We've officially arrived into what I call "God's Country", Pensacola, Florida, home of Naval Aviation, white beaches, McGuires Irish Pub, and some of the nicest folks you'll ever meet.
Also really crappy traffic as the town is growing too big too quickly, an ill that appears to be afflicting more and more towns in the South.
The trip was uneventful, which is always a bonus. I nearly killed my two younger kids, but fortunately the trip ended just as I was going to unbuckle my seat belt and lunge at the back seat, done with telling the two of them to keep their hands off each other.
"But Mommmmm! We're just plaaaayyyyying!" is always the song of the hour until it is ended with a chorus of weeping and gnashing of teeth as the playing somehow always ends in someone getting hurt.
Anyway, a little background for those of you not in the know... The Great Omnipotent One is bald. He has what I call horse shoe hair... just a rim of gray hair along the side of his head.
When I was in college and Mo was in high school, he would sit in his chair reading as one of us would be bebopping on our way out for the night, all done up with make up and the likes, and the last stop was always to his chair, where we would kiss him on the top of his head.
It was two fold in our act... we were kissing him good night and whilst doing so, we were... blotting our lipstick! Worked GRRRREAT!
Anyway, military family, and TGOO has no hair.
So I was wondering what he was going to think when he saw my eldest walk in as my eldest has that whole frickin' Donny Osmond look goin' on that appears to be big with the pre-teen and teenage set right now.
Makes me nuts.
My cause of trying to get his hair cut was not helped when his favorite Aunt Mo, saw his hair in May, ran her fingers through it and told him how much SHE LOVED IT and how 'in' it was. 'Oh I LOVE your hair! This is so GREAT! It's so 70s!"
That last part was lost upon my 11 year old. All he heard was she loved it and thought it was great. She could have said it was so 20's and he wouldn't have noticed.
So in walks Son#1 with his long freaky hair that he keeps brushed forward and makes me nuts, when TGOO comes up and says, 'You look like a Beatle! Hello Ringo! If I had hair I'd grow it like that too...."
The military man who kept his head shaved, but now has no hair, is thinking it would be cool to be able to look like Ringo Starr and is egging my 11 year old on.
Mo informed me today that she thinks feathering will come back in. I am praying to the Fashion Gods that it does NOT.
And to think that just 8 months ago the same son was telling my hairdresser, "Can you shave me bald?" and I'm quietly saying in her ear, 'I don't care what he asks for, do NOT shave him bald. Crew cut is great. Bald- not so much."
Now I'm living with a small version of Ringo Starr...
We are on the road...
And a van full of crap.
9 hour drive broken into two days as we're leaving after dinner to Pensacola to TGOO and Hubba's house.
Hamster cage is clean.
Goldfish are fed for a week.
All bedsheets are clean and back on beds.
All dishes washed and put away.
House is spotless.
I need a nap.
Oh wait. I can't. I have a 5 hour drive ahead of me...
More tomorrow. You do realize... its all about blog fodder. Heh.
How many of you have ever seen the movie SSSSS? We’re just wondering.
Mo was five when she saw it, making my brother nine and me 11. It seems to have been something that greatly effected Mo’s psyche; I just remember being horrified by the movie.
Hmm, that whole ‘effected her pscyhe’ thing sounds so Freudian with regards to this movie. Heh. We won’t go there…
Anyway, evidently she called TN yesterday and said, “Guess what movie is on TV?!! The movie SSSSS!”
Mo: That movie from the 70s, that we saw when we were kids SSSSS.
TN: It sounds like static when you do that.
So she wants to find a copy of this awful movie when I am home with the boys and have them watch it. I said, ‘No. I don’t want them seeing that awful movie…!”
Her reply, “Why not?! I saw it when I was five!”
Yeah. And? Her point is?! Phhht. No thanksssssssss…
I am a definite believer in that whole ‘Teach a Man to Fish’ thing.
In our case today it would be, Cook a Boy an Egg and he eats for one meal. Show him how to make an Omelete and he makes four.
With three kids, this teaching self sufficiency thing sometimes gets a slow start with the eldest, his learning to do things a bit later sometimes than other kids his age, while Bones learns younger than others.
My eldest decided today he could make his own omelete. I got out all he needed, he swore he knew what he was doing, so I left him to his own devices. Ten minutes later I smell his lunch is finished and find him eating his burnt cheese and egg creation. The cheese was burned, not the egg. And he had gone so far as to even grate his own cheese. He wanted it to look like a professional did it, folding it over just so.
My second son was completely enthralled with the fact that his older brother actually… cooked… as in ‘on the stove’ and not just ‘in the toaster’ and so he requested one as well.
As long as they clean up their messes and are safe, I’m cool.
In one hour we went through 8 eggs and a brick of cheese. I don’t think they’re really that hungry, although they ate everything. I think it is the thought of eating what they’ve made… It’s exciting to them.
PractiGal e-mailed me today about The Great Omnipotent One's meal planning and it reminded me of this story.
I think I’ve mentioned before that TGOO creates a spreadsheet of our meals before we arrive. It hangs on the refrigerator. It is broken out like a calendar and lists the meals for each day, all courses, including dessert. Under it, he lists out the ingredients and does his shopping off these daily chart lists. Also arrival and departure times are on this sheet, so he knows who will be for dinner and who will not. If my husband and I are having a date night, he writes it on there so he knows we won’t be there for dinner.
If one wants a day to cook, for instance, if my husband and I want to cook a meal for the family, you have to tell TGOO six months in advance. Once the meal spreadsheet is set in stone… it is in… stone. There are NO DEVIATIONS from the menu spreadsheet.
