I'm off to take the three boys camping. Or at least that's what we call it. In reality I do believe its just an extended picnic where we sleep in a tent at night. With all the crap I'm taking that's what it has to be.
I suspect there will be much blog fodder. Any time you're taking a family on any sort of vacation where you suspect a stomach virus could be lurking, there is blog fodder.
The only thing worse than taking three boys camping on an island in the rain, what I called my personal hell, and will hereby designate Personal Hell Level 1, is taking three boys camping on an island where everyone starts barfing their guts out at 2AM. That would be level 8.
Level 9 is they start puking their guts out... AND its raining.
Pray for no blog fodder. Please. I need a weekend of controlled chaos... Really.
Good Lord. I am chaperoning Bones’ class tomorrow for a field trip, before we go on our camping trip. Bones harped on me all day that we HAD TO vacuum the car. The kid won’t clean his stuff out of my car ever, but now I’m driving kids from his class and he not only cleans out my car, but now is insistent that he vacuums too.
So I said, “Bones, let us wait until after camping to vacuum. The car is going to be full of sand on Sunday after our camping trip so we’ll just vacuum it then.”
And this was his reply, no kidding, said very matter of factly, with a chopped quick cadence, “Mom. Why don’t we vacuum it both times. Why don’t we vacuum it now so that Pierce doesn’t think our car is a ratty piece of crap with food in it?”
I do believe… the boy has taken up my speech patterns! Heh. And for the record, there is no food in my car. I’m not sure what he’s getting at. I found HIS socks and HIS shoes, and paper and pencils and shoved under a seat a piece of HIS underwear, from when they went swimming and changed in my car, but no food. Perhaps he's already removed what I did not know of...
Our fishtank is… toxic. I don’t know what in the heck happened. One day we have 5 goldfish doing what goldfish do and the next thing you know our tank is green. Literally. Over night.
So two nights ago my husband and I drained the water and cleaned the tank. OK. He drained it, I cleaned the filter system. He suddenly got a bad case of OCD and ran water through that tank so many times, pulling all the fake stuff out, scrubbing it down, I thought the fish were going to stroke out.
Who is it that says, “Don’t tap on the tank, the fish will have a heart attack”? Yeah, well, I officially call BS on that. If our five goldfish can handle what my husband put them through, which was draining out all the water until there was but an inch left, fish freaking and flopping, only for him to refill and do it again and again, then only fish with heart problems die when you tap on the tank. Natural selection, I say. Let the fish die who can’t handle a little tank tappin’.
Anyway, two days later and the water is cloudy white. Gross. Disgusting. Toxic. And Smelly. This morning my husband motioned to me that we had a dead fish. We’re down to 4. I didn’t see it as… the tank was too dirty.
What we have here is Darwin’s theory of the survival of the fittest playing out at its finest. One down, four to go. King of the Mountain. Let’s see who the last fish is floating.
Meanwhile, this is bugging the stew out of me. I hate these fish, yet I don’t want them to die. It’s become personal to me. I’ve changed out the water, changed the filter, now I’m adding chemicals I bought at the pet store. It’s become my personal chemistry experiment. Did I say personal? Oh yes. These fish aren’t going to die on MY watch! Oh.No.
I paid too much for that damn tank…
Now that I sit in the small room of men, my desk in the center of it all, the 'office hostess' as Army Wife put it or I think more of the reluctant office hostess as I find myself growing more and more anti-social as I age, they are getting a chance to get to know my idiosyncrasies. I’m not sure its something I expected and I’m sure not something they were either.
I have my pink Kiss Me monkey that Bones got me for Valentine’s Day, sitting upon my desk. Truly the most feminine thing I own at my work station and I find men blowing kisses to it as they leave the room, which makes me shake my head and laugh.
Then of course there’s the work station itself, divided up by my job sharing partner and me, she takes the left side as she’s left handed and I take the right. This means I ‘decorated’ the right side of the desk, and I have my file folders and pencil holder (a Castle Argghhh! mug) and on the left side she has her personal effects. What is readily apparent is the difference between she and I.
On my side of the wall, I have a schematic of our product that takes up 4 feet on my side, along with a calendar from USAA, assorted phone numbers for engineers I work with in the Great White North, and… that’s it. Nothing personal except the Pink Kiss Me monkey. No pix of kids, no sign I’m married or even that I’m a woman… except for the monkey.
On her side, there are two great pictures of her kids and phone numbers to her contacts. That’s it.
I came in today and my tech lead, noticing there was not a picture to be found of my family, took a little yellow sticky note and in pencil created my family via stick figures. My husband has something on him, work related, that indicates it is in fact him. I have some 50s foo foo hairdo that is a crack up and then there are three stick boys next to us.
My family portrait. It shall stay. It makes me laugh.
And today… I seem to have attained a nickname. Great.
At 9:30 I break out my big jar of Jiff, and it is now a joke within the room as nobody realized I was a peanut butter addict until I moved to my home under the train trestle amongst the men folk.
And as I sat there, jar of Jiff to the right of me, munching on celery while I was answering e-mail, Alpha Male walks in and in his bellowing voice says, “BOU! EVERYONE NEEDS A NICKNAME. I’VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS AND YOURS IS GOING TO BE… SKIPPY.”
Speechless, I sat there looking at him. Finally, trying not to choke on my celery, noticing all the guys are doing that gopher thing and have popped their heads out of their cubes, I managed to say, “Skiip-py?”
To which he answered, “YEAH. SKIPPY. BY THE WAY, HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE YOU TO GO THROUGH THAT JAR OF PEANUT BUTTER?”
And of course I tabulated it for him, and calculated that at work, I takes me 4 months. Hey, I only work 2 days a week.
Then I heard from someone in the back, “It could have been worse. He could have decided you were Peter Pan” and my Tech Lead pipes in “… or Jiffy!”
And everyone is laughing now. I’m still kind of horrified at the thought this name Skippy is going to stick. Alpha Male left and I said just loud enough for a couple people around me to hear, “This has the potential to really really suck…”
Now Alpha Male doesn’t sit in my office. He sat a couple cubes down from my old cube… before I got relegated to below train trestle status. But the printer is in my office, so he comes in about… 20 times a day.
About 10 minutes after he’d left, he blusters back in and yells as he comes in through the threshold, “HEY SKIPPY! HOW’RE YOU DOING?”
I could feel myself cringe. He continued, ‘HEY. I HAVE A NICKNAME. EVERYONE HAS ONE! MINE IS RAWHIDE! DO YOU WANT TO KNOW HOW I GOT THAT?”
I quickly said, “NO! I have a feeling I really DO NOT want to know how you got that name.” I noticed all the guys were doin’ the gopher thing again, everyone is starting to laugh.
Alpha Male continued, “AHHH, JUST AS WELL. YOU’D HAVE TO PAY TO HEAR THAT STORY. ITS PRETTY DIRTY…” to which I put my fingers in my ears and said, “la la la la la, I don’t want to know… Too much information please!!!” and with that he left, the men were laughing and it was agreed upon that none of us really wanted to know this story.
I heard a voice from within one of the cubes say, "Welcome to Manland, Bou!" Heh.
And I have this awful feeling, that two things are going to happen. One, this frickin’ nickname Skippy is going to stick with him. The other guys won’t call me that, but HE will. And two, I’m eventually going to hear how he got the nickname Rawhide and folks, I really really DO NOT want to know. Really.
The following conversation occurred when I was out with the boys today, to the best of my recollection:
Bones to Son#2: You know that nurse Mom likes at our doctor’s office?
Bones: Yeah. April. She has this really cool watch with Winnie the Pooh on it. And it has that chicken guy.
Son#2 and I exchange glances and then #2 says: Chicken guy? Chicken Little?
Bones: Nooooo. Not Chicken Little.
Son#2: I don’t know any other chickens…
Bones: You know. Pooh’s friend… You have him as a stuffed animal and sleep with him.
Bones: Yeah! Piglet!
Me: Dude, piglet is a… piglet… a baby pig. Chicken guy?
Bones: HE’S A BABY PIG?! I called him the chicken guy, but I really thought he was a bunny!
And so I hereby say that it is official that Bones has inherited something from The Great Omnipotent One. He’s already confused as to who Disney Characters are, next it will be movie stars!
The boys had baseball today and their Dad had a meeting and I had to do my obligatory tour of duty in the parent Concession Stand. Being the home team, I got the first half of the game… and being at the far field, I wasn’t able to see any of it. The Concession Stand was by the other field.
So Bones and I were in the Concession Stand, when a Mom walked up and said, “I need a bag of ice. One of our kids got hit in the face…” They got her a bag and as she waited I casually said, “What team does your little guy play for?” and when she replied, “The Astros”, I just knew. Dammit.
And because I do not readily recognize faces, I never recognized her as a Mom from our team. I recognize very few parents. As parents from our team who I’d MET came by to order food, I didn’t realize they were parents I knew until I saw them in our stands. I’m such a dork.
Anyway, I quickly ran over, hoping it wasn’t my son. She didn’t know who it was, just that ‘he’s a little guy’, which solidified in my mind it was mine. And it was. Mine. One of the coaches had calmed him down, and I explained I was working concessions and that I wasn’t some dirtbag parent that just dropped their kid off to be babysat.
He is fine, but I kept thinking, “What was the damn probability of that?”
I went to work today and sat at my table in the middle of the room. I wish I could draw it out, but my desk is literally in the middle of the room. Every person who walks through the door, walks behind me when they cross the threshold of the room. I’m 3 feet in against a wall, next to a printer EVERYONE uses, and directly behind me are two cubes, one of which belongs to Mr. Magoo.
Every person who walks by me says hello. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a jerk, but I don’t typically say hello to everyone and, I’m not joking, I think I now speak to about 50 people a day. Before I spoke to… 5. Holy crap.
And my chair! My chair keeps getting stuck under my table and when I pull it out you hear a “KaTHUNK!” GRRR. Finally Mr. Magoo popped his head out of his cube, after hearing “KaTHUNK!” for the fifth time and he said, “I think we need to get you bumper pads for your desk.” I won’t be surprised if I come in one day and he’s mounted them for me. He’d do that.
And then he said to me, “How do you like your new set up.” I looked at him and paused and said, “Well. It is. It is better than the alternative and… it’s OK. I’ll be fine…” and he said, “You know… your sitting there at that crappy table in the middle of this room, working like that… I believe this is the work equivalent of living under a train trestle!”
And at that, I laughed so hard. It was a funny analogy.
Of course they speak among themselves and forget I am there. I try to pretend I don’t hear things as to not embarrass them, but today, Good Lord. I was sitting there and I heard Mr. Magoo ranting to Alpha Male about something and he said finally, “Oh that’s just great. I guess I’ll go home to my wife tonight and say, “Sorry, honey, no sex tonight! I have to study for work!”” And the guys were all chiming in and I busted out laughing. You could see their heads pop out of their cubes as they realized I was sitting right there laughing with them.
Oh and I’m buying a damn space heater. I had on a turtle neck and a sweater and was still shivering today. It’s an ice box. Holy crap. I live in South Florida, not Wisconsin…
I have a question to ask y’all. You can answer in the comments. Do you have a special ring tone for your cell phone for your significant other?
I’m a pretty simple girl. I have the same ring tone for everyone, but mostly keep it on Silence or Vibrate.
My sister had a separate ring tone for me for a long time. It was some tune by Evanescence, but now I don’t know.
I found out today that my work out partner’s husband has some song they started dating to TWENTY FIVE YEARS AGO as his ring tone for her calls. I couldn’t believe it. I know this man. He is NOT a sentimental guy. Not at all! Yet, evidently, he is… and I thought it was cool.
In January I was working our school fundraiser with a bunch of Moms. Every… single… one… of… them, had a separate ring tone for their spouse. Except me.
