirty kids.
As I sat on the metal bleachers, with the other Moms, Hot Florida Sun beating down upon us, as I sat sweltering, worried Bones might pass out from heat stroke, as I sat there with the metal bleachers conducting heat through my backside throughout my body... making it worse, as I sat there wearing a black tshirt and black ball cap, as I sat there thinking I cannot remember a time I've been so damn hot and miserable in Frickin' February... it was, no kidding, 90 degrees in the sun...
I looked over at the other Moms and said, 'I find it truly amazing that it is FRICKIN' SNOWING somewhere... HERE... in AMERICA"
I don't mean this as a rub in. Trust me, in September I won't be blogging as I won't have power due to a hurricane, dying in 100 degree heat in my breezeless home while y'all are dropping down into the 60s at night, sleeping with your windows open because you WANT to and not because you HAVE TO.
But I really hate the heat. Not as much as the cold, but it is horrible. I told my Mom I like my lows of 40 and my highs of 85. That's a 45 degree range where I am comfortable.
Beyond that... I am a crank.
At work the other day, one of my co-workers said, “Hey, Bou, try this?” It was a wasabi green pea. Liking wasabi, I thought, “What the hell” and popped it in my mouth.
They laughed as I instantly opened my mouth and let the pea fall back into my hand. Good God. Hot. Holy crap.
So then I ate it. And I bought a packet of them to munch on at work. They’re really good. It was just the initial shock. Wow.
One thousand, six hundred and seventy eight to the list of things I have heard myself say and never in a MILLION years would have ever guessed would have come out of my mouth.
Today I heard myself shout as I was cleaning the Hamster's cage:
"BOYS. LISTEN TO ME! HAMSTERS DO NOT EAT CHEESE PUFFS! HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR?"
I've seen this around and meant to take it, but saw it last at Jenna's.
I was answering the questions thinking, 'how in the HELL are they going to pick an instrument for someone who wants to be heard, but wants to blend, who is independent, but will follow along, who doesn't want to be the center of attention, but expects people will notice when they should?"
Then they gave me Oboe and I thought, "Yeah. That fits." I play the flute, but always thought it would be cool to play the Oboe. Who knows. Maybe one day.
And to know me is to realize I am not a trumpet kinda gal...
| You scored as Oboe. Oboe.
You're an oboe.
If you were in an orchestra, what instrument would match your personality?
created with QuizFarm.com
I was talking to our group assistant the other day at work and she explained to me that she has a woman renting a room from her that she’d like to set up with a guy. The woman is new to town and would like to meet some nice men. So our asst has decided to play matchmaker.
I know. I can hear you men, “NO!!! Don’t do it! Leave her alone! Leave the men alone! Say it isn’t so!”
Hey, I didn’t think of the idea… I just caved into it. And the following conversation ensued, to the best of my recollection:
Asst: She’s really nice, and cute and fun.
Me: How old is she?
Asst: 42. You know, I was thinking about DJ.
Me: Good choice, I like him a lot. I’ve just gotten to know him over the last couple months and he always comes by my cube and chats. He’s really friendly, grounded, and thinks clearly. Except. You do realize he’s about 10 years older than he looks, right? He’s 65.
Asst: I heard that. I would never have guessed that at all.
Me: Well, age should be irrelevant, I never really think about it, except she’s 42 and that’s a helluva age spread. I don’t really think he’s into dating girls that are the same age as his daughter… I think you should scratch him off.
Asst: What about Jim?
Me: I like him. He’s super nice. I think he’s past his woman hating phase since his divorce. It’s a thought. Mid-50s, that’s a good age.
Asst: Then I thought about Mark… but…
Me: I’ve known him for 15 years, but the man… damn, he is the most expressionless person I have ever met. He’s never really happy or really anything. It’s odd. Really really odd…
Asst: Yeah. I thought so. Then I thought about that really cute engineer with the nice gray hair that runs his car on french fry grease…
Me: *blink* Who?
Asst: You know, the guy who is supposedly really really smart, has like 40 patents and converted his engine so it runs on french fry grease. He gets his grease from the local fast food stores…
Me: *blink* *pause* You’re kidding me…
Asst: No… but do you think he might be kinda odd?
Me: Might be? Hunh. Let me put it this way, I have HEARD about people running their cars on french fry grease, IN CALIFORNIA, but have never personally met someone. And he converted his own car. And he runs around town collecting grease for it. I’m thinking… You know that joke about the engineer that sees this beautiful woman on a bike and he only notices the bike? I don’t know, but that just MIIIIIIIGHT be the case here. The patent thing is very cool. But the french fry thing, man I don’t know.
Anyway, we settled on a good friend of mine on another floor. He’s a real sweetie and I’m hating his ex-girlfriend who broke with him on Valentine’s Day. Bitch. The whole situation pissed me off. He’s the most attentive guy… hell, he’s attentive to me and I’m NOT his girlfriend. So I’ve decided he might be it. We’ll see. She may move anyway, making it null and void, but hey, at least we thought of a good guy.
And I’m still waiting for her to point out who I now refer to as ‘French Fry Man’. Hmmm.
My blogsisters Tammi and ArmyWifeToddlerMom have both had posts on this topic today. (Tammi's was very upbeat... Army Wife and I are on the same page.) I meant to do it last spring, being a topic so near and dear to my heart, but forgot. Today is a good day. I’ll jump on that bandwagon.
Bathing Suit shopping. I hate it. With a purple passion. I do believe it is the single event that can bring the most grounded and nonplussed woman to her knees. That would be… me.
I’m a pretty confident person. Sure, I go through spells like anyone else, but I know I can hold my own just about anywhere. I don’t need to depend on anyone for my day to day stuff, I take care of maintenance on my own car, I’m dependable at work, I can wear jeans in the day and an evening gown at night, I can blend, I can lead, just wind me up and watch me go.
But don’t make me go bathing suit shopping.
I am envious of the men. They walk into the store, see a rack of swim trunks, look for their waist size, and pick a pattern/color they don’t find offensive. Then bada-bing-bada-bang, it’s done. They pay, they own, they go swimming.
Women? Good Lord. There are ENTIRE SECTIONS of department stores devoted strictly to swim suits. And not only do they come in 1000 of your favorite colors, but they come in 1000 different patterns. That’s not even going into the cuts.
That’s right. Whereas a man picks up a pair of shorts and says, “I’m good to go” we women have one piece or bikini or the kind with little shorts (my preference). We have french cut legs or regular leg. Tank tops or bikini tops. Those with skirts and those without. Padded bra tops, bras that smush us together to make us look more voluptuous, and bras that ‘minimize’. Those that try to make our butts look better or those that show a lot of butt. And then there are bathing suits that try to make us look like we have a waist when we don’t or flatten our tummy or keep all the cellulite together so it doesn’t jiggle.
The combinations and permutations in one department store are simply astounding. And this is assuming that if you’re buying a two piece that your top and bottoms are the same size. If not, you find yourself at a specialty store where you can buy your size 8 top to go with your size 4 bottom. And if you’re in a specialty store? That means you’re in a store that has no less than 10,000 bathing suits in it, upping the probability of complete melt down as a result of bathing suit sensory overload.
Long gone are my days when I just needed a Speedo Lycra swim suit for a swim meet. Now I need on that hides, lifts, and compresses.
And there are other things I have to take into account now, such as the fact my boys love to hang on to me in the pool. They love to play with my hair (that gets very long when wet), hang on my back, sit on my hip. I have one rule with them… if they expose a breast of mine, I get out of the pool and swim time is over. So when picking a swimsuit I have to try to take into account that everything needs to stay in place in case a hand hits a strap or ends up down the front of my suit. And I need to make sure the bottoms are going to stay up when an errant foot hits the waist band. Too many times I have wondered if I’m going to lose my suit in the pool as I find a foot has somehow managed to make its way down the backside of my bathing suit.
I’m a Mom. I have three kids. I am 40. My body has a million miles on it. I have no waist, I’m shaped like a small oak tree, and I have a tummy I hate. And as much as I can completely logically reason to myself that this is a normal progression in a woman’s life, I cannot help but wistfully think ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to be 8 inches taller and look like a swim suit model?’ Or maybe bring it down a notch and think, “Wouldn’t it be nice if I could pick my bathing suit based on color and not one based on what it hides and enhances?”
And trying them on is the worst. When my Better Half learns I’m going bathing suit shopping, not only would he never volunteer to go, but I think he secretly wonders if he should leave town for a couple days so I can work through it.
The entire process is painful. The mirrors… there are mirrors on EVERY wall in those dressing rooms! Do I REALLY NEED TO KNOW what my butt looks like in that suit? No. Humor me. Allow me to stay in a state of ignorant bliss on the fact my butt fell last year. I know it. I can feel it. But DO I NEED TO SEE IT? No. I do not.
And I don’t need to see that there may be some cellulite on the back of my thighs. Or any type of ‘veinage’.
But I get it from three angles… all at once.
Front, I can see I have no waist.
Side, I can see that it doesn’t FRICKIN’ matter that I do crunches and lower back work, I have a tummy and its not going away short of a very talented surgeon with a very sharp knife lending his expertise.
Back, my butt is bigger than I imagined and it’s fallen. And I’m sure if I moved, it jiggles, but I dare not do that lest I end up inconsolable in the corner of said dressing room, trying to poke my eye out with a pencil.
And I don’t know who developed the lighting in these dressing rooms, but add THEM to the list of people I think should be shot. Pasty white, sickly, horrible. It is not soft light but stark and seems to show every blemish that could possibly exist on one’s skin.
If they really wanted to sell bathing suits, they’d make the mirrors like those circus mirrors so we look thin and they’d have soft lighting so it softened the years in the mirror… and they’d serve a glass of wine at the dressing room door.
Someone should take note…
I know y'all read VW and I speak of our weekly breakfasts together. So yesterday when all five boys were together for our breakfast, I took pictures.
Someone always says something when two Moms show up with five boys. Yesterday was no exception. Yesterday's comment was, "Whose are whose? Are they related? And they get along so well together!"
Well that would be because my boys view VW's boys as the cute little boys they can play with and her boys view my boys as the BIG boys.
With that, remember, click to enlarge, a picture of the 5, in order of appearance, keeping in mind her boys are the real towheads. I mean, hair so blonde when its wet they look bald. From left to right: Tater (eating canteloupe), my Son#2 (faking the sad look), Bones (surprise), my Son#1, and Tot.
Son#2 was having a great time. I'm not sure what was up with the face. But what is funny, is he is really good with small children. He's very patient and has a kind heart. They seem to sense this. So as breakfast continued, Tater got closer and closer to my 2nd son and at one point I said to VW, "Tater is going to end up sitting in his lap, just watch." My 3 year old niece does the same thing. It's like small children can't get close enough to him. So here he is, such a small guy, with these 3 year olds that want to sit on his lap. It's really funny.
There was a Koi pond at the shopping center so off the boys ran, all of them equally excited, from ages 11 next week down to two.
Next we have the biggest guy and the smallest guy. I just thought it was sweet... the dark child and the light child. My brown bear and her Casper.
And last... the five of them watching the fish. Off to the side you can see the arm of a 6th boy. Some random boy wanted to hang with ours for awhile, so he did. It was funny.
And that wraps up this week's Breakfast with VW and Bou!