So at Thanksgiving Mo and Mo’s Beau called a night and my Better Half and I called a night, so there are two nights reserved for us to plan our own cooking. If we had tried to wait and called him, oh… let’s see… a month in advance and said, “Dad, I want a day to cook”, his reply would have been, “Nope. Schedule’s complete.”
You’d think he was running flight ops or something.
TGOO’s favorite dessert is Banana Pudding. The last two years, I’ve tried to make his favorite dessert while we are there in July. It is my Mom’s birthday on July 6th and she has a special cake I love to make for her, so we have that on her birthday. And TN, who is an August birthday, is in town and his favorite cake is this fantastic purloined Carrot Cake that TGOO makes… so that is made that week as well.
On July 4th TGOO also makes his Blueberry and Peach Cobblers. THE BEST, I swear they are.
So what are we talking here? On the 4th, Blueberry and Peach cobblers, on the 6th Angel Food cake with a decadent to die for dark chocolate fudge icing, on the 7th, purloined carrot cake… and throughout the week leftover desserts.
I forgot about the Banana Pudding.
TGOO called me the other day and said, “Did we have Banana Pudding last year?”
And I said, “Oh my God! Yes! I make that for you! But remember, we don’t make it the 4th of July because all the guests eat it all, so I have to make it before or after so you have leftovers…”
Yes, we plan when we make the Banana Pudding so all my cousins and extended family don’t eat it all. I think Banana Pudding has been eaten in its leftover state for breakfast before, but I’m not certain. Either way, there must be leftover and the one year I made it for the 4th, there was NONE, so now we don’t. We wait for everyone to leave or make it before.
So now he has brought this Banana Pudding ‘problem’ up… where to fit it. So I asked him to tell me when the desserts were positioned.
Cobblers on the 4th. Angel Food Cake with Chocolate Fudge Frosting on the 6th. Purloined Cheesecake on the 7th. I am leaving with the boys on the 9th.
So I said, “OK, that is a helluva a lot of desserts at the END of our stay. How about we have it at the beginning?”
TGOO: Oh. We can’t do that. That’s taken. We’ll have it on the 8th.
Me: Dad, that’s a lot of leftover desserts and stuff… why not the beginning of the week?
TGOO: We’re having Cheesecake.
Now I’m realizing that we are starting to test the boundaries of his flexibility as… there is none… and just realizing we have forgotten the Banana Pudding off THE MEAL SPREADSHEET, which was made out SIX MONTHS AGO, is pushing it as it is.
So we talk a bit more about how my brother will be able to finish off that Carrot Cake single handedly as he loves it so much… and I slowly bring it back...
Me: So. Dad. Are you MAKING this cheesecake? (Sidenote: He makes a tremendous chocolate cheesecake.)
Me: Wait. So we are preferring a store bought cheesecake (Sam’s Turtle cheesecake) over my homemade Banana Pudding?
TGOO: You’re right. Scratch the Cheesecake. Banana Pudding on Sunday.
Me: You know Dad, it’s not a bad thing to NOT be so damn rigid. It’s OK to be flexible. It really is!
You know its this chicken and egg scenario, right? Did TGOO go into the military because his structure fit the profession so well… OR… did he become more the way he is while making the military his career. I’m opting for his structure fit the profession… but watching him run that kitchen like something akin to frickin’ flight ops scheduling makes me wonder…
It is all over the internet now. Rob Smith of Gut Rumbles passed away early this morning.
Rob earned his name Acidman with good reason. There seemed to be turmoil where he was involved. Some of it was funny. Some of it… not so much.
I met him in Austin this past April and sat next to him for a few hours and talked about politics, religion, and other things, many things typically regarded as hot button topics like our views on God. But they weren’t hot button with him and it was a real pleasure. He was smart and articulate, well read and insightful.
As much as he came off as so damn caustic on the internet, in person, he was not, at least not when sober. I’ve heard the stories of what he was like when not. I’m glad I didn’t witness them.
It was an inevitability to everyone, knowing what he’d put his body through over the years, his demise, but I will say I had so much hope. I think I’m so very sad because of the great hope I held in my heart for him. He had been sober for nearly six months if I recall.
And in that sobriety I had hopes for him to have things worked out with his son and for him to repair broken relationships. I had hope that the years following would be so much better than some of the years in the recent past. I had hopes for a peace for his soul.
But that was obviously not to be. That makes me sad. My heart breaks for his daughter and son who lost their Dad. He loved his kids and he loved his Mama. There was never any doubt. Now I hope that his friends will one day be able to see his little boy and make sure he knows how much. I know his daughter knows and as I said, my heart breaks for her.
We leave for Pensacola for our 2 week vacation on Thursday night. Bones started packing today. I have heard him mutter under his breath, no less than four times today, ‘Four more days. We leave in four more days….”
He is so excited.
He bounded out of bed today, a flurry of energy as I’d given him the green light yesterday, to start packing today. As I prepared breakfast I heard his small voice yell from the bedroom, “Mom, Mom, Mooooom! If you want me to wear undies in Pensacola, you better do the wash…”
Now, as I say to him frequently, “I know you. There were two before you”, I know his thought processes. Inside he is thinking, “I want to go commando, but I have to give Mom the opportunity to do the wash.”
Don’t think for a minute he ‘wants to wear’ undies. No. He wants me to forget to do laundry so he can go commando and then when I notice in Pensacola he can say, “But Mom! I told you I needed you to do the laundry!”
