I came home from Austin to find, a clean home, dinner on the table, all laundry has been put away, and a dozen red roses on the kitchen counter… for me.
I think I was missed. Or thought of. Or both. It’s nice.
Oh and I haven’t done a pet update lately. The following is the most current list of all that reside within the House of Bou:
4 goldfish (Die, fish! Die!)
3 tadpoles halfway to becoming frogs
1 pupae that is going to eventually be a Julia Butterfly.
I feel like we’re starting our own little mini pet store. We shall own no snakes, however. No snakes or funky lizards. Also, did you notice that not one of these pets required potty training? I’m still over baby mammals. No more baby mammals in this house. Ever.
I’m back from Austin. I met some of the funniest and nicest folks. I will be posting on it throughout the week. As of now, I’m beat, my eyes burn, and I need sleep.
I had a car rental. Let me say that driving in Austin kind of makes me nuts. They have the MAIN interstate, but then they have these little feeder roads that are also named for the interstate, but just run along side. And nothing is built off of the interstate… its all built off these same named ‘imitation interstate’ feeder roads that run parallel.
So… to get to your hotel, you have to know when to get off the interstate onto one of the ‘imitation interstates’ or you end up doing like me, driving down 35 and saying, “Wait… that was my hotel I just passed…”, doing a U turn to get on the opposite direction, miss the right feeder lane turn off and find yourself now looking in the opposite direction as your hotel passes by… again.
In Florida, everything is built right off the interstate. See your hotel off I-95? Then get off at that exit and “Boom. There it is!”
I think I did most of Austin in circles. Think ‘driving on a slinky’ type swirly circles. Frustrating. But I seemed to always stumble upon where I needed to be.
Then again, our traffic is much worse than Austin’s. For sure. Maybe its those little feeder roads that keeps the main interstate from looking like a 10 mile parking lot. I don’t know…
Traveling since my gall bladder troubles started still stresses me out. Even though it’s gone, I still can’t eat what everyone else eats. I’m the only person who goes on vacation or travels and loses weight. I’m afraid to eat out. I did do big breakfasts twice though… pancakes and bananas rock. Heh.
In 3rd grade there is a project called Flat Stanley. The kids take a piece of paper cut out as child, color it like it is them, and then mail it to someone far far away, with a request that the recipients take it with them wherever they go for the month, take pictures, and send Flat Stanley back with information as to what they did during that month.
The kids love this project. I personally feel bad for the recipient. What responsibility to take care of this paper doll! Son#2’s class did Flat Stanley for the month of February and I saw Flat Stanleys go all over the world.
But none of them… not one of them… compared to Son#2’s Flat Stanley, who went to… Mimi and Big Daddy’s, otherwise known as Mom and TGOO, in the Panhandle.
Mimi did not take her job lightly. While every other child in Son#2’s class got their Flat Stanley back in a brown envelope with ONE picture and a little paragraph as to what they did that month, Son#2 received a BOX.
He received a 2 foot, by 1 foot by 9 inch box. As the teacher was doing mail call, as all Flat Stanleys were mailed back to the school address, he got… a box.
And in this box? His Flat Son#2 (all Flat Stanleys were renamed after their owner), a 3 ringed binder cataloging every event of the month, Mardi Gras beads for every child in the class, a small coloring book from the Pub for whom TGOO plays the bagpipes for every child, and that dot candy… a strip of it for every child in the class.
Yes. Son#2 received a Flat Son#2 care package.
What was the first thing I thought when I saw this? “Oh crap. Mimi has just officially raised the bar in grand parenting and this is going to be remembered. Holy crap. I won’t be able to keep up…”
That was my first thought.
And then I laughed.
This three ring binder? She had gone onto the weather channel internet site and printed the weather of every day Flat Son#2 was with them. So on the left page would be the weather for the day and on the right page would be a summary of that day, complete with picture.
I kid you not.
Flat Son#2 went hiking, to lunch with Mimi and her girlfriends, to Valentine’s Day breakfast with Mimi and Big Daddy (their tradition instead of Valentine’s Day dinner), to Mardi Gras in downtown Pensacola (with pictures with this paper doll on a float where the Mardi Gras celebrants gave him his own beads), helped Big Daddy paint a bedroom, went to a bagpipe gig, and… shooting.
To name a few.
Back to shooting for a moment… TGOO decided to take him to the range. Evidently there was thought of putting him up with the targets during target practice. Mimi, I do believe, extended the threat of great bodily harm should Flat Son#2 come back with a hole in him, so no Flat Stanley's were damaged in any way during this project. No holes. But we deemed that on the big poster board, the picture of him with the .45 would be frowned upon, it being a school project and all... but the picture of him with the targets did in fact make the final cut.
So below are some pictures. The whole thing cracks me up. And Son#2 had to engineer his poster board to hold all this stuff. He did a fantastic job.
The bar has been set for grand parenting. I am hoping that by the time I’m a grandmother, my boys will forget all that she has done for them. I suspect, however… they will not.
As always, click to Enlarge:
Flat Son#2 with TGOO's pistol:
Flat Son#2 with the targets... I am sure the temptation to put a hole in him was overwhelming...
Flat Son#2 at Mardi Gras in Pensacola, on the float with partipants and HIS OWN beads they put together for him:
Flat Son#2 with Big Daddy... you can barely see Flat Son#2. He's right there in the pipes, near the drones.
And lastly, FlatSon#2 with Mimi on the Nature Trail. And I will have you know that that is Mimi's natural hair color. She STILL doesn't dye her hair...
(Heh. She's loving me for that one...)
Austin, my friends, Austin.
I am in Austin this weekend at a blogmeet, where I will meet some Jawja bloggers, some Texas bloggers, and bloggers from neither place. And of course I'll be meeting up with some bloggers I already know... folks who are quickly becoming good friends of mine and whose company I love to keep.
So that is where I am this weekend. We start with The Salt Lick for BBQ on Friday night and then go from there. I'm a bit nervous of course. I never know what people expect when they meet me.
I don't know if they expect some tall svelte beautiful amazon woman... even though I always say I am not.
Or some extroverted witty and sharp woman... of which I am not. 'Tis easy to put one out there in writing. Editing... it's a beautiful thing. In person, depending on my comfort level, I can be very quiet and just observe.
Although I do laugh a lot.
I always wonder if I will disappoint. And of course there will be a ton of people who have never heard of my blog, and that's totally cool with me as we all know... I blog for me. It's my catharsis.
And it is very funny that when I get to blogmeets, people actually call me Bou. I come to both names now. It feels like my name. That's how they know me and it has become a very comfortable skin of mine.
So y'all take care. Have a good weekend and hopefully I'll have some tall Texas tales for y'all come Sunday night... or Monday.
Referenced from the story below… I was at work today and Mr. Magoo received an e-mail from a woman none of us respect. She lies and is lazy and in this e-mail that she sent to many people, she claimed she had sent him an e-mail on something and he was unresponsive. This set him off and I heard from his cube, ‘That lying BITCH. That’s so not true!”
And I said from my table, ‘Are we talking about Hillary Clinton?”
Mr. Magoo: NO. That bitch up north. I should fire her off an e-mail and tell her what I think of her. That *(^%#$!@(*&@! I’m so sick of her.
I’m laughing: I could help you write the letter, you know. We could start it with “Jennifer, you ignorant slut…”
Mr. Magoo: Dammit. You’re dangerous. If it were my last day of work… You know I would.
And from then on out, Jennifer was referred to as ‘that ignorant slut’ the rest of the day. Oh and we spent an inordinate amount of time talking about the old Saturday Night Live and quoting it.
And a great realization set in that Mr. Magoo and I should never pen a letter together, at least not one directed in a negative fashion towards someone with whom we work.
And I got called Skippy today… by someone other than Alpha Male. And I was horrified. But the men were not. GRRRR.
I was getting ready for work this morning when I was greeted by the sweetest 6 year old face, blondish/red hair, clad in his little blue school uniform, looking up at me and from his mouth I heard the following words uttered, “Mom. Can I have some more cake?”
Cake? More? Did I say before it was… morning?
I said to him, “Cake. What do you mean can you have more cake?”
Bones: I had cake for breakfast, Mom. Can I have some more.
Me: You had cake? We don’t have cake.
Bones: Yes we do. Dad gave it to me for breakfast.
Me: Dad gave you CAKE for breakfast?
His father walked in and I stared him down and said incredulously, “You gave our hyperactive child CAKE for breakfast?”
My Better Half, who evidently sometimes utilizes poor breakfast judgment: Pound cake. It isn’t cake.
Me: *blink* (I’m speechless here and thinking, “It’s not cake?” Did I hear this correctly? Pound CAKE is not CAKE? My husband who has a seriously advanced degree in the sciences, who could have taught organic chemistry, who truly understands interactions of compounds, says to me, pound CAKE is not CAKE? I was stunned. Speechless. Staring. Blinking. Did I say stunned?)
BH: It’s not. It’s pound cake. It’s full of eggs and flour.
Me: Babe. And SUGAR. It is full of SUGAR. It is pound cake as it has a POUND of all ingredients including a POUND OF SUGAR.
BH: Oh. Sorry.
And the whole time Bones is watching us and I know he was thinking, “Well? Will I or will I not get more cake for breakfast?”
And so I looked at him and said, “Follow your father. He will get you something for breakfast. I don’t want to know…”
But I suspect he had more cake, but do not know for sure.
And that, my friends, is how my day started… and oh… there is so… much… more.
The rest is in the extended entry as it is long and will take up too much blog:
I took the boys to school, where I ran into the principal and we were discussing kids and I made the statement, “Well, you will never hear from my lips, “NOT MY SON!” Instead you will always hear, “OK. What did he do?” I am raising boys, not Saints.” And he had five boys of his own and he laughed.
A couple hours later I was at work, coming to the realization with Mr. Magoo that if we teamed up together against the people who bug the crap out of us, we would both get fired, but that’s another blog story, probably located above this one, when my cell phone rang. It was the principal.
He laughed and said, “You jinxed yourself Mrs. L.”
Me: What? Oh. Wait. Holy crap. What did he do?
And he laughed again and proceeded to tell me that ‘he’ did something in the cafeteria, disobeyed a teacher and was on lunch detention the next day and had to miss recess.
The problem is… I never bothered to ask who ‘he’ was. I just assumed… Bones.
And I’m thinking to myself, “CAKE! IT WAS THAT FRICKIN’ CAKE THAT WASN’T CAKE! IT SPOOLED HIM UP AND NOW LOOK! GRRRR!”
Oh yes, in my head, my spouse was the recipient of a lot of my anger. Cake for breakfast. HUMPF!
After school, Son#1 had band practice, and I picked up Son#2 and Bones. As Bones got in the car I said, “Do you have something you need to tell me?
He looked at me blankly and said, “No. Why?”
Me: Are you sure? Are you really sure?
Bones: Ummm… Derek was really mean to me again in school today. Did you talk to my teacher about that?
Now, I’m really really frustrated. “Bones. Did you see Mr. H. today?”
Me (on the verge of being pretty pissed): Don’t lie. You have lunchtime detention tomorrow, right?
Bones: What? NO I don’t! Mr. H is wrong! I never even saw him!
And this… went on… or some variation thereof… for nearly an hour, until band practice was over. Oh and at some point Bones said to me, no joke, “Mom. I know you’re mad I had cake today for breakfast, but I wasn’t whacked at school. I was fine!”
“I wasn’t whacked at school”? Whacked? Heh.
Over and over we went over this, I kept my cool, he flat out denying he got in trouble at lunch. Finally in exasperation he said, ‘I don’t get why you don’t believe me’ and I fired off, “Because YOU LIE to me all the time!”