And the funniest one was… Hail to the Chief! She had her husband set on Hail to the Chief! That cracked me up.
So tell me, do you have a special ring tone for your significant other? I feel so... out of touch!
Army Wife posts HERE on what’s its like to go to T-ball practice with 4 year olds. A don’t miss read, she is a riot.
Today we had Bones’ T-ball game. The coach stands at the T, the kid is standing there bat in hand, the coach leans down and puts the ball on the T.
I was freaking out. I’m sorry, but I don’t want my head to be anywhere near a kid with a bat. Some over zealous kid is going to swing. When that coach bends down to place the ball... he is swing level with that bat. And THEY ALL DO IT! All the adults! I was watching. Anyone up there helping the kids with a bat in their hand, acted like it was no big deal when in reality, it was a total danger zone! Where were these coaches' Mama's?!! Forget the kid's Moms, I want to talk to those coaches' Moms!
I said to a Mom in front of me, “Holy crap. I could not be a coach. I’d need full body armor…” I’m telling you, I suspect a coach or Dad is going to be taken out this season by a bat wielding 4-6 year old. Mark my words. I see it happenin’!
I was over at Army Wife’s this morning and was inspired! Moved! Compelled to write this post!
In case y’all don’t read Army Wife, her Dad is having some heart issues, his doctor is not so swift, and her Dad is not taking it easy. Army Wife, being a nurse as her profession before becoming a full time Mom and Chief of her own personal Insane Asylum (as all we Moms are…), is being driven absolutely nuts by her Dad and this situation.
So then in her comments, Jerry of Back Home Again, trumps her in what Army Wife now calls, Daddy Death Watch Poker, with THIS where his Dad with serious heart problems, and who is blind and deaf, is in a back hoe… burning straw. (I could not qut laughing. Jerry is a riot...)
I can’t trump either of them, but let me tell you, I’d have given them a run for their money if my Granddaddy were still around. It’s been 16 years this past January since The Great Omnipotent One’s Dad passed of heart disease, but that man just did not know he was sick. On his roof, his tractor, hauling things, nothing kept him down, which is a good thing, but sometimes scary.
Like the time he decided to go up in the attic. I can’t remember what he was doing up there, but I remember it required great exertion. He had horrible angina and the man popped nitro like candy. I even called our neighborhood pharmacist about it once, worried that one could OD on nitro.
Anyway, he was a mess and he was up in the attic, I think it was a hot Alabama summer, hauling stuff around, no doubt, and being the gruff man he was, he didn’t do anything in a small way. Bull in the China shop was named Grace in compared to Granddaddy. I remember my folks wondering what in the hell would happen if he had a heart attack up in that hot attic, how would the paramedics get him out? Cut a hole in the ceiling?
Granddaddy would have made GREAT blog fodder. The stuff he did, it cracked us up as it horrified us. It is fitting that TGOO read Dylan Thomas’ Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night, at his funeral.
I may have to do some writing on him. There are so many funny stories. I miss him.
My kids and their homework. Good Grief.
From my 5th grader we had a book report due tomorrow. Luckily, he'd read the book, last month. It wasn't one of those, "Ummm, Mom? Do you have your library card with you today? I have a book report due tomorrow" type days. I nearly stroked on him last time. Perhaps he learned. Or got lucky. I vote for luck.
So I'm sitting here getting ready to blog, having input my posts in a word document and I run across his book report.
No kidding, at the end of the book report it says this:
All of this information’s details are 94% accurate 6 % unavoidable extrapolation.
The only thing that saved it was the last sentence:
I recommend this book because the book catches you and doesn’t let you free.
I hope she has a sense of humor! Unavoidable extrapolation? I wonder if I could have gotten away with that on one of my Mathematics mid-terms. Maybe I'd have had an easier time in theoretical calculus.
And from my 3rd grader we had research to do on beetles. Folks, I'm OK with bugs, but manoman, I really don't like them. I was googling beetles for him and it was making my skin crawl. There are some ugly suckers out there. I mean UGLY.
This one in particular... makes me afraid to visit Texas. Blech!
Oh and there is a really funny post coming about my folks who participated in a school project for my 3rd grader. They have raised the bar in grandparenting. I hope my kids forget so I don't get something like this when I have grandparents, "Mimie and Big Daddy were GREAT. Why don't you do what they do?! You suck!"
Runner up for the funniest thing heard this week comes from blogdaughter VW. She and I were on the phone and I heard her say to youngest son, Tot, who is 2, ‘Don’t put your mouth on the toilet bowl!’
I said, “Oh. No. You didn’t just say that…” as I proceeded to laugh and tell her I might vomit.
She hurriedly said, “It was clean! I just cleaned it…”
And I said, “Oh, no doubt, I just think either way… I might puke… Blech.”
And the Winner of the Funniest Thing I Heard this Week is… my sister, Morrigan.
I got a call from Mo Thursday night. It seems they were having a pot luck at work and she decided to make something in a crock pot. She’d called me the night before asking me questions about this rump roast recipe she had. Not having ever cooked a rump roast in a crock pot before, I was of not much help.
So she did her thing and I got a call from her the morning of as she was driving to work. The following conversation occurred to the best of my recollection:
Mo: I hate crock pot cooking…
Bou: It’s not difficult if you have the right recipe.
Mo: You know my friend said crock pot cooking is the most forgivable, but I don’t see it! *In an exasperated voice* If it’s so forgivable, why do I have HARD MEAT?!
Heh heh heh. You can’t make this stuff up. I couldn’t quit laughing the rest of the conversation. It didn’t matter what she said… everything else was just damn funny.
Flash forward to Saturday morning; I was at my conference. I got a message on my cell voice mail that said, “I fixed it! I put it on high for a couple more hours and it got tender and was really yummy. I thought I’d call because I know you were worried about my hard meat…”
I could NOT quit laughing.
I was at my state conference this weekend and the woman who is the national president of our organization was there. We have a big national convention every July in DC where 10,000 women show up and we do our thing. It’s very cool. I went once to represent my chapter when I was chapter president.
So our Big Cheese is giving us her speech at our meeting and she says we all take special memories away from visiting in Washington at the big meeting and going to our building and our library and the ceremony and all the comes with it. She read snippets of messages that she has received from various members saying things like, “My best memory of our July meeting was going to the archives… they were magnificent!” or “I loved our opening ceremonies with the Marine Corps band and the enormous flag unfurling from the ceiling…”
And I leaned over to my travel partner (I have a woman with whom I’ve traveled for over 6 years… we room together at everything) and whispered, “I think what I remember most about that July meeting was watching the prostitutes from our window…”
At which point my travel partner turned around with a scowl, put a finger to her mouth and said, “Shush!” and then she grinned and whispered back, “Those aren’t the memories she needs to hear about from us…”
But it was true! My friend and I were in DC, and we were staying at this truly beautiful hotel in the heart of the city, on the 4th floor. One night after conference, my friend looked out the window and said, “Bou! Come here!”
I looked down and there were… prostitutes!!! I’d never seen one turn a trick before! Holy crap. So we turned off the light in our room so they couldn’t see us, and we sat there and watched the world’s oldest profession ply their trade. Well, OK, not the act, but they were being picked up by Johns! They were wheeling and dealing! It was FASCINATING!
Skanky. Skanky women. Blech. They were icky. But it was a train wreck we could not quit watching.
And that was my most memorable moment of our July convention in DC. I’m choosing not to share that with the Head Honchos. They wouldn’t be too impressed.
From my brother, Toluca Nole, we have THIS video.
Holy Crap. I feel woefully inadequate to a … juggler. And I’m wondering what the caloric burn is on a performance like that.
It’s a long video, but the drum sequences are GREAT. Juggling and choreography. Who woulda thunk it? This guy is WAY COOL.
It is raining today here in West Palm Beach. I like the rain, it’s a nice break from the hot weather we have here typically. I’d not like living it 24/7 365 days a year, but a couple times a week is good for me, in particular if I don’t have to drive in it, and especially if it isn’t accompanied by 120 MPH winds.
Anyway, so I was thinking, I have cub scout camping next week. My three kids and I on an island… and if it rains. Holy crap. Three boys, me, a tent, on an island, in the rain… I have only one thing to say, “My Own Personal Hell”. That would suck.
I have a conference I’m attending this weekend. I leave Friday morning and return Sunday. I have to speak to the masses, which will go well because I know what its like to be in the audience for these conferences, so I keep it short, sweet, and funny. I have meetings to attend requiring my wearing suits as well as two evening events that have me wearing formal gowns with white gloves.
Yup. I own white gloves. And I have a thing about gloves and always look in antique stores for them. In my organization we still wear hats and gloves and manners are expected. We all carry copies of Roberts Rules and there is great formality.
As odd as it sounds, I know I’ve spoken of how casual I am, but I enjoy the formality of these conferences. I like wearing the white gloves and the proper attire. But mostly, I like the fact that this weekend I will recite The Pledge of Allegiance to the United States of America (we never shorten it and call it ‘the Pledge’), the American’s Creed, and the Preamble no less than three times, probably four or five, a room of 300-500 women reciting it in unison, throughout the event, knowing, understanding and believing in the words.
But what I DON’T like about this weekend is… wondering the week before if my clothes will fit. Blech. Every winter I pack on weight and every spring, summer and fall I work to lose it. This winter was no exception where I went from running 10 miles a week and biking 20 to running 3 and biking… wait… did I even bike this winter? Meanwhile my caloric intake remains the same, or elevated as when I’m stressed I binge, and instead of a caloric deficit, I’m running with a caloric gain. I know it’s happening, but I can never seem to stop it.
This winter I put on more than usual... or maybe I just never lost all of last winter's weight.
And so tonight I went through my suits and formals, not even bothering to pull out those of when I was my thinnest and praying that even those that I tend to wear at my biggest still fit. Next year I shall remember to try them on in the morning and not right after eating such a large meal for dinner!
Oh, and as good fortune would have it, I had Bones to commentate for me as I tried on all my clothes. Such luck.
I found a red suit I adore, quietly praying I bought it at my heaviest, and it fit. Bones reaction while sitting on my bed: Mom. That’s good. It fits.
After putting on a black and white suit I heard, “Mom. I think that fits. Right?”
And while putting on a fuchsia suit I heard a little voice say, “Uhh Mom. That’s not going to fit. Look, you don’t even have it zipped up yet…”
I got it to fit. Twerp.
Luckily he made up for it when I tried on my red formal gown, complete with white gloves and black shawl, and heard him say, “Mom! You look REALLY good in that!”
I’m not sure about the REALLY, but it fit and that’s what I needed.
Upon talking to the woman I always room with and who is also my travel companion, I found I am not the only one who does this. I said, “I have to try on my clothes tonight to see what fits…” and her reply was, “OH I did that last night. I have a ton of stuff I’m not bringing…” Phew!
So I will spend my off time running and biking at the hotel gym, as I am known to do. Everyone else goes on trips and thinks of the food. I check out their gym. And I’m on the road now to shedding the dress size I put on during the winter months.
I have to. I’ll be putting it back on next winter…
Some of us wait MOOOOONTHS to have a blog child. Then again, others like my blogdaughter Rave, have one in less than two months of blogging!
Rave has her first blogchild, her best buddy Hippie. For those who have read Rave, you have read of Hippie and their antics! And now, Hippie has a voice!
Please welcome Hippie at Bohemian Rhapsody. And I'm already wondering what this blog grandchild of mine will be Googled for... I suspect it will top "Boy Pee Jello". Just a suspicion!
I've not posted on the Carnival of the Recipes in awhile. I always forget!
Good Grief. Molten Chocolate Cake, French Vanilla Croissant, Fried Ricotta Puffs? Ack! I could pack on the poundage just reading about them.