He was just covering his bases. I know how he thinks…
This weekend, the Straight White Guy and his Straight White Wife, met up with the Grouchy Old Cripple, and Mr. Debonair, and Mr. Thunder 'n Roses for dinner and drinks... and Mo and Mo's beau met up with them for the drink part.
I am frickin' GREEN with envy! GRRRR. GREEN.
By the way, I can't keep my eyes from THIS post. I keep following those daggum balls... I think this is some form of internet crack.
Heh. How's that for a title?
I went shopping yesterday. These are my observations.
Long shorts are coming back in. I mean long as in down to the knee. I’m cool with that. I tried a pair on and they actually look pretty nice and I will have to buy a pair or two.
BUT, I’m kind of sort of pissed, because as I said in a post this past spring when I went shopping with Mo, I only have so many years left that I can wear shorty shorts. I don’t mean the three inch shorts with the zippers that have only two teeth, that the kids wear. I mean regular shorts that stop about an inch from the top of my hamstring. I got good gams from my Mom and grandma. My grandmother at 70 had legs that 30 year old woman would vie for. Mom too. (But she’s not 70!) Mom has great legs.
Anyway, Mo and I figured I have another five years where I can wear real shorts and get away with it. And now long shorts come back in. Time is ticking and the fashion industry goes to long shorts.
And while shorts are going longer, can they pull the waist up an inch or two? Good Lord. I am SOOOO tired of this low slung crap. I don’t have the body for it. I’m FORTY. I had THREE KIDS. It doesn’t matter how many sets of abs I do or anything else… I am NOT going to regain my waist and using blog father Harvey’s expression, I look like a muffin in low slug pants. GRRRR.
As I passed by Godiva Chocolates in our mall, a little voice called from within the store. It is a voice that I think only women can hear. I feel certain. It said, “Booooooouuuuu, Bouuuuuuuuu, coooommmmme in and jusssst looooook.”
So I did.
And of course as I was buying a small something to take home I saw this big poster on the wall and it said, “Try our Chocolixir!” and of course I had to ask the gentleman at the counter, “Exactly WHAT is a Chocolixir?” to which he replied, “All Godiva chocolate with crushed up ice.”
I said, “OK. I’ll take one. And I’ll take a dark chocolate decadence.” Surprise.
And he said, “Oh, we sell 30 of these a day…”
And it was oh so very good and I will have to force myself never to try another again or it will be a very bad habit, as I suspect it is for many as I noticed women throughout the mall had chocolixirs in their hands.
The perfect PMS treat. I am sure. Among other things.
I worked in The Limited during Christmas’s in college. They were clean and hip and all of us were dressed clean and neat and were very friendly. I stopped in one yesterday and it was dirty and skanky and the girls who worked there needed to buy clothes the right size instead of a size too small… and they needed to be a bit more friendly. Cold. Skanky. Icky. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m too old.
And… I went bathing suit shopping. I know, I know. The women are sympathetic and then men are thinking, “Oh crap, did her husband hide when she got home?” It wasn’t so bad.
I was hugely disappointed that boy shorts bathing suits seem to be out this year. Damn. I liked those. I ended up going with this ‘skater skirt’ which is a really short skirt. I like it. It’s nice. I like boy shorts better.
But its funny how supportive women are of each other when bathing suit shopping as we ALL hate it. All of us. I’ve never talked to a woman who has said, “Oh! Yeeee haaa! I’m going shopping for a bathing suit today! I LOVE to see my body in Tri mirrors, looking at parts of my body that I’ve never seen, in the most horrible light ever created! Yahooo!” Nobody wants to see a cottage cheese butt or thighs.
Let us pretend that what we don’t see still looks as it did when we were 18. Fantasy. Let us live our fantasies.
So I tried on this really cool funky bathing suit, but I needed a different size. It was funky. I was tempted to get it as it had polka dots all over the top and if you stared at it too long, it looked like one of those optical quizzes…. “Are these dots moving?”
I was standing right outside the door, looking for the woman who was helping me, when another female shopper says to me, “That is really cute on you.”
Me: Thanks. I think it’s kind of funky… It looks like one of those eye tests. I’m trying to decide.
Her: I don’t think I’d look good in something like that.
Me: You don’t think? I think you would. Look at that great waist you have… I don’t have one.
Her: Phhht. Yeah, but look at your fantastic legs! I don’t have that!
The older I get, the more I appreciate women and what we bring to the table…
I’m excited about the Miami Heat winning the NBA. I don’t follow basketball, but I’m just happy… you know the ‘kinda sorta home team’ feeling.
But I will say, I prefer to watch soccer and rugby. Getting right down to it, the uniforms for basketball, football and baseball do nothing for me. I think the men look more manly in rugby and soccer uniforms.
Hey. It’s about the uniforms, right?
Oh! Except I forgot hockey. I like hockey too. We can’t believe the frickin’ Panthers traded Luongo. Holy crap. What were they thinking? My husband attended a lot of Panthers games this season and we’re both just completely stunned by that move. What a disappointment. (I know… I don’t blog sports, but I do keep up with them and I am a big Panthers fan.)
Another somewhat political post... scary when I have too much time to think...
I was speaking to a dear friend of mine recently about the state of the black community in the United States. The conversation was prompted by Leonard Pitts, a columnist from the Miami Herald, who had written a column that I found quite interesting. And let me say up front, I read Mr. Pitts when I can. I do not always agree with everything the man says, but I always like reading his view. It’s a data point. He is well thought and he’s not ugly when he writes. I’m always ready to entertain a different point of view, even if I feel certain that it won’t change mine. Oh and if you have not heard of him, he is a black man, and yes, that is relevant information. He writes from a black man’s perspective.