And now I’m quietly freaking out inside. I mean, my boy is looking me straight in the face, sweet cherubic, blue eyed, reddish blonde hair, smoochy cheeks and swearing on his own Mother’s future grave, which he is quickly leading her to, that he DID NOT get in trouble in school and running through my mind was something like the following:
“Holy crap. I gave birth to a pathological liar. Oh… My… God. He is looking me straight in the eye and denying it! He is emphatic! He believes his whole lie! Holy crap! What if… what if… what if he ends up in prison one day… this lying… he’ll be some CEO of a corporation and embezzle a billion dollars and look them all in the face emphatically denying AND BELIEVING he either didn’t do it or was entitled! Oh no! We need therapy! Oh My God!!!”
Or something along those lines… very close. I assure you.
And as we were pulling into the school parking lot to pick up my eldest, suddenly something occurred to me and I said to my 2nd son, “It wasn’t you was it? Are you on lunch detention?” and he said, “No Mom. I’ve never even been on time out in school. I’ve never served a detention…”
And I don’t know why, but suddenly something felt oh so very wrong with the entire scenario. We got into school and I saw my eldest and I said, “Dude. Are you serving lunch detention tomorrow?”
And he said, “Yeah. It’s not what you think, but I got in trouble in the cafeteria.”
And Bones looked at me and said, “SEE?!! SEE!!!”
Bones was innocent. Good Lord. I did apologize and we’re laughing about it, but it just goes to show… Bones is the one that runs me ragged the most. I just assumed it was he. And every single person who has heard this story (and there have been many) thinks it’s a riot as they know Bones and realize, Bones would be everyone’s first guess. History and all that stuff...
I am hoping Bones has learned the importance of telling the truth. I am using this lesson for him wisely.
Meanwhile, it turns out my eldest had a choice, snitch on some friends or serve lunch detention. He decided he’d rather serve lunch detention and miss recess. He made the decision. He has to live with it.
And my husband has learned… no cake for breakfast or his wife’s head spins around 8 times and she hurls green goop.
And I have learned that I must always ask, "Which boy?!" as none of them are Saints. I knew that. I just need to remember to ask.
Oh and as we were making our way back home, and there was yelling, laughing, screaming in my van, as the headache was setting in as I thought of the band concert within hours, the homework, trying to get dinner prepared, the song, "I Wanna Be Sedated" by the Ramones came on the radio.
So I cranked it up and thought, "Yes. I just want to be numb to it all. Just for a minute... I'll take a minute. I wanna be Sedated."
I need this song on my iPod. This appears to be my theme song as I get ready to depart for Austin on Friday morning:
I wanna Be Sedated by The Ramones:
Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go
I wanna be sedated
Nothing to do nowhere to go
I wanna be sedated
Just get me to the airport and put me in a plane
Hurry hurry hurry before I go insane
I can’t control my fingers
I can’t control my brain
oh no oh ho
Just put me in a wheelchair and get me to the show
Hurry hurry hurry before I go loco
I can’t control my fingers
I can’t control my toes
oh no oh ho
My 2nd son told me the other day that they have a way of remembering a math term DMSC.
He bragged, "Everyone else in class remembers it as Dumb Mice Smart Cats. I remember it as Dumb Maestros Sip Crap."
This is a boy thing, right?
Dumb Maestros Sip Crap?
So I said, "Buddy, what does DMSC stand for... other than that whole sipping crap thing?"
And he said, "oh. I don't know..."
I managed to narrow it down to Division, Mulitiplication, Subtraction and... C? Crap? Surely there is more than... Crap?
I spent way too much time trying to figure out another name for Addition. Finally my eldest said to me, "Mom, C stands for Compare. I find it confusing too..."
Well, that's all well and good, but what good does it do to remember that Dumb Maestros Sip Crap if you don't know what Crap really is?! Ack!
Parenting sucks sometimes. You wonder if you're doing it right or doing it wrong. It's a perpetual struggle.
"Am I being too lenient and will my kid expect to skate in life?"
"Am I being to hard and will my kid think he is a miserable failure?"
"Do I help and show him how to pass or do I not help and let him fail?"
Always... the questions in my head. The balancing act of being a good parent vs. one who helps too much or... one who doesn't DO enough.
And I will say, I err on the side of letting them fail. I do. I have refused to do anything except help them study. They are responsible for knowing when their tests are, when homework is due, and for accomplishing all projects on their own unless I see assistance is truly needed or unless they request it.
But... my eldest is feeling the brunt of this, of course, as eldest children do. Am I doing it right, I ask myself, as I hear of mothers who pour through their children's backpacks going over due dates and tests and pushing and pulling and staying on top of them.
And I realized this past quarter that my eldest is not REALLY ready to be 100% responsible for all of it. He's not. He has poor organizational skills. He is struggling. There is a lot going on in 5th grade. A LOT.
So this quarter, I have stepped in and he is making all As.
He always did his homework, but wouldn't turn it in. I am on him... always... he is turning it in.
He said to me at the end of last quarter, "I hate it when you yell at me. It makes me feel really bad about myself..."
And part of me wanted to scream at him, "YOU MAKE ME NUTS! YOU THINK YOU FEEL BAD ABOUT YOURSELF FOR YELLING! GGRRRR! YOU AIN'T SEEN NUTHIN'!", but the other part of me thought, "Wow. I'm a bitch. We all know it. That took some serious guts for him to say that to me..."
So instead I said calmly, "Every time you do something like what you've done today, you make me cringe. I'm afraid you will fail in life. I am afraid you won't get into a good college. Every time you do something like this and do not listen, I take it personally that you don't respect me and it makes me feel like shit. I won't yell anymore. It's your deal. But you have to listen to me."
And he said... OK.
And he has. And I've quit yelling at him.
And his homework has become teamwork. I no longer say, "Did you have a question on your math?" and let it go. I now say, "I want to see your math homework to make sure you're not missing something..."
The thing is, he has a brilliant mind. He truly misses nothing. But he can be sloppy. I have to make sure he understands what his strengths and weaknesses are.
And I told him today, bluntly (and for the record he laughed), "Dude, you are smart as hell. But your handwriting. It truly sucks ass. It's bad. You cannot rely on your brilliant mind to get you through organization and neatness. You must type when you can and work harder than the guy next to you to present your stuff in a neat fashion... because, Man, your handwriting totally totally rots."
What spurred this post? He has a project due tomorrow... he had baseball today (takes 3 hours out of our day) and tons of homework and as I looked at his 50% completed project, I felt this urge to say, "Tough shit. It's not done. You can get an F. I passed 5th grade."
But I looked at his poster board, and he had put down what he wanted, drew it out... and it was more than anything, just really sloppy. It needed work.
And I thought, "What does it hurt for me to SHOW HIM how to do it neatly?"
And so even though I passed 5th grade, I sat down while he did his reading, science, and math, and typed out labels, printed them, pasted them on his project, added a little color here and there, and talked to him while I did it. And his project, it was his idea and everything is laid out the way he wanted it, but it looks nicer because I helped.
Part of me feels kind of bad... but the other part says, "I had to show him... next time, he's on his own."
We'll see. This parenting thing... it keeps getting harder and harder and the multiple choice questions appear to have more than one right answer.
But sometimes... none of them look right. Its up to picking the one that fits best. And I'm struggling.
The beautiful thing about Mo being in town is all the things we talk about, sometimes allude to, around the kids, and they never catch it… heh.
Case in point.
We were all in the car, me, the boys, Mo and Mo’s beau, and in the car was my eldest son’s newest quick read, “In the Land of the Lawn Weenies : and Other Warped and Creepy Tales”. (The cover has some odd picture of hot dogs pushing lawn mowers or something like that.)
So Mo is sitting in the back with the boys and sees this book and says, “Oh. What’s this about?”
Son#1 says “It’s funny and scary…”
Mo replied, “Scary weenies?”
And I set it up and said quietly, “Really. I know I PERSONALLY have never been scared by a weenie…”
And Mo finished by hitting it out of the field with an even quieter, “Well… sheesh…I have…”
To which Mo’s Beau was heard to say to Mo, “Hey, hey, hey… easy there.” While giving us both the eye.
Heh heh heh.
We all went to the beach this evening, a nice drive and then sub sandwiches on the beach for dinner while the boys played in the surf and the sand. It’s a good way to begin a week, a nice Sunday evening treat for us. Morrigan and her Beau are still with us, so it was the seven of us.
I ordered our subs from our grocery store, that has a most excellent deli. I’d taken everyone’s orders and then pre-ordered via phone.
We got to the beach and Mo was going through the sandwiches, coming to my first son’s who had ordered ham, bacon, lettuce, and mayo. And the following conversation ensued to the best of my recollection.
My Better Half: Bacon? I didn’t know they had bacon.
Me, looking puzzled: Yes. Of course. YOU ordered one with bacon. You always get bacon on your sandwiches.
MBH: Not from Publix I don’t. I didn’t know you could. I didn’t order bacon.
Me: *blink* Yes. Yes you did. I took the order. Morrigan, look in that sack of sandwiches. There should be a ham, bacon, turkey sandwich.
MBH: I didn’t order ham, bacon and turkey.
Me: Oh… yes… you …. Did. I have it written right here. (I pulled my list from my shorts.)
MBH, BIG pause: Babe. I ordered Honey Maple Turkey.
MBH: What in the heck did that guy think, me ordering all that meat and cheese! Ham, bacon, turkey and provolone!
Me: Umm… that you’re a carnivore?
It’s a good thing I’m not waiting tables anymore…
I am so boring. I found this over at Rachel’s at Pereiraville. You just answer yes or no, although one of them I wasn’t able to. That’s kind of hard. I felt compelled to add something to most of my answers. But I resisted... So here it goes:
Taken a picture naked? : No
Made out with a member of the same sex? : No
Danced in front of your mirror? : No
Told a lie? : Yes
Gotten in a car with people you just met?: Yes
Been in a fist fight? : No
Had feelings for someone who didn’t have them back? : Yes
Been arrested? : No
Slept in a bed with a member of the same sex? : Yes
Seen someone die? : Yes
Kissed a picture? : Yes
Slept in until 3? : Yes
Laid on your back and watched cloud shapes go by? : Yes
Played dress up? : Yes
Fallen asleep at work? : Yes
Had sex at work? : No
Felt an earthquake? : Yes
Touched a snake? : Yes
Ran a red light? : Yes
Been in a car accident? : Yes
Pole danced? : No
Been lost? : Yes
Sang karaoke? : No
Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t? : Yes
Laughed until something you were drinking came out your nose? : Yes
Caught a snowflake on your tongue? : Yes
Kissed in the rain? : Yes
Sang in the shower? : No
Got your tongue stuck to a pole? : No
Sat on a roof top? : Yes
Played chicken? : No
Raised chickens? : No
Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes on? : Yes
Been told you’re hot by a complete stranger? : No
Broken a bone? : No
Mooned/flashed someone? : Yes
Forgotten someone’s name? : Yes
Slept naked? : Yes
Blacked out from drinking? : Yes
Played a prank on someone? : Yes
Felt like killing someone? : Yes
Made a parent cry? : I hope not…
Cried over someone? : Yes
Had sex more than 5 times in one day? : No
Had/Have a dog? : Yes
Been in a band? : Yes
Drank 25 sodas in a day? : No
Shot a gun? : Yes
Yes, we went shopping today, much to the dismay of my boys who promptly said to Mo, “But Mom HATES shopping” and to which she replied, “Not if she is shopping with me or Mimi.” And she’s right. Shopping with your mom or sister is different, especially if they’re as funny as mine are. Shopping with my boys or my husband does NOTHING for me.
Today I was bent on finding a white button down shirt to go with some new jeans I recently purchased. I’m going to Austin next week and decided I’d like to not look like a complete slob when I meet everyone for dinner.
We stopped first at some store called, Express, which I think used to be called The Limited. I picked up a couple white shirts, one of them with gathering down the sides.
Me: I’m not sure about this one. It looks like it would be a real pain in the ass to iron.
Mo: Yes. You WILL have to iron ANY shirt you buy…
Me: Yeah, but I’m not sure about THIS one.
But I decided to pick it up anyway, just to give it a shot, and as I did, she found a bunch of short sleeved shirts with this gathering thing going on down the front sides.
Mo: Oh! Get one of these!