Go see. Judge for yourself. Step out of the box and try something new... You may surprise yourself and like it!
I was talking to my Mom about this yesterday when we went shopping. Not only am I going to be one of those little old ladies that is perpetually cold, wearing a sweater when its 90 degrees, but I'm going to be one of those little old ladies that... can... never.... find her car.
How do I know this?
Because I'm a middle aged lady that can never find her vehicle. I cannot imagine this issue is going to get better. I can only hope that by the time I'm a little old lady that they have a GPS they can attach to my key chain that will direct me to my car.
I'm not kidding. It is that bad.
I park in the same exact aisle of my grocery store every time I go and if that aisle is full, there is only one other aisle I will park in. I will walk from the far end of the parking lot, just to be in one of those aisles, as opposed to parking closer in another aisle.
It is not OCD. It is the realization that if I don't, I will walk out of the store, and a momentary wave of panic will set in when I don't see my car in aisle preferences 1 or 2, and then I'll roam, trying to find it.
I hate that. So I park in the same spot every time.
The mall. It's the worst. And this is what I told my Mom this weekend, I swear this to be true.
Every time I go to the mall, I park at SEARS, aisle 1, ground floor... hardly anyone ever parks there. And in the event I cannot park there, I park at Saks, although I NEVER shop there, because nobody parks there. My car in that parking lot is readily apparent.
But God forbid should I be on a time constraint and have to just quickly pick something up from the mall, forcing me to park close to the store, away from my comfort zone. I feel this urge to kiss my car before I venture off, for fear I may never see it again. It could happen!
I will get out and look at the store, the aisle number, the direction my car is parked in, and look for visual cues (not cars, cars leave) such as a red flag on the light post. But the minute I return from shopping, whereas I am fortunate to remember what store parking lot I parked in, that's where it ends.
It is as if someone swiped a magnet across my forehead and wiped my brain clean of any prior data. Gone. All of it. Gone.
I will walk out and recognize nothing. I've yet to have to push the panic button on my key chain, but I know that time is coming. I will stand there, panic, and then let logic slowly set in that I WILL find my car although it will be more through gut instinct.
I need to start carrying a pad of paper with me and write the date and location of my car. It is the next step.
And my boys? Oh they know this is a problem. Why just last month I was at the mall with them, having parked in an unfamiliar location and as we walked out of the mall, I froze. My eldest said, "Mom. You lost the car, didn't you?"
I replied, "Yeah. Wait a minute. I'll figure it out..."
And my second son chimed in, "Oh she did this to me last month! We had to walk up and down the aisles pushing that thing on her keys to listen for that unlock chirp the van makes!"
When they are with me at the mall now, if I do not park in one of my regular spots, I let them tell ME where the car is... It's a TEAM effort to remember!
Today my Mom and I did lunch and went shopping. My Mom is a trip to shop with. It’s even funnier when I go with Mo AND my Mom, but my Mom alone is pretty damn funny.
They just opened a new Nordstrom’s in our area and so we decided to check it out, just browsing.
OK… we went to the lingerie shop because I’m still on the eternal search for the perfect bra and I’m not going to Victoria’s Secret until this weekend. Everywhere I go now that carries lingerie, I check their bras. It’s become somewhat of an obsession I guess.
Anyway, we’re walking through the store and my Mom found this wall of some of the funkiest panties we have ever seen. And just as an example, and the ever so thoughtful me always putting my readers first, I have a link HERE. These are made by a company called Honey Dew and these are Rumba panties.
Folks? Where does one wear panties like this? When they’re going to Rumba in the bedroom? Must be because should one decide to wear these under an article of clothing, the panties would be all bunchy. You’d have bunchy buns.
Yeah. Not happenin’ at the House of Bou. We don’t do Bunchy Bun Panties.
OK, here’s another link, to their site. Tell me, why do they call these boy shorts? I’ve never seen a boy wear shorts like these. Ever. And ladies? Are they comfortable? Maybe I need to convert. But I’m not doing the Bunchy Buns Boy Shorts Panties.
Out of the lingerie department, we invariably ended up in the shoe department… as I continue my quest for the perfect black pump, still ever so elusive from the local department stores.
And while walking through, my Mom sees some shoes called ‘crocs’. They look like THIS. Now you fashion savvy folks are saying, “Oh sure! They’re all the rage!” Or if you’re like my Mom you may even be saying, “Bou. They are really supposed to be comfortable. Faith Hill says so!”
And the following conversation ensued to the best of my recollection:
Me: Faith Hill? She wears these?
Mom: Yup. They’re supposed to be really comfortable.
Me: Mom. They’re PLASTIC shoes.
Mom: I know. Try ‘em on.
Me: Plastic. I don’t do plastic shoes, Mom.
Mom: Here, pick a pair. Oh and pick a pair with color. Stay away from black… *she hands me pink* What size are you?
(Sidenote: My closet is full of black and white clothes. Most of my shoes are black… hence the PINK shoes she picked out!)
Me: An 8.
Mom: Are you sure?! I think an 8 would be too big on you…
Me: No. I’m an 8. I have big feet.
I put them on and she says, “Oh. They do fit…”
Me: Great. OK. Pink plastic shoes. I look like I have platypus feet.
Mom: Men and women can wear these. That’s why the bottom tells you who it will fit in both men’s and women’s sizes.
Me: Mom. I’m thinkin’ I don’t know any men who will wear pink plastic shoes…
Mom: Are they comfortable?! See?! I’m telling you these are GREAT shoes!
Me: Mom. THEY’RE PLASTIC! I’m trying on plastic shoes!!! NO! They are NOT comfortable! They’re plastic!
So I have them on and they’re tagged together so I can’t actually walk in them. She and I are laughing. My feet are a centimeter apart, so I’m acting like a mime and pretending to struggle to walk in these pink plastic platypus shoes. I’m jumping, struggling and then… a salesman, who appears to have been watching and I think was listening to the entire conversation comes over and says, “May I help you?!”
And of course I get that deer in the headlight look as I’ve just been found out making fun of shoes in his store… and I quickly said, ‘No! We’re fine! Thanks!’
So it is safe to say not only does my youngest son not own fuzzy pink flip flops with purple bunnies on the toes, but his Mom also does not own pink plastic platypus shoes…
But it was fun as hell trying them on!
Tony's dead. The Hobbit is Dead. But unfortunately the weasel President and Kim are still alive.
Maybe they can bring that Puma back from Season2 and it can be a two for one. Eat 'em both.
So I'm trying to figure out whose going to die tonight. Curtis? Chloe? Buchanon?
I think this hour is more hohum. I think they're cultivating more characters for next season to kill of...
Yeah, this episode was all about building a new enemy. I suspect we'll see that German guy again.
And that Kate chick could be played by Martha Stewart.
More on the family ceilidh. So I told you what Morrigan did two year’s ago, allowing her to win the coveted 6th Grade Safety Patrol trophy. Essentially, she made fun of herself, which is really easy to do if you know Mo. Funny stuff just happens to her…
… like the time she was a freshman in high school and it was the big parent open house, where the parents come through and the French teacher decided everyone should bring something for the parents to snack on. She was asked to bring a Cheese ball.
She showed up with a can of puffy Cheese Balls instead… resting them right next to the crackers that someone else brought to accompany her ‘Cheese Ball’.
And we have story after story about Mo. To know her is to laugh until you cry.
But last year, she told/reenacted a story that involved us kids and… Mom. She essentially threw my Mom under the bus.
And she informed me today, that throughout the coming years, she will throw all of us under the bus.
I am horrified. As she was telling me this on the phone today, I was doing my horrified laugh. Holy crap. I can tell. As each ceilidh approaches, I’ll be having a frickin’ anxiety attack wondering if this is the year she tells some absurd uber embarrassing story from MY life for all to enjoy. I have to say, I was kind ‘o horrified for Mom this last time, although everyone laughed. I’m dreading my turn as Mo says, “Oh yes. Eventually, I’ll throw the ENTIRE FAMILY under the bus.”
I received a Victoria’s Secret catalogue in the mail today. I just really need to hear that these women have IQs of… oh… say… 60. I want to know that these long lean flat tummied women, couldn’t be a rocket scientist to save their frickin’ lives.
I really need to hear that.
Today was not a banner day at the House of Bou. No. Not at all.
I promised the boys we’d go to the zoo with Mimie and Big Daddy. Our zoo has fountains so the kids could play in the fountain, and that seemed like a good way to expend energy. We packed, talked about what we were taking and all around prepared for the 30 minute trek, that requires me to drive on I-95S, down through some of the busiest traffic we have.
We got to the zoo… and Bones… forgot… his shoes. He goes to get out of the van and I noticed he was playing Shoeless Joe Jackson. I said, “Bones. Where are your shoes?” and he looked at me and said, “I didn’t bring them…”
Who.in.the.hell…goes.to.the.zoo… and.doesn’t.wear.shoes? Bones.
I was so pissed I think I almost burst a blood vessel in my head. I nearly stroked. I should have clutched my heart and said, “I’m comin’, Elizabeth! It’s the big one!”
Instead, I completely freaked out and let forth a string of profanity that would have made very single one of you blush. And my parents stood by and watched.
And I went through the car, looking under the seats as I could not believe that there were NO SHOES IN MY CAR! Not one pair. Surely someone always has an extra pair in my car… but not today. NONE TODAY! And I couldn’t believe it.
I remember when Bones was 4 and he got himself dressed and said he’d put his shoes on in the car. We got to school… and he had no shoes. Luckily we had soccer cleats in the car, so he wore his brother’s soccer cleats to pre school.
But we had nuthin’ today, no soccer cleats, flip flops, baseball cleats, sandals, slippers… nothing. And I was pissed.
So finally I said through clenched teeth, “We will go up there and I will ask him if they have flip flops in their gift store, and if they do, we will go in…”
And the man at the desk assured me they had flip flops and so I paid and we went to the gift store… and… all we could find, Mimie found them, were women’s size 8 or 9 terry cloth bright pink flip flops with purple bunnies on the toes.
I picked them up, thrust them at him and said, “Done. You’ll wear these.”
He stood there staring at me. There was NO WAY in hell he was going to say a word. There seemed to be an aura amongst the boys that they thought Mom was running on the hairy edge and since I’d definitely exhibited signs of mass insanity just minutes before, nobody wanted to be THAT CHILD that finally pushed me over the edge.
They didn’t have his size anywhere, only my size. Finally Son#2 said, “Mom. Please. You can’t make him wear those…”
Now we (TGOO, Mom and I) feel certain that Bones would have worn them up until the point of his 9 year old brother coming in to his defense. Son#2 said again, with a pleading face, “Mom. Listen. It will humiliate him.”
To which I replied, “You do not think for a minute that I care about humiliating him at this point do you?”
And then Bones said, “I’m not wearing those. I’m not.”
So I said, “Fine. We’re going home.” And I think, in what may have been unison from the three boys, I may have heard, “Fine.”
And we left, my getting my refund on the way out.
I didn’t want the trip to be a total bust, so I stopped by the pool, with Son#1 saying, “I don’t want to swim” and my replying somewhere along the lines of “I don’t care” except it was not that nice. For sure.
And when we arrived at the pool, Son#2 wouldn’t swim because Son#1 wouldn’t swim. So Bones stuck his feet in the water and declared it cold and 'by the way can we have ice cream instead'?
We went home.
And it wasn’t until 2 hours later that we realized that Son#2 was never really concerned about Bones’ vast humiliation of wearing women’s fuzzy pink flip flops with purple bunnies on the toes, but rather the vast humiliation HE would suffer having to walk WITH Bones.