Anyway, in THIS column here, he talks of Bill Cosby’s addressing the black women saying, ``It is time for you to pick up the pace and lead, because the men are not there.'' (For the record, Bill Cosby is one of the few in the entertainment industry for whom I have great respect.)
Now Mr. Pitts brings up a good point in his column, “Even iron, my father liked to say, wears out. And if iron can get tired, maybe even idealized, sentimentalized, romanticized black women can.”
Good point indeed, because I can tell you, that as the iron in my household, I get tired and I’m dealing with an extraordinarily functional family of 2 parents, 3 kids, no abuse, drug abuse, or wondering where the next meal is coming from. And I get tired. I can’t imagine what the black women are contending with… blows my mind.
But… as Army Wife is prone to say to me when we discuss the duties of wife and mother, “You don’t think. You just do. You have to.”
But Mr. Pitts came up with something else, which is where the meat of my post is really. In differing with Mr. Cosby, politely I might add as Mr. Pitts is not ugly when he writes, he adds, “And maybe, instead of telling them to be ready to shoulder the burden, Cosby should have told them to demand that men share the burden. After all, a man will generally always strive to be what a woman he adores requires him to be.”
And… that would be… where I had to disagree with Mr. Pitts.
Forget race. Pretend we’re all green. Or purple. Let us look at our great greenish purple society… are women still adored? Don’t get me wrong. My man loves me. We’ve been married coming up on 15 years, and although we’ve weathered some tough times, as all marriages with kids are apt to do, we’re pretty tough.
Heh. Hardly. He is where he is in his career because of an inner drive. It’s not to impress me or because I expected it of him or because I wanted something or needed something. He is his own man. Sure, I stand behind and support and do what I have to do to keep things running on the home front, so he can pursue his dreams and goals within his career, but trust me, he is not where he is because of adoration for me or demands of mine.
Please. If anything, my demands would be for him to be home MORE. Screw the career!
And I can say, for the most part, all of my friends… it’s the same way. Their husbands are inner driven, inner driven to succeed or inner driven to provide for their families, not adoration driven. Its just not so. And… it was not so for my parents. If I were to say to my Mom, “Mom, you know Dad was so driven to succeed in his career due to his vast adoration of you…” my Mom would laugh in my face and say, “Are you smoking crack?” (Ok, maybe that’s Mo’s expression I’m giving to Mom, but it would be along those lines. I assure you!)
But I fully appreciate where Mr. Pitts is coming from. I do. But I think he has a romanticized version of life… unless of course he truly adores his wife and is driven by thus. And I actually don’t doubt that. I just think that is not our societal norm, by any stretch, no matter what race.
So tonight I was watching the film Troy with my better half, and we were discussing the war between the Greeks and the Trojans and of course I was saying that Orlando Bloom looks 15, and then I said, “All of that… over a frickin’ woman…”
And he said, “I know! Can you believe it! The end of a society… over a woman!”
And I retorted, “Phht. That sure as hell wouldn’t happen nowadays!” to which he laughed and said, “Yup. You’re right.”
Of course gut instinct is to say, “too bad. That would be kind of nice to be adored like that, in a selfish way.” But not really. I thought of the long term ramifications. There was no equality. Women had no rights. Women on a pedestal really had no rights. They were chattel.
Anyway, back to Mr. Pitts and Mr. Cosby. I think the entire situation seems very bleak. I hope there is an answer out there, but it’s bigger than my brain. For sure. And I truly think adoration has nothing to do with it… but rather role modeling.
My father’s father was a damn hard worker and although he had many faults, his family was a priority… providing for them and all that comes with it.
And my husband’s father was a damn hard worker and although he had many faults (of which I blog on occasionally), his family was his priority… providing for them and all that comes with it.
Which makes the picture appear even bleaker to me… the news doesn’t make black families seem like there are positive role models. The black people I know are families like mine, but the news makes it appear they are not the black societal norm. I may be wrong… but I fear I am not.
… or LA or NYC.
My boys have become big car buffs like their father. They go to car shows and are starting to know the stats on various types of cars, although they appear to be the best informed on the high end cars… the Bugatti, Ferraris, and all things fast.
Evidently a few weeks ago, while at our weekly haunt with VW and her boys, my three saw a Bentley in the parking lot. They were looking at it when the man who owned the car came up. My eldest said nonchalantly, ‘Nice car’ and he replied, “Thanks. My other is a Rolls.”
Flash forward to yesterday, my husband is driving the three boys around when they pull up next to a Rolls. My eldest says something like, “Look, a Rolls”
And my husband says to them, “Look how big it is. Look how small it makes my car look”. My husband drives a full sized sedan, so it’s no small car. He then verbally goes over the specs of the car with the boys.
And my eldest looks and realizes that the driver is the guy from the Bentley and starts to yell, “Dad, dad, dad! Roll down the window! I want to say hi! I know him!”
And my husband replies, “I’m not rolling down my window. You don’t know him!”
The two other boys press themselves against the window and chime in, “Yes we do! Dad! We know him!!! That’s the guy we met at Toojays with the Bentley! Roll down your window so we can say hi!”
Heh. Poor guy. He has his own little fan club and doesn’t even realize it. My husband and I will have to work to keep them at bay.
This is kind of a political post I guess… or just print form of what has been rambling through my mind.