Me: I’m wearing it on the airplane. I can’t do sleeveless. I’ll freeze. Plus, I really hate that gathering stuff.
Mo: But they make your boobs look big.
Mo: Really! They’ll look good in this shirt.
Me: I don’t want my boobs to look big. Besides, I’m not happy with how big they are anyway. I want them smaller.
Mo: Oh sure! You were JUST FINE with them before you knew you wore a 36C and now suddenly they’re too big and you wish they were smaller…
Me: That’s not true. I miss my 32Bs…
Mo: Which was…
Me: Before I had kids.
Mo: *Blink* Yeah. Too bad.
And these are the types of conversations that happen between sisters when they shop. In case you don’t have one. Or if you’re a guy.
In the dressing room we went, as I tugged on the shirts, tried to see if they’d pucker, complained the fabric was too thin, and what not.
Mo (as I undressed, while rolling her eyes): And you got this bra where?
Me: 4 years ago. VS. It was one of their first wireless bras.
Mo: Yuck. It does nothing for your boobs. You can’t wear it with that shirt.
Me: I’m really really not into how my boobs look…
Mo: Whatever. I hope you have a better bra…
Me: I do. I hate this shirt I think… It’s bunchy.
Mo: Look at your gall bladder scars! They’re different than mine! Yours… yours… why yours form a constellation!
Me: Oh yeah, I have Orion’s belt on my stomach.
Mo: Wow. And yours look like they just punched holes in your stomach with a hole puncher… mine are just little lines… and LOOK HOW BIG that scar is on your navel! Mine isn’t that big at all!
Yeah, well, she still has a navel. My surgeon didn’t have a whole helluva lot to work with, my having had three kids and all.
As we were leaving, she looked in the mirror (she’s been sick) and said, “Wow. I look like crap. I can’t believe I went out like this. Look at my hair and my face. I’m wearing no make up… I look really bad.”
I replied, “Oh.. but your boobs look GREAT in that bra!!!”. Heh. She said, “You’re right! I feel better already!”
I didn’t buy their shirt. We moved on to Ann Taylor Loft. But as we left the store, I found the cutest pair of jean shorts, very short, but very cute.
Me: OH! I like these! I could wear these… but not much longer can I?
Mo: No. Not much longer.
Me: How much longer do you think I have before I have to hang up wearing shorty shorts?
Mo: It depends…
Me: On my legs? (As I’m throwing a leg out to see if they’re wrinkling yet.)
Mo: No. We all inherited Nana’s legs. You’ll have great legs until you die. It’ll depend on your waist and that… (and she frames my face) When you look older, you can’t wear those shorts anymore.
I looked at them wistfully and finally said, “So how much time do I have?” as if I were asking a doctor about a terminal illness.
Mo: 10 years. I give you 10 years.
I will be going back to buy those shorts. I have 10 years left. I have to make the best of them…
I was walking through the grocery store aisles with Bones the other day when he said, “Look Mom! George Bush makes spaghetti sauce?”
I looked at the wall of sauces, how it’s changed. When I was a kid there was only Ragu. Now there are hundreds of sauces in cans, jars, and plastic bottles ranging in price from 99 cents for a half gallon to $7.00 for two cups.
Finally I said, “George Bush doesn’t make sauce…” and he said, “Yes he does! Look! Right there! George Bush spaghetti sauce!”
I laughed and said, “No baby, that’s Paul Newman.”
So now I’m thinking, there is a potential, he may have inherited an odd gene, from The Great Omnipotent One. Time will tell…
There is some serious heroine worship going on in this house now that Morrigan is here. The boys have been growing their hair out, this shag look. Blech. But there are other battles, so I leave the hair alone. Of course Mo had to tell my oldest she LOVED this look. So now he won’t cut his hair.
She has been ill since she’s been here, evidently having picked up a stomach bug while on her business travels, and so today I ran out to Publix with my eldest to pick up Gatorade and ginger ale.
I walked down the coke aisle and picked up a bottle of Canada Dry, in bottles. My eldest looked at me and said, “Aunt Mo needs those short little cans. Those are better than bottles.”
So up and down the aisle we walked, not finding those short stubby cans. I said, “Dude, we’re getting the bottles. That’s all they have unless I buy a big box of cans, I we don’t need that much…” and with that, I picked up the bottles of Canada Dry again.
He said, “Mooom. No. Not the Canada Dry. Mimi drinks Shweppes. That’s what we need.”
What? Why did he know that? How does he remember something like what kind of ginger ale my mother drinks? And he can’t remember where he put his spelling words?
So, Shweppes it was… and he had me buy her jello too. It was all about Aunt Mo today and doing whatever he could do to make her feel better.
Oh and she tried to pull one over on him. She was talking about how rotten she felt and she said, “And I think I feel worse because when I got sick last night, it was solid food. I’m used to throwing up liquid…” and she looked at my son and finished, “You know, like when you throw up because you drank too much… water?”
And my son looked at her, raised an eyebrow and said, “Or maybe… alcohol?”
Heh. She and I laughed.
I was tagged by Rachel of Perieraville for a 5 weird things meme. Now I’ve done this before (HERE, where Contagion told me they weren’t weird), but I just knew if I thought hard enough, I could find five more weird things.
Afterall… this is ME we’re talking about.
OK… so here it goes. Five weird things and of course the stories that go with them (surprise).
1) I have to take my running shoes and clothes whenever I travel. It doesn’t matter that I won’t have the time to run, I just have to take them with me JUST IN CASE.
2) I can’t take up sports that don’t have a hurl factor. If I can’t push myself to feel the need to vomit at the end, I’m not interested.
For instance, golf has a 0 hurl factor. No way I could be a golfer, even putting aside the fact I have horrible eye hand coordination.
But running? Running has a high hurl factor. I’ve puked many times after running.
Tennis? Low hurl factor, unless it’s hotter than hell outside and that doesn’t count as it’s not self inflicted.
Swimming? Hurl factor is not as high as running, but I can push it pretty damn close. Same with weight lifting. This past Thursday I barely made it to the car without losing it after doing back and shoulders. Abs will throw me over the edge.
Karate? High hurl factor, especially when sparring.
3) I was emotionally damaged by a marshmallow when I was 2, so now I can’t eat anything like that… marshmallows, whipped cream, all that stuff. Blech.
4) I didn’t realize I wasn’t a really big person until about… last month. I have always seen myself as gargantuan and this whole reality thing started to set in this past October when I was at Eric’s with my sister, Morrigan. Army Wife Toddler Mom looked at me and said, “You’re so tiny! I could fit you in my pocket!” And this sentiment pretty much carried on all weekend by a number of people.
I was pretty taken back.
My one grandmother was 5 feet tall. She was sturdy, a good grandmother of sturdy German stock, but she was short. My other grandmother, when she died, I think she was something like 4’8. And she never weighed over 90 pounds except when pregnant. And although my Mom and sister aren’t tiny tiny, I’m bigger boned than they are. Plus I have this overly aggressive personality at times, so I’ve just always seen myself a kind of more masculine, not feminine at all, and big. Very big.
And I’m not. Morrigan laughed at me today when I was trying on a new pair of jeans for her and said, “I don’t get it. How can you think you’re big if you wear a size 4… I wear a 4 and I KNOW I'm not big.”
I guess I’m just a giant in my own mind.
5) Since I could talk and count, whenever people would ask me how old I was, I would up my age one year after the birthday passed. It did get me in trouble once.
I met a guy over the summer, a really great guy, when I was 18, two months shy of my 19th birthday. When he asked how old I was, I told him 19. He knew my birthday was September, so he thought I was turning 20, which was great for him as he was… 24.
One day after going to the beach, we met up with some of his friends, who I had yet to meet, at a beach/bar. They went to order me a drink as I was looking at the menu and I casually said, “Oh I can’t drink. I’m not old enough yet.” (Legal age was 19 at the time.) My date’s friends all looked at him in horror that he was dating someone underage, and he looked like he’d just died 9 deaths as he said to me, “What?! I thought you were turning 20 in two months!” and I replied nonchalantly, “Oh no. I’m turning 19. I always up my age by one year.”
For some reason he liked me enough to keep dating me, although this was never forgotten and I suspect never truly forgiven.
Anyway, I quit doing that this year. I’m 40. People ask me and I say ‘40’. I will say 40 until the day I turn 41. I like being 40. A lot. It’s been a good year. I know I’m going to like this decade… no reason to rush it.
I do believe I have been officially accepted as one of the guys. Anything goes while I’m around now. I don’t even bother to hide my shock sometimes as they laugh as hard as I do when I’m so stunned. I think it’s the expressions.
I have really never ever had as much fun at work as I have been lately. I’m more motivated to go in and even though I still keep to myself and produce as much as I can in the short time I’m there, they’re just such a great group of guys, I can’t help but enjoy their company.
I will tell you, however, there are some pretty big differences between how men communicate and joke with each other and how women do. For instance…
It doesn’t shock men to joke about… getting off. I actually heard one guy say to the other, when a comment was made about a woman they all found very attractive, “Why don’t you just go into the bathroom and jack off already…”
Now it was all in jest and everyone was laughing.
Never in my life have I ever heard two women talking, the topic of a good looking man comes up, and one say to the other, “Betty Sue, why don’t you grab your dildo and get off in the stall in the bathroom already!”
Yup. It doesn’t happen. You men may WANT to think it happens… but I assure you… it does not.
I have been playing in a flute duo off and on for about 18 months. The band instructor at our school and I sometimes play together during band concerts, just for one or two pieces. In my mind, it shows the kids that it is a life long skill, in particular as they all know I am not a musician.
This year another Mom has joined us, making it a trio. Her daughter is new to band, so the idea had been thrown around starting at the beginning of the school year, and today was the first time our schedules meshed so we could practice… our first trio performance shall be next week.
Now I’m not a spotlight kinda gal. I prefer to blend. The band instructor always asked me to play 1st chair and I have for the most part been fine, although I’ve always been fine playing 2nd preferring it actually.
This time, when he called to schedule, I said emphatically, “I’m playing 3rd chair.” There was no doubt. If they had said otherwise, I would have gladly said, “I can’t do this then.” I don’t want to be responsible for the melody with a group of people.
Truth be told, I’m not looking forward to this at all. I was not before, but now that I’ve met the other Mom, I’m absolutely dreading it.
I cannot stand her. She makes my skin crawl. She makes me want to run. She makes me back away from her… trying to keep a distance. I am glad I’m 3rd chair as she’s a “ME! ME! ME!” kind of gal who has to be in the spotlight, so 3rd chair puts a person between us… as obviously she ONLY will play 1st.
Which I’m fine with… as long as it’s not me. I just want to blend. Let me play harmony.
Let me get this over with. And by the end of our practice, I actually said that to them. I said to them bluntly, “I am not looking forward to this. I just want to get it over with.”
And her chipper spazzed out, “Happy Happy Joy Joy Life is Wonderful” self was hopping around in her high energy state saying, “Oh! Why?! I LOVE THIS! I have been looking forward to this for SOOOOOO long…”
It’s the incessant hyperactive energy that makes me frickin’ nuts. She makes Bones look like slo-mo. By the end, I wanted to grab her around the neck, shake her, and scream, “STOP F***ING MOVING!”
Her foot. Her head. Her hands. Her WHOLE BODY. Oh my God. It was making me nuts, but it was perfectly awful when we stood to play.
Throughout practice the band instructor and I stood side by side while she sat. But the last piece, we had to share, so the three of us stood at his music stand. I think she nearly pirouetted whilst playing.
She was up on her toes, bouncing, flat footed, back and forth… on and on… it was the most annoying distraction I have ever witnessed. I nearly burned a hole through the music trying to ignore her. Thankfully my music consisted of whole note upon whole note of low G. No thinking.
At the end, the band instructor laughed at her (I wanted to slap her) and said, “Wow! You’re so high energy! You move all the time!” and she said breathlessly, “I know! I’m bipolar and I’m always moving!!!! I cannot help it!!!”, as she continued to move in place.