So I think that today can be best summed up by:
Zoo, Shoeless Joe Jackson, Psycho Mom, Women’s fuzzy pink bunny flip flops, I-95, heavy traffic, no swimming and… wait… did I say Psycho Mom?
Oh and the bonus was… TGOO and Mom got grandstand viewing to all of this. Yes. They got first class seats to my show. And when we were on the back porch rehashing this, the three of us, I heard Mom sing under her breath, circus/carnival music, I could hear doot doot doodle oodle doot doot doot doot. No need for clowns. There are plenty at my home. You just won’t catch them in women’s fuzzy pink flip flops with purple bunnies on the toes…
Every year my folks have a ceilidh at their home, occurring on the 4th of July. I believe I’ve blogged on it before.
Starting this past year, an award was given for the best performance. The award? The Great Omnipotent One happened to stumble across my trophy for being a Safety Patrol in 6th Grade. Whoever wins the annual ceilidh, wins the award. It will be awarded this 4th of July for last year’s performance. The winner has yet to be announced.
Last year, Morrigan received the coveted award for her previous year’s performance of telling THIS story… in French. She wrote the story in English and then found a translator on the web to convert it and then in her American sometimes Southern dialect, read it to us. You had to be there to understand how funny it was, but let me just say, I laughed so hard, I damn near peed my pants. (If you’ve not read the story I linked, it is classic Mo.)
So at dinner last night, TGOO informs the boys that the ‘awards committee’ has met and decided who this year’s award goes to for best performance last year. The boys were giving him garbage, my 11 year old has his number, and they’re saying things like, “You’re probably the only one on the Awards Committee!”
“No, no, no” he assured them, however in my mind, that just mean Mimie was part of it too.
Anyway, the decision is made as to who gets the much coveted Safety Patrol trophy and we will find out the 4th of July. It won’t be me. I just play the flute.
And so the discussion was brought about the various performances from last year, who did what and Toluca Nole’s performance was mentioned.
Bones enjoyed it as TN wore a towel on his head for hair whenever he played the woman. In case you don’t know, TN is an actor in LA and he can do some great accents. For his ceilidh performance he did the entire scene, taking on all roles, from the Bloody Peasant Scene from Monty Python’s Holy Grail. (In case you don’t remember, go HERE.)
My favorite line is still:
Oh, King, eh, very nice. And how d'you get that, eh? By exploiting the workers! By 'anging on to outdated imperialist dogma which perpetuates the economic and social differences in our society. If there's ever going to be any progress with the--
It was funny watching him do that line.
Anyway, so the boys are talking about that scene and suddenly the three of them decide that for this year’s ceilidh the three of them should in fact act out The Black Knight scene.
Son#1 has decided to be the Black Knight with Son#2 as King Arthur. That leaves Bones without a job at which point I said, “Well, you can clap your hands and be the guy who makes the horse noises.”
Bones said, “Yeah. I could be Patsy.”
He knew the name. He is 6.
The other boys were joining in unison, ‘Yeah! You can be Patsy and make the horse noise!”
To which Bones replies, ‘I don’t want to be Patsy though. He dies when a cow falls on him…”
And we are all at that point laughing… and I’m laughing because of the whole prospect of their doing the Black Knight as their skit in July, but also kind of horrified that my three children seem to have committed so much of this movie to memory, my three children ages 6, 9, and 11.
Then again, perhaps I should be proud...
I noticed that when I mentioned making brownies with Guiness that a certain *ahem* person didn’t say a word. But sure, if I mention making a good orange marmalade basting sauce for a pork loin, using my husband’s Laphroaig, I have men jumping out of the woodwork telling me how you don’t cook with good scotch! Bah!
I received affirmation tonight that when one yells at a child, they hear only the first sentence and then they totally zone out.
Today was house cleaning day for two reasons: 1) it is Saturday and 2) TGOO and Mom were to arrive. As good fortune would have it, my sons also found our video camera and decided they would start making their own home movies. My eldest, being 11, was perfectly adept at working the camera, or so we thought until we watched the video and nearly got sea sick.
So I was doing laundry and changing sheets while the three boys spooled through the house, two of them constantly performing for the camera while my eldest filmed it all. My husband, meanwhile, was in the family room telling the kids what needed to be picked up.
He was being ignored. The younger two had a performance to maintain and my eldest was busy filming his movie.
Son#1 started to film his Dad, keep in mind its like 8:30 AM so the adults in this house are not all bright and cheery, and so my husband says, "So that's what you're going to do? Film me arguing with you all to pick up your crap?"
And this is when it became evident what goes through the head of a child when you're yelling at them.
From far away you can see my husband in the lens of the camera and he's looking at the three of them (all are now paying attention... he has grabbed their attention for sure) and he hits the first sentence of what needs to be picked up and why. Typical parental lecture.
As he hits the 2nd sentence of further detail, slooooowwwwly, ever so slowly, you see the camera zoom into his eye. That's right, on the video we found ourselves looking at a close up of his eyeball.
Son#1 had already tuned him out and since he was holding a video camera, we got to see first hand what mental games he plays after the first sentence.
Kids hear the first sentence, 'I told you to pick up your room!' and after that its like the teacher from Charlie Brown, wah wah wah wah wah wah wah.
Or in the case of a kid holding a video camera you get the first sentence... and then the big eye.
Well TGOO and Mom are on their way here for a short stay. The house is bustling with energy in the preparation of their arrival. The boys are beside themselves… as am I. Sheets and towels have been freshly laundered, boys rooms have been picked up, and grocery shopping completed.
Meals are being planned and favorites have been bought. Mimie’s favorite candy as a child were those orange candy peanuts and Bones remembers. He had me buy some today. Her adult favorite is Peanut M&Ms, so a bowl of both sits on my counter. For Big Daddy? I have 4 pints each of Boddingtons and Guiness chilling in the fridge.
Tomorrow I’ll be taking one of those Guiness and making Army Wife’s Guiness brownies for dessert as we have a big family dinner planned for that night, steak, three cheese mashed potatoes, and a salad. Tonight is crispy chicken, thinly sliced potatoes baked and smothered in butter and parmesan cheese with spring onion here and there, a salad and… strawberry shortcake. I can’t think to Monday yet.
Tomorrow morning we’ll be up early as I got us all tickets for the King Tut exhibit in Lauderdale. I thought for sure they’d be sold out. I cannot wait.
So from now until Thursday, the boys will have Big Daddy to play with and Mimie to snuggle with. This is going to be a most glorious week.
My husband cleaned out the pantry today, organizing it while I was doing laundry. I wonder what he thinks sometimes when he sees so many multiples sitting there.
Usually he doesn’t say anything, but once I heard, “Babe, don’t buy any more wheat thins or Triscuits. OK? We have FIVE BOXES.”
I just got back from shopping and they were having a 2 for 1 sale on Lays chips and Tostitos, both were on my list. How could I resist? So I bought them and they are BIG bags. Family size.
I got home, opened the pantry… and evidently he’d done the same thing a couple days ago. Good Lord, we have 6 humongous bags of chips in our pantry. When you open the pantry door, it practically screams at you, “CHIPS!!!!”
He hasn’t seen it yet…
I’ve not been running but once every couple weeks in the last 3 months. I have seriously packed on the pounds. So I’m working to get them off now, trying to up my running to 3-5 times a week like it was. Good Lord.
This happens every Spring. I get stressed out, have no time, and I eat and don’t run, only to look in the mirror and think, Ack! So I’m back to running again, consistently, cutting back on the bad carbs and sugar, and trying to eat healthy.
I love to eat.
Anyway, REM is still the musical selection when I run and I’ve moved onto enjoying this song as of late, I Don’t Sleep, I Dream, from REM’s Monster CD. Great CD.
I’m looking for an interruption,
Do you believe?
You looking to dig my dreams
Be prepared for anything
You come into my little scene
Hooray hooray hip hip hooray
There’s one thing I can guarantee:
You won’t have to dig, dig too deep
Said leave me to lay, but touch me deep,
I don’t sleep, I dream
I’ll settle for a cup of coffee, but you know what I really need
Are you looking to drive my dreams?
You here to run my screens?
You come, deliver my demons
Hooray hooray hip hip hooray
Are you coming to ease my headache?
Do you give good head?
Am I good in bed?
I don’t know, I guess so
I don’t sleep, I dream
I’ll settle for a cup of coffee, but you know what I really need
I’m looking for an interruption,
Can you believe?
Some medicine for my headache
Hooray hooray hip hip hooray
I’m pitching for a new direction
Pinch me when I wake
Don’t tell me my dreams are fake
You leave me to lay, you touch me deep,
I don’t sleep, I dream
I’ll settle for a cup of coffee, but you know what I really need
Leave me to lay, but touch me deep,
I don’t sleep, I dream
I’ll settle for a cup of coffee, but you know what I really need
Denny at Grouchy Old Cripple has a letter for me. Yet another thing that got me to laughing today. It would appear he is assisting me in my search for The Perfect Bra.
And I’d never thought about what it would be like to work on engineering The Perfect Bra. Good Lord. Do you think they have schematics in their cubes?
An excerpt from Denny: “I can picture hundreds of bra engineers in their cubicles studying breasts and using 3D imaging to craft the perfect bra. I wonder what you have to study in college to get a bra engineering degree? I also wonder if there is any "hands on" training or "hands on" testing? “
I don’t think I’d have the nerve to tell someone I was a ‘bra engineer’ or better yet, a ‘Senior Bra Engineer’… or ‘Director of Bra Engineering’. I'll stick with aerospace and logistics... thank.you.very.much!
I don’t even know if I can get this to come out as funny as it was, but that’s not going to stop me from trying.
My father in law came over for dinner tonight and with him came his best buddy, who I’ll call Vinnie. Now Vinnie is not a big man in stature, but he is stocky and hearty and he has a voice that will boom through a home with a whisper. There is no volume control; everything is LOUD, like in the movies. As babies, my children were all terrified of him. As children, they love this man. He is one of the kindest gentlest men I’ve ever met. I LOVE this man. I LOVE him as if he were family. He is quick with a laugh, and is completely stereotypical Italian.
When in his presence you get the English mixed with Italian phrases to make a point. All Italian food is pronounced with full on Italian accent as he is fluent in three languages, Albanian, Italian, and English. When with him you get the “Mama Mia!” and sudden look to the heavens with ‘From my lips to Gods ears’ as he is telling a story. And from him I got the saying that I am apt to now repeat, “Every home has its cross and it is up to us to carry it.”
When he dies, I will genuinely be heartbroken and nearly inconsolable. I truly love this man.
So today, in heavy Brooklyn/Italian accent he says to me, “So, Bou, what Saint comes from where YOUSE people are from?”
I didn’t know what to say. Did he mean Pensacola?
So I said, “MMmmm. Vinnie. I’m lost. What place?”
And he says, “Yeah, St. Paddy’s he comes from Ireland. What about your place. Who is it?”
Now I realize he means the Scots, but not without a bit of assistance from Pop who is yelling across the room, “Her people aren’t Catholic!”
I reply to Vinnie, “Oh. No. The Scots, we are typically Presbyterian…”
And (this is what I thought was so damn funny) he shakes his head and pats me on the back with great affection and says, “That’s OK, love. It’s OK. You’re still good people.”
Now I’m laughing and Pop has raised an eyebrow and is shaking his head at his friend and Vinnie says, “What?! It’s true! Da Pope says its OK. It’s da same God. It’s OK dear, its OK you’re not Catholic.”
I can’t quit laughing about it. I’m glad it’s OK. Really. Holy crap.
I was tagged by Army Wife Toddler Mom with this Meme.