What makes people inherently evil? I’m not saying it should be excused… quite the contrary. I have no problem with the permanent elimination of certain inherently evil people as I have posted before… in particular those that harm children. I’d pull the lever on Old Sparky and those who know me know… I would. (My views on capital punishment are not up for debate.)
But my analytical mind has to wonder, what is it that makes people inherently evil? Are they born that way? Does something happen whilst growing that they witness… environmentally, that their thinking is molded? Nature vs. Nuture?
I remember when I was in college; crack cocaine had just made the scene. Experts were coming out saying along the lines of, “Holy crap, America, this is bad bad bad, as we are finding that children born to these crack addled mothers do not have consciences and one day… they will be teenagers.”
Their neurological development had been altered by the stream of crack their incubational habitats were intaking.
And I wonder… is that what we’re seeing? These people in Miami? Were they crack babies? Were they born twisted and full of hatred? Did they learn it from home? Was it a combination?
I don’t know. And it really doesn’t matter as it is what it is… American citizens, very similar to the twisted mind of one Timothy McVeigh, wanted to kill other American citizens and so since they didn’t carry through, thankfully, they will not die for it, but most likely they will be locked up with the key thrown away.
Their Mama’s must be so proud. If they even had one… that even gave a damn.
I miss… finishing a book and knowing it will be one of my favorites.
Do you remember the first book you ever read that you said to yourself, “I LOVE this book”? I was seven or eight. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It’s the first time I’d ever seen the word 'tongue' spelled and I remember standing in the kitchen while my Mom and TGOO fixed dinner and set the table, asking what a tong goo was.
I loved that book.
It was a few years later when I read A Secret Garden and half way through the book I thought, “I LOVE this book”. I had the great fortune of recommending it to my niece when she was in 4th or 5th grade, a voracious reader was she, and it has become one of her all time favorites too.
I read through the Little House on the Prairie series and loved them all.
And as much as I read, that’s about it from the books as a child… until I was in 8th grade and fell in love with The Dark is Rising series, that I just stumbled upon again just recently.
As an adult, I’ve got a few books I treasure as my favorites, books that I would keep on my bookshelf and be happy knowing they were there as I loved reading them so much. While reading them, I thought, “I LOVE this book”. I’ve posted on them before, but will throw them out there again…
John Steinbeck’s East of Eden. Given to me by a boyfriend in my Easter basket… it was his favorite and has become one of mine. I love that book. It was the best gift ever given to me by a boyfriend.
Stephen King’s The Stand. I’ll never think of Lincoln Tunnel the same way.
Pat Conroy’s Prince of Tides. Screw the movie, read the book. There are some classic scenes in there that didn’t make the movie cut, Grandma shopping for her coffin being one.
John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. I have enjoyed all his stuff, Mr. Irving’s characters are so darn quirky, but I loved this novel in particular.
So… this brings me to… I am looking for something to read. Those of you who have been reading me awhile know I read constantly. I’ll read anything and everything from the back of a cereal box to a random book sitting on the table. I read it all from James Patterson, Dean Koontz, Clive Cussler, Tom Clancy, Stephen Coonts and on and on and on… but these are just reads.
What I’m looking for is a book I can love. I came so close recently with a John LeCarre novel. It was so close. But not... quite there. He may have others that may do it. Its on my list to see...
Now I know that tastes in books vary like in music. Not everyone’s FAVORITE book is going to be my cup of tea, but I’m searching…
Tell me in my comments, what is a book that you remember finishing and thinking, “I LOVE this book”?
I’m making a list. I want that feeling again. I’ll read 100 books to find it. I want to fall in love with a book again. It’s been too long.
It’s summertime which means… we’re all about ice cream! Yahoo! In particular… ice cream cones!
So last week I bought some ice cream cones and the boys have had a small cone every night for dessert. Three boys, 20 or so cones… a week later and we’re out, not to mention that Mom has had a cone or two *ahem*.
Off to Publix we went where Bones found a box of 'kid cones' and the number on the box said 90. Now I was in a rush and not reading the box or thinking and I was being inundated by ice cream questions from the three boys, “Mom, mom, mom, mom, he got to pick the ice cream last time…” “mom, mom, mom, mom, can we get these chocolate cones too?” “Mom, hey Mom, can we get two different ice creams…” “Oh! Mom, mom, mom, can we put caramel on our cones?”
And on and on it went until I zoned out in sensory overload, praying once again that I should get a sensory deprivation tank for Christmas. Screw the 8 hours of continuous sleep that has been on my list for the last 11 years and 4 months, but whose counting? I want total and complete sensory deprivation.
So I take the box from him as Bones is hippity skippity boucing around me like a frickin’ elf saying over and over, “Mom, mom, mom, how do you think they fit NINETY in this box?” and I blew him off with a “No clue.”
Well tonight? We found out. Bones came running in with a cone in hand, “Mom, mom, mom, mom, look! They shrunk the cones!!!”
Holy crap. Kid cones? No. Try thimbles. These are cones for Moms on a diet that want to partake in the ice cream cone festivities but don’t want the caloric splurge that goes with it.
In essence, these cones were made for me.
And to show you how small… I took a picture.
Is this tiny or what?!
Over at Caltechgirl’s, I found this quiz.
80% lady. Heh. I think many who know me would be surprised by that high statistic.
CTG and I were e-mailing about this quiz. Nowhere did it ask if you ever drop the F-bomb. Trust me, I know ladies and ladies do not drop the F-bomb. Me? I do. I think that would be an automatic deduction of 60 percentage points, bringing me down to 20% lady.