We were at dinner the other night and I was speaking to my better half about t-ball and pick up and dinner, trying to get the logistics ironed out for t-ball night. And out of the blue I heard, “Yeah, and we got the new nut cases.”
I sat there for a minute and Bones chimed in, “I’m NOT wearing a nut case.”
Me: Wait. Nut case? *looking at my husband* Are we talking about cups?
Son#2: Yeah, we bought new nut cases the other day at the sports store.
Bones: I’m not wearing one.
Son#2: I don’t think they’ll be so bad.
Bones: I’m not wearing one. They’re uncomfortable. I don’t do nut cases.
Me: Well you can’t play if you don’t wear one.
Bones: *looking at me with total indifference* Fine.
Bones: Fine. I didn’t want to play anyway and I’m not wearing a nut case.
Son#2: Bones thinks the girls are lucky because they don’t have to wear them, but one day they’ll be Moms and bras are much worse because you have to wear those every day. We only have to wear nut cases when we play ball.
Me: But the girls don't have to wear them because they don't have nuts...
Nice. Did I say this was our dinner conversation?
So evidently ‘nut cases’ are quite an issue with us and will continue to be. I am hoping they don’t have to wear one in t-ball. And I am laughing as we went from ‘weenie protectors’ to ‘nut cases’. Lovely. And for those of you who missed it the first go round, in the extended entry is a reposting of my first experience buying ‘cups’ for the boys… Bones was 3. It damaged me. Dad does all the shopping for ‘nut cases’ now.
Before I started my blog, I would write things that occurred in my life, and e-mail them to family and friends. I have them all saved. Archived. I pull them out sometimes. I’ve posted one or two here and will continue to so. This is an example... pulled from my personal writing archives:
Here is my latest story. It has been awhile since some of you have heard from me. My life is still as chaotic as ever.
For those who knew me in High School, I think it is safe to say “prude” and “ice queen” come to mind. Before I start this story, you have to know that that has changed, as evidenced by the fact I actually found a man who would marry me, even if I did have to chase him down like a dog. However, one thing has not changed. I still believe that there are some things as a woman I just have no business having to contend with. Just as there are certain items I would never send my husband out to buy, there are certain male aspects of life I just as soon not deal with. “Too much information, please”, comes to mind. Men’s sports protection fits in this category. As luck would have it, I have been blessed with three boys, so no matter how much I fight knowing more than I want, it creeps upon me and suddenly I am knowledgeable in areas no woman should ever have to be acquainted with.
My two older boys are in Karate and they have a tournament this weekend. This tournament includes free sparring. They wear foam helmets and assorted protective gear. For the boys, cups are required. I have been aware of this for a few weeks and informed my ever loving husband, that this was without a doubt, a father’s area of expertise and I had neither inclination nor desire to be included in the ‘cup shopping’ or even the discussion of such. Also, let me state up front, that knowing full well that this would fall to me eventually, I had been discretely discussing my options with other mothers trying to figure out how they have handled it and what to do. To my dismay, a great announcement was made to the entire kid’s class one afternoon that “All boys must wear cups at this next tournament”. Expecting more discretion in this area than what was being provided, I found this to be uncomfortable, but realized I was now officially entering a new world, even if I was kicking and screaming the whole way.
Off my spouse went to Sports Authority, all three boys in tow, to buy this gear that I have never even seen before. Back he came… with the wrong size. It was not intentional and in retrospect, I do understand why this occurred. At the time, I was not amused. We now have one week until the tournament, my husband's schedule is heavy with clients, and the resolution to the cup buying fiasco has now fallen squarely upon my shoulders, as I had suspected would eventually happen.
My father, at this point, finds this whole situation exceedingly humorous and wants me to walk in with my small boys, walk up to the counter big as day and announce to the salesman, “I’ll take 2 large cups please”. I am not sharing in the humor.
I drop the two older boys off at the dojo for practice and take my 3 year old to a small sports shop down the street. Lesson Learned: Never take a verbal 3 year old with you to buy an item that you do not want discussed publicly. I walk in as if I know what I’m doing with the theory that if I look like I know what I’m doing, salespeople will not approach me… at all. We find the wall. It is full of cups. Different sizes, different makes, different colors, different materials. I have arrived in a foreign land and I do not speak the language. I am at a total loss. Bones looks at the big wall and instantly recognizes at what we are looking. Bones never talks. Bones only shouts. So says he, in his shout, “Mom! Look! Weenie protectors!” I am mortified. From where did this name come and why must we discuss it? I quietly said, “Yup.” He shouts again, “Mom. We have weenie protectors. Two of them. We don’t need any more weenie protectors”. I am looking for a hole to crawl in at this point and I have quietly started my new mantra, “I do not belong here, I do not belong here, I do not belong here.” I’m looking at them and the look of knowing what I’m doing has evidently disappeared and has been replaced by a look of bewilderment as I am now being approached by one of two salesmen in the store. He asks if he can help me, I take a big breath, and proceed to act like I do this every day and by the way, yes I do need your help.
I get a course in cup buying. I am now looking at the different brands and those that come with underwear vs. those that don’t. It is clearly more education than I desired, but I was on a mission that must be completed. Meanwhile, my three year old is at my legs, mumbling something repeatedly about weenie protectors. I take on the attitude that if I can’t hear him, the salesman can’t either. The salesman has pulled out all these articles of ‘clothing’ at this point and is explaining to me what I need. He has taken them out of the packages and placed them in my hands as he is sorting through them. I am dying a slow silent painful death.
The salesman and I are finally finished. Bones, however, is not. He looks up at me with his round face and quietly says, “Mom, maybe you should buy 3 of these. You know, Son#1 needs one too.” This child actually expects that one of these is for him, after all, why should he be left out? I look at him and reply, “These are for Son#2 and Son#1. I only need two.” Holy Hell broke loose. Suddenly I have a three year old, screaming like a banshee, “I want a weenie protector too! It’s not fair! Why do they get weenie protectors, but I don’t?!!! It’s not fair Mom.” I somehow get him quieted as I pay and leave. I am not going back there. Ever.
One of my eldest’s friends spent the night the other night and I took the four boys swimming. The eldest and his buddy were in the middle row with the younger two boys in the back of my asexual momobile. The younger two started to argue, with hopes of embarrassing the other in front of the friend. Bones cannot be embarrassed. At least not easily. And the following conversation ensued, to the best of my recollection:
Bones: Oh yeah! You wear underwear with Spiders on them.
Son#2: So? You wear Teletubby underwear!
Bones: That’s only because its still in my drawer and it fits! You crawl in Mom and Dad’s bed sometimes!
Son#2: So?! You do too! AND, you PEE in your bed. About TWICE A WEEK!
Son#1: *murmurs* That’s a lot of sheets…
Son#1’s friend: I think this is the weirdest conversation I have ever heard…
Bones: Yeah. I do pee. Big deal. It’s only sometimes…
What has this blog come to that I’m carpet blogging? I am sure it is truly of the most pathetic blogging around… alas we are there. And I would blame it on the Straight White Guy, but I know deep down, it really is my fault, personal responsibility and all that jazz.
And why would it be the Straight White Guy’s fault, you may ask? Because just yesterday he made THIS post, offering up his poster of Jo Guest for bidding, a poster bought impulsively one night and evidently not appreciated much by the Straight White Wife, although God only knows why since it was only 6 feet by 4 feet… Good Lord. Oh and it would appear that the boy done found a good home for said poster.
Anyway, so I hit the link to the picture which is HERE and I immediately had three thoughts, in this order:
1) Look how white his carpet is. The Straight White Guy and the Straight White Wife have no Straight White Kids in that Straight White House. (I feel like this is a Dr. Seuss poem…)
2) My butt never looked like that… not even before I had kids.
3) I can’t obtain a poster like that for my boys’ rooms. (My comment over there states why.)
Expanding on #3 a bit, I figure this is what my boys would think if I put a poster like that on their walls, not that I would consider it, but I ran it all through my head as a joke:
Son#1, who will be 11 in two weeks and keeps his nose in books and is completely oblivious to girls still, would say, “Why’s that in my room?”, noticing only because the poster stands 6 feet tall.
Son#2, who is 9, would say, “Mom. She doesn’t have brown hair. I only like girls with brown or black hair.”
Son#3, who is 6 ½, would say, “Hell Yeah!”, as he’s a ‘Hell Yeah!’ kid…besides, he has a thing for blondes. Oedipus does not rule his world.
Anyway, this is about my first thought… the white carpet. See, if you have children, white carpet is just waiting to be trashed. And it does NOT matter where you put it.
Ten years ago when we were building this home, I put child friendly carpet in all the rooms except the guest, dining, living and master. Since then, the living and dining have been replaced with tile and the guest room carpet looks great.
The master bedroom? What in the HELL was I thinking? Oh, I’ll tell you. I thought, “Oh babe, this is OUR room. OUR haven. I’ll decorate it for us. White carpet, our big rice carved four poster bed… it’s OUR sanctuary.”
Yeah. Right. Nice thought.
Then reality sets in. Reality like… its 3AM and a child has a stomach ache. What do they do? They DO NOT go into the bathroom. They look for Mom. And where is Mom? In bed. In the room with… white carpet.
So for your edification, a picture of the entrance of our bedroom, heavily worn, most of this is a shadow my carpet cleaner man cannot get out, from chocolate cake puke from 4 years ago. (As always, click to enlarge.)
Next, last year’s Pizza Puke. Oh yes, I scrubbed this with carpet cleaner for two days. But guess what? Stomach acid mixed with tomato sauce stains. Big. It didn’t come out.
And since I’m in a picture taking mood… a picture of my new tile here:
Anyway, the goal is to replace the carpet with wood flooring one day, but last I saw, I didn’t win the lottery, so that’s not happening anytime soon, like maybe not in my lifetime, in particular because I keep having to get my roof fixed due to hurricane damage.
Ahhh... live blogging and just setting it up in advance. Starts in 13 minutes.
** Holy crap. Did I miss something? Who in the hell is Nathanson? And all these people died and not one of them at the hands of Jack!
The Hobbit is a loser and Jack is so damn cold.
*** This President.... Sheesh. What a snake. What a wimp. I can't stand him. He NEEDS TO GO!
** I'm LOVIN" the wimmin folk!!!
** The Hobbit needs to die. Oh how far the self righeous will fall...***
*** HOLY Crap! The President's wife is my hero!!!
I’ve been having a hard time getting warm as of late. A cold front came through about a week ago, and you would have thought that instead of 37 degrees in the morning, it was 17. By afternoon, in the 50s, I was still a mess. Once I get cold, I cannot warm up. It gets in my bones and I’m done. One morning, mid morning, I actually took a hot shower to try to get the heat to sink in. It worked for an hour, then I was back to teeth chattering, bone chilling cold.
It has gotten worse over the years and I definitely foresee myself being one of those little old ladies, bundled up in a sweater when its 90 degrees. I had a grandmother like that. I never identified, but now I fear I do.
Last week at work, on Tuesday I wore a turtle neck and a sweater, jeans and boots. After sitting at my desk for an hour, I went back out to my car and got my flight line jacket. It’s heavier than a windbreaker, but not for snow (I wore it on the flight line when I was in the field). I sat huddled in my cube bundled up for God only knows how long until finally Mr. Magoo, who is cold blooded himself, offered me his space heater. I told him no, I need to purchase one, although it was tempting as his is remote control.