The Rules, ‘cause I’m a rule following kinda gal…
1. Choose a search engine (e.g. Google), click "Images".
2. Pick 5 random blogfriends.
3. Think of a word or phrase that you feel describes each friend.
4. Do an image search of that word or phrase.
5. Pick an image that makes you say, "Aha! That's it!"
So here you go:
And I know Sissy isn't a guy, but after the post I linked for her, I could not resist!
I had said in an earlier post that when VW posted pictures of her youngest in the big shoes, I’d post the link. It’s HERE.
She has THE SMOOCHIEST kids. And her youngest, he’s at that age where he is just so yummy. He still thinks I’m the crazy lady and tolerates me, but he is just a riot to sit back and watch.
Today Bones didn’t have school on account of Parent/Teacher conferences. I had a list of things for us to do, which I went through sequentially for him, first thing in the morning, our morning plan.
As we were getting in the car he said to me, “Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, so we’re going to go to your doctor’s appointment, get me an icy coffee drink (decaf), get me shoe laces, go to Office Depot, see my teacher… and then get me a toy. Right?”
The get ‘me the toy’ part was not on my original list… It was nice how he just threw that in there.
I was at the school paying bills today and Bones was with me. The school nurse is a buddy of mine and she said, “So, Bones, what did y’all do today?” and he said, “We went to Office Depot and bought staples.”
Then he looked at me with a raised eyebrow like he knew something was not quite right.
I looked back at him and said, “Mmmm, buddy, we went to Staples and bought office supplies…”
Bones said, “Oh yeah. That’s right.”
Yeah. Living with a six year old is like living in the land of almost perfect…
Monday night, I experienced another distinct pleasure. I met my blog granddaughter Sticks of Chaos and Serendipity. She was passing through, so she stopped at VW’s home and I met them there. (Sticks' write up on her visit is HERE.)
Folks, she is a riot. We all laughed and had the best time. I was wistful for a girl’s night, the three of us, just kicking back, hanging out, eating dinner and laughing. We would have a blast. I'm putting it on my list of things I MUST do one day. Girls night out with VW and Sticks.
All three of us… only have boys. We are boy Moms and for those who do not know, mothers of ONLY boys, have an odd bond. It is true. We will quietly pull each other aside and compare notes… stories that make us laugh with each other… and cry at the horror of it all. Mostly though, we are women with permanent little Armies on our side. My boys have already shown… nobody messes with their Mom.
What is funny is VW’s boys are toddlers, mine are school age, and Sticks are teenagers. So we have all three phases and it is a lot of fun to talk about things from our past and of the future.
And at the end as we were walking out, Sticks said, “We have three generations here!” At first I was lost, as I was looking at VW’s boy Tot, but then it sunk in… BlogMama, Blogdaughter, and BlogGrandaughter. It was a blast and a must do again. For sure.
Oh wait. I vomit blog all the time. I have three kids. BUT!!!, I’ve never blogged on MY vomiting on someone. Heh.
Over at The Straight White Guy’s he had THIS vomit blog post. And although my experience of hurling on someone is not near as cool/life threatening/interesting as his, I figured it was still worth a blog post.
My husband and I received Scuba Diving lessons as a wedding gift from the guys I worked with. During one of our certification dives, it was one of those hot choppy days on the intercoastal. Here we are sitting on the back of the boat, bouncing up and down on the 3- 6 foot waves, sun beating down on us, the air thick with humidity, and the stench of diesel fuel permeating every inhalation. It was Puke Fest waiting to happen.
There were about 15 of us that day, including our Dive Master and Dive Instructor, both hardy men who had cast iron stomachs.
As the day wore on, I could feel myself getting nauseous. The meds I’d taken before hand were doing nothing to prevent it… it was just a bad day. My husband, who grew up on boats and never gets sick, was even a bit pasty. I remember saying to him, “I work with half these people! I don’t want to vomit in front of them!”
But after awhile, you feel so crappy, you just really don’t give a flip who you puke in front of. You just do it.
And so I threw up more than anyone else and I was fine with it. Every five minutes, I’d hurl over the side of the boat. The Dive Master was a buddy of mine, actually a guy I work with now and we still laugh about this entire Puke Fest episode, as it is truly called. As soon as you get under water, your stomach is fine, I just needed to get in the water, but I could barely get my tank on as my abs were so sore from having thrown up so much by the time it was time for us to dive.
Finally, everyone was lined up, and our DM said, “Is everyone ready to dive, but Bou?!” One last puke and I was in line with everyone else. And I’m telling you as soon as I heard the words, “Dive! Dive! Dive!” I was fine.
They had a helluva time convincing me I had to get back on that boat. I was content to stay under at 60 feet for the rest of the day if it weren’t for that whole pesky oxygen issue.
We were on our way back and now everyone was sick. Before it had been 50% of us, but on the way back, the air just seemed that much more stale and humid… no breeze, hot, the stench of the diesel was that much worse and all but one guy who lived on a house boat were chumming the water, even our dive master and instructor.
And that’s when it happened. I didn’t know her. I wouldn’t know her face. But I know… she was blonde and wore a blue bathing suit, and as I went to lean over the railing to empty my stomach once again, surprised there was any content left, this blonde haired green gilled girl, kind of got in my way. It was like we were two tiered hurling over the edge and I… threw up IN HER HAIR.
Keep in mind, there wasn’t a lot left. I was barfing water at this point, but still… I threw up in her hair. And I never told her. I mean, what was I going to say, “Oh excuse me, your head got in the way and I hurled in your hair?”
I left it alone.
And that’s the only time I threw up on someone. Diving. Blech.
I had my move at work today. It was fine. I told the guys at work that they would know I’d arrived when there was a jar of peanut butter on my desk. The peanut butter arrived today. My belongings followed shortly thereafter.
The move itself didn’t put me in a raw mood. I had an incident with an engineer I work with at Company X.
I’d put some data together that needed to be reviewed. I sent it to the entire team. I got a note back from this one engineer who is a Tech Lead and his comment was rather rude. Not one to take crap from anyone, I took exception to what he said in his comment… the direction he took with it. I never heard another word.
He e-mailed MY tech lead and told him he’d erred in something he had sent me and that he owed me an apology. I saw the e-mail; my tech lead showed it to me. He was humble in the note to HIM. He never once sent me a note apologizing. Never.
And even though my tech lead was laughing that he’d never seen this guy humbled like I’d humbled him, the guy still never apologized to me. And that pisses me off.
And of course it put me in a mood the rest of the day. I ended up immersing myself in work, trying not to socialize with anyone, hiding in my cube, as I was in a piss poor mood. No need to spread the love... those around me didn't do anything to deserve it.
That’s not going to be so easy sitting at a table. One can hide in a cube. I can’t hide at a table in the middle of the room. That’s gonna kinda suck.
I occasionally buy too many of the same thing. Just as I can spend too much time looking for a can of tomato paste I KNOW is in there somewhere, there are equal numbers of times I walk in my pantry and I find 5 bottles of stir fry oil or 3 full size jars of spaghetti sauce or 50 packets of popcorn.
Every morning I eat what my Mom truly thinks is the most awful breakfast, Kashi For Good Friends, which amounts to eating sticks with cardboard shredded into it. Over the years I’ve modified and added a bit of high fiber cinnamon cereal to it and as of late, I add raisins. It’s a high fiber, high protein, almost no fat breakfast. And yes, I truly like my breakfast.
So this morning I got the kids ready for school and as I rummaged through my pantry getting my sticks and cardboard cereal, I looked for my raisins and couldn’t find them. I looked to the top shelf and there was a second container I had forgotten about. I don’t question why I have two of something like raisins anymore, because sometimes… things just seem to multiply in my pantry. Or disappear. Either or.
I opened the container of raisins and they seemed… sparkly. Wha??! I took them under the light and sure enough, my raisins SHIMMERED. What in the heck?
And then I remembered… Christmas. My kids made special reindeer food… raisins, oatmeal and glitter. Supposedly the glitter makes them fly faster. I remember telling them that with the oatmeal and raisins, all that damn fiber, that the reindeer were going to have gas and they’d be farting glitter all over Santa. That of course spurred more glitter in the reindeer food…
…which means someone evidently had the great idea of just adding glitter to my raisins.
I didn’t eat them. Certain things do not need to be shimmery, that includes my morning breakfast and… well… I didn’t need to see glitter tomorrow either! *ahem*
One of the boys from my CubScouts is moving. His Mom is taking him to New Hampshire. (On a side note, Bones keeps asking me why this boy has to leave the school to get a New Hamster. My boys got to stay at their school and they had three new hamsters.)
I’m bummed as this is my favorite Mom. She’s super cool, very grounded, has a dry wit, and drives a Harley. Which brings me to today, after Cub Scouts, she picked up her son and got him in his helmet and put him on the back of the bike and off they rode.
We passed them on the highway and Bones said, “Look at that! He is SO LUCKY! His Mom drives a motorcycle!”
Yes. He did. And replied, “Would you want me to drive a motorcycle?”
And he said, “YEAH! I’d LOVE it. You get that cool breeze. But then, if you keep your mouth open, you get bugs in it. That would be icky, but I’d like you to drive a motorcycle.”
Son#2 is in the first year of kid pitch baseball. He’s a small guy and has gotten hit by the ball while up at bat more times than I care to remember. The first game he got hit and when he got in the car to go home he said to my husband, “I didn’t know they’d HIT ME!”
And that started us down this slippery slope of… being afraid to bat.
The last incident was last week. He took a hit on the hand. We thought it was broken. He was the 2nd kid to bat, bottom of the 1st inning, and the hit was hard enough that someone took the bases for him in his place. He played outfield once that game, but refused to bat after that. Luckily his hand wasn’t broken, but something in his psyche was a bit chipped.
The games following, the pitcher would throw the ball and he’d jump back two feet. He was freaked. I figured this is something he’ll outgrow. Every kid is afraid of the ball eventually and I don’t see a bunch of men playing softball, jumping back 2 feet every time a ball starts to come over home plate.
Tonight I was sitting in the bleachers with Bones on my lap when I heard a Dad say to his wife, “That little guy is Son#2. His brother is Son#1. Son#2 is afraid he’ll get hit with the ball now. When he goes up to bat, he jumps way out of the way….”
Now I wasn’t upset at all they were talking about it, it’s a fact, but I didn’t want them to be embarrassed either, so I chimed in and said, “Yeah. Since he took that hit in the hand, he is afraid. We’re working through it, but that one really set him back.” So we discussed what my husband has been doing to get him beyond his fear. (Lots of batting practice at the batting cages…)
About 15 minutes later, some other parents came up behind us (my husband had since arrived) and started talking about how their kids are so afraid to bat. Evidently one child took a hit and refuses to bat anymore. This entire game, once again, they could not get him in that batter’s box. Another kid is so gun shy, he won’t even swing. It seems last game he watched five of their players take hits, one after another, and he doesn’t want any part of that.
So this appears to be common. Evidently the kids come out of coach pitch, into kid pitch, and have a new fear of getting tagged. It hurts. I don’t blame them. But I still think that over time Son#2 will outgrow the fear. I just think he will.
I attended an event last night, where the vast majority of women seemed to have had breast implants... obvious breast implants. They were either too round for their age or BIG. Big. Big. Wait. Did I say big? Yes. Big.
Train wreck, I could not quit staring, big.
And they stuck straight out. Perky as perky gets.
No, I was not a strip joint, which makes it even funnier, considering the event I was attending.
Anyway, as I watched woman after woman walk by, chest out, two things ran through my mind:
1) You'll poke your eye out! You'll poke your eye out!
2) If the room had been flooded, most of the women in that room would have survived due to their own personal floatation devices. They would have been able to float chest up until help arrived.
Then again... if the composition of a breast implant is heavier than water, perhaps they would have sunk to the bottom like rocks. I'll never know...
So I caught the last part of 24, having destressed some. Mo has been calling me and keeping me updated, per our 3 year Monday ritual.