Then CTG asked me if my shoes and purse ever match to which I said, “Nope.” I carry a black bag everywhere, except when I have a formal event and then I have a little gold clutch my Mother gave me, otherwise, Nope. I think that is another 10% deduction.
That makes me only 10% lady. That sounds just about right…
|You Are 80% Lady|
But you also know when to relax and not get too serious about etiquette
Today is Harvey's 3rd Blogiversary. Holy crap. That's pretty big in blogging years.
He has requested HERE that we make up a completely fictional memory for him in his comments. So go indulge him if you have not!
Happy Blogiversary Blog Daddy!
THIS post over at Jim of Parkway Rest Stop’s reminded me of a story. His post has a quiz on “how New Jersey are you?”. And before I get into the crux of my post, let me say, I had my husband of Italian heritage who was born and raised in New Jersey take this test. I was laughing myself silly as I made him explain his answers… little things New Jersey folks would know, but those of us outside the state would be clueless about.
He scored 70% and as he’d answer the questions he’d say, “The answer to score higher is THIS, but that’s not my life NOW.” So he knew all the right answers, but didn’t put them as he now lives in Florida.
One of the questions is something like, “Are you Italian or do you have a lot of Italian friends?” to which my husband looked at me and laughed and said, “HEY! That’s profiling!”
Whew… a spade is a spade…
Anyway, I scored 20% and this would be because… I am married to someone from Joizey and also because… I suspect I have a neighbor in The Witness Protection Program… so I hit ‘yes’ to ‘Do you suspect a neighbor down the street is in the mafia?’
Have you ever driven through your neighborhood and wondered about your neighbors? What they do? What they’re like?
I live in a BIG subdivision, so I hardly know anybody, and quite frankly I’m WAY-OK with that. But there is this man who moved in a couple years ago, that cracks me up. He’s just not like everyone else.
T1G came to visit and I pointed him out. Unfortunately T1G probably thought I was whack, for more reasons than this I assure you, because I forgot to TELL HIM why I was pointing this retired man out… I just pointed him out and figured I’d tell him when the boys weren’t around.
But I forgot.
Until a week later when I shot him an e-mail.
We don’t have porches here. Nobody sits out on a front porch, and sips tea and watches the world go by, unfortunately. But one day I drove by this neighbor's home and there he sat, in a lawn chair, with a cold one in his hands, just inside the garage… watching the world go by.
Every day I would drive by and every day I’d see him, sometimes with a buddy.
He dresses like a retiree from the Jersey area. How do I know this? Because I live in West Palm Beach. ALL OF OUR RETIREES are from the Jersey area.
And he is Italian looking. And there is gold jewelry involved.
One day I drove past his home and he was in the front yard, fully dressed in pants, and bowling type shirt, and dress shoes, cutting the lawn or something.
All I kept thinking of was Goodfellas and My Blue Heaven with Steve Martin.
Eh, so now I joke I think he’s in the Witness Protection Program. I don’t want to know, but whenever I see him, I grin to myself and sing a little song, “One of these things just doesn’t belong here…”
And when my husband took that test and came to that question, “Do you suspect you have a neighbor in the mafia?” he hit yes. Ha! But then again… he may be talking about someone else. Hmmm.
After yesterday, we had nowhere to go but up. Yesterday sucked. Four quarts of water, one hard wood floor and that was just the beginning.
Luckily everyone woke up this morning in a much better mood, which means really, ‘Mom had cooled off and was feeling human’ and the boys seemed to actually listen today which means really, “Mom didn’t question the entire reasons for procreation issues today”.
I came home from work (I work a half day on Tuesdays and have a sitter come to the house), got changed and fixed my lunch, to find the boys had started to build a fort on the couch to hide out in while they played video games.
What kids don’t like forts? Blankets, pillows… I remember it! We had so much fun!
And so this is what I found today and it completely makes up for yesterday where they truly were the poster children for birth control.
The beginning of fort building…
The end result… keeping in mind their goal was to still be able to play video games…
Mo called me the other day and said she was going to her hairdressers and had called her hairdresser and prepared her, that when she arrived, she (Mo) was ready… to go… blonde.
For those who have not met my sister, she has what TGOO calls mahogany colored hair. Thick and curly, it is beautiful. And Mo changes the color on a dime.
This dime said “Go blooooonde!” She has done this to her hairdresser before. But luckily… Mo has a hairdresser that will talk her off that ‘Go Blonde Young Woman’ precipice.
And so Mo… has retained her mahogany colored hair… with a smattering of blonde highlights.
Meanwhile I have this thing about constantly wanting to turn my hair black. For EVERY time Mo has said to her hairdresser, “Today… I go blonde!” I have bounced into my hairdresser’s chair and said, “Today… I go black!”
I have posted on this before. I just love black hair. And I want it. But according to my hairdresser, it doesn’t want me. She says I’ll look like Morticia and its not for me. “It won’t have shine. It will be more of a flat black. You won’t look good. No.”
And so we don’t.
So Mo always wants to go blonde and I always want to go black… and what we both have in common is that we both have hairdressers that know us well enough that they can pull the two lunatics out of orbit and get them grounded back on planet Earth.
Or they have so far.
I’ve been talking to a dear friend of ours lately about phones. I’m thinking of getting a new one and this friend of ours knows A LOT about phones. So our friend said to me, “What color phone do you want?”
And I said something like, “Silver works. Green or black 2nd. (Green is a favorite color so I’m great with that.) I’m so easy… I really don’t care about color as long as it’s not PINK! Blech!”
And her reply was, “And your sister is going straight for the new pink phone when it comes out at the end of this month!”