Part of the problem is they keep our offices at less than 70 degrees. I think the thermostat in one office is like 68 degrees. That’s too cold for me, so when I go in that office, and I get chilled like that, I’m a mess the rest of the day. I cannot get warm.
So keeping this in mind… I actually tried to get to the Howl on the Prowl this weekend with Laughing Wolf. I so wanted to go! The wolves, Tammi, Laughing Wolf… who I have not met, but have spoken to so many times on the phone I feel like I do, and everyone else I won't list as the list is extensive!
I tried folks. I did. And I tried to get my sister to go. I called Mo, “Yo! I’m thinking about going to the Indianapolis area to the Wolf Park in February. Do you want to come?”
I was met with a long pause and then a, “Are you KIDDING me? Do you have ANY IDEA how FRICKIN’ COLD it’s going to be up there in February? You Miss, “I freeze below 60” is thinking of going? You’re nuts. NO thanks.”
Whoa. Wake up call.
And I started to think. I don’t have winter clothes and although Tammi and LW said they would help me any way they could, I realized it was going to be a Herculean feat… to keep me warm… and it’s just flat out not possible.
So Tammi posted HERE before she left about how it was going to get to 7 degrees and I remember LW saying we were going to be sitting on metal bleachers at one point and to bring cushions and I realized “Holy crap! I’m going to lose all my body heat out my backside!”
I am shivering here in my S. Fl home just thinking about it.
So between scheduling and the sheer terror at the thought of being that cold, I had to say no. I cannot handle being cold.
So here I sit, typing this draft of this post, it’s almost 80 out, I smell of sunscreen, I’m wearing a wide brimmed hat as the sun is no longer my friend at this age of 40, I’m taking the boys swimming and I KNOW all my best buddies up at the Wolf Park are having a grand time…
… but I feel assured if I had gone, I would have brought everyone down as my vast misery would not have been containable. I cannot do the cold.
You knooooooow… as of late, I have come to wonder what type of friend calls and leaves messages like this on my cell phone:
“Bou, if you go to Hoffman chocolates, they have their dark chocolate hearts on sale for only a few dollars a bag! They’re at the register. Dark chocolate. Hearts. The small ones you love. By the register. You should go. Dark chocolate hearts. Hoffman’s. Sale.”
“Bou, I just went to Hoffman’s and ALL their Valentine’s chocolate is 50% off. They don’t have any dark chocolate left, but they have all their milk chocolate. They have a big assortment! Don’t forget!”
Bah! Hoffman’s is 5 minutes from where I work. So far, I have resisted all these urges, listened to the messages in their entirety, then hit ‘7’ for delete, shaking my fist at the sky and wondering why she is so mean to me!!! Ha!
BTW, breakfast tomorrow with VW and her boys and my boys. I hope for there to be a picture.
There has been much talk lately about whether or not calcium and Vitamin D supplements really help a woman with bone density issues and now whether a low fat diet matters in the prevention of heart disease, colon cancer, breast cancer, etc.
I’m sorry, but I hate it when the press makes such a big deal about these studies. I’ve been reading them as they come out, holding back judgment and every time I read it appears some of this is just really inconclusive.
There is no way in hell you are ever going to convince me that the way America currently eats is healthy and OK. It ain’t gonna happen, folks. We pump our bodies full of fat and preservatives, skimping on the green leafies and fruit and nuts and I’m telling you, it’s not good.
It… can… not… be.
And before anyone thinks I’m a health food junkie, I’m not. Last night when we went to dinner, I ordered a chili dog with cheese and onion rings. I’ll be going running today for sure, burning that daggum candle at both ends.
But I try to eat things in moderation. I use butter, not margarine, and I cook with olive oil. I just don’t eat A LOT of butter… moderation. I don’t buy low fat ice cream, I get the real stuff, but I don’t eat it much either. I try to limit what I eat, as I know ice cream whacks out my blood sugar and it’s too much fat for me. Besides, I’d rather use those calories on chocolate.
Those big portions they serve at restaurants? A complete waste on me. Last night they brought me an 18 inch hotdog smothered in chili and cheese. It truly looked obscene. But just because they put it in front of me and charge me six bucks doesn’t mean I need to eat the whole thing. I chose to order that, knowing the portion was too big. I took six bites and said, “No thanks. I’m done.” I did eat most of the onion rings… I love onions.
I try to think about how cavemen ate. I just think that what we had then in our world is what our body was made to eat. Fish was easy to catch, meat from four legged animals was harder to obtain and was more of a rarity, nuts, fruit and vegetables had to be big. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about the pasta and the bread and the great things I can cook, but the basis of our diet has gone SOOOOOO far from what we ate in the beginning, that I have to think that what we’re doing now is… not so good.
As for calcium supplements, my Mom and I were just discussing this. As y’all know from reading my blog, I’m not a big woman and almost 4 years ago I was diagnosed with low bone density. That was pretty shocking for a woman of 36/37. Everyone kept harping on me to take my calcium and Vitamin D. And I didn’t. I just couldn’t do it. It didn’t feel right to me and I kept wondering, what if I get too much calcium? Will I end up with kidney stones? So I didn’t.
I took up weight training instead, along with Karate (I’ve stopped that) and running, and increased my bone density by 4%, which completely stunned my doctor who has been verbally beating me about the head and neck for not doing anything more than occasionally eating yogurt for lunch.
I just stand by my gut feeling for my body. I think I take in enough calcium and that more is not going to be good for me… not right now. Maybe after I hit menopause, but not right now. My bone density loss is genetic. Period. I will try to stave it off, but I’m not going to buy into this thought process that I need to do what everyone else does… one size does not fit all. Calcium supplements for a 200 lb woman should not be the same dosage as that of a 120 lb woman. It just doesn’t make sense. (Then again, typically the 200 lb woman doesn’t have osteoporosis…)
So I’m finding these studies very annoying right now. It has thrown those that hold the XX chromosomes into another state of bewilderment as to what they need to do.
But not me. You aren’t going to convince me I’m not right. Moderation, try to stay away from the preservatives and the processed foods for every meal, exercise, lean meat, fish, vegetables first, and impact exercise for me.
Now watch me drop dead tomorrow of a heart attack induced by colon and breast cancer, breaking a hip in the process…
We were with friends today at dinner and they can be so daggum funny. They’re in their mid-forties and have been together since they were 15 years old. It blows my mind. They are so suited for one another and watching them after over 20 years of marriage always warms my heart. They’re both engineers, he’s electrical and she mechanical and I met them while working for Company X.
She’s a good Catholic woman, very devout. She prays the rosary every day, attends mass all the time, teaches CCD to kids. I think she prays for me a lot, she has alluded to it, but I try not to go there with her. I don’t want to know, or why, I don’t want to get into a religious discussion with her and where she thinks I should be going with my life. She rarely pushes her opinion on me and when she does, I know she means well. She is very straight laced and formal, so sometimes when she comes up with things I am blown away.
Her husband, he thinks she’s a nut. He laughs at her antics, as we all do, and she most DEFINITELY keeps him on his toes.
So we’re at dinner and he says to us, "And you know what she’s wished on me? My first day of purgatory, I get a period.”
I nearly spit my water across the table. I wasn’t sure what to say, so my husband stepped in and said, “What?!”
She says, “Yes! He always blows me off…”
He waves his hand, “Yeah, I tell her to get over it…”
I’m almost choking now, laughing so hard that we are talking about this at dinner.
She continues, “He does! He always blows it off like its no big deal! And it is a big deal! It totally sucks. So I pray that his first day of purgatory he gets this nasty big flow period, with all this bloating…” *big pause* “… and then someone asks him to go to the beach!”
Holy crap. I was laughing so hard I was crying.
They are the funniest couple. There is so much more and I wish it was blog fodder, but alas, it is not. Dammit.
I was taking this couple’s son home with us after dinner tonight as he is good friends with my eldest and I was having him spend the night.
My husband had to go into the office to work after dinner, so I brought all the boys home.
Now it is easy to find my home. Once in my neighborhood, its something like 2nd left, 2nd left, 4th house on the right. I mean it’s THAT easy.
So as we get in the neighborhood, the boy says, “My Dad always gets lost in your neighborhood. Sometimes, we just drive up and down the cul de sacs until we find it…”
I’m starting to laugh and he continues, “At Christmas it was SOOOOO EASY! We could tell by all the lights! All those lights on your roof and the bushes… your house GLOWED! But then you took down all the lights and now its REALLY hard again…”
That cracked me up.
I went running today. I haven’t been running as much as of late. I’ve not been so angry, to be honest. Life is stressful, but the inner demons I seem to have had to beat back for years seem to be hibernating or something. My runs are usually fueled on anger or intense frustration. So I’ve not been running so much, although I know I’ve needed to. I have to keep fit, even if the reason I was doing so is slowly changing.
That means I have to rely more on the music to keep me running. As I was going through my iPod, trying to find something that suited my run, I was flipping through the usual angry or hopeless music I ran too, some Evanescence, some Alanis Morissette, some Boxcar Racer… and none of it appealed to me.
So… I settled on some good music I liked from my past, good beat, and went for REM. And as I listened to it, I realized I have to start listening to them more. I liked their stuff then and I like it now.
After not running so much, I was afraid I’d not keep up, but I’m proud to say, that with the right selection of music, I still pounded everyone running next to me! I just really felt like I was going to vomit more than usual after, however.
And this brings me to this Meme I was tagged with… by Rachel of Pereiraville. 7 songs I’m into. I’ve been mulling this over as its tough! I listen to a lot of music, but with REMs selection today, I think I could pick 7 I listen to a lot. Instructions as follows:
List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.
Nancy Griffiths, Speed of the Sound of Loneliness
Cowboy Junkies (Margo Timmins ) To Live is to Fly
Josh Grobin, Oceano (Can’t tell you about the lyrics, its in Italian, but the translation is here).
Josh Grobin, My Confession
REM, What’s the Frequency Kenneth? (Good running music)
REM, Crush with Eyeliner (Good running music)
OK… to tag… I am only tagging one person! I already e-mailed him. David over at Third World County has some new digs. So I’m tagging him at his new home. He already prepared me that his selection could be way way off the wall, so I’m looking forward to it.
Every week, VW, her sons, Tater (age 3) and Tot (age 2), and I go for breakfast. This week we met at a local greasy spoon across from my place of work so we could eat and I could then make my way across to my paying job. (We usually go on one of my days off.)
She blogged on part of the funny story HERE. It’s a story of my taking Tater to the restroom. Good stuff… the stuff memories are made of. (You should read hers before you come read mine for it to make sense.)
I had forgotten what it was like to take small children to the restroom. There are no social graces like not talking about certain things or even speaking more softly. Anything goes. They’ll talk as loud as they do outside (bathroom acoustics are GREAT to the little people) and any topic that hits their little mind will come out whilst in that stall.
For the longest time, if I took one of my sons to the restroom, I dared not use it as well for as sure as shootin’, a child would comment on what kind of underwear I was wearing. And it was not in an inside quiet whispered, “look mom….”. Oh no, my friends, it was a loud, “MOM!!! LOOK! YOU’RE WEARING BLUE STRIPED UNDIES TODAY!!!” Gasp! It always happened.