She calls me and says, "Hey! Do you know whose playing Kim's psychologist boyfriend?" And I reply... Nooooo. So she says, "Timothy Hutton."
Now, folks, I know who Timothy Hutton is. The man is but 5 years older than I. So I said, "Are you sure?! I don't recall that..."
Oh she was insistent, so I got up from my school treasurey books and turned on the TV so I could see Timothy Hutton.
And what I saw looked NOTHING like Timonthy Hutton.
I called her back and said, "MO. That is NOT Timothy Hutton."
Do you think she would acquiesce? No. She was adamament. The only thing we agreed to was that Peter Weller was playing the Bad Guy.
Suddenly shes says, "He played in the Outsiders..." to which I said, "Timonthy Hutton did NOT play in the Outsiders" and upon googling it, we saw that psychologist dorkman was played by... C. Thomas Howell.
She seems to think it was a mistake anyone would make.
No. This is a mistake only TGOO would make. Sheesh!
Ack! No blogging 24. I don't even know if I have time to watch it.
I know Rachel of Pereiraville live blogs... she's HERE!
The rat we thought we had, but didn’t, came back. My spouse realized it on Saturday. I wasn’t happy.
So he set two traps, the regular rat trap and the Have a Heart trap we use when our hamsters get loose. And on Sunday morning, the rat trap was sprung, but there was no rat, although the cheese was taken, but there was a rat in the Have a Heart trap.
The boys went nuts and the following conversation ensued to the best of my recollection:
Son#1: Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom. Dad caught a rat!!! (*I’m thinking he means the rat trap tripped and we have a dead rat in the garage.*)
All the kids run out.
Bones: Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom! Dad caught him. He’s running in that little cage. He looks like a hamster, but black. (*I'm horrified now at the realization that its alive, in... my... garage...*)
Son#2: Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom! Do you want to see? He doesn’t look like the others. He’s smaller.
Bones: He looks like a hamster. Can we keep him?
Phht. I was horrified. Can we keep him? Can I poke my eye out with a pencil? Good Lord. Blech.
But then I started to laugh. I’m not the good wife. I was laughing at my husband’s new predicament.
See, if it had been killed, he would have just dumped the carcass as he has done in the past. But now… he had a LIVE one. What in the hell was he going to do with it now? We live in a neighborhood. There would be no target practice with his 9mm. He had a live rat, that my boys were associating with a black hamster, in a trap.
I stayed away. I’ve become somewhat of a phobe and there was no way in hell I could see it, let alone contend with it. I'd have crawled out of my skin.
And where was he going to let it go? We needed far far away from our home. So I said to him, “Is there anyone in our neighborhood we hate? We can let it out in their yard…”
Alas, we get along with everyone in our neighborhood. There would be no releasing of the rat as an act of vengeance. Well, there wouldn’t have been anyway, as my spouse seemed completely horrified at my idea or that I had even COME UP with the idea. No biggy. All four of them think I’m a whack anyway.
So he put the rat in the back of his truck and took it with him when he and the boys were going to play baseball and released it near some dumpsters where the rat will probably live happily ever after, dying of heart disease from massive food consumption.
Luckily at the end, Bones saw that it really wasn’t like a hamster and let off wanting to keep it, according to my husband, but according to my first son, Bones and Son#2 were still very open to the idea. Blech.
Within the last year or two, I’ve noticed something in my area that has been extraordinarily disturbing... crazy motorcyclists. Typically the folks I see riding bikes are pretty careful as they have to be. There isn’t a whole helluva lot o’ protection on a bike and they appear to drive defensively, always watching out for the whacked out driver we have down here in Palm Beach County and with good reason. I know every city claims their drivers are the worst and I’m here to say, our drivers may not be the worst, but they’re definitely in the top 10.
Our roads are a menace. Traffic accidents are a given. Unless it’s a massive accident shutting down the interstate for 15 hours due to a chemical spill, they don’t even warrant front page coverage of our local newspaper. They can’t. If every traffic fatality in our enormous county garnered first page coverage, then I’m telling you, that is ALL our paper would cover.
It is that bad.
I’ve now had three different people, who do not know each other, tell me they believe the traffic in Palm Beach County is worse than Miami and Miami driving scares the hell out of me.
So back to the crazy bikers.
I want to say it was two years ago, I was driving down a major 4 lane road, one I live off of, and I saw two guys on bikes, popping wheelies and racing each other. Never in my life had I seen motorcyclists do this. Not that there was doubt it could be done, but I’d just never seen the carelessness. This four lane road has a speed limit of 55 and can be pretty congested.
Let me also say that not one of these bikers ever drives a Harley. Every single one is driving some sort of Japanese bike.
I have seen this over and over, this careless driving and it’s to the point that when I see one and it doesn’t have a Harley sound, I back way off my gas pedal trying to stay away.
I don’t want to accidentally kill one. That’s what runs through my head. As I see them darting in and out of traffic, as I watch them doing crazy stunts on major roads, I think to myself, “If he ate it right now, if he got mangled in front of me, I would be scarred for life.” And I would. I picture decapitation, limbs being ripped off, and blood spattered on the pavement and the thought of my having to witness, or have my vehicle involved in ANY way, scares the ever living stew out of me.
Two nights ago, my husband and I were on our way home from an event we attended. We were outside our neighborhood and it was very very late and very very dark. From a distance, we saw a tiny speck of light. But we could hear. We could hear the wind up of the Japanese motor on what sounded like a bike, but APPEARED to be far far away. We know how 55 is on our road. With where the tiny speck of light was located, and knowing how much time it takes to cross the median, and how 55 ‘looks’, we could have made it with plenty of time, but the sound of the engine spooling up, had my husband hold back. It’s a good thing because we think he may have been doing 90. He was on us within seconds. It would have been ugly.
And that brings me to the fact that there actually was a fatality on that major 4 lane road on Friday. A crazy biker, 18 years old, ran into the side of a white utility van, and died. I think he may have died at the scene.
18 years old. I read the little blurb in our traffic section, looking for it as the accident shut down that 4 lane road for 3 hours. The kid lived where all the crazy biker people seem to come from. They all head to and from one particular area.
I know his family his grieving terribly. 18 years old. And I think this event changed nothing, because the little speck of light going 90 mph incident happened AFTER his death.
They scare the hell out of me. I’m telling you, if I witness one of these crazy bikers weaving in and out, popping a wheelie and then ending up in a horrific accident, it is going to take all I have to call 911. Instead I’ll be tempted to scream at him at the top of my lungs, “You sorry SOB! Look what you have done!” I will be so very tempted.
Two days ago, not only was it my one year as munuvian, but it was blog sistah soul sistah Tammi’s two year anniversary blogging.
Army Wife Toddler Mom was posting her favorite posts all week in honor of her own blogiversary and Tammi did the same HERE. The Corn post still makes me laugh. "Corn, corn, corn, corn, corn. I am one with the corn." … holy crap was that funny stuff!
AWTM’s? My all time favorite post of hers was HERE. The funeral story. And if you haven’t read it, it is a MUST read. It’s so damn funny, it’s been discussed at our family functions… as in, my real family, Mo, TN, TGOO and Mom. Its probably one of the funniest stories I’ve ever read in my life. Good stuff.
And per request from AWTM, I give you her favorite post of mine, the pizza puke post… HERE.
I had a visitor last night! That1Guy was in South Florida, so he stopped by. Of course it was only 4 hours out of his way… I had to laugh!
He got here last night at 9:30 and spent the night. Unfortunately he had to be up early to leave. Not wanting VW to miss the chance to see him, I had her and her little men over for breakfast.
It was such a pleasure to have him in my home. I told him at one point I don’t think there has ever been such a big person here! I was walking behind him as I went out to help him get his things, and the man takes up an entire doorway. It cracks me up! We’re small people. He had a pair of boots in his car and its one of the things I picked up to carry. I was laughing and put his boots down to compare the size of my foot to his. He has no clue how close I was to taking my shoes off and putting on his boots and walking in the house the rest of the way.
I’ve known T1G now for about 2 years. We’ve talked on the phone a few times, e-mailed more, and read each others blogs faithfully, as we’re both blog children of both Grau AND Harvey... we're 100% blog siblings! I just feel like I know him and with that comes a comfort. And I knew I felt comfortable with him, when I woke up this morning to start breakfast, and wearing what I wear to bed which is one of my Grandaddy’s flannel shirts, I pulled on a pair of jeans, ran a rake through my hair, and brushed my teeth. That’s it. Barefoot, jeans, flannel shirt, raked hair, that was me all morning and it never fazed me. It just made me laugh at how this is actually only the 2nd time I’ve seen him, yet I feel comfortable enough to totally be me. That says a lot… T1G is a GREAT guy. (It's a given with VW, I've known her for TWENTY years.)
Unfortunately my boys are not big morning people, so he wasn’t able to get the full effect of The Boys III, as I call them. They were pretty mellow, hanging on the couch, content to watch Sponge Bob until breakfast was served.
VWs boys were their usual smoochy selves. I have a picture for her to post on Tot after I download. I’ll post a link when she’s got it up.
And of course, I had too much food at breakfast. My big stress was cooking the breakfast sausage as I’d never cooked it before. VW had to talk me through it. I think we went through 16 eggs, a brick of cheddar cheese, half a loaf of bread, 1 ½ packages of link sausage, 12 blueberry muffins, and a bit of fruit.
So as he left, I did the whole food pushing thing, trying to make sure he wouldn’t have to stop on his travels during the remainder of the DrunkenWisdom Tour of the SE United States… or at least for today. I sent him off with muffins and fruit and as he’s leaving I’m rummaging through my pantry saying, “Wait! Will you eat oreos? How about cheez its?!”
It was good to see him again. T1G is good people… and he’s always welcome in my home.
My husband and I had a dinner party to attend tonight. We sat at a table of people whose acquaintance we had not made before, but we’re flexible, got to know them, and really had a WONDERFUL time.
But something odd occurred.
There was a live band and with this band came two tall thin, raven haired dancers. The first half of the dinner, they were dressed in long black pants with fringy halter tops. They were curvy women, professional dancers, but not those stick thin types. Let’s think Solid Gold Dancer type. Curvy and they could move. They had the men’s attention, I feel certain. These women were smokin’ sexy.
So my husband is speaking to this tall elegant blonde woman sitting at our table and I hear, “But she could pull it off. Your wife could do that, no doubt. She’s the only one in this room that could do it.”
Now I’m wondering… what?
I looked over and she said, “Those Go Go Dancers. You could do that. You’d fit right in.”
Now I look back at these tall, thin, curvy, exotic women and I look down at my 5’2” self, my small oak tree shapeless frame wearing a simple black velvet cocktail dress with my simple black velvet wrap, wearing my hair down as my husband likes it, but slightly pulled off my face, and I’m not seeing it. Not at all. I dress very conservatively and I come across that way.
I looked back at her and said, “I don’t look like that. I don’t move like that. I’ve NEVER looked like that…” and she said, “It’s all self perception. You could do that and fit right in. You just don’t see yourself that way.”
OK, I’m going to give her the benefit of admitting that few of us really perceive ourselves the way the rest of the world does, but I’m here to tell you folks, it has nothing to do with self perception. I don’t look ANYTHING like those raven haired exotic women they had on the dance floor. NOTHING.
And so I spent a good portion of the night, and am obviously still doing so, trying to figure out what in the hell she was keying off of. I’m so not seeing it. The only thing I can think of is that I have dark hair and was 20 years younger than just about everyone in attendance. I don't think those attributes put me on a list of potential Go Go Dancers, though. I really don't.
And I'm telling you now, Mo is laughing at the thought!