Is this true? I have friends who are bi-polar and they aren't like this.
So now I’m even more thankful as I'm not in her skin because if she’s this annoying in person, I’d shoot myself if I lived in her skin. Holy crap.
We have one more practice and one performance and I’m done. I told the band instructor this afternoon when I saw him, “We MUST SIT during our performance. It IS NOT an option to stand…”
I hope I make it through this without bitch slapping her. GRRRR.
Boudicca’s boys were rockin’ the house on the baseball field this evening! Holy crap. They were hitting. They were fielding. They were hot.
The Boys of Boudicca’s House started the game with the first two runs of the game. Son#2 was walked to first and Son#1 hit a single. Their teammates hit them in… and Son#2 even stole a couple bases.
The Boys of Boudicca’s House were so hot, that after the game, people came up to me and said, “Can you believe it? Those were YOUR boys!” and “What did you feed THOSE BOYS for dinner tonight?!”
I found myself sheepishly looking down at the ground as I confessed… they had Wendy’s for dinner. I cook every night, but tonight, it was pandemonium at the house with homework and everything else, so we ate on the fly. Wendy’s… in the car. And the coaches and one of the Dads looked at me and said, “Feed them Wendy’s EVERY night!”
These are my boys who have never played team ball. They’ve only played in the backyard, catching with their Dad or TGOO. These are the boys, who would go out every night with their Dad and hit ball after ball in the backyard. (The bonus of living on an acre.) And I was afraid it wouldn’t come together in an organized league…and it has. They’re not the strongest players and they never will be, but my boys can hit. And today, they even fielded!
But what was really fun about tonight was… just the game. It was nice and cool, 80 degrees with a light breeze. The air smelled fresh and the kids all wanted to be there. The coach on the other team was a NICE guy. Our coaches were pumped and were very vocal with our kids… telling Son#2, “You can do this! You know you WANT TO DO THIS!” as the kid hit ball after ball… all of them foul except for the last, but connecting every single time. Everyone was having fun. Our team was on fire, their team had a couple good innings… and although each team had a score keeper, none of us parents were keeping score nor were we asking.
Nobody cared. We were having fun. The kids were having fun.
Nobody cared… not even the coach.
At the end of the game, we finally looked at the coach and said, “Who won?” and he said, “Wow, I think we did, let me check.” And we all raised an eyebrow when he actually had to count the runs, as he had not been keeping them mentally tallied, and we realized we had won 18-9.
We’re not a great team. There have been plenty of times we’ve been the 9. And next game against this same team, it is just as likely we could lose 18-9.
But tonight was fun, because nobody cared. It was all about going out and playing ball.
And I do believe my new favorite sound is the “TINK” the bat makes as it connects with the ball. It warms my heart.
...and the egg is still missing.
If we don't find it by Friday, I'll enlist the help of my sister, Morrigan, who is coming to visit with her beau on Thursday night. We will have our own adult egg hunt. I have to find that egg...
If it rots in this house, I'll think its funny, but my husband... oh he won't think that's funny at all. Most definitely not!
My husband erroneously thought that because he shares my bed, he is allowed to share my dark chocolate Easter eggs.
What is that about? Is nothing sacred?
A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do and the eggs? They are off limits! Humpf! It may be 'Until Death Do Us Part', but NO WHERE in our wedding vows did I see I am required to share my favorite chocolate. No where!
I arrived at my brother in law’s home today for Easter dinner, to have him say to me, “And we have roasted vegetables. I bought them ready prepared, but they look good. Roasted broccoli, cauliflower and okra.”
I said, “Ooooh! Okra. I LOVE FRIED OKRA! I bet its GREAT roasted. I cannot wait.”
Hours passed and it was time to eat. The roasted vegetables came out of the oven from being heated and I stood there as my sister in law (his wife) took them out and set them upon the counter. It was my intent to grab a piece of okra before it hit the table. But when I gazed down upon the roasted vegetables I saw broccoli, cauliflower, and…. brussel sprouts.
I looked at my s-i-l and said, “Hmm. Where’s the okra?” and she replied, “There isn’t any okra in this Sweetie…”
So I waited and said to my brother in law eventually, “Umm… there’s no okra. It’s… brussel sprouts…” and he said, “Oh. Yeah. I get them confused with okra and collard greens…”
WHA?! How IN THE HELL, does one confuse OKRA with BRUSSEL SPROUTS or COLLARD GREENS?! Good God. They look NOTHING alike, not to even mention the taste as I personally would rather poke my eye out with a frickin’ pencil than EVER eat another brussel sprout for the rest of my life and that goes damn close to the same for collard greens. But Okra? Especially deep fried? Heavenly.
But then I realized, he’s a Joisey Boy. So I said, “Evidently the problem is you’ve never actually seen or tasted the three of them or I promise you, you would NEVER have confused them…” and he said, “Yup. I’ve never even seen them…”
Good Lord. I’ve got to make that boy some fried okra next time he comes for dinner…
In honor of my 2nd son, this Easter, we have THIS link for Peep Research.
All you scientists and engineers, make sure you look at the site. (Even you non-engineering/scientist types will think this site is a trip.) It was performed by two Emory University scientists. They subject Peeps to hot, cold, water… and even draw conclusions… as scientists are apt to do.
An example of one such conclusion, upon testing Peeps with alcohol and smoking:
Conclusion: The synergistic effect of smoking and alcohol in Peeps produces a rapidly exothermic oxidation reaction, leading to a chemical and morphological divergence from the wild-type Peep phenotypes.
A real don’t miss. Seeing a Peep smoke a cigarette is pretty funny. Watching it smoke a cigarette with alcohol is frickin' great.
Now why do I post this in honor of my 2nd son? Because at his school, the middle school SGA sold Peeps as a fundraiser. They were a buck for a package of three boxes. And he bought a three box package every day. Where he inherited his affinity to eating massive amounts of Peeps, I do not know, as I personally find them to be of the most foul, squishy and icky tasting. I don’t do marshmallows either though…
Anyway, he ate so many Peeps, that his Spanish teacher remarked, ‘The Easter Bunny is finding there is a shortage of Peeps this Easter to place in the Easter baskets, as Son#2 has diminished the Peep population."
And yes, my boys got Peeps in their baskets. White Peeps. They’d never had white. They were thrilled.
When having your 15 year old nephew help you hide eggs for the little people, make sure you find out where he hid HIS set. Yeah, I think there is one missing egg in my house and… we don’t use plastic eggs. Out of 34 eggs, the boys found 33.
I hope we find that other… before next month when its odor finds us.
I kid you not, I was awakened this morning by my 9 year old singing The Bunny song, which you will find HERE over at Jerry’s of Back Home Again. He put the link in one of my posts and I had to laugh as that song gets sung all the time here. Evidently my 9 year old was ready to eat some bunny ears…
I feel extraordinarily blessed that my husband has such awesome siblings. (His sister is down visiting with her husband and kids.) I truly love both my sisters in law and my brother in law. Their spouses are great too, but I really have great affection for his siblings. We get along great and each of them individually are such wonderful people. I think it is a testament to their parents that they have all grown into such upstanding, contributing, and great citizens… and it makes up for the fact that my father in law is the biggest jerk that has ever roamed this Earth.
Funniest thing heard at Easter dinner today: I was sitting in the family room with the seven grandchildren, I was the only adult, when the eldest grandchild, my 18 year old niece, who has a sharp wit and analytical mind, absolutely brilliant girl with the looks that stop traffic, suddenly got this look of shock upon her face and said, “Oh My God. I just had a vision of what it will be like in 40 years when we are all your age (referring to me, my husband and his siblings) and you all are Poppy’s age….” Heh. I could see the wheels turning as she was trying to gauge how neurotic and insane we would all be, and what the grandchildren would have to contend with.
Luckily, I’m not a blood relative. I can guaran-damn-tee I won’t be like her Poppy. I’d shoot myself first…
Yesterday I went to my favorite chocolate store to pick up the chocolate bunnies for the boys. It has become a tradition for me now to buy their bunnies from there, as opposed to the supermarket bunnies. I buy the rest of their candy from the supermarket, but their main bunny? Hoffman’s Chocolates in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida.
And when I walked in, two things hit me.
First, I realized I needed to brace myself for the inevitable phone calls that will begin… next week. They will come from my blog daughter VW, who will go through Hoffman’s and notice their chocolate bunnies (dark chocolate is my fave) are on sale and she will leave messages like this on my cell, without identifying herself by the way, which is not needed because a) we talk 4X a day and b) only SHE calls me with calls like this:
“Bou, I’m at Hoffman’s. Their chocolate bunnies are on sale at 50% off…”
Or 10 days later…
“Bou, your favorite dark chocolate bunnies are now 75% off. They’re located next to the register in a big wicker basket…”
Folks, calling me to tell me my chocolate is on sale, let alone my favorite chocolate, is like calling a drug addict and telling them they’re having a blow out crack special on the corner of Blue Heron Blvd and Dixie Highway. I start frothing and twitching. It takes enormous will power to NOT go.
And how do I know I will get such a call? Beeeecauuuuse, I got a couple like this after LAST Easter and I got a FEW like this after Valentine’s Day! Ack!
Last Easter I succumbed. This Valentine’s Day… I did not. We shall see how this Easter goes… GRRRR.
OK, so the second thing that hit me was that there are some truly truly sick folks out there. There are folks that have chocolate addictions that make mine look like a yearly snack.
As I was standing in line to buy my Easter goodies, I looked to my right and there stood a… TWENTY FOUR INCH chocolate bunny. Actually… three of them. One in Milk, one in Dark and one in White.
Lovely. Two foot chocolate bunnies. The tag was $150. I looked on line to see if there was a picture at their site, but alas, there was not.
But as I was looking at the tag, you know, that whole train wreck thing, I noticed that they also had a THIRTY SIX INCH chocolate bunny, for a mere $250!! (Or so… I know it was over $200.)
Holy crap. Look, I love chocolate. I can talk to you about chocolate the way wine tasters talk about wine. I love it… the taste, the texture, the smell. But I have never, in my life, thought, “Damn. My Easter basket would be complete if that chocolate bunny were just a wee bit bigger. I need me a 2 foot or 3 foot bunny to satisfy my inner chocolate craving.”
First, I always eat the ears right off the bat. The ears on that sucker were huge. You can’t eat those ears in one sitting. Besides, you can’t hold it in your hand and gnaw it off! You’d have to stand over it, bend down and gnaw off the ears.
That’s just so… not traditional. I’m all about Easter chocolate bunny tradition.
As is taking a knife to one’s bunny. No. Only teeth. No knives. It’s all about tradition. You don’t let your kids handle knives when they eat their bunnies, do you? No. Then as adults you use your teeth too.
Second, I then eat the tail. And that would mean I’d have to… what? Lie on the floor to nibble the tail? I don’t lie on the floor to each chocolate. That bunny is supposed to be in my hands when I flip it upside down to bite its butt. Period.
And third, after the ears and tail… and any other appendages or accessories I choose to eat next, like the basket it may be carrying… that would leave a whole heapin’ lot of chocolate torso to eat and the thought of that much chocolate is even revolting to me.
There really is a such thing as ‘too much of a good thing’.
I’ll stick with the regular sized chocolate bunny thank you. Well, except for this year. I bought myself a 2 oz bunny to nibble instead. With my rosacea problems, I thought a small one was sufficient.
And as I checked out at the register where I noticed a sign that said, “Purchase must be more than $10 to use your credit card” and I realized I’ve never had to worry that my total didn’t meet the $10 minimum purchase, I said to the woman helping me, “You do realize, that those chocolate bunnies are just begging for the question to be asked, ‘have you sold any?’.” And her reply was, “Yes… a few. Not as many as you would think…”
I actually didn’t expect any to be sold, but considering this is Palm Beach County… I should not have been surprised.
Bigger is not better folks. Oh…no…it…is…not. Blech.