You’d think I’d learn after the first time. But no, it was the second, the month of December and a very loud, “MOM!!!! LOOK! YOU’RE WEARING CHRISTMAS UNDIES! THEY HAVE CANDY CANES ALL OVER THEM!”
Love that. Loooooove that.
So I learned a permanent lesson.
But I had forgotten how ‘loud’ children can be in the restroom and how they will absolutely talk about anything…. Until… yesterday when I took Tater for VW.
We get in the stall and he says he won't use it unless I wipe off the seat. OK, that's cool.
Then he says to me, “First I have to pee, then I can poop. This is how my Mommy says it goes.” So I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Okey doke. Have at it.” And he did.
We are evidently the child of two engineers as everything appears to be very sequential!
Next he says, “Now you have to take off my pants…” Ack! This is a SMALL stall. There is no way in hell I was going to take off this little man’s pants, which means his shoes would have to come off too. The bathroom was cleaner than most, but it was still a public restroom! And this is the same little person who asked me to clean the seat before he stood to pee! I was cracking up!
So taking a deep breath, I said, “Tater, we’re gonna keep the pants on today, little buddy. Work with me here…” and he was cool.
And as VW says over at her post (if you haven’t read it, you really need to), I stood there and stood there and stood there… and nothing was happening. So I said, “Tater, are you sure you really have to go?” and he tells me, “Sometimes we just have to wait for the poop” at which point I am trying not to laugh.
And at that point he looks down at his little body and obviously some thought passed through his little mind and he says, “My Dad…*pause*”
Good Lord! I did not want to have any conversation with this little man about any part of his Dad, whether it be body parts or bathroom functions! Oh no no no no no, I would be damaged. I know this man! He’s married to one of my best friends!
So quickly I said, “Hey! I know your Dad! He’s at work today, isn’t he?” and it was the whole ‘distraction with bright shiny object’ thing as he said, “Yup. He goes to work every day…” and the discussion continued in that direction.
Holy crap. I nearly died. You just never know what the little people are going to say.
... And Five to go.
One dead fish found floating today. This brought another revelation... another husband duty, along with getting rid of rat bodies and opening jars is getting rid of dead fish. His job criteria continues to expand...
We were at dinner last night and Bones said to me, “Mom. What is that Mexican spice that rhymes with cinnamon?”
We all just stared at him.
Finally I looked at my husband and mimicked, “Mom. What is that word that rhymes with orange?”
First, the kid is 6, why does he KNOW of a Mexican spice? Second, why is he thinking of this at dinner when we’re eating brisket, salad, and egg noodles? Third, rhymes with cinnamon?
Knowing he has rhyming issues, I started going through my spice shelf in my head and the only thing I could think of was cumin. And why? Because once I was making something and poured cumin all over it instead of cinnamon.
Sure enough. Evidently cumin rhymes with cinnamon. As soon as I said it he said, “Yeah! Cumin!” Where we will take this tidbit of information, I do not know…
And have I told y’all that he only likes blonde haired girls? Yeah. And I’m a brunette. He goes for the blondies and the only thing I can think of is that in some way I have damaged him and he is going for the TOTAL opposite of his Mama.
And folks, it is a flat out trend. It is not coincidence. If you ask him who in his class he thinks is cute, he ONLY mentions blondes, there’s not a brunette in the bunch. Not one. Evidently Oedipus does not live in this home. This is good.
We had a cub scout lunch on Sunday, all the cubs from the pack and their families, a BBQ, a cake decorating contest, a magician and games galore, Western theme. It went well; the kids had a blast.
But please allow me to inform you of something. Adults who think it is fine to send children home to their unsuspecting parents with something alive… well… there is a place for people like that.
Hmm… let me think of the name. *drumming fingers on desk*
What’s that place called? I’m drawing a blank…
Oh! I know!
They can rot in hell. Really.
The Pack leader and his wife thought it would be a GREAT idea if there was a game where the kids got to win… fish. I kid you not.
Allow me to tell you how much I HATE games where children are sent home with fish. I HATE them so much, that at our school carnival, I wouldn’t let my kids play the fish game and when I got on the school board and they were talking about rides and games to pick or eliminate, I was all over eliminating the fish game. Which we did.
I do not want fish to come to this home from carnivals or anything else. No.
But… evidently not everyone feels this way. Why, we must all WANT something else to take care of. We Moms who look after the general welfare and well being of our kids 24/7, surviving on scant amounts of sleep what little of it there is perpetually interrupted, hauling kids to band practice, cub scout meetings, baseball (9 hours of my week is baseball, thank.you.very.much), still managing to get dinner on the table by 6 and making sure everyone has clean clothes to wear for school, while reminding children to feed the hamster while she herself cleans the cage, must truly WANT something else to take care of.
Or something else to fit into that damn cycle of life dealie… that cycle of life story that always leaves the kids crying at the end with Mom standing in the garden with a shovel and a shoebox, digging yet another grave.
Fish. Yes. We now have fish. SIX goldfish. Not one. Not two. Not even three… amounting to one for each boy, but SIX FRICKIN’ FISH. And in the back of my asexual Mom mobile, as we drove home, I heard a small voice say, “Just think. If we were a family of five boys, we’d have TEN fish!” Yup, yup, 10 fish, 5 boys and no Mom, because I would have hung myself in the shower already.
And I don’t even think they’re real fish. I heard them called something like feeder fish, which I think amounts to the fact they are bred to be bait to something bigger. Big fish need something to eat, throw these little suckers in. Bingo. Fed fish.
And I own SIX of these bottom of the fish food chain suckers.
Of course when the boys first came bouncing over with their plastic bags, two bags each with a single fish, my husband informed them he had the perfect tank for them, made of white porcelain, that just so happened to drain itself every few hours… into our septic and drainfield.
That was met with much distress.
Then something was mentioned about the lake in the back of the yard, you know the whole “We sent the dog to the farm” story, but updated for fish. “Look, we’ll put him in the back lake and they’ll get so big!” That didn’t float. We got the, “But, the Gators will eat them!”
And of course my boys bonded with these fish through the plastic IMMEDIATELY so when the cub master who in his infinite wisdom had our kids win all these frickin’ fish, heard me bitch, he said, “Awww, just throw ‘em out.”
Yeah. Right. He doesn’t know my family. Anything living that comes to our house immediately is treated as if it is royalty. We must be some weird Hindu sect in this house… every living thing must be treated as if it was formerly related to us in a previous life. Our hamster lives in a condo that retirees all over South Florida would be jealous of.
Y’all know damn well that if I’d been able to be so cold hearted as to say, “That’s it kids, the fish are being flushed! This is a Fish Free Zone!”, the whole damn family would have ended up in group therapy in 20 years.
I can hear it now… all of us sitting with some shrink, my eldest piping up, “Doc, it all started when I was 10. We won these fish at cub scouts and Mom… she… she… flushed them! All of them!” And a chorus of man/boys weeping and wailing about how they’ve been damaged and have since become some sort of fish-phobes… they fear some fish will try to exact revenge on the loss of their distantly related now dead fish family!
Hey. It could happen. You’ve not lived in my home. AN-Y-THING can happen in the house of Bou. ANYTHING.
So my husband had to go to work after the scouting affair, and I was left with three boys and SIX fish and 3 cactus, cactuses, or cacti or whatever you call them, that I’ll write about in a minute.
Now, according to my husband, if it had been he and the boys at the pet store, he would have found them a bowl and some food (although the food appeared to sound optional in his story) and he’d thrown the fish in there until they died. End of story.
But no. It was sappy Mom who was in the Pet Store and I ended up buying a 6 gallon tank, with filters, gravel, BIG plastic castle, plastic seaweed, and food. Not all inclusive, of course. SIX frickin’ goldfish from a cub scout lunch ended up setting me back $85.00.
Oh. And it was NOT that easy. Oh No. I got the tank set up two nights ago and realized a major piece was missing. Some twirly filter piece that reminded me of the one the fish in Finding Nemo threw a piece of gravel in to stop it so Nemo didn’t die during an errant escape attempt. So I had to dump the water in big containers to save it, take out the gravel, the seaweed, the castle, and take it the tank back to the store.
Where pray tell, does one store SIX fish over night? In Tupperware of course. Let this be a warning shot to all those who choose to dine at the House of Bou. My jello mold has been in the bathtub, my measuring spoons and assorted cups in sandboxes, my ladle has scooped SIX goldfish, and SIX goldfish lived overnight in a big oversized piece of Tupperware… where fish do what they do in water… eat, sleep, fornicate, and excrete nasty stuff.
So the fish are now in their happy place. I’m OK with it, realizing of course that if I just spent 85 bucks on tanks, that if these fish die, we’re getting more. This is not a one shot deal for me. Oh no. I’m getting my money out of that damn tank. Dammit.
Back to the three cactus/cactuses/cacti or whatever is plural for those plants. Each boy got to pick one. I walked up and my husband had put them together in a cowboy hat. They were small plants. Two were round and one was pointy.
Anyone seeing where I’m going with this? Anyone?
There are two Moms talking to my spouse when I walked over and looked in the hat, finding these two roundish cactus/cactuses/cacti pushed together and just above them was this one long green cactus.
The three of them were talking about how one gets these little suckers out of their trays and plants them without getting prickers all over their hands. Monotone I interrupted “Garden gloves…” and then in a bewildered voice I added, “Am I the only one who has noticed what the shape of these cactus look like all squished together like that?”
The three of them stopped, looked at me, looked at the cactus/cacti/cactuses and upon seeing the unintentional rendition of male genitalia with cactus as the medium, the Moms busted out laughing while my husband rolled his eyes and said to them, “Only MY wife would notice something like that…”
Hey, I think I may have made a friend out of this. The one Mom thought I was really funny!
So there you have it. In my home, I now have… 1 husband, 3 boys, 1 live hamster (2 dead in the pet cemetery outside), SIX fish, and 3 cactus/cactuses/cacti.
No dog. We’re not adding a dog any time soon…
I read the Palm Beach Post and today’s paper was questioning people about their first kiss.
What? People remember that event?
Yes! Yes they did! I think everyone remembers their first kiss… but me! Good Lord. I don’t even remember the first time I had sex… I know who it was with (long term relationship) and where it occurred (I still pass those apartments and think, “I lost my virginity there”), and how old I was (21), but nothing else. I guess that’s good. It probably means it didn’t suck.
*side note: My best friend, PFB, of 25 years who reads my blog is now screaming at her computer, “NO! She has NO SHAME! She is NOT talking about sex on her blog! Her Mom and Dad read!!!” Heh. That cracks me up.*
Anyway, I had to really think about who the first kiss was with. I almost had to call PFB to ask her. You know, being best girlfriends and all, I’m sure I told her. I wouldn’t have told my sister, Mo, as even though 6 years is not a big span now, it was HUGE then.
And I realized, it was not my first boyfriend, who I started dating at 15, but my 2nd boyfriend I dated at 16. I was sweet 16 and never been kissed. And I don’t blame the boys one bit. I am 40, but look a bit younger than my years. This is a blessing now, this looking a few years younger, but as a teenager, it was a curse. There’s nothing like being 16 with a face of a 12 year old.