Heh heh heh. No pink phone for me. I’m all about blending… not advertising I’m a girl.
Mo? Oh yes. She’s a pink phone gal. Cracks me up.
I took that face test I blogged about HERE. I know it said I was fine and that I scored over 90% on both tests… but I’m sorry… unless I have a bunch of you tell me this happens to you, that test is wrong.
Over the last few months, whenever we’ve gone to see a movie, they’ve shown a preview for a movie called, “Click”. It’s an Adam Sandler film. In general, I tend to find him a bit annoying and don’t see his films, a minority in the American population I know. The movie seemed like an odd but interesting premise at first… and I say at first as I’ve now seen that preview so many times, I told my husband I’d rather slit my jugular with a spork than see it now. No way.
In the previews, Adam’s character gets pissed off at his boss, clicks his ‘remote’, sending his boss into ‘freeze’, where said character knocks the crap out of his boss, only for him to unfreeze jerk-face boss, and the boss to comment that it feels like he got hit by a truck.
I’ve seen this preview MANY MANY TIMES. A lot. Many. And every single time I’ve thought, “Hmm. So Dan Marino is going to start a film career.”
We went to see a movie the other night for date night, and the preview came on and then some credits and it said… jerkface boss is being played by David Hasselhoff!
Am I the only person who thinks they look like the same person?
Yeah, so I blew it off and thought, “Honest mistake. It can happen. After all, on the famous face test, I only got Tony Blair and Ghandi wrong and that’s perfectly understandable as Tony Blair is the all around average looking guy and Ghandi is the all around average looking old person. Right?”
Phht. Let me introduce you to the Queen of Rationalization.
That would be me.
Today at the pool with my boys, there was this woman sitting to the left of me a few chairs down. I’m totally scuzzed out in my gym clothes and ball cap, sunglasses and tennis shoes, reading a book and watching my kids.
OUT OF THE BLUE, she comes and sits down next to me and just starts talking.
Part of me was really freaking out. Who in the hell sits down with a total stranger and just starts talking in their personal space? Don’t get me wrong, I’m friendly enough. I always talk to the cashiers at the supermarket (they all know me now), I know all the staff at the pool and talk to them like buddies, I’ll talk to strangers in line at a movie line if engaged, but I’m sorry, the way it happened… it was just so frickin’ familiar of her.
But I’m cool. I talked to her. Laughed. We talked about our kids and how today went for both of us (bad day for me… one of those days I’m seriously questioning the intelligence of my procreating). Swimming and swimming lessons and then how she is going to do a triathlon, but how she can’t do the swimming. And how I’d LOVE to do a triathlon, but I can’t do the running. I hate it. It hurts.
She’s a runner.
I’m a swimmer.
We compared notes. It was great.
45 minutes we talked. And talked. And at one point I had to get up to reprimand my kids as they were being REALLY bad. And when I came back… something… GRRRR… something just hit me funny.
And I looked at her daughters. And I started putting information together… and I realized… her husband does business with my husband. I’ve met her. MANY TIMES.
And I swear on the three mischievous and lucky to be alive today souls of my three boys, that never in my life do I remember meeting her. Her facial features were completely foreign to me. I started to recognize her daughters.
But her? Never. And I’ve held conversations with her before. On many occasions.
But today? Today she was new to me. A brand new face and it was a horrible feeling. I’m starting to become a phobic about it honestly. I almost don’t want to go out in public for fear someone will approach me and I won’t remember them. It happened with a Mom at baseball camp last week… she knew me, I had NO clue who she was. None.
But this one. This one I should have known. And it’s really really starting to bug me.
Happy Father’s Day to all you Dads! And that includes my husband and TGOO.
One of my favorite Dads to read about it Jerry’s Dad at Back Home Again. If y’all don’t read Jerry, he’s a blogger who… moved back home again… go figure… to take care of his folks. The stories he posts on his Dad are absolutely priceless.
If my granddaddy (TGOO's Dad) had lived as long as Jerry’s Dad, who is deaf and legally blind and still drives a backhoe on the farm, while burning straw, he’d be like Jerry’s Dad. So I derive great pleasure reading Jerry’s posts, while realizing at the same time, that you have to laugh to be Jerry… or he’d lose it.
He has a round up of his Best of Dad posts HERE. (Read burning straw and roofing to start or... wow... read any of them. I can't quit laughing. I'm reading the chainsaw one now and Jerry has a real talent. Holy crap. )
Shopping for golf paraphelia was on the agenda the other day; something I thought should be a piece of cake. (It was suggested in posts to get him golf lessons, but he has those already. A friend of his is a Golf Pro. Good suggestion, however, and much appreciated!!!) Walk in, find what we need, purchase, walk out, easy peasy lemon squeezy.
I forgot to factor in that the ‘walk in’ ‘find what we need’ parts also included three boys. Chaos reigns not only in the House of Boudicca, but also wherever she travels. No matter how well behaved they are.
They didn’t get the nickname ‘Rolling Ball of Noise’ from TGOO without good reason.
I think the first problem was I really had no idea what we needed. I wasn’t sure what golfers used… and as I walked into this GARGANTUAN store I found not only more items than I was expecting, but also many vendors for the same item.
I do believe 10 different companies make golf gloves.
We won’t go into how many companies make golf BALLS. I’ll get back to that one.
Immediately the boys informed me that their father needed a golf bag. It would appear that their father is borrowing one for now from his partner, a golf enthusiast if there ever was one. I thought it might be a good idea to buy a bag and then just a couple things to fill it. If it wasn’t what he wanted, he could return it. I’d give him the receipt.