I was speaking to my sister, Morrigan, the other day. Now before I begin, Morrigan has been known to change the color of her hair on a whim. It cracks me up. Her hair is more of a natural auburn color, but she has been blonde, a red head, a brunette… and even black, although the black was not on purpose.
A little segue here… I can’t remember if I told this story.
She had very long hair. Her hair is curly, what I call Nicole Kidman hair. Women pay large sums of money to have hair like my sister has. So she decided to donate it to Locks of Love.
She did enormous research, kept her hair untreated and healthy for the entire time she was growing it out, and at the end, decided to go ahead and have it colored just a wee bit darker. It was OK with Locks of Love, according to what she’d read, if it was dyed darker, as long as it wasn’t damaged.
And the bonus to all of this was that some hair product company in NYC was having this big contest for Locks of Love, donate your hair and submit an essay on why you should win, and you could win a trip for two to NYC, and all sorts of cool things during the trip.
So Mo decides that she and I need this trip, and she is going to donate her hair, and *I* will write the essay and with my tremendous writing ability *cough cough* *hack hack*, we will surely win ourselves a most glorious trip to NYC. The two sisters let loose on the city of NY.
No pressure on me, of course.
So I played with words and stories. I kept telling her she had too much faith in me and I was suffering from a great writer’s block. The only stuff I could come up with was so awful, I could never send it.
And not awful as in poorly written, but as in… in poor taste. None of it is publishable on my blog, but I will say my favorite one was interviewing her ex boyfriends about her hair and what they thought of it and all her ex boyfriends I called by the names I still call them by: Bob the dickhead and Sam the f***head. See a trend? I thought so.
Anyway, I was saved from having to come up with the perfect essay, an impossible task, when she went to get her hair colored and something went wrong and she came back with it flat black. It was totally irreparable. It was dried out and broken and black. It looked as if someone had taken a brick of charcoal and rubbed it through her hair.
It was bad. Tragic. Bad. Good for me, however, as I wouldn’t let my kid sister down. You know, that whole hero worship thing and all. *cough cough* *hack hack* The fall from that ivory tower is mighty…
OK, so back to present day. Mo calls me and says she is going to get her hair dyed and that she noticed she is really graying.
So being her sister and full of sisterly love, and remembering her telling me over Christmas, “OH! People are lying to you! You ONLY THINK you have only eight gray hair, you are much more gray than that…”, the twerp, I said to her, “OH! You’re graying? Why, you’re only 35. Fancy that. I’m 40 and I only have 8 gray hair…”
To which she said once again that I knew not of what I spoke and in fact I am graying, I just am not aware.
And folks, I shall let you be the judge. I submit before you, in the extended entry, a rarity into itself, a picture of me. Yup. This was taken by my best friend from high school when she visited last week with Don Quixote (aka Mr. Smoochy Pants).
My hair is not dyed. That is the natural color. And I do believe we will see, that she may be the younger, fairer and prettier…. but *I* still have my raven colored hair! Ha!
Oh and in case you’re wondering. I was trying to hug Don Quixote goodbye while his Mama snapped the picture and he was done with me. The toleration meter had been pegged…
Who knows why I pick the music I run to. I know I run best to angry music. Angst will drive me. Typically I will find something, somewhere in a song that I identify with. That will drive me.
I can put a song on repeat over and over and run to the same song for 30 minutes.
Some of the stuff I’ve listened to in the past has most definitely been songs full of self loathing, but I don’t run to that anymore.
It all depends on the mood. And the beat… of course. It has to have a good beat or I can’t do it. And sometimes, it is the lyrics and how the song writer played with the words that keeps me listening to it.
So lately there has been a song on the radio that I continually crank. (I listen to mainly alternative music.) I have no clue why it’s caught me, but it has, and I am probably going to download it into my iPod. Every time I hear it I think, “I could run to this song for the full 30 minutes”.
It’s called Hate Me By Blue October. And no… I’ve never done drugs. And I’m not in a recovery program. I just can’t get this song out of my head. It most definitely has something to do with the cadence of his voice when he sings it…
I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head
They crawl in like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed
Dropping little reels of tape to remind me that I’m alone
Playing movies in my head that make a porno feel like home
There's a burning in my pride, a nervous bleeding in my brain
An ounce of peace is all I want for you. will you never call again?
And will you never say that you love me just to put in my face?
And will you never try to reach me? it is I that wanted space
Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things i didn't do for you
I’m sober now for 3 whole months it’s one accomplishment that you helped me with
The one thing that always tore us apart is the one thing I won’t touch again
In my sick way I want to thank you for holding my head up late at night
While I was busy waging wars on myself, you were trying to stop the fight
You never doubted my warped opinions on things like suicidal hate
You made me compliment myself when it was way too hard to take
So I’ll drive so fucking far away that I never cross your mind
And do whatever it takes in your heart to leave me behind
Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you
Hate me in ways
Yeah ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you
And with a sad heart I say bye to you and wave
Kicking shadows on the street for every mistake that I had made
And like a baby boy I never was a man
Until I saw your blue eyes cry and I held your face in my hand
And then I fell down yelling “make it go away!”
Just make a smile come back and shine just like it used to be
And then she whispered “how can you do this to me?”
Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you
Hate me in ways
Yeah ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you
When you’re on medication that makes you photosensitive (my rosacea meds) and you take your kids to the beach…
… it is to good wear a hat…
…and a long sleeve t-shirt…
…and good sunglasses…
…and to slather up with SPF45 all over your legs and the rest of your face…
…but it defeats it all if you forget that your NECK actually needs sunscreen too.
Yup. I have neck burn. I look like a dork.
We went to breakfast today with VW and her boys as well as the sweet and very bright 16 year old German girl that is staying with VW this month. VW lived in Germany for awhile, for her paying job before she became a Mom, and while there, she met this girl’s folks.
This young woman speaks 5 languages. English is supposed to be her 3rd best language, 2nd only to her native language and French. I can’t imagine her English is second to anything. She has a phenomenal grasp.
Anyway, so we were sitting at breakfast with 6 boys (my three plus my nephew and her two) and VW looked at me over her menu and said, “How do you say ‘ham’ in French?”
I sat there for a minute, KNOWING I knew the answer, but it was a classic case of ‘tip of your tongue’. It seems she was trying to explain the difference between bacon and ham to her young guest.
So… drawing a blank, I did what I always do and called… my Mom and Dad! Oh yes. I do this all the time. My kids are talking in the car and ask me some obscure question? I call my Mom and Dad from my cell. All the time.
Mom answered and she jumped on a German English dictionary site on the internet and she said, “OK, what do you want? Boiled ham? Chopped ham? Smoked ham shoulder?...”
We went with boiled and she spelled it for me as I wrote it for our young German friend to read, to which she understood the difference between bacon and ham.
I’m telling you, no less than 10 minutes passed when I looked at VW and said, “jambon! Ham in French is jambon!”
Now folks, please explain to me, why is it that I have not spoken French or taken a course in it for TWENTY YEARS, and I remember that ham is frickin’ jambon, but I can’t remember where I parked my damn car after entering the mall only an hour before? Granted, I took 5 years of French, but I’ve been driving for 24 years!
WHAT… IS… UP… WITH… THAT?!!
My husband’s family is in town for Easter. We all went to dinner tonight at The Outback.
I arrived first, which is the norm since I’m punctual and his family… is not. As I was sitting there, the waiter introduced himself to me… shook my hand and everything. I told him my name and he looked at me and said, “Really?! That’s my Mom’s name! I don’t know anyone else with that name!”
Now I’m not about to divulge my name here, but let us just say, that even though my Dad was military and neither he nor my Mom were into that free love and hippy thing, I was born during the 60s, so my name has kind of a free love and hippy ring to it.
So I said to our waiter, who looked to be a MAN in his late 20s, “Was your Mom born in the 60s?”
And he replied, “Oh yeah. She was. 1964…”
I looked at him and said quietly, “Well, there you go. I was born in ’65. It’s a free love and hippy kind of name. And now we know that I’m old enough to be your Mom and I’m thinking that is making me kind of sick right now…” and we both laughed.
He was 21. I’m old enough to have a 21 year old. Blech.
The hierarchy of elementary school. Some things don’t change.
My second son is the fastest kid in all of 3rd grade. All the kids know it as this is becoming his claim to fame. The fastest kid in K, 1, 2 AND 3 and from what I understand, he’s almost faster than all the 4th graders too.
When talking to him about it, he will spout off in order, who the top 5 fastest kids in his class are… and by the way, #2 is a little girl not much bigger than he.
All the fastest kids happen to be the smallest.
So this was of great discussion in the car today as the boys spoke with great awe of this kindergartener who is so fast, he almost beat the fastest kid in 1st grade, a small amazingly athletic boy I call Frankie Doodle. All the bigger kids want to race this 5 year old, but Son#2 informed me he was has still retained his seat as King of the Running Hill.
He’s the man.
And it reminded me of when I was in elementary school. I went to Orange Park Elementary in Orange Park, Florida. It was a three year tour for us there, as The Great Omnipotent One was stationed at NAS Jax. And I don’t remember the names of many kids there, just a girl here or there, but I do remember, to this day, the name of the fastest boy in our class.
He wasn’t a friend, just a kid in my class, yet his name is etched in my brain because everyone knew HE could run. Bobby Stokes was his name. And I also remember in 5th grade, he was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes.
I think of him often. Once a year, some kid in our school gets diagnosed with that horrible disease. This week one of the kids in our school crashed and is now at our local hospital, where they’re trying to get him stabilized. One day the kid is great, the next day, he’s in ICU with a lifetime diagnosis.
So I often wonder how the fastest boy is doing. I remember him being smart too. He was a cute kid. Cute, smart, and fast and very very quiet. I hope he is well…
Although the job itself can suck at times, the men I work with really are great. They continue to crack me up, which makes it all worthwhile.
I, of course, still occasionally hear a, “Wait. Shhh. Bou’s over there. Don’t say that…”, but that is becoming less. Every now and then they say something where I get to laughing so hard I could cry.
They’re happy my peanut butter is back to smoothed out.
The name Skippy has still stuck… at least for Alpha Male.
And today, they realized, how I just truly don’t give a crap about work in the big scheme. When I’m there, I give 200%. But I have kids and if they were to fire me tomorrow, yeah, it would suck, but my ego isn’t involved anymore. They can’t hurt me. I won’t let them.
It started with my getting an e-mail from my Tech Lead, jokingly asking if they had aftercare at our place of work, would I go full time?
I typed back, “Nope. Nice thought though…” (I LOVE my tech lead. He's the best.)
Then I leaned over Mr. Magoo’s cube and said, “I should get major points. Do you have any idea how hard it was not to type ‘F*** No.’?” His reply, “Yeah, you would have lost major points on professionalism for that reply!”
A week ago, a global e-mail went out telling everyone to please send in their updated resume to HR. They were collecting them. God only knows why. All I know is, I saw the e-mail, thought “oh. That doesn’t apply to me.” and hit delete.
Of course. Because that's what do with all global e-mail. Bad habit. It's going to bite me in the butt one day.
I got this e-mail and thought, “Why would they want MY resume? WHO in the HELL would want MY resume?”
There’s nothing to brag on me about. If they’re looking to show contractors what a great employee pool they have, trust me folks, I ain’t the big ticket item. No PhD here. Not even a Masters. No great technical experience in the field anyone can boast about. I didn’t invent anything. I’m not a leading expert on anything work related.
Cleaning up pizza puke out of a white carpet? Maybe. I’m still working on that.
But at work? No.
So imagine my surprise when I got a PERSONAL e-mail from HR saying very politely, “Bou, please do not forget to get your updated resume to HR.”
Phht. I replied nicely, “I’ll try to scrounge it up somewhere… I think I might have one.”
Yes. I sent that. And when I read my reply outloud to my boss and Tech Lead, as I hit "SEND", suddenly my boss was looking for a copy of my resume. Blech.
Why did I send it? Because it’s the frickin’ truth. I had a great resume put together that got me in the golden doors of Company X, and after that, I never updated it. Short sighted me, just always thought I’d work there until I was 65.