So I was walking down memory lane tonight, thinking about my first boyfriend at 15, who I still keep in touch with. A good guy, a really good guy, but damn if we weren’t oil and water. We fought like crazy, the both of us hugely dominant and opinionated and extroverted in our beliefs. We’ve both mellowed. But we were both really shy when it came to the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing, so he never kissed me and I sure as hell wasn't going to make the first move. He’d hold my hand, but not kiss me. He was the sweetest boy. It’s funny because he and I were just reminiscing last year about our first date, where his parents drove us…. Ahhh, good memories. We saw the movie Arthur. Actually, he remembered the entire first date, he had to kind of wake my memory up… Story of my life.
Anyway, that left the first kiss to my 2nd boyfriend, who was his best friend and Valedictorian of our class. (I had a pattern of dating big brain men.) We dated for quite awhile too… until Junior Prom… when we had a massive blow out and I threatened to walk home in the rain, and would have too, if he hadn’t told me if I didn’t get in the car so he could drive me home, he was going to forcibly put me in there. And he would have. He and I were talking about that a few years ago (we keep in touch) and he said, “You have no idea how serious I was. There was no way in hell I was letting you walk home in the rain.” I said, “Umm, yes I did know how serious you were. Notice I got in the damn car…” Ahhh… good memories. And who says Chivalry is dead?
But not to worry about that 1st boyfriend, I dated him AGAIN, and did kiss him… but we hadn’t mellowed yet and damn, I think we could have killed each other. Boy. It was all about who was in control. Bad bad stuff when neither person is ever willing to back down. Ahhh… good memories.
So that’s what I remembered today. All that from trying to figure out who gave me my first kiss.
Oh and my boys… Good Grief I love my boys. They each got me a card for Valentine’s Day and beat their Dad about the head and neck until he let them pick out something for me… from each of them.
Bones got me big Chocolate Lips. Son#2 got me a big Chocolate Heart. And Son#1… he got me this big box of chocolates and from what I understand, quite an argument ensued in the store as he wanted to get me one that was something like 2 feet big, and finally my husband told him to ‘stop the madness’ and that the customary size was just fine.
And they gave me a bag of Hershey’s Hugs and a bag of Kisses. Oh! And Bones got me a little pink stuffed Monkey that says “Kiss Me”, which is going on my desk at work. The only potentially girlie thing on my desk…
I have a funny story that will have to wait until tomorrow. I have come to dread Tuesdays. Everyone else dreads Mondays. Not me. For me it is totally Tuesday. I start having anxiety about it on Sundays.
Tomorrow I have work and then cub scouts and I picked this project that involves nails and hammers and glue... and I'm not so excited. I know they are; they always are. Me? Not so much.
They need only one more Achievement to cross over to Weebelos and after that, I'm all about having fun with them and just goofing to learn. Nothing structured.
So... funny story waits until tomorrow while I go gather nails, and hammers... and glue. Bah!
I was over at Practigal's today and saw this Word Cloud post. Very cool. So I did one.... of course. *grin*
It's to order as a t-shirt, so I did a screen shot and saved it. Fun. Very fun.
As we all know, blog fodder just happens to me. I have it stored in my head, so much so, that sometimes I forget... oh I forget like 9/10ths of the crap that makes me laugh and happens to me on a day to day basis.
Then I sit down to type and I open my e-mail and I get something that gets me to giggling so hard, I must post it. This is a post for me... folks. I blog for me. Those who do not know her, may not laugh, but those that do, like my family are going to for sure.
My best friend since my sophomore year in High School, the one who signs things PFB, standing for Pudding for Brains, which is a completely awful thing to say about one's self as she's this amazingly talented artist, took the Valentine's Day candy quiz. She tried to post her results in my quiz below, but couldn't. So she sent them to me.
I could not quit laughing. How in the hell she has put up with me all these years, I have no frickin' clue. Me, the cynic on affairs of the heart and sarcastic wit, all about logic (sometimes it is the baggage we carry with us that make us this way, folks), so aloof I am wary as to who I let in... And her, the sweetest person I have ever met, genuinely sweet, the ultimate romantic and artist, she never says an ill word to anyone (heh, and me? I told some Mom to F Off last week, no joke), always a kind word.
She must see something in me I don't see as she's put up with me for 25 years.
I will say, I am very protective of her. How can I not be protective of a sweet woman who scored 'First Kiss' on her candy heart quiz?
Everytime I read it.... I laugh. It is so her. And I love her to pieces for it.
Your Candy Heart Says "First Kiss"
You're a true romantic who brings an innocent hope to each new relationship.
You see the good in every person you date, and you relish each step of falling in love.
Your ideal Valentine's Day date: a romantic dinner your sweetie cooks for you
Your flirting style: friendly and sweet
What turns you off: cynics who don't believe in romance
Why you're hot: you always keep the romance alive
Life is interrupting 24, dammit. I may not be able to watch all of it. We'll see.
As of now, I think the Hobbit is scary and I still hate the President. I think his wife rocks.
**I'm watching in between stuff I do... OK, so when did Jack become a paramedic? And the saving the kid at the end... that was kinda hokey.
And notice how quickly people evacuate when a man in a gas mask comes storming out with a big gun with a silencer. Interesting.
**The first lady is a sap.
I made my way to the mall the other day, list in hand. I have my husband's birthday coming up this week, black heels to purchase for a gown I must wear in late March, and of course the continuation of a search for more bras. The saga never ends.
I stopped first at Aldo's shoe store which had come recommended. They were having a tremendous sale, but unfortunately looking at the style, they were not shoes I would wear.
Pointy. What I call "Witchie Poo" shoes.
Realizing that my foot would never work in shoes such as these, I made my way to Nordstrom's, a store with a reputation for their shoe department. I felt certain that the Witchie Poo shoes found at Aldo's were not the norm, but THAT store's trend.
What do I know about fashion?
In this tremendous shoe department at Nordstrom's, I found an abundance of Witchie Poo shoes. I was horrified. A shoe salesman approached me and I thought I'd let him assist. Perhaps I was just missing the 'real' shoes. You know, shoes made for people like me.
What I found was Aldo's was the norm and I proved once again, I know nothing of fashion. Witchie Poo shoes are in their hey day. I decided to give them a try, afterall, what in the hell do *I* know about fashion? As I am apt to say, "I"m a Mom of three boys, Engineer, and Fashion Disaster."
7 1/2 Wide. That's what I wear and as all of 5'2" of me stated my size to the very nice and very YOUNG salesman, the book "I wish that I had Duck feet" by Dr. Seuss kept running through my head. My feet are a joke. A cartoon. A functional tool; I try not to dwell.
The store renowned for all sizes did not have mine.
The shoe clerk decided I should try the 7 1/2 M just to 'make sure'. I put my toes in, attempting to shoe horn my foot when I looked up and said to him, "I'm channeling Cinderella's Ugly Step Sister here; this slipper doesn't fit this foot."
He laughed and I sent him off to get me an 8 Wide, telling him, "I'm 40 years old. I do not buy shoes that hurt. I'm past that stage in my life." They said they could order my size if I so desired. I wanted to see how these shoes looked on my feet and to make sure a 7 1/2 W and not 8W was truly my size.
Out he came with the 8M, not having any Wides. (You are now seeing why I have bought my shoes at Payless. They carry WIDE shoes. Shoes for women with duck feet.) He pulled them out, I put them on and....
I cannot wear Witchie Poo shoes. You see, they come to a point and feet don't... come to a point. So for this style, an extra inch or two has been added to the length of the shoe.
Women who stand tall at all of 5'2" and wear a 7 1/2 or 8, do NOT need anything to create a longer look to their feet. They're big enough.
And as I looked down at my Witchie Poo shoe clad foot, I looked at the salesman and said, "No. My feet look ENORMOUS. They're HUGE. I have aircraft carrier feet!"
He was laughing again, telling me I was wrong, they really didn't look THAT big and I told him it was OK and I wasn't offended. It is what it is.
They had nothing for me. Next stop is random shoe stores in my mall later in the week. Hopefully I'll fair better. I really don't want open toed. I really want a nice close toed pump with a high heel and no point.
Witchie Poo is evidently IN. Duck Feet are... OUT.
We were at baseball practice with the two older boys yesterday when the coach said, “We have practice on Tuesday night. Anyone have a problem with that? It’s Valentine’s Day.”
I said nothing. I figured it meant I didn’t have a problem. Evidently the coach looked at my husband in a questioning way in reference to me and my husband said, “Hon. Do you have a problem with that?”
I looked up and said, “Phht. No. It’s a Hallmark Holiday, not worthy of celebration in my book. Christmas? Yup. Big problem. Thanksgiving? Yup. Big problem. Halloween? Yeah, problem there too. Valentine’s Day? I… don’t… think… so…”
I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day in general because it is 2 days before my husband’s birthday. I just hate for anything to overshadow it. So where I think its fun, and I buy cards and candy for my kids, and always will, for the most part, my spouse and I do nothing, at MY insistence.
With that, I took a quiz found at blogdaughter, Caltech Girl’s and these were my results.
It did nail me pretty well when it comes to affairs of the heart.
|Your Candy Heart Says "Get Real"|
You don't lose your head, and hardly anyone penetrates your heart.
Your ideal Valentine's Day date: is all about the person you're seeing (with no mentions of v-day!)
Your flirting style: honest and even slightly sarcastic
What turns you off: romantic expectations and "greeting card" holidays
Why you're hot: you don't just play hard to get - you are hard to get
From my blogson Blue Tige, I received a Meme. I was without internet access for awhile, so I'm just now getting it up. 20 questions.
It's odd, I never sign up for interviews as I suspect there is nothing about me that people want to know. I figure I pretty much put an awful lot out here, but questions like these come up and I think, 'Hunh. I guess I've not really touched on some of this...'
So, my answers to my blogson, ask and ye shall receive, in the extended entry:
1. Best memory? My kids being born. Pick one. It’s a toss up. They’re great.
2. Most terrible day? The day my Mother in Law died, six years ago. I’m not downplaying any of the deaths in my family, but this whole thing with her threw me for a loop and has had a permanent impact on my life… not necessarily positive by any stretch.
3. Birth City? Oahu, Hawaii
4. Favorite thing to do? Listen to my kids laugh. (Come on, my folks read. Did you really think I'd put THAT?! Heh.)
5. Hollywood Crush? and why? I actually don’t have one although I bandy about names here and there as a joke about day pass material. I need to actually get to know someone to feel that way about them.
6. Favorite food? My Mom’s Cheese Fondue.
7. City you want to visit most and why? Any city in Scotland.
8. Fantasy/dream that you want to come true? I’d like a small home or cottage in the foothills or the mountains somewhere, something secluded with a garden. I know, my readers are saying, “A garden? Are you nuts?! You have a black thumb! Wanted posters from the local Botanical Society will appear at all local nurseries forbidding them to sell to you!” Alas, it is what it is. And I want a big dog for my small home, a shepard or retriever. And I need to be able to go hiking in the mountains.
9. Favorite sport? College Football.
10. How long have you been married? 14 years this past November.
11. Favorite song and why? This is tough. I don’t have just one.
12. Someone you most admire? My Mom and Dad. If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you understand why. They are amazing people and this world is a better place because of them. I am sure.
13. Someone you hate and why? Hate is pretty strong. I like to think I’m mellowing. This list would have been extensive about 15 years ago. Ahhh… age… what a wonderful thing. Honestly, the few people that have truly pissed me off to the point of near rage are now dead. I don’t hate anyone alive I don’t think.