Thank you to everyone who has sent informative e-mail and to Denny with the NICE Bod (ladies, the man has a seriously nice upper body) who also provided links, Friday night, History Channel, 8PM, The History of Boudicca. And if you are wondering why I picked Boudicca for my blog, go HERE. So tomorrow night at 8... after T-ball, I shall be here watching The History Channel!
Where in the heck am I going to keep my big jar of Jiff now that I don’t have a desk at work? Hmm. I think they’re giving me a small filing cabinet, to share. I guess it will go there… I hope my desk partner doesn’t mind when she opens the filing cabinet to find a monster container of Jiff and a spoon. I’m a peanut butter addict. I came by it naturally via TGOO.
I’ve been a munuvian for a year as of today. I guess I should go ahead and download my old blogger posts over here… I’ve not done that yet.
I hit 80,000 hits yesterday here at my new site. If you include my old site, I’m well over 100,000. Of course most are not readers, rather searching Google for things like “Bacon Candle” or “Boy Pee Jello”.
Summer is coming. Three more months until hurricane season. I read in my blogdaughter's post HERE that’s its tornado season now. Holy crap. That would scare the stew out of me. Tornados terrify me. And for any of you ‘cane country folks who agree with me that tornados are really really scary, feel free to tell her in her comments as she thinks hurricanes are scarier!
End of March I’m taking the boys camping… on an island… with our Cub Scout Pack. Just me and my three boys. It’s more primitive than before… the last site had running water and electricity at every site. This one has a grill, BYOC (Bring your own Charcoal). Great. I’m already starting to reverberate at the thought. I’m not sure what makes me more nervous, packing the four of us, meal planning, getting us to the island (boat only), or pitching camp with three boys, including setting up that 8 man tent. For some reason I can’t get excited about it… I keep thinking, "Blog fodder. My life is blog fodder..."
I took this personality DNA test today, found at two blogdaughter’s blogs. It’s a 10 page quiz, and kind of fun to take. I’ve not taken one like it before. Ranking things, filling buckets, moving meters… very cool.
And my result were pretty accurate, actually reading it, spot on in many many places.HERE, it’s more detailed, with written analysis.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, it nailed it and as much as I like to pan off on my blog that I’m a behind the scenes kind ‘o gal, I just quietly do my thing, in reality, I do fall into this faithful leader category and it pisses me off.
I don’t want to lead anymore. I’m done with it. I don’t want to lead anyone anywhere. I don’t want to run anything. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone. I don’t want to make decisions for groups. I don’t want to initiate anything. I don’t want to take charge. I don’t want to pick up the pieces and put them back together. And I ESPECIALLY don’t want to lead all the King’s horses and all the King’s men into a hopeless situation that I’m looked to, to fix. I don’t want to.
Maybe it’s my age. Maybe it’s where I am in my life. I don’t know. All I know is… I’m done. Quite frankly, I’m world weary.
So while it was right in the category, it doesn’t mean I have to like it. Bah. Leading sucks.
My blogdaughter, Rave, wrote her epitaph the other day on her blog, HERE, and it reminded me of what I want on my tombstone.
I need to win the lottery. My family is really into genealogy, so I think of tombstones as markers for history’s sake. A long time ago I decided I wanted the following on my tombstone, and I think it would be costly.
All names would be full, including maiden and middle names.
Here lies Boudicca
Daughter of The Great Omnipotent One, birthdate, and Mom (her full name including her maiden), birthdate
Sister of Toluca Nole birthdate and Morrigan birthdate
Wife of Better Half birthdate
Mother of Son#1 birthdate
and Bones birthdate
Born on 8 Sept 1965 in Oahu, HI
Died on (this is blank for now and hopefully a long long time)
I think someone doing research in the family would know exactly where I fit with a tombstone like that. Exactly.
It’s the people that make the work. It’s not the job. It’s the people. I have always known this and even though I’m not some big social person, flitting around people’s cubes, I do like working with good people and good people can make the most unbearable day, totally tolerable.
So imagine my dismay when I arrived at work yesterday to find that they needed my cube and that of the woman’s with whom I job share, to give to a group of new hires that are full time employees… and I would be relegated to some corner on another floor with a bunch of people I don’t know.
Let me add, however, that I completely understood the decision. It was the logical and correct decision to make. When my boss informed me yesterday of Senior Management’s decision, I told him I understood. We have run out of space in our office building and contracts just keep coming in. We’re hiring like crazy and I work 15 hours. Someone working 40 hours NEEDS my space on my floor. I understand.
But I’m not a robot and there is some emotion involved with me at the thought of having to trudge to work to some desk in the corner of some room filled with people that I not only don’t know, but DON’T WANT to know. I know, that sounds cold, but it is the truth. I don’t want to get to know them.
And I was honest about that with my Tech Lead, who was horrified I was about to be split from all of them. But obviously he was not as horrified as my boss, unbeknownst to me….
I figured it was a done deal this morning when I went in. I walk into my boss and tech lead’s office and there is my boss with a measuring tape, measuring furniture and space, drawing it all out to scale on grid paper (I work with engineers), and talking of moving printers and file cabinets.
It would seem that my lead and my boss got together and decided that they couldn’t get me a cube in their office, but they could fit a table and a computer.
Folks, I worked in a bull pen for 10 years. It was a huge room that sat 200 engineers, desk after desk. Cubes are a false sense of privacy. Working at a table is fine with me.
So they brought in this table that looked like a buffet table, big, clunky, brown, foldable legs, and immediately when the solution was thought of, men… my coworkers… were moving bookshelves and file cabinets and setting it up for me. And I’ll be cosharing it with my job share partner as we work different days.
They arranged it that we don’t have to go work in that hole, in 2 weeks. I was beside myself, over the top, elated and appreciative.
And as I walked back to my cube, my boss noticed that one of the managers had this NICE table in his oversized cube and he said, “Hey, Dennis, do you mind if we swap out that conference table for the picnic/buffet table we have?” And… Dennis said, “No. Go ahead.”
Holy crap. No territorial issues, no nothing. And before I got back to my cube, I no sooner turned around, then the guys in my group had instantly moved that buffet table into the Manager’s office and the nice table where I am to sit.
I was ecstatic. I hugged my boss and thanked him so much for everything he did for me today. The guys in the office were laughing saying they could not believe how little made me happy. (I am very low maintenance in general.) I told them I was considering the alternative. *shudder* I’m very happy.
I only have two concerns… this is the office I’ve spoken of that they keep as an ice box. I have to get a space heater.
But the biggest concern I have is for them. I’m wondering how they’re going to do with a constant dose of estrogen in their office, in such close proximity. It’s been the testosterone zone for so long…
Blog fodder… this could be blog fodder!
And NOBODY in this world, works with a better group of people than I. They're the best.
It's been one year since I started to read her... yet I feel like she's always been there, for as long as I've been reading blogs.
It's been one year since she opened herself up to show us what was in her heart and in her mind.
It's been one year... since he came home and I felt privileged to gather a glimpse of the emotion and the love and the brutal honesty of what she experienced.
One year. I love all the bloggers, but, folks, she's one of my favorites and it was posts like THIS one that did it for me. I was hooked. I cried when I read it the first time. I cried when I read it again. And for those who do not know me... I do not cry.
It wasn't just a glimpse into her, but when I read it, I thought of my Mom with TGOO in 'nam, pregnant with my brother and me around her feet at 18 months old.
I thought of my Mom and what it must've been like when TGOO came home from all those deployments. To we, the children, it was banners made, and proud smiles as we saw him on the deck of the carrier or coming off the flightline from his plane. DAD WAS HOME!!! But for Mom... it was so much more.
If you've never read Army Wife Toddler Mom, you have missed out on one of the true pleasures in life. And to know her is to know, she is absolutely as funny as her a blog, probably the funniest woman I've ever met... with the exception of my sister, Mo, a good soul, a beautiful mother, wife and friend.
Happy Blogiversary, AWTM. We are all better for having you amongst us.
Bones had his first Tball game today. I think it may very well have been the funniest damn thing I have ever watched in my life.
If you have a niece, nephew, grandchild, or friend's child that plays t-ball, you MUST get their schedule and watch a game. If it does not put a spring in your step and a smile on your face, there is something seriously wrong with you.
From the beginning Bones has said to me, "Mom, why are there so many little kids on my team?" I've laughed... Bones who thinks he's so big. But in reality, he moves like a bigger kid and for once in his life, he seems more mature than everyone else.
The cut off for t-ball is 1 April... and Bones is 7 in June, which puts him in t-ball. T-ball is for 5 and 6 year olds. So he has kids on his team, that are still 4 and will not be 5 until 1 April. Here he is in 1st grade and he has kids that are in pre-K 4.
They are SO LITTLE! They are TINY PEOPLE!!! Here is Bones strutting on the field and next to him is this little guy who I don't even think has his real hair yet. I think the little guy still has toddler fluff and it pokes out from under his ball cap! It's the craziest thing I've ever seen... these little tiny dudes and... Bones.
Whereas in school Bones' birthday is a hindrance, on the athletic field, his June birthday is a distinct advantage.
So today was the first game and it was a riot watching the little helmets run around the field.
This is a picture of Bones batting. Bones is short for Boney Buns. Bones has no backside and I nicknamed him this when he was a toddler and I realized he was this skinny little guy with no buns.
This is Bones on 2nd base... as in PLAYING 2nd base. A kid is at bat, whacking the ball... and Bones is tying his shoe. Note the glove on the ground. At least he's watching.
And lastly, evidently we have that ear thing going on here too.
This show has become a frickin' time sponge...
I hope the 1st Lady finally slits her husband's throat in this episode.
Sometimes I think 24 takes its action scenes from that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail and the Black Knight. "It's just a flesh wound!" Didn't Tony have surgery? Wasn't he ... like... really hurt? Holy crap. Now it looks like they were mere flesh wounds.
Holy crap. I knew Jack too well. I knew he'd shoot the wife.
The Hobbit is fried. He's toast.
**Yuck. I hate how this ended.*
Holy Crap. I think Army Wife Toddler Mom belongs in my family. She'd get along GREAT with my Mom and Dad and brother... we already know she gets along with Morrigan.
THIS is funny. I can't quit laughing... she would oh so fit in.
And for our Easter Baskets this year, I'm thinking Rockets. A guy I work with was telling me about some great rockets I can launch in my backyard. We will go light on the candy... I'm thinking Rockets.
I decided this week that peach cobbler and blueberry cobbler are perfectly acceptable for breakfast. They have fruit in them, therefore they are OK.
The boys had their first baseball game yesterday. They LOVE baseball and I am quickly becoming a fan of the kids’ sport. Pro ball will never win me over.
I didn’t have my glasses on and I am nearsighted. All the kids look the same on the field now, all in black shirts, gray pants and baseball caps, holding about the same stance.
First play of the game, our pitcher throws it, the kid batting cracks it towards the short stop, falling 5 feet short of him, at which point the short stop, deftly catches it on the first bounce and throws it to 1st with a dead on accurate throw, nailing the 1st baseman’s glove, getting the batter out.
I looked at someone with me and said, “Holy crap! What a great first play of the game! Did you see that?! And that short stop! He did a GREAT job!”
My friend looked at me and said, “Ummm, Bou, that was your son!”
I couldn’t believe it. Short stop was being played by Son#1! I couldn’t believe it was my boys out there. They looked so comfortable and happy!
They were losing 0-6 and then came from behind and won 7-6.
Something that made me laugh… our last name has 10 letters in it. When I got married I didn’t want to change my last name. I was pretty well established in my career and I liked my maiden name. Hyphenating was not an option as with the hyphen, my name would have had 17 letters. But I changed it as it was important to him and now I have this weird ass last name with 10 letters and lots of vowels. Its my name now, I adjusted quickly. I love it now.