And when the current company I work for called me, the job was already mine. I was horrified when my new boss said, “We need you to come in for an interview, bring your resume.”
I did the big Oh shit! I quickly went through 12 years worth of Performance Appraisals, which I had thankfully kept and filed in chronological order, and went through the ‘job descriptions’ of the various jobs, and bulletized them, putting the verbs in the proper tense.
That was my resume.
So now they want that updated? Great. I have one bullet to add. What a waste of time.
And the more I think about it, the more I think I want to see what happens if I don’t get them what they want. Testing the waters. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to stress out my boss, I REALLY REALLY LIKE him. But, what’s going to happen? Are they going to send the HR police down to arrest me? Are they going to fire me? Wait… are they going to say… I can’t have a cube and I have to share a table with someone?
Besides that… adding one more bullet will push it past one page and I don’t feel like reformatting.
And it isn’t that I have bad attitude. Not really. I like the guys I work with. The job is not the best I’ve had, but not the worst either. But I’m just tired of jumping through hoops for people. I’m done. I… just… don’t… care. Not today, anyway.
Leave it to my house to have neurotic fish. I'm not kidding.
First, the tank went cloudy when my friend was here. She witnessed the entire bizarre episode where the tank got so cloudy all of a sudden, the f***ing fish were nearly bumping into each other.
So I got it cleaned out, crystal clear, and I kid you not, the fish were going nuts. They were doing some sort of crazy fish happy dance.
I looked at her and said, "Did you know... fish... emote?" Holy crap. I had happy fish.
Yesterday I noticed the f***ing fish would only hang out in their castle. It was as if they were paranoid. I went from happy fish to... paranoid fish.
Then today, while still in their paranoid frame of mind, I turned on the fishtank light and they hid even further back. It was if they were almost lurking. After a few hours, I noticed three of them would swim, but the fourth? He's not. He's a freak. He hangs out in dark places. He's not in a good place. I can tell.
But one of his brothers? He may be out and about, but he's always banging into the tank glass and completely flipping out. It's like he's got the herky jerks. He's a nervous freaked out nelly.
I'm not kidding. I think we have pschotic fish. Pscychotic F***ing fish. GRRR.
Maybe their psychoses will shorten their life spans...
We took the kids to see Ice Age 2 this weekend. (The opossums were funny. They reminded me of Merry and Pippin from LOTR.) There was a movie commercial for a drink called Vault.
It… was… hysterical.
This guy has a piece of crap scarecrow that wasn’t doing its job. He takes a drink of Vault, and while standing in this corn field he hears voices that he should build a better scarecrow. And he does.
He builds this scarecrow that breathes fire, shoots missles, you name it. Crows are being zapped, deer, bunnies… everything that could eat his crop, fries.
And then he says something like “Why stop there?” and he decides to go for the Hippies that are encroaching on his land.
And… my boys… thought this was A RIOT. My two eldest looked at me and laughed and said, “He’s going after hippies!” and it was a loud belly laugh.
I have to admit, the commercial was funny, but their reaction was really frickin’ funny.
I’ve always been a voracious reader. I read everything I could get my hands on as a child. From Charley and the Chocolate Factory, being the first book I remember finishing, to every book in the series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I remember a teacher reading us Little House in the Big Woods and I was hooked. Every Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys I could get my hands upon was read and The Secret Garden was a favorite.
For some reason I never got into the Judy Bloom books. All my friends were reading “Are you There God? Its Me Margaret”, but I was looking for the adventure books or mystery. Coming of age books didn’t do it for me.
By the time I was in 8th grade I was reading Gone With The Wind, Watership Down, and Love Story.
But it is 7th grade I remember best, yet not well enough until today. I remember reading Flowers for Algernon for a book report. But the titles of my favorite books that year, have remained a mystery to me, my mind always searching for a clue, as I remember loving them, but for the life of me, I could remember nothing but the color Silver and a King.
I remember going into the Navy base library, and walking amongst the books one day, and finding one that appeared interesting. I don’t remember why I chose it. But I did.
I finished it and went back, realizing there was another and another and I read through the entire series, unable to put them down. And I remember going to the library, thoroughly excited with anticipation of finding the next… it was if it had been written for me.
Nobody else read them. They were always there. I loved them.
Over the years, I have wondered the names of those books. They escaped me. They were fantasy, good vs. evil, dark vs. light, a young boy who was the chosen one. So similar to a Lord of the Rings for children or Harry Potter. Secret places and hidden things and I loved it all.
And then this morning, my eldest needed a Newberry Award winner for his next book report (he chose A Wrinkle In Time), so I printed the list for us to take with us to the library. I was perusing the list when… a title jumped out at me.
It was called The Grey King. It jarred a memory. I jumped on line to see if it could be one of many and there it was… The Silver on the Tree.
I had found it. After 28 years. Did anyone else read these books as a child?
I’ve never had a series of books excite me about reading the way that one did when I was in 7th grade. I have favorites, but they are stand alones. East of Eden by Steinbeck. A Prayer for Owen Meaney by John Irving (one of my favorite authors). The Prince of Tides by Conroy (another favorite author). The Stand by King.
But never a series. It pulled me in like my son is pulled in by Harry Potter. And I suspect that he will never have a series of books he remembers as fondly as Harry Potter. They will forever be a fond memory. But I also suspect, that unlike his mother, he will not forget their names.
I’m buying him the Dark is Rising series. I hope he enjoys it as much as I did.
My blogdaughter VW forgot her anniversary as in marital anniversary. You can see it HERE. It’s really funny.
OK… for those of you that are new readers, to date I have:
Completely forgotten my anniversary.
Scheduled my anniversary dinner on the WRONG night, only to come home to my in-laws who were watching my eldest (my only child at the time), and hearing them say, “So what are you doing tomorrow night on your anniversary…” to which they were met with a *blink* and a blank stare, by me.
Forgotten how many years I’d been married and added one, only to get in a small tiff with my spouse, realizing he was right, I was wrong.
I have yet to forget who I’m married to. The way my life is going, give me 10 years, I might forget that one too.
May you look at each year and realize you love each other more than you did the year before!
Shopping today, well… hmm. I am a low maintenance girl who is finding this skin disorder is converting me to one that is mildly high maintenance and its kind of pissing me off.
I went to one of my favorite stores today, Crabtree and Evelyn, just to see if they might have a sunscreen I can keep in my purse. They did. I’m happy. No question... I saw it was SPF 30, smelled it and bought it.
The Gap was having a sale on long sleeved t-shirts. I bought four… didn’t even bother to try them on. I’m not into shopping.
Then onward I went to buy this make up I’d heard about. that is good for people with rosacea. Bare Essentials is the name. It comes with a starter kit that has two different shades of powder foundation, 3 brushes, and some other bronzer or something. Who knows. But what freaked me out was… it comes with a DVD on HOW TO APPLY IT.
Are you frickin’ kidding me? I need an instructional video on how to wear my stinkin’ make up? Give me a break. I’m FORTY YEARS OLD. I’ve been wearing make up since I was 16. And I need a damn DVD?
I said to the guy at the store (yes it was a salesMAN), “Wait. You’re kidding. I need to watch something to tell me how to apply it and it comes with THREE brushes?” He just nodded his head and said he recommended it.
My current make up came with no video and a sponge.
Did I say I was a low maintenance gal? Oh yes…I…am. And I’m embarking on what sounds like to me the highest maintenance make up ever invented.
Just shoot me. Now.
Meanwhile some little chicky girl is standing next to me telling me how she SWEARS by this make up. Suddenly girls are chiming in from all over about how this stuff rocks. I felt like I was living in a damn Chick Flick.
She said, “Look. See? I love it. I’m wearing it now…” The salesMAN is glowing saying, “See, this make up has its own walking testimonials…”
What did I see? I saw a girl with flawless skin. I saw a young woman in her twenties that hasn’t started to wrinkle from: 1) age, 2) too much sun, 3) lack of sleep due to babies, 4) worry lines from children, or anything else. Flawless.
But I also noticed I could tell she was wearing make up.
I don’t wear enough that you can tell. I wear so little foundation that people don’t know I’m wearing it. I am the Anti-Tammy Fay Baker. And now? Now I’m going to look like I’ve got it caked on?
Phht. I don’t.think.so.
I’m hoping that she just botched up watching the video and I’m not suddenly going to look like Plaster Face.
I so suck at this girl thing. I can’t find the perfect black pump, I can’t find the perfect bra, and now I appear to be traveling a path leading towards Make Up Hell.
I shoulda been born a man.
I had Mr. Smoochy Pants with me last week and I’d forgotten what it was like to actually live with a 2 year old. I was never truly accepted, more like tolerated, but I was able to view the world through his eyes for three days.
My friend taught her son signing very young, so by 6 months of age she was able to communicate with him in some way. Since then verbal skills have come in and although he has his own made up words for many things, even creating his own sentences with these words which I was excited to be able to understand by day 2, real words are coming in as well. He’s very verbal for such a little man and if I recall my eldest was the same way. My other two? No. But my eldest was very similar to her little guy.
So I would sit on the couch with him while he would watch his favorite video which were these incredibly bizarre videos called Baby Einstein, which he called Coo Coo (no clue why), in particular Baby MacDonald, as in… farm.
Pictures would pop up on the TV and the word would appear with a voice explaining the object. He would repeat. I’d hear the TV voice say, “hay” to a picture of a bail of hay and Mr. Smoochy Pants would grin, look at me, and say, “hay”. I’d hear ‘Field’ and Mr. Smoochy Pants would grin at me proudly and say, ‘Field’.
And on this video were windmills. I could never get exactly how he pronounced it. He would never say it for me on command, only when he watched the video. His version appeared to have an extra consonant, but other than that, it sounded like WeeMee.
One day my friend escaped the clutches of her 2 year old to take a shower. That left him and me to fend for ourselves, or rather for him to decide how much he really wanted to tolerate me. I could sit and watch a video next to him, but I couldn’t really invade his personal space. What I really wanted was for him to sit in my lap so I could smooch all over him, but the best I got was when I asked, “Can I give you a kiss?” he’d bend the top of his head towards me so I could kiss his hair.
Hey, I’ll take what I can get.
Anyway, Smoochy Pants was not happy to have me, so I resorted to my desperation move… when kids hate you, take them outside and let them commune with nature. It seems to work. So I took him out to my backyard, he looked around, grabbed my hand and said, “Go”.
So I followed as his short little legs took him to the back of my acre. He was on a mission and I dutifully followed, 2 steps behind. Not a word was said, as he clomped through my grass, with me wondering where in the hell he was going. I resigned myself to the fact he just wanted to walk as far as his little legs could carry him, and when he was finished, I’d carry him back home.
But he had a target in mind and as we made it ¾ of an acre, I noticed he was beelining for my neighbor’s palm trees. They’re little palms, about 6 feet tall at the tip of the frons. He was a little man on a big mission.
We arrived at his final destination and he looked at me, pointed and said, “Wee Mee”. Being from Atlanta, the kid had never seen palm trees. He thought they were windmills. It totally cracked me up.
As we walked back to the house, his leading the way again, his only mission had been to show me the windmills in my neighbor’s back yard, I thought to myself, “I think this is some sort of funky reverse Don Quixote thing we got goin’ on here.”
We’ve been calling him Mr. Smoochy Pants forever, but I may start calling him Don Quixote.
Heard today in our home, by Son#1, “Mom. It’s time you buy us a mat.”
Son#1: A wrestling mat. We need a wrestling mat in the house…
My husband and I had some friends over for dinner. Actually, the husband was on call and had to work, but we still had the wife over with her four boys. So we had seven boys in the house.
I fed them at the kitchen table and my friend and my husband and I ate on the back porch, letting the boys do their thing.
For dessert I’d baked brownies and had gotten vanilla ice cream, hot fudge sauce, cool whip, and bananas. I let the boys tell me what they wanted and then I HEAPED all this stuff in a bowl for them. Her boys range in age from 18 months to 9 years old. (I didn’t do this with the 18 month old… he had one brownie and a bit of ice cream, she fed him.)