14. Secret crush? Nope. None. Nada.
15. One (maybe 2) rule/s you live by? Be kind (it’s a struggle on some days) and be honest (no struggle at all… I’ve been called blunt and insensitive).
16. Do you believe in God? I try. Not always. I try.
17. A dark secret? None.
18. Most treasured item and why? I don’t think I have a treasured item. My family is the most treasured thing to me, but is that an item?
19. If you could turn back time, what would you do and why? Nothing. I have no regrets and if I changed anything I wouldn’t be where I am… and I really like where I am.
20. Last but certainly not least, what kind of "work" do you do and do you enjoy it? I’m a Mom! And yes, I enjoy it, although there are days I think I’m losing it. Quickly. I also work part time in the aerospace industry, military division. I do enjoy it very much but find it exhausts my brain and am finding I am not always as good a Mom as I should be when I get home as I’m mentally spent. But it works for us and I like the work I do. The folks I work with are good people and I believe in our project very much. And more importantly, I believe in the men and women serving our country. That alone makes it all worth while.
There are no real words to express how frickin' funny it is.
Little kids with big helmets. Essentially helmets with legs.
Girls and boys... equally uncoordinated, although what they choose to do in the outfield as opposed to play differs. Girls play with their hair. Boys look for bugs in the grass.
Nobody pays attention.
They can't hit a ball off a Tee. It's hard to believe in four years they'll be in kid pitch.
Whoever decided that the baseball fields should be made of red clay, should be shot.
A picture of what all the kids... including my 9 and 10 year old, who play minor league, look like with their helmets on, in extended entry. As usual, click to enlarge.
Yesterday was my sister Morrigan’s birthday! I didn’t mean to be late in wishing her well, but I got sick last night and was unable to blog. I know, excuses, excuses.
Morrigan, for those who do not know, she actually has connections to me in the blogosphere too. My blog daughter Sissy started reading my blog as she worked with Mo and Mo gave her the URL. And Napster and Spurs , Sissy's blogchildren, worked with Mo as well. All of them wished her a Happy Birthday, here, here and here.
Eh, but her slug sister is a day late.
So for those of you who do not know Mo, Mo is probably one of the funniest women I’ve ever met, challenged only by Army Wife Toddler Mom. Mo is the one that can get me laughing so hard, I cannot breathe. To know her is to understand why… her life is frickin’ blog fodder 24/7. And its how she reacts to it.
If I were to pick one movie character that probably best defines her, it would be any crazy character that Sandra Bullock plays. That’s Mo.
But Mo is prettier, I think. Her hair changes color on a whim, but she has that curly Nicole Kidman hair, hair that must be perpetually tamed. It is beautiful and to think of Mo is to think of her hair. Typically it is an auburn in color. She has hazel eyes that go green more than any other color. She is slightly shorter than I, but much curvier.
She is probably one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. Add brains and a funny sense of humor and I think at times she is one of the few women I know that truly got it all.
So for your enjoyment… as I’ve said in the past, I’ve been writing for years, I just never blogged it. This is a story I wrote up and put away, a story about Morrigan. A story of Mo and… bicycles. This story has been pretty much kept as written, as I wrote it the day it happened. It was 3 years ago. (She has a boyfriend now.)
A little background for this story, Mo can’t ride a bike. She has a problem with… running into things. And at the time, Mo had this great idea that she was going to enter a contest for Locks for Love, and WE were going to win a trip for the two of us to NYC. Her hair and all I had to do was write this essay on why we should win. She, for some reason, just knew that my ‘writing ability’ would get us this trip. Holy crap. No pressure. I told her she had way too much faith. So I wrote some parodies that I actually can’t blog as they’re so tasteless and sent them to her and family… and this is referenced in the story below when I write about ‘the damn essay’. We didn’t win, as we didn't actually enter, but that’s a whole other story about bad dye jobs and hair that turns coal black…
Happy Birthday, Morrigan. You’re the best. The big 3-5. And to think you thought I had one foot in the grave at 30. Sheesh!
There was a new book out, written by some female Harvard MBA on finding a man. It was a marketing book, when you get to be a certain age you must market yourself to get a man. Incredible. Morrigan and I were talking about it and she said she won’t buy it in hardback; she’d wait until it comes out in paperback because “hardback will make me look desperate”. Hello????
So I was listening to some morning radio station this morning and they had some female cyclists being interviewed. Evidently there is some big cycling race going on here this weekend. These women were saying how this sport is dominated by men and is an excellent way for women to meet men, but not vice versa.
A little history with Mo, she cannot ride a bike. She always crashes into parked cars. It’s like a magnet and truly the damnedest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s a big family joke.
Upon hearing this interview, half laughing to myself, I picked up my cell phone and left her this message that she MUST take up cycling because she will surely meet a man. It’s all about the marketing at this point and making yourself visible and available. She called me tonight and we’re carrying on about this damn essay and I ask her if she got my message about taking up cycling and the men.
She says, “Oh yeah! I got that! I’ve given it thought. I’m going to sign up for the beginner’s spin class at the gym.”
What?! She completely missed the whole thing. I’m thinking men, athletes, bikes, roads. She’s thinking something else, I have no clue. We’re not from the same planet. I met her with dead silence. Finally I said, “Morrigan, I don’t think you’ll meet the men in a beginner’s spin class at the gym. I think you will meet them on REAL bikes on the road.”
She thought for a moment and said, “Oh. Well, men do take the spin class. I should take it in case I can meet any of them and maybe the spin class will help me learn to ride a bike.”
I said, “What planet are you on? There are no balance issues in spin classes and no parked cars?!!”
She didn’t do the spin class. She didn’t take up cycling. She is still alive. And she didn’t meet cycling men…
I can’t believe I don’t have internet access for 3 days. Shoot me. Now.
I called to tell them it was down and they had me go through what I call the fault isolation list… router (check), cable (check), turn it all off (check), turn it all back on in a certain order (check). I’d already done it, but they needed me to do it for them… on the phone… just to make sure I really knew what I was doing.
And the answer was, your internet cable is out. Bingo. I knew that or I wouldn’t have called. And the conversation that transpired, went something like this, to the best of my recollection:
Cable Lady: We can come out Thursday between 8AM and Noon.
Me: What?! Holy crap! I have to wait until Thursday? Y’all can’t come out… tomorrow?
Cable Lady: No, M’am. This is it.
Me: Well, Thursday morning won’t work. I’m already booked.
Cable Lady: Ok, then, that makes it Friday.
Good God. Just shoot me.
I got access today! That nervous twitch I had developed went away almost instantly! Whooo hoooooo!!!
I’ve been writing in WORD for the last few days. I wrote for years before I started to blog. Some of it you’ve seen, some I have hidden away, some of it I delete. Writing is what keeps me sane. It is my catharsis. I’ve just gotten in the habit of others reading it. But whether people read or not, I still write. I have to. It’s an addiction. My therapy.
I am behind in reading and am hearing rumors of Memes and such… I hope to be caught up soon.
I received an e-mail the other day at work that read something like this, “If anyone borrowed my Heat Transfer book, please return it as I have a need for it.” It was signed some doctor guy that works for our company.
First thought? I think e-mail like these are not normal at other companies…
Second thought? Thank God I don’t have to use my heat transfer book in my job.
Third thought? What in the hell did he get his doctorates in? Heat transfer? Blech.
My father in law, he means well… I keep that in mind.
He called me tonight at 7:30. He said he was on his way; he just wanted to see my boys. My husband wasn’t home, having a late meeting until 9. When Pop called he said, “We’ll be there in 10 minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later, he showed up… with people with him. I nearly died. Dinner plates were in the sink, a new batch of laundry on the couch needing folding. Although my house has been far worse, surely it was not ready for guests.
I had nothing to offer them for dessert and it was too late for coffee. I was as nice as I could be, trying to make sure they felt welcome, although inside I was dying. They stayed about a half hour and then left, as I needed to get my boys ready for bed.
I keep taking a deep breath and saying that in the big scheme this does not matter. He is the grandfather to my sons. It is important he see them as much as he can as one day he will no longer be with us.
But damn if he doesn’t drive me around the bend sometimes…
So this is the story of P’cola Titan. Heh heh heh! I know he’s been wondering if this story would come out. I’ve spent the last few days, cableless, fine tuning it.
I described HERE how I know him and how you sometimes see him in my comments.
For four years he and I rode the school bus together and sat in homeroom, our last names being but two names apart on the roster. There were probably about 4 or 5 of us that sat near each other every morning year after year, our buddy Cris being a real live wired extrovert, keeping us entertained. PT (as I shall call him now) and I probably being the more introverted, with PT being even more so than I. PT was a very quiet kid, which he readily confesses to.
Quiet and sweet and extraordinarily smart. Not a bad bone in that kid’s body and not a bad combination. Very unassuming, just absorbing all that was around him, never a nasty word uttered out of his mouth about anyone. And during high school, he was like the rest of us. Whereas I graduated at my full height of 5'2", but weight barely 105 lbs (no maternal fat stores at that point in my life, no hips, no nothing), he was probably 5’6” or 5’7” and didn’t weigh much at all. If I was going to guess, I’d say 120-125. (Feel free to correct me, PT. It’s a swag.) He wasn’t a massive boy and although I didn’t notice so much, he swears he didn’t stand up straight either and was told by a mutual friend of ours that he was the only person who could bend at the rib cage. And he had a boyish face, until we graduated, he was a boy. A very cute boy, but a boy. And lest anyone think I’m slamming him, I’m not! When I graduated, I looked like I was 13. Maybe. We were kids.
So flash forward to our 20 year high school reunion nearly 3 years ago. I had been in charge of ‘finding’ people. I found those who wanted to be found and I didn’t pester those who didn’t. I was nervous walking into our reunion as I had left after college and other than visiting my folks a few times a year, never came back to our Panhandle town. I hadn’t seen 99% of my classmates in 20 years. I am not good with names and I’m not very good with faces either. Put that combo together and I can be a menace to the social graces in our society.
I walked in and immediately found my buddy Alan, a guy who lived in my neighborhood growing up, who PT referenced in another comment as being this huge pot head in high school, although he started to walk the straight and narrow the end of our Junior year. Alan really has his act together now, a health and physical fitness buff. Anyway, Alan was very popular in high school and he remembers everyone… faces and names. So I grabbed him by the arm and whispered, “Help me out here, Alan. Who here am I NOT going to recognize?”
He said, “You won’t recognize PT. He’s over at the bar.”
I looked over at the bar and nobody was there except this really big guy leaning against the bar with a bottle of beer lightly gripped just at the top of the neck, in his hand. I can’t remember faces and names typically, God only knows why I remember details like that.
I’m scanning the bar and said in a panic, “I don’t see him, Alan. Where is he?”
He said, “Bou. He’s the guy in the white t-shirt, leaning with his back against the bar with the beer in his hand…”
And I looked over and there was this 6’3” (PT, correct me here, big guy, I may have shorted you an inch or two!), MAN, who evidently spends time at the gym as his bod was rock solid, his arms as big around as my frickin’ thighs, broad shoulders, leaning up against the bar. (He’s not muscle bound, just very very fit. Amazingly fit.)