My kids are not big kids, and because they are both on the same team, their names had to be on the back of their jerseys with their first initial. Our last name takes up their entire shoulder area. There is no space between the period of their first initial to the beginning of the last name. It literally spans from shoulder seam to shoulder seam. It cracked me up.
So here’s a picture of Son#2 in the dug out. He has ears that poke out, that I find very sweet. If he had no hair, he’d look like Dopey from Snow White. He's so damn cute. As a matter of fact, my Click moment* for him was last week, I looked in the back seat, and there he sat with his big blue eyes staring at me, sun coming through the back window of my car and behind his ears… his ears were poking out and looked pink with the sunlight coming from behind them. He was so cute.
He put his baseball cap on at the game and his little ears poked out, so I said, “Son, lets tuck your ears in your cap…”, but when I did, he looked like a little goof! So pokey ears is what we have, although it is not obvious in this picture. He’s not self conscious about it and that’s really all that matters… and I love his little ears.
*Click moment- My new phrase for a time I wish I had a still shot of my kids at that particular moment in their life.
Last night I attended that 50s party. I know I spoke of saddle shoes, but upon looking into them on-line I realized they were more than I wanted to spend and the probability of their being worn again was exactly zero. So I switched to penny loafers, realizing I’d wear those with jeans… all the time.
Now, first, I did actually look for saddle shoes, the black and white kind. Did I find them ANYWHERE locally? No. Cheerleaders wear tennis shoes now. I found them nowhere.
So penny loafers it was and off I went to the first place I could think of that might carry them… the Catholic Uniform store, where all the Catholic girls get their uniforms for school. (I buy my boys’ uniforms from there.) I knew I’d seen penny loafers there, but when I arrived, they said they discontinued carrying them. The girls wear tennis shoes now.
Now I was stuck. Where to find them, where to find them and then I realized I’d bought a pair for the boys. Their First Holy Communion, both boys wore penny loafers! I got them at Stride Rite!
So off I went to Stride Rite, a children’s shoes store for those not in the know, and when I walked in, the salesman who knows me as I buy all the boys’ shoes there, laughed when I said, “Help! I need a pair of penny loafers for me!” It would seem they only sold them for boys, but as good luck would have it, some boys have big feet.
I know now that I wear a man’s 6M. Men have wider feet so I don’t have to go wide. That was insight that made me feel great about my duck feet. If I were a man, my feet would have been normal! So he fitted me and I found a pair and bought a pair of ‘bobby socks’ and as he was a man who was a teenager in the 50s, he got a real kick out of it.
My kids kept laughing at me with my rolled up jeans, white socks, penny loafers, gray sweater and pink chiffon scarf in my hair. They said I looked funny and they wanted to know why I was wearing ‘boy shoes’. Heh. They thought their Dad, on the other hand, looked very cool and looked like either Elvis or someone who worked in that restaurant Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger.
When we got home my husband made some comment about it being too bad I wouldn’t be able to wear my penny loafers again as I’d fallen in love with them and everyone knows I hate wearing shoes. I couldn’t believe it. I said, “Of course I’ll wear them again! With jeans!” and he replied, “You’ll look like a total dork! Don’t you dare.”
Too bad. I view penny loafers as a classic shoe; besides, I’ve never been one to be a slave to fashion. Screw that. I wear what I want to wear. Penny loafers are now a permanent part of my wardrobe, I just won’t wear them with rolled up jeans…
So much of what we do is based on what we see growing up, not only as children, but also living as adults.
How do you want to grow old?
I think about that a lot. I think about it in particular as I watched one grandmother make the decision to lie in bed and rot away over a period of years. I do believe a doctor told her she was setting a poor example to her children and grandchildren for growing old. I have remembered that. So now I watch those around me.
I watch my Mom, who is not old, but who is determined to remain the young person she is. She keeps with the fashions, the lingo, the current events. She reads, she is active, she walks, and watches what she eats. Her attitude is positive, but she is mentally preparing for what is inevitable for all of us and as much as I want to cry in terror when she shows me her jewelry, asking me and my sister to decide who wants what piece, as I hold pieces that I remember her wearing to Change of Commands, or Military Balls, or at Christmas or Thanksgiving, as my heart aches at the thought they will be mine when I want them to be hers forever, I know she is being practical and we must discuss it all.
I watch the elderly woman in my DAR chapter. They are in their late 70s and 80s and they meet for lunch, and tool around town shopping and laughing, they take Chairmanships in various organizations and still run the show, and they walk every morning and swim three times a week, and plan dinner parties and special outings with their spouses. They have made plans for the inevitable, but do their best to fight it, and not cosmetically, but with activity.
I want to be like them... my young Mom and the elderly woman I know.
And I watch someone close to me, who I have grown to find to be pathetic and self absorbed as he whines and cries at his life, when he has been given a GREAT life, but has chosen to waste 10 years of it wallowing in pointless completely unsubstantiated self pity. I cannot stand to be around him anymore, yet I have no choice. I miss my mother in law to the point it is suffocating to me at times, but realize, if there is a heaven and hell, she is no longer with us as she was living in her personal hell here on Earth and needed to be saved from it.
From my father in law, perhaps I have learned the most. I have learned what I do not want to be when I age.
I do not want to be a burden on my children. I don’t want them to look after me or feel they have to do anything for me. I don’t want them to have to plan my future.
Nobody has looked out for me since I left home. Nobody. I am completely self sufficient and I don’t intend for that to change just because I’m 85. I will have everything planned out as to where I’m going and when it is to happen, and contingency plans made in the event that it must happen sooner.
I do not want to mentally deteriorate. I pray I have the strength to do what needs to be done should I find that happening to me.
I do not want to become incapable of taking care of my basic daily needs. I pray I have the strength to do what needs to be done should I find that happening to me.
I don’t want to depend on anyone. I don’t want to be a burden. If I grieve over something or someone, I will grieve alone.
I will always put my best foot forward and my grandchildren will always see that there is always hope and life is good and has plenty of opportunities should you choose to make something of them. It is about motivation and attitude.
I don’t want to be like him. And I will do everything in my power to make sure it never occurs. Everything. From him, I am finding, I am learning the most.
Good Lord. This would only happen to my blogson Contagion. I can't quit laughing!
I saw my new favorite bumper yesterday in a parking lot.
Big black bumper sticker with big white letters, it read:
Do you follow JESUS this close?
I don’t know why, but that has tickled me to no end. I can’t quit laughing.
Today is my eldest son’s birthday, my son I call Brown Bear as he is my dark child. He’s my bookworm with the eyes that twinkle when he laughs. Its so funny, but I had heard that description of people before, but with him I see it.
We saw the previews for a movie called “Click” the other day when I took my kids to see “Nanny McPhee”. In it, Adam Sandler’s character gets a special remote where he can freeze frame parts of his life, slow them down, or speed right through them. In my head I’ve been seeing moments I wish I could get a still shot of.
The still shot of my eldest would be when he and I laugh with each other and nobody else gets it. He and I are still on the same wave length. I’m not ‘uncool’ yet, although I know it is approaching. We share the same sense of humor and so when his brothers do something I find absurdly amusing, but would never say, I can look at him at times, and he’ll catch it. He’ll see what I see, and he lifts up his shoulders, and quietly chuckles with me, very quietly, like he is trying to hide his laughter.
Every time he does it, I think, “Let me freeze him to right now… I love this.”
I relate best to this son. I cannot always understand where the other two are coming from, but this son, we are similar in thought processes at times and I relate.
And yes… now that he is 11, it is time for me to sit down with him and make sure he really knows there is no Santa Claus. I’m bummed, but I think its time.
I saw French Fry Man at work yesterday! I KNOW who he is! And I’m obsessed with his vehicle now! I want DATA!
I started asking our assistant all these questions about his car and she didn’t know anything. I wanted to know, how many miles does it get to a gallon, what does it smell like when it runs, does he have to filter the oil, is some oil better than others, does he have a back up plan if his buddy who owns the restaurant he goes to decides ‘no more’, how much did it cost to convert, why did he do it, is it really cost effective or it is strictly psychic income, how many gallons fits in his tank… and on and on and on.
Get me going and I can come up with a million and one questions.
So finally our assistant said, “We need to find someone who knows him so you can get your questions answered. Otherwise, who knows, you may corner him in the hallway…”
And I replied, “You think I won’t?! Oh yes I will. Don’t you put it past me…”
I know where French Fry Man sits now. The whim will strike me one day and I’ll ask him my French Fry Car questions… I want to know…
My eldest son has something called Exchange City for his 5th grade class. It is run by Junior Achievement. The site on it is HERE.
They run a town for a day, is what it boils down to. There’s a Mayor, who was elected by the class and who happens to be this little girl I love and that my son truly views as a sister, but will one day realize how beautiful she is. That’ll be a trip, I’m sure. Anyway, there are cops, shop owners, a bank, the whole nine yards.
The kids have all been given jobs and they will RUN their businesses from cutting pay checks, to making goods and selling them, to paying taxes. All of it.
I think the city can hold 135 kids. That’s what it takes to run this city.
I’m a volunteer in the bank when this field trip occurs. I’ll be guiding the kids if there are questions regarding computers and numbers (I’m sure I was assigned this as I’m the School Treasurer). I’m not to ever do their job, but to suggest things. I had training tonight and I think it could be fun.
Anyway, there was a formal interview process where the kids went to school on Monday all dressed up, with a resume, and sat down with a parent and interviewed for one of their top three jobs. My son's top three picks were: Technology Company Owner, Bank President and Policeman.
Obviously he wanted to be in control. He also told me the top two made good money too. And he’s really into computers, hence his first pick, which is what he got. His friends are working for him as web page designers and such.
But I had to laugh as he said nearly every boy in both classes selected to work as a Snack Vendor. I was horrified! He was laughing. Finally I said, “Son. Why did all these boys shoot so low? They could be anything they wanted and they chose to… want to work as a Snack Vendor?”
And came the 5th grade reply, “Of course, Mom! They were thinking of all the free food!”
Ahhh yes. Free food. As I’ve said since my eldest was but a toddler, “It’s all about the snacks.”
At dinner last night with the boys, my eldest asked me about red wine. The entire conversation was bizarre and so you get it in its context, so you can get a small inkling of what occurs at our dinner table… the twisting and turning, this is a small sample. So the following conversation ensued to the best of my recollection:
Son#1: Why is red wine good for your heart?
Me: I’m not sure. It has something to do with the chemical composition I suppose. Something in it is good. I just don’t know what.
Son#2: I think it’s because it’s the same color as your heart. Red wine must be good because your heart is red.
Bones: Not everyone’s heart is red, some people’s have purple.
Son#2: What?! Nuh huh. EVERYONE’S heart is red.
Bones: NO! YOU’RE WRONG! They can be TWO colors. Red OR purple!
*A full blown argument at the dinner table has now taken hold*
Son#2: Mom! Tell him. People have RED hearts. This is so ridiculous to think there is purple when there is not. *Son#2 really does speak this way.*
I’m at a loss now. I’m staring at Bones who is SO adamant about his side of the argument. There is so much conviction and by the way he has postured himself I realize, he is NOT going to lose this argument about this color purple.
Bones: Yes it is! You are WRONG! Poppy’s heart is purple!
Now I’m thinking… What? What is going on?
Me: Bones, love, where did you hear that Poppy’s is purple?
Bones: Everyone has told me. Everyone has told me that Poppy has a Purple Heart…
Ahhh… yes. And he does. I told the story HERE… his ship was hit by a kamikaze in WWII, and nearly sunk. My father in law was a gunner and was wounded, hence… his Purple Heart.
All is right with our world now. Everyone has a red heart, but some special men and women have Purple ones too… which Bones now understands.