I just remember when I was a kid, my eyes getting so big at dessert. I remember my granddaddy just filling our bowls with ice cream. Good memories…
So I totally filled those kids’ bowls with everything. Their mother kept saying, “Holy Cow! I can’t believe how much you gave them!!!”
I said to the boys, “Now y’all don’t have to eat all of it…” and they all looked at me like I had three heads. They were SO happy. They love me. :)
And then I helped her pack up her kids an hour later as they started to come off that sugar high. I told her next time to bring their toothbrushes and jammies and I’d help wash ‘em up and have them ready for bed.
Ten to one says they were asleep by the time they got home. That was a pretty big sugar high they came crashing off of!
From blog sister Tammi’s, we have questions. She typically has a Saturday Question of the Week, but this week it’s a series of questions. So, here are my answers to her original post which is HERE.
*Barefoot or shoes? Barefoot. For sure. I live in S. Florida!
*Tea - sweet or unsweetened? Blech. Neither. I hate tea. I only drink water.
*Clothes - fitted or loose? Loose I think. Jeans, shorts, t-shirts… I think those are loose, aren’t they? I don’t do midriff and clothes that look like they’re painted on.
*Fish - fresh water or salt water? Salt. I could live on eating fish alone. And after our f***ing fish, I HATE fresh water fish!
*Gravy or plain? Plain.
*House - spotless or "lived in"? Lived in.
*Solitude or people? This is tough. I like my solitude, but I need some interaction. I just don’t like crowds.
*Beer or alcohol? Neither. I don’t drink. (I truly ONLY drink water…)
*Fiction or nonfiction? Fiction. Like Tammi, I need the escape.
*Weather - Hot or cold? What is 70 degrees considered? That’s the best weather for me. 2nd best is HOT. Cold scares me. Really.
Tomorrow will be spent buying long sleeved t-shirts and purchasing new make up. My rosacea is out of control. In February my face was consumed by it from jaw line to hair line. We think high stress triggered the onslaught. Its better now, but I went to see my doctor about it finally as my eyes are beginning to hurt too, and two things happened at the visit: I’m not longer a once a year dermatologist kind of gal, but a once every 6 months gal and I’m on an anti-biotic for the next FIVE MONTHS.
I actually don’t care that my face looks this way. I truly don’t. They talk about psychological distress in people with rosacea, but I don’t have that. I don’t think about it. Granted, I’m not at the point that some of the pictures show, but I do have all the secondary features from the website I have linked. If I were 16, I think I’d be a mess, but at 40, I couldn’t give a flip. I’ve never been consumed with my looks. I’ve always considered myself, “Very smart and by the way, I’m not ugly.” That’s it. Plus, heavy make up does wonders...
But, my problem is… my face and eyes hurt. They burn all the time. I don’t think that is good. So I am following his orders with a new cream (my old one quit working), a prescription facial scrub, and this anti-biotic that has some potential nasty side effects… just so my face and eyes will quit hurting.
As I type this they both feel like they’re on fire.
The biggest adjustment is I can’t be in the sun. I’ll burn. Or worse. I’m one of those people than can walk by a window and tan. I protect my skin now as I don’t need to get that kind of sun, but on a day to day basis, I don’t normally worry. If I’m taking the boys to the beach or to the pool, I wear SPF as high as I can buy. On a daily basis though? Sunscreen only on my face. I’m a freak about sun on my face.
Overall, however, I get very brown.
Or I did.
So now I’m a freak about protecting my whole body. I have the wide brimmed hat, but now comes the long sleeved t-shirts, and I’m looking for a better sunscreen for under my make up. I’m also changing to a make up that is recommended to women with rosacea. I’ve heard about it too much from women with my skin disorder NOT to try it. So tomorrow it is.
Silent Warrior has this post on trivia and something his community is doing, which sounds very cool.
Well ladies and gentlemen, it's trivia time once more in our lovely town of Stevens Point this weekend. This year's theme? "The Odd Couple" For those of you who aren't familiar with this annual event, it's the largest trivia event in the world! This is the 37th year that they have done it, and it's essentially thousands of people in hundreds of teams competing against each other for fun. They listen to the local radio station to get their questions. They give you the trivia question, play a song, repeat the question, play a song, and then give the answer. Then it's on to the next question. This pattern is repeated for THREE DAYS!
He also has a link to some trivia questions… answers to go in the comment section of his post. Click on the link he has near the bottom and see if you know the answers. With my trouble with faces, I didn’t get any of them! GRRR.
My best friend from high school has been getting an ear full with my three boys. She has one child, a beautifully sweet and quiet 2 year old boy.
Everyone knows what I have.
So it’s been quite an experience for her living with the rolling ball of noise. She says it can be quite overwhelming at times.
Today she got a dose of what it’s like when I pick up the kids from school. Her little man in his car seat, I got the boys backpacks and junk in my van and got them situated. On the road, the following conversation ensued to the best of my recollection.
Bones: Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, when it’s my birthday in June, can you get me a pet bunny rabbit?
Two weeks ago all three wanted a beagle. Last week Bones wanted a pet chick for Easter, which I promptly told him NO and would one day grow into a chicken, which my 2nd son thought was cool because after it was dead, they could mummify it. I guess in 3rd grade they mummify a chicken at our school.
Yeah, there will be no mummifying at our house. No chicks, bunnies, or puppies. I’m done. It’s taking all I can do to keep those F***ing fish alive. Oh the saga continues on that one too… I just don’t have the mental energy to write about it…
My 11 year old is learning. I am so proud.
Although I am not Catholic, my husband and his family are. So my boys are being raised Catholic, going to a small Catholic school in the area. This was MY choice and not something I was asked to do. I really love their school. Every school has issues, don’t get me wrong, but I’m very happy with what we have going on.
But this year I’ve started talking to my eldest more and more about independent thought and not believing everything you hear, not accepting, but researching and thinking. One person's thoughts are just that… their thoughts. There could be other theories on the same topic.
Now my younger two, I let them believe whatever they hear. Its not quite time yet for me to venture out into other thoughts concerning religion. They are too mouthy. If their teacher tells them about the Virgin Mary, then I let them believe she was a virgin. But if my 11 year old hears about it, I am more apt to say, “You know…” and I give him the historical background on the Catholic Church and virgin births. I want him to form his own opinions.
I want him to be his own man.
But I also want him to respect the opinion of others. He needs to know people are entitled to their opinions just as he is entitled to his. And he needs to truly understand when is the appropriate and inappropriate time to voice his.
For instance, it is inappropriate to tell his religion teacher that Mary may not have been a virgin.
Disagreeing with the religious dogma taught in his school is a BIG no no… as is calling the class bully a f***er during PE, but hey, that’s a whole other story.
I decided long ago that I wanted my kids to have an understanding of Christianity and to be raised in the faith. What they decide to do as adults is THEIR business, but with the faith background, they can make their own choices.
Every Thursday my 5th grader has a current event due for school. He goes on line and looks through MSN and prints something he finds fascinating, reads it, and creates a synopsis. (He almost always chooses Science and Technology.)
On Wednesday, he was doing his thing when I came over and said, “Dude, we have to go to your baseball game. Make a decision already. You’ve been reading on-line for an hour and we’ve GOT TO go.”
He said, ‘OK. I’m choosing this… Its my favorite.”
And I looked over his shoulder and it was THIS article on how Christ may have walked on ice instead of water.
Now I found the whole thing fascinating, and was pleasantly surprised he did too. But then I got concerned.
I said to him, “Hmm. Let’s think about the wisdom of picking such an article for your current event…”
And he replied very matter of fact, “Oh don’t worry Mom. It’s not for Mrs. P (who is their religion teacher as well as Math and a few other subjects). It’s for Mrs. S. She does our current event. And it’s cool with her. She’s not Catholic…”
And I had to laugh. Really it doesn’t matter whether she is Catholic or not, but the fact he realized that there was no way in hell he’d get away with it with Mrs. P made me think I am making progress. He is starting to realize what is expected of him and what he can and cannot do in the classroom. He is understanding personalities and rules.
I think that’s pretty damn important.
I realized today that hurricane season starts in less than 2 months.
I think I may vomit...
My best friend from high school, PFB, is in town with Mr. Smoochy Pants, her 2 year old. I watched him today while she ran an errand and I cannot believe the progress we made. The boy HATED me yesterday. Today I was tolerated. I never got him to sit on my lap so I could smooch him, but at least now he'll stand next to me and he even took my hand and led me somewhere. That is BIG.
We decided to go the the beach this evening with the boys. As we were packing up I was thinking, 'Why do I not do this once a week?'
I remember when Bones went to 5 day a week preschool, I thought, "I'll go once a week after I drop him off at school... just me and a book on the beach."
It never happened. Oh I put my beach chair in the back of my car, but never once did I make it to the beach. Its unfortunate too, as going to the beach is so cathartic. But I filled my time with other things and never made it to the beach.
And God only knows I'm the type of person who SHOULD be going to the beach once a week. My personality type needs the mellowing.
Case in point, I received an e-mail from my best girlfriend that I used to work with at Company X. She has seen me at my warpath worst. She read my post on the Zoo and Bones forgetting his shoes and she threw me an e-mail essentially saying as she read it she was horrified at the thought of how mad I would be. I think she was amazed I didn't stroke out.
PFB and I were talking this morning and she mentioned that when she read the Zoo post she thought, "Oh no. Oh no...." and she too iterated she was surprised I didn't stroke. This coming from a girl who says I defended her against a big bully in high school on her first of school her freshman year. She tells the story like I rose up to be 10 feet tall.
Anyway, so we took the boys to the beach, and I could feel myself mellow considerably.
But packing up to go home reminded me why I don't do this with the boys once a week. Holy crap. What a logistical pain in the neck...
There is sand ALL OVER my house. GRRR.
But I still need to go alone, just once a week...
I have worked with men my entire life. I've worked with women too, but my profession has always been male dominated.
Wow. This situation I'm in now is so damn different...and so damn funny.
I'm working with men, who have worked together for 2 years or longer. The same group of guys in a small room. They know each other very very well. And I sit in the middle of them.
The things I accidentally hear! It's like a dinner conversation with my boys! There is a stomach virus going around work too, evidently. Wow. So much description! I was dying!
Boys don't grow up... they just hide it from the women. I'm cool. Really. I'm just kind of having my eyes opened!
And slowly the guys are getting to know me. My idiosyncracies, my need to eat every two hours, the whole Peanut Butter thing.
This morning Alpha Male came in shouting, "Good Morning, Skippy!" It may not stick with the others, but it is going to stick with him.
Meanwhile, I opened my drawer to get my peanut butter out and attached to the top was a yellow sticky that read-
I stole some of your peanut butter because my wife made my lunch and put in a bag of chips and two pieces of bread and left the tuna in the fridge.
And so the story goes... according to EVERYONE in the office, as EVERYONE knew about this, Mr. Magoo opened his lunch on Friday to find a bag o' chips and toasted bread and called his wife and said, "Are you pissed at me?" She replied, 'no... why?" and he said, "Well... all I got for lunch was a bag of chips and two pieces of toasted bread..." at which point she laughed that she'd forgotten the meat.
So he realized I had my peanut butter and wrote the note, but upon opening it, he found yet another idiosyncracy of mine... I keep my peanut butter smoothed.
That's right, I don't dig into it. I keep the top level. And when he saw this, he evidently declared it to the men in the office, who all laughed, and then he took a 4 inch gouge into my Jiff. Heh.
I told them he need not have bothered to leave me a note, I would have known immediately someone had been in my peanut butter! I'm glad I know who though. It would have creeped me out otherwise...
My desk mate brought in a space heater. For the first time in 18 months, I didn't wear a sweater to work. I e-mailed her and said her bringing the space heater improved my quality of life ten fold!
Working at that little table is turning out to be a lot of fun...