I was speechless. I said, “Alan, what part of THAT is PT?” and Alan laughed.
I walked over and when PT stood up, he stood straight and I swear to you, I was smaller than a Hobbit in comparison. I could not quit laughing. I didn’t know what to say when I hugged him and he confessed that the Army doesn’t allow you to slouch and he grew after high school. A lot evidently!
And I will say, of all the good things that happened at my class reunion, of all the wonderfully fun stories I heard, the good memories revisited, the bad memories laughed at, my favorite thing was seeing PT. He had gone from the sweetest cute boy, with all the insecurities we are all fraught with in our teenage years (some of which still haunt me even to this day), to this handsome beau hunk man with a GORGEOUS wife and two beautiful kids… the same smile, same warm laugh, same sense of humor, the same great mind and the same ability to make you feel like you have his attention when you're speaking to him.
And THAT is the story of my commenter. Hands off, ladies, the man is taken!
I tell you, she's crawlin' the walls, fans. Without access to the Internet, Boudicca has caught up on the laundry, worked out the schedule for some DAR function several months in advance, spent time on the telephone with Morrigan, caught up on her reading.... I could go on, I suppose, but you get the picture.
When I talked with her a few minutes ago she was writing into a Word document, out of habit, I suppose, just because that's what she does every evening. I suggested she save all her writings and feed them into the blog when she gets writer's cramp. I don't think she ever gets writer's cramp, so you all will have a lot to catch up on when her ISP is up.
The boys are counting the days until the next baseball practice. Boys and baseball, is that a great combination, or what?
Boudicca has asked me to inform you that she will not be posting on her blog site until Friday. Her cable internet connection is not working. Typical of the cable folks, they should get out to fix it between 8:00 AM and 4:00 PM on Friday....maybe.
Some of you may have noticed I have a commenter, P’cola Titan. I’ve known him since August of 1979, or thereabouts, having rode the school bus together as well as shared the same homeroom for four years, throughout high school. I consider him a dear friend.
There are a few stories that he alludes to as well as I have a funny story about him, but his comment on THIS post brings about this story that I love to tell, and P’cola Titan evidently knows and enjoys teasing me about.
It was July of 1979, The Great Omnipotent One had just gotten stationed to Pensacola. He was off doing some sort of training for a week or two, as is frequent in the Navy. So the bulk of the work in getting home and kids situated was thrust upon Mom, as happens in the Navy family. Hence, when going to the commissary, the paper grocery bags always read, “Navy Wife… Toughest Job in the Navy.” No joke. It is.
She took me to the local high school where I was to start in August as a freshman. The high school had an excellent reputation and it was because of the schools that my folks selected their home. We signed up for my classes, honors courses were not offered at the time and every freshman took Algebra. Geometry was for sophomores.
And so my curriculum consisted of Advanced English, Algebra, Advanced World Geography, Band, French and whatever else, with the selection of Advanced Earth Science as well. When the guidance counselor looked at our selection she said something along the lines of, “Well, this is a pretty tough load for her. I think you should have her take AVERAGE science.”
Now my last school was a very high end government school located in Taiwan. Everything was top notch, with my science being taught in a full lab where I had already dissected earth worms and frogs. I was exposed to 5 different languages and spent a year learning Mandarin Chinese. But I remembered science being difficult because I actually had to study, whereas everything else came easy, so when the counselor said this to me I thought, ‘Wow, maybe they have a REALLY tough science program here. Maybe she’s right.”
When in reality, this guidance counselor was probably thinking, “Girl. She needs average.” I’m not kidding. Also, given the fact I looked all of 9 years old at age 13 (I have a late birthday), this was most definitely what she was thinking, “Little girl. Needs average.”
So TGOO gets home and looks at my schedule and we speak about it and he says, “Look, if you get in that science class and feel even the SLIGHTEST inkling you don’t belong there, I will personally go down there and pull you out.”
If there is anything I have ever lacked it was NEVER the support of my Mom and Dad. I may have gone through life doubting myself, but my folks have NEVER doubted me.
First day of school, I walked over to the portable in which Earth Science was to be taught. The door knob was missing and the door was being held shut by a flannel shirt tied to an open window. No A/C. It was August… in the panhandle. Hotter than three hells comes to mind.
I walked in and it was a class full of the lowest common denominator. Never in my life had I been around kids like this. I was horrified.
I took my seat and looked to the front of the class, where there sat the teacher, ‘a coach’ who happened to have to teach Science when not coaching football… keeping in mind that Football is KING in the panhandle. His feet were propped on the desk and I would not be surprised if he had a wad of chew in his cheek.
I’d never had a teacher like this either.
He went around the room and took attendance, never changing his seating position. He got half way through the room and he said, “Jimmy James”. My first thought was, ‘Good God. I am taking Science with a boy whose parents were so intellectually challenged that they couldn’t even pick a first name different than the last…” I was absolutely appalled. And to look at him… he looked like he was strung out on something. Yuck.
Finally he said, “I want everyone to stand up, introduce themselves and tell us what Middle School you went to.”
It came to my turn, I stood and I said, “My name is Bou, and I went to Taipei American School in Taipei, Taiwan.”
The coach made a comment and explained to the class that Taipei was off the coast of China. At that point… no joke… Jimmy James, the boy with the creative parents and the great need for a haircut and a bath says to me in the slowest southern drawl I’ve ever heard, “Are yoooouuuu Chiiiineese?”
Folks, you’ve not seen a picture of me, but there is NOTHING that looks Asian about me, from my mousy brown hair to my white skin to my steel gray eyes… NOTHING.
At that point I knew. I went home and that night said to TGOO, “Get me out. I don’t belong there.” And the next day, I was moved.
And that is when I met my friends I still keep in touch with… men and women who have gone on to become some great minds in our society. That is when I got the friends I have who continued to take the sciences with me. Parents can encourage, but friends are important in high school and this great group of people that I fell in with solidified all the things my folks were telling me.
I was joking at my class reunion that I may very well have had Jimmy James to thank beyond my parents, for who I am and what I do today. If not for his stupid remark and woefully uncreative parents, I may very well have decided to stay in that class… and Lord only knows what would have become of me next...
My boys had baseball evaluations last week and it was not a good experience from what I understand. I’m so glad I had that carnival and didn’t have to watch. My boys have been playing soccer or taking Karate for the last 5 years. This whim to play baseball, it makes me shake my head. Watching them flail on the field during evaluations would have been more than I could have taken. Most certainly.
I’ve been nervous now, realizing the coaches cannot be thrilled to get my boys. I understand its Little League and I picked this particular town as I heard they’re really nice about everyone getting to play, school really is first, but still, everyone deep down inside must want to win and my family took 2 spots on a team… 2 spots for kids who’ve never played, didn’t know where shortstop was located and have never caught a fly ball.
So the coach for the two older boys called me Saturday to give me the deal on practices. As soon as he told me who he was, I got nervous and started to speak fast. And it went something like this… “Look, my boys are not clumsy. They are actually athletically inclined. They’ve just been playing soccer or taking Karate. They’ve had NO coaching. They just need someone to coach them and I think they’ll pick it up. They won’t be your star players… but my 2nd son, he has the passion for it and is all heart. He will make up for it. And my 1st son, he could be just a solid average player…”
And he stopped me and said, “Hey. This is going to be fun. Quit worrying. When it came time to select kids and your boys names came out, some baseball Mom said, ‘Oh! Those are GOOD boys. You’ll love having them on your team.’ I’m glad they’re on.”
How cool is that?
So I said, “OK, then. What do you need me to do? I will do anything you need me to do. I’ll support them and you 100%... just tell me.”
And he laughed and replied, “Yeah, that Mom said that too. She said you’re the Mom that will do anything and I’ll like having you as a Mom on this team.”
I’m wondering who in the hell that Mom is… he said he didn’t know her name.
Anyway, Bones had his first practice today. It went well. I feel for his coach. You just have to see Bones to understand. Let me put it this way, the British gentlemen who came for dinner last night? They nicknamed him ‘Trouble’… an hour after meeting him.
The other boys start tomorrow. After school I’ll be buying cleats and pants. I will be on the baseball field… FOUR nights a week. Baseball has evidently become my life.
I will take pictures. Of them. Not me… cursing under my breath…
But I have likened the two older boys to one of my favorite movies, "The Sandlot". That kid knew nothing at the beginning of the summer, but by the end was a solid player. I think that will be my two older boys. They just need coaching.
Let me tell you, it is BUSY here today... but not so busy that I won't sit and watch Jack Bauer kick someone's butt!
Where in the HELL did they find all these weak women for this show? First freaky Kim, who unfortunately didn't get eaten by the Puma and is evidently coming back, and now The Hobbit has a freaky sister, and then the 1st Lady... Sheesh.
The President makes my skin crawl.
I'm looking forward to seeing Jack beat the crap out of Ivan.
*** OMG! The First Lady is a FREAK!
What's with the waif? Will this be Jack's new squeeze?
Remember all the other women? They were either bitchy or freaky. Holy crap. They need some strong sane women in this show...
**ROFLMAO! My sister just called and said, "Like Jack's gonna let the waif go..." Heh! I was thinking, "No way in hell does Jack let the waif go with that jerk." Great minds... or maybe Jack is that easily read.
Anyway, I love it when some idiot thinks they can get away with something and then Jack hammers home whose boss. Love THAT!
*Kiss of Death... the Waif's gonna die...
**Looks like the waif was the only strong woman.
I have a new blogdaughter! Whew. Harvey talks about MY being the longest gestational period in the history of the blogosphere, well my frequent commenter Rave certainly gives me a run for my money. She took TWO MONTHS! That’s right, she’s been kicking this thought around for two months.
And now she’s here. And I’m happy.
So please welcome Rave, at Quid Nunc. She has a bit about her at the top and has made a few posts already.
Shopping was on the agenda today, black shoes to be exact. Whereas I tell you I’m a jeans and t-shirt kinda gal, it’s not so rare, however that I’m in a suit or an evening gown. And with that comes the whole shoes thing… and I’m not so good with shoes. Shoes and bras. The bane of my clothing existence.
Due to the arrival of my dinner guests, I only made it to one store and they did not have what I needed.
OK, ladies, any suggestions on where I should go for black 3-3 1/2 inch pumps? I can do stilettos and walk in them, no sweat, but prefer not to, they hurt my feet after the first hour and I have to be in them for 5 or 6. I want leather.
I did Payless for years, but I can’t do them anymore. Their shoes keep falling apart on me. About 8 years ago I had this big presentation to do for the USAF, Colonels and Chief Master Sergeants galore and even some higher ups from a certain airframer located on the West Coast. It was a big deal, questions to be answered, so my counterparts and I had spent weeks putting our portion together. The day of the presentation, it was raining and had been raining for days. The meeting was not in my building, so I had to run through puddles to get from my car to the function. Halfway through the meeting, I realized… my shoes were shredding. They were literally falling apart. Luckily from where I was standing, nobody could see me. And if they could, it was irrelevant as, not to sound sexist, but it was a room full of men… nobody was looking at my shoes.
And it has happened since, cheap shoes falling apart on me. I only buy leather uppers now.
So ladies, feel free for suggestions. I have an awful time buying shoes. I wear a 7 ½ Wide. Nice, huh? I have duck feet.
Buying shoes to me is like buying bras. And as I was leaving the store I wondered what in the hell this correlation could be. Is it I can’t buy things for anything that is an individual, but part of a pair? But then that would mean I have trouble buying gloves, but I don’t have trouble buying gloves. I have more white gloves to wear with my gowns, than is imaginable. Opera length, short, you name it… I have the white glove thing goin’ on, although I do know they are harder to come by in cotton. I see them in shiny polyester now. I'm a cotton girl.
Then I thought, maybe I just hate buying items for body parts that poke out, like feet and breasts! Heh! Braless and shoeless… it is the way I’m supposed to be!
Anyway, I didn’t find the shoes, but as I was walking through the department store, they had these wonderful lotions on sale and after I smelled them all I picked up a clean citrus smelling lotion. Mmm. Heaven. Absolutely.
My husband has a couple of his colleagues coming for dinner tomorrow night. They’re from Britain. I met them last night at a gathering I attended shortly. Very nice men. One of them reminded me of Eric. They could have been cousins. It was kind of funny.
Anyway, we’re serving London Broil, twice baked potatoes, a big salad, and my Chocolate Mousse cake. It should be good.
I’m just scrambling to get the house in order… just a bit of stress tonight and tomorrow!
There are days I think if I were to watch myself, it would be like watching a frickin’ cartoon. I had a meeting today, so I wore my favorite skirt, a flouncy feminine skirt with butterflies all over it, and this clingy pink lycra blouse. It’s not the typical of what I wear, but I wore it to a Fashion Show last year and as this meeting I was going to was about this year’s Fashion Show, I wanted to wear something from the boutique doing the fashions to remind everyone of the great clothes they have.
It was raining today. Nasty weather. Complete skirt alert weather and thank God it went clingy instead of crazy! So here I am struggling with my umbrella, the dessert I was tasked to bring, my purse and papers, thinking for sure I looked like a cartoon. No doubt.
But what really hammered it home to me was the frickin’ bra I was wearing.
Yes. I’m still struggling with this damn bra thing. I hate them. I really do. But sometimes I MUST wear them and as I’ve lost weight since my surgery, I’m no longer readily fitting in my underclothes as I once did, so last week I went bra shopping. Painful. Nearly as painful as bathing suit shopping, which is a whole post in itself… the pain of bathing suit shopping.
Finally out of frustration, I just bought one that felt ‘OK’, not giving any regard as to what it really looked like, my thought being, I’m wearing a shirt over it, who cares?
Yeah. Wrong answer.
I wore that awful bra today with that clingy bright pink lycra blouse and thought nothing of it until I was running late, ran past a mirror and out of the corner of my eye saw these roundish missiles that looked like they were ready to explode from my chest!
Holy crap. I did a double take. Looked at the mirror full on thinking they were OK, but upon doing a side view, I truly looked like they were going to launch. Damn bra.
And I didn’t have time to change, so I went that way, consoled by the fact it was all women in attendance.
So let us repicture this, shall we? It’s windy and rainy. My arms are overflowing with food and papers, I’m fighting an umbrella, my skirt is clinging to me as its raining, but I’m still doing an occasional skirt check as its so daggum windy, and my breasts look like they should be part of some government anti-ballistic missile project.
Lovely day. Truly.
No. No pictures.
So it's 12:30 AM and I can't sleep. Why? Oh well, besides the fact I can never sleep, today is around the 1 year anniversary of my husband's horrible car wreck.
It was a rainy night and he was out with the guys, who were all in town for a conference, and they just hung out and did dinner, and on his way home is when he was smashed into.
And where is he now? Same conference, one year later, out with the guys doing dinner... and its rainy and icky, just like then, and its 12:30 and it was just 15 minutes from now that I got that awful phone call.
So I'm awake waiting to hear that damn garage door open. GRRR.
So I walk into my husband’s place of business the other day and his business partner says to me, “Bou, you own a poodle skirt?”
My reply? A dry, “Sure I do. Tons of them. I wear them all the frickin’ time… Hell no.”
It would appear we have an event to go to in March that is a 50s theme.
I don’t do themes. I don’t do dress up theme parties. They are a frickin’ NIGHTMARE for me. Folks, I am a fashion disaster on a regular day. Why in the hell would I want to subject myself to becoming a fashion disaster from another era? Good God. Just frickin’ shoot me.
I’m the only 40 year old woman on this planet who can still say her Mom dresses her. The nicest clothes in my closet were bought for me by my Mom. No kidding. My Mom has GREAT taste. Me? Not so much.
Anyway, I am now evidently attending some 50s themed shindig that I appear to not be able to wiggle out of, and God only knows I shall try. So as of now, I’ll be wearing jeans, lightly rolled up, and a great gray sweater that I own and can get tighter by wearing a good padded bra (thank you modern bras with push em together and push em out action…) and I have the hair to do the high pony tail. Now I need a good scarf, preferably pink, for my pony tail and saddle shoes.
Where IN the HELL does one find frickin’ Saddle Shoes?!!! GRRR. Blog fodder. My life is blog fodder…
The boys and I went to the store to pick out Valentines for their classes. Bones insisted he needed ‘girl valentines’ for the girls as they would not appreciate the Star Wars set he was having me purchase. Son#2 jumped on that bandwagon.
At first I was going to put my foot down and say, “NO. They will be fine with Yu Gi Oh or Star Wars” and then I thought, “Wait. What am I doing? They SHOULD do something special for the little girls!” Thoughtfulness to the women in their life will go a long way one day… best to start sowing those seeds now.
So I said yes. Bones picked up Princess Valentines and Son#2, Sponge Bob, insisting that the girls in his class LOVE Sponge Bob.
We’re in the car and they break them out of the bag and start reading the back of the box where it has all the sayings. I could hear them reading and giggling in the back as one of them said, “Hugs and Spongy Kisses” although hearing them repeat it, it was “Hugs and Spoooooooongie kissssses”. It was very funny and made the energy in the car very light.
Then one of them read, “Will you be my Sponge?” and my mind went right into the gutter and I thought, “That’s not right…”
Remember the Seinfeld episode where Elaine has just a few sponges left as they were no long manufacturing the birth control sponge? And she’s dating this guy and she’s trying to determine if he’s sponge worthy?
Well that popped in my head immediately. Never ever has anything about that episode popped in my head before in the billions of hours of Sponge Bob that we have watched, but for some reason, it sure as hell did when they read that phrase.
“Will you be my Sponge.” Ack!
When I decided to make a chocolate rum dessert like mousse last night, I remembered this BEAUTIFUL stemware I received from my grandmother... family stemware. There are three different types of stemware, but what I wanted to use were the shallow ones, that looked like they should sherbert or fruit placed in them.
So I climbed up onto my countertops and got them down from my top shelf, having placed them there for safe keeping. They were dusty as I've never used them, wanting to save them for just the right occasion.
Today the ladies came for lunch and one of them said to me, "Oh! I have some rose stemware very similar..." and as we continued to talk, I said, "Well, I have more, there are two other different glasses" and I opened my kitchen cabinet.
She freaked out and told me this was exactly what she had, but she had never dared use it as... it was made circa 1890.
Holy crap. I think I was shaking as I washed them today. I LOVE them, absolutely LOVE them, but I'm freaking out that I was using 100 year old stemare today for a luncheon, when I should have it on display somewhere instead.
And yes, it is possible my stemware is that old. My father's side of the family has been here for nearly 300 years. Needless to say, I've been going crazy on Google trying to find it.
It's not being used again... it is beautiful and delicate and shall remain so!
Last night I was up until God only knows what time trying to get things prepared for the luncheon, cleaning, cooking and just all around stressing. That last one seems to be key for having company. You can’t have company without stressing out. Just doesn’t seem natural.
So I was in my bedroom putting things away, things like… clothes which I will admit I am very bad about doing… when I heard water running in my kitchen. I walked in and Bones had decided to clean the kitchen. There was this overwhelming feeling to stop him as I knew my kitchen needed saving, but he was so into it, and I figured he was trying to be such a help, so I decided to leave him alone. Ahhhh, so instead I took pictures!
He is standing on one of our old Little Tyke chairs which I would absolutely DIE without since I use it to get into all my cabinets. Being all of 5’2” means that anything above the second shelf in my kitchen is unobtainable unless I’m standing on something. What in the heck did I do before we had little Tyke chairs in this house?
The boys just got haircuts, so Bones looks particularly smoochy with his cheeks and blue eyes. He’s my yummy man.
Oh and the answer was... two inches of water on my counter and a half bottle of dish detergent used to 'clean the sink'. The sink is VERY clean.
Not much to blog tonight as I have been cleaning house and planning a luncheon. I have women coming to my home, so we can do some long range planning for an organization I’m in. The table is set, salads made, and a chocolate rum mousse sits in my refrigerator, just chillin’.
That said… I have an announcement for tomorrow when I can do it right! Heh!
So… with that… I’m going to now step out a bit from my regular blogging and put it out there, a not so light post, but one that has been rumbling in my head all day. Let me tell you how I feel about homosexuality.
I… Do… Not… Care.
I don’t give a crap who does what to who and how they do it as long as it’s between two consenting adults and they aren’t doing it in public. Hetero or homo, no thanks. Get a hotel room; I don’t need to see sex in the street.
I don’t care who does what to whom, if they hang from the ceiling fans when they do it, or if they do it in groups. I don’t. I TRULY DO NOT care. At all. And I never have.
Now, since I’ve been so forthright here, maybe someone can tell me what the big deal is with Brokeback Mountain. Please tell me that it’s more than just a ‘Gay Cowboy’ movie, because that’s not going to pull me to the theater. But that’s all I’m hearing! First, I don’t typically get drawn to Cowboy movies. Second, I don’t give a crap about sexuality, so for them to say it’s a “Gay Cowboy” movie, like its sensationalism, isn’t going to have me up in arms one way or another, either horrified or happy for the Gay community or the Cowboy community or the Gay Cowboy community. Because… I don’t care.
So where does this come from… this stuff in my head on this movie? The Oscar nominations came out today. I love watching the Oscars. I used to love going to movies, back before I had kids. But now movies are really expensive by the time we get a sitter and we could rent, which my husband does, but I find myself fidgety, like I should be folding laundry or washing dishes… or planning a luncheon.
Anyway, so I opened today’s paper to find the nominations and all over is Brokeback Mountain. Now if it’s truly a great movie with a great story and phenomenal acting, cool beans. But if it’s getting the nod just because its got two men in love, who happen to be Cowboys, sorry, I’m wondering why I care. I had kind of hoped that we had progressed enough in our society that something like people of the same sex loving each other would not cause a stir. I say, “Good on them that they found someone who loves them.” The sex of each mate is irrelevant to me.
So that whole thing is not going to draw me to that movie. Nor if it was just a cowboy love story between a man and a woman. Nope. I need to hear why it’s a GREAT movie other than the fact it’s a love story, because that’s not a big ticket draw to me either. There are TONS of love stories out there, made in movie form every day. Tell me WHY it’s great… like Walk the Line about the Cashes. I KNOW why that movie is supposed to be great, on so many levels. (Yet I’ve still not seen it. What a drag.)
Oh, but I will tell you what would draw me to just any ol’ Cowboy movie…if that cowboy was played by Yul Brynner in his prime… mmmmm… THAT would draw me in!