My Mom and TGOO attended a wedding about a year ago and the pictures just came back to the bride and groom. Evidently everyone has been wondering who the dapper guy in the blue seer sucker suit was… the man with the neatly trimmed gray beard.
And evidently there was talk about his being a Sean Connery look alike.
Heh. We are laughing.
Someone has always thought he looked like a movie star. And these stars… they change. When I list them out, you will find that nobody agrees. He is Playdough Face.
When they first got married, my Mom had a friend who swore he looked like Paul Newman. (He has blue eyes.)
A woman in our neighborhood when I was a teenager thought he looked like Robert Redford.
When in the Navy, he had to board a Taiwanese ship. This was the late 70s. From what I understand, there was commotion when he boarded. Half the crew thought he looked like Robert Redford, the other half Paul Newman.
About 20 years ago, before TGOO grew his beard, I thought he looked like Johnny Carson as did others. I think it was the smile.
My Mom thought he looked like Ed Harris.
Everyone focuses on the smile or the eyes. Now they focus on the beard.
TGOO says all men with a well groomed beard look alike.
I don’t think so.
So here’s a picture of TGOO as a Midshipman. Amazing how all these movie stars came out of that one face….
We had camping this past weekend as is evident by my posts as well as lack thereof. We went camping with the Cub Scouts on a small island off the coast here called Peanut Island. It’s a state park.
Thursday night we were at dinner and my second son said he didn’t feel well. He’s the one with stomach issues, so it was just par for the course for me. So I told him I thought perhaps he wasn’t getting enough sleep with homework, projects due, baseball etc and this is when Bones’ chimed in.
Wait. Did I say it was dinner? Yes.
Bones: Mom. Son#2 had the most disgusting diarrhea ever today when he came home from school. It was gross…
Son#1: Oh man. It was bad. I can’t believe you didn’t smell it Mom. The stench was all over. It was the worst we’ve ever smelled.
Meanwhile my 2nd son is sitting there grinning at me as if this is something to be proud of, as if there is some award that can be gotten for the nastiest paint peeling poop. The boys continued on their vast description of the foulest most explosive poop ever and I’m not even saying anything. I haven’t given up complete hope for civility at our dinner table, but there are days that I just know it is truly not attainable. That was one.
By 8:00 he’d thrown up. He repeated it then at 10, 10:20, 10:40… see a pattern? He was ill every 20 minutes until about 4AM. I slept on the couch so I could be with him every time he was ill. Around 2AM, realizing I wasn’t going to sleep but 15 minutes, I defragged the kids’ computer and ran a virus scan.
It was a long night.
Finally at 4AM he was better and I attempted to catch some sleep on the couch, but I was more concerned about the next day. It appeared we’d have to cancel our camping trip.
I had set it up so that we’d camp next to the family we are friends with… he being a former Marine F/A-18 driver, who is now an airline pilot. That little piece of information kind of comes into play. My husband had to work late, so I knew I had to pack the van and get all the stuff to the island, as well as set up camp by myself. I’m cool with that, totally cool, as daunting as it was, but it was just nice thinking someone might have my back.
So we’d all agreed that since his wife had to stay behind with their baby, that he and I would take the remaining boys, set up our camps, and all would be cool.
He is like me however. We are rigid people and although both he and I are trying to mellow and be more flexible, when we make plans, we expect we’ll stick with them. We all laugh that if he and I had gotten married, we’d laugh a lot, but we’d have killed each other.
So I knew I needed to let them know as soon as possible about our having to cancel. I called them at 8AM and said I’d know by 11, but it looked bleak.
But by 11, my son had eaten breakfast, kept it down, and was pinging off the walls. Camping was on. My only concern was that one of the other boys, or even I, was harboring this stomach virus and it would rear its ugly head while we were camping.
I had no desire to live our 11th Annual Puke Fest while in a tent on an island. Blech. (Every winter or spring for the last 11 years, we’ve had a stomach virus in this house. The last two years I’ve been lucky enough not to physically partake… my job only to wash sheets and towels and offer words of encouragement that they in fact only felt like they would die, as I wiped drool from their mouths.)
I had so much crap in my van, I thought the tires would pop. Sleeping bags, tent, food for 3 days, clothes for 5 people… eating utensils, a Coleman stove (courtesy of my sister for Christmas and I LOVED it), etc. We were packed down.
We caravanned it to the Marina as we had to take a water taxi to the island. We dropped the boys off with our stuff and then Tim and I drove our vehicles to park them. And this is when my secret came out… I cannot park worth a flip. Here I am with a man who used to park aircraft on a postage stamp, a man who flies big airliners and manages to get them parked at airport gates and I… can’t park a frickin’ mini van.
I pulled into my parking spot, got out and I was cockeyed. I mean COCKEYED. Bad. I looked at Tim and said, “uh oh.” He replied with a ‘Sweetheart, you park like a woman. You need to straighten it out…”
My secret is out with him. Mr. “Can land a jet on a postage stamp” is now fully aware I can’t park to save my life. He was already aware I can’t back up my van. I informed him of that previously… that last time we camped if we had to back in and my husband wasn’t there, it was his job to back in my van.
I was honest with him, however, and said, “I think you just insulted all women. I park far worse than any other person I’ve ever met…” He was nice and tried to tell me it wasn’t so bad, but we both know… yes.it.is.
We made it over to the island and I set up our family’s camp without help. I got the tent up and everything. He said he had a tough time not interfering. He told my husband when he arrived much later from work, he really wanted to jump in and do it, but I had told him in the outset I needed to know I could set up our site by myself. I did.
We had the best time. The boys were up at 6AM every morning (we are not having problems adjusting to Daylight Savings Time), grabbed their fishing poles, and were on the beach until I called them in for breakfast, lunch, dinner or s’mores. If they weren’t fishing, they were digging in the sand, or wrestling with their buddies, or down at the snorkeling lagoon.
During the day it was in the 80s, but at night it dropped down into the low 60s. I slept hearing the waves lap the beach, fresh salt air, and my boys exhausted… until 6AM, when the sun came up and I could hear them scrambling to put their clothes on to hit the beach again, fishing poles in hand.
This is why people live in Florida…
Blogging on our camping trip as well as a project for my 2nd son is coming this week. They’re both long posts and are taking some time for me to write. So you’ll be seeing them both soon.
Briefly, however, we had a great time. There is nothing like sleeping in a tent and hearing the waves on the beach…
I’m still feeling very mellow. I feel certain that the good feeling will be gone when that alarm goes off at 5:45, however. Just a suspicion…
We came home from camping to find… the tank is cloudy again. I can’t believe they aren’t bumping into each other. Fish must have some sort of sonar.
Frustrating doesn’t begin to tell it. I have named the fish now. They are now collectively called, The F***ing Fish. It was bound to happen. It happened today.
I do believe the problem is the filter. I think it has malfunctioned and the part I needed to replace was not readily available. It took three pet stores before I found the replacement part.
The filter appears to be working now. I’m giving it until tomorrow for the water to clear up and if its not, we’ll drain it and refill again… just giving the filter a little boost.
I hate them. The F***ing fish. I really do. I want them to die. But not at my hands. I don’t want the blood of fish on my hands. I want to know they were just swimming along, living their little utopic fishy lives in the perfect tank that the perfect family of Mom, Dad, 3 boys, and a hamster supplied for them, when they just went fin up and died… old age. The fish in the House of Bou are supposed to die of old age.
Not because I can’t get the frickin’ chemistry right in their tank.
The light is off on the tank to hopefully quell the bacteria growing until the filter can catch up. We shall see. And how long does a frickin’ gold fish live? How long before they’re long in the gill and kick off?
F***ing Fish. I hate ‘em. GRRR.
Whereas most men seem to have an aversion to their wives saying, “I’m going shopping!” mine does not. He develops that nervous twitch when I say, “I’m going to Sports Authority!” I could do all my shopping there. I’d be content to buy all my casual clothes (except jeans) from The Sports Authority.
My faves: long sleeved t-shirts and clothes I can run in.
So as I’m walking through today, frustrated that nothing was really on sale, and even more frustrated that anything on sale did not appear to be my size, on a search for more running shorts, I found shorts that were… 20-30 bucks.
Folks. Be honest with me. Are there people out there that really spend that kind of cash for shorts to… run in? Give me a daggum break. I just needed a pair of cotton shorts, I don’t need those new fangled shorts made by people formerly of NASA who used to dress astronauts. I don’t need these materials that keep the moisture from my body or keep me cooler or whatever else they do.
This stuff must be made for the real athletes, of which I am no longer one. Three years ago? Yes. I fit in that category. I was LEAN and toned. I trained incessantly, whether it was Karate, running, swimming, or cycling. It is all I did. But even then I never got wrapped up in the attire. I just needed a good damn pair of running shoes. Good equipment. Shorts don’t fall in that realm.
But I’m not there anymore and I’m happier for it. Sure, I’m 13 pounds heavier than I was 3 years ago and there are times I beat myself up for it mentally, but overall, I’m more curvy than I was and I don’t always have a frickin’ sports injury. Injuries suck. Big.
Anyway, I’m all about functionality. I found my $9.00 cotton gym shorts and they were on sale for $7.00. I’ll pass on gym shorts for $30… No thanks.
We had to come in town from camping for the boys’ baseball game. When you have two boys on the same team, the thought of their forfeiting a game due to lack of players hangs over one’s head. Its one thing should they get sick… it’s a whole other issue that they aren’t there because ‘we’re camping’. So we made it back in for the game.
And I experienced for the first time what I had not yet seen in Little League ball, yet had heard tales.
I’m gonna be blunt folks. The other coach was a complete prick. I was appalled at his behavior. This is KIDS’ baseball… you’d think he was playing in the majors.
Now let me tell you about our coaches. I happen to know the guy who runs the Little League organization my boys’ play in. He knew my situation, that my kids had never played organized ball, so he MADE SURE my kids’ got on a team with good coaches, yet very low key. Our coaches are melllllllow. But good. They never make a kid feel bad about a play. Never.
And they ALWAYS cheer the other team when they make a good play. It’s not uncommon for an opposing player to make a great hit and to hear one of our coaches yell after the ball is finished being played, “That was a GREAT hit!” They’re just really supportive of all the kids… either team.
Their attitude is, “Let’s play some ball and by the way, its fun if we win, but no biggy.”
So this coach was such a prick, incredible, and finally our coaches had absolutely HAD IT. I mean they were DONE. Last inning, the coach is making a fool of himself and our coaches finally started to yell across at him, “You are really providing a real role model for your kids there coach. You must be so proud!”
The ump had to stop the game for everyone to take a breath. Our coaches chilled, their coach kept his mouth shut. For two hours our coaches took his crap and finally called him on it.
I heard later this is how he is. Baseball is SERIOUS stuff and he and his kids taunt other kids who don’t play as well. He has actually turned kids off to baseball. Nice, eh? I can't believe they let him coach. He must just walk that fine line.
So I decided I needed to find out who this coach was. I needed to keep his name on my ‘permanent sh** list’, because… I have one of those. And when you make that list, you never come off. It takes an act of God, really. As I am apt to say, “I rarely forgive, but I NEVER forget.” Ever.
It turns out I know this guy. When I heard his last name, I was stunned. Absolutely, stunned. I didn’t recognize him because I have a problem with faces and I’d only met him a couple times, but we run in the same circles. We have mutual friends.
I was so looking forward to one day meeting him and saying, “Oh I remember you. You’re that prick who coached in Little League baseball. I wasn’t impressed.” Oh and I have patience. I was prepared to do it in 30 years. Oh yes.
Don’t think for a minute I wouldn’t do it. I’ve done worse.
But now I will hold my tongue. There are reasons. I have a horse to lose in the race should I say something. There are many who would suffer for my self satisfaction of telling this guy what I think of him.
So I shall pass.
But don’t think I’ve forgotten. And I will make sure that even if we run in the same circles… I have no interaction with him.
Scary scary scary… he touts himself to being such a good Christian man. I hope I am there when he falls off that ivory tower… I’ve watched him in action. It will be a long fall.