I realized soon that buying a bag is not so cheap… that you can spend some serious buckage. That wasn’t my intent, but upon pricing them, I did decide to go middle of the road. I was willing to lay down some cash. Father of my sons and all that.
But… nobody in that damn store ever volunteered to help me.
What… is up… with that? I called Morrigan on my trip home and said, “I spent $50 in that store and was willing to drop some serious cash, if someone had helped me. Was it me or do they not help in golf stores?”
Her answer was along the lines of in general, you must ASK for help in stores such as these. Men in general don’t like to be approached while shopping.
Well, last I checked, I’m not a man, and nobody approached me, as a matter of fact, I was flat out ignored, so I told the boys we’d not buy a bag, just small stuff from them. I live in Palm Beach County. There are PLENTY of golf stores.
There were two things that the boys really really wanted to get for their Dad. The first was golf balls. Evidently my eldest has hung out with some of his friends whose Dads golf so he knows all sorts of things about golf balls.
He can never remember to turn in his damn math homework, but he remembered the exact kind of golf ball his buddy Harry’s Dad likes? Go figure.
And thank God he remembered this little tidbit of useless information as there must have been thirty different kinds of golf balls. Holy crap.
Then a small riot broke out in the golf ball section as to what color to buy their Dad. One wanted green, one wanted blue.. Bones kept waffling picking up bright and very loud purple, pink and orange to which I said, “I don’t think so…”
Finally to quell the argument I said, “Look, I know white may seem boring to you, but your Dad has only golfed ONCE and I’m quite sure he is not jazzed about drawing any more attention to his game than he must… so let’s go with white. Trust me on this. It will make him very very happy.”
An agreement was made, and off we went to golf tees where, holy crap, they too come in quite an assortment. It was decided by Bones that we’d go with the patriotic flare and get him only red white and blue tees.
I picked up a golf glove, guessing on his size, and getting it right I might add. And ended up in the section where… you can buy covers for your woods.
Now, Morrigan was laughing herself silly at me the other day because in THIS post, in the comments, I made a joke about golf covers, Tony Soprano style, and what I said was, “What he needs are miniature heads of the cast of Sopranos! I wonder if they make those!!! They could be sock like with plastic faces attached. Nothing says you can whack a ball like pulling off a Tony Soprano Golf Club Cover off your iron!”
Morrigan calls me laughing and says, “YOU DON’T PUT COVERS ON YOUR IRONS! ONLY ON YOUR WOODS!”
I don’t golf! I’m clueless on many things! You can cover your irons and I’m cool and Miguel Cabrera should be eating chicken pot pie with my boys while playing video games after as he is evidently only 14 according to my book!
Anyway, point made, one does not cover irons. So we’re in the golf store and they have all these stuffed animal covers for WOODS. Every college mascot, a gopher with a golf ball ala Caddyshack and then Bone’s all time favorite… a horse where you have to shove the club up its butt.
They were skipping around this section, using these wood covers as puppets, having puppet shows. I nixed the wood covers. My husband is not so confident with his game… he doesn’t need a funky animal on his woods. He’s all about flying under the radar for now.
I suspect he will not be so fortunate eventually. The boys will pick something completely outrageous! We shall see. We shall see...
I was cleaning the kitchen yesterday and came across a photo of Son#1 at baseball camp with another player. The following conversation ensued, to the best of my recollection:
Me: Hey. Great picture! Who’s the little boy that is in it with you?
Better Half: Hon, that’s not a little boy. That’s Miguel Cabrera…
Me: And that means to me, what?
Better Half: He plays for the Florida Marlins.
Son#1: Mom, he’s only one of THE BEST young players out there right now.
Better Half: He’s a great player. There is a lot of hope for him.
Me: He still looks 14…
Better Half: He does look young…
One of the perks of their baseball camp this week was a professional player came for a photo op.
If you are a young boy and you come to my house? I feed you. Period. It’s what I do. All of my eldest son's friends know, they come here, they eat. They even kind of request it. They have favorites of mine.
I feel certain that Miguel Cabrera would like my chicken pot pie… His stats lied. That boy can't be over 14 years old...
Picture below, Click to Enlarge
My husband and I had a date tonight, dinner and a movie. We went to a local place we’d not been to in awhile, great steak and seafood, wonderful desserts and a fantastic Spinach Maria that has so much cheese in it, any goodness spinach may add to it is completely negated by the fat and calories in all that cheese. Mmmmm.
They have wicker chairs as it is located near the ocean. I had to run out to the car at one point and get something and as I walked back to the restaurant, the salt air breeze blew in my face and I could smell the ocean as if I were standing on the beach.
Evenings like tonight are a check in the plus column for Florida.
They don’t have high chairs and booster seats as they really don’t want children there… at all. But it is still more of a high end casual as you see often in Florida.
So the restaurant has glass tables and wicker chairs and when I sat, I felt ‘low’. My husband and I both commented on the chairs and how low we felt to the tables. There was an awkward slant to the chairs and after about a half hour I looked at my husband and said, “I’m miserable. I cannot sit in this chair any longer! My feet are asleep! The chair cut off circulation…”
I flagged the waitress over and told her of my dilemma, that I was too short and the chairs too saggy, and asked if they had a hard chair I could sit in as there was NO WAY I could eat my dinner with this chair or any chair like it in the restaurant. It was awful.
There were no hard chairs, but they brought me a pillow.
That’s right. Reminiscent of when I was four and used to have to sit at my grandmother’s table while sitting on a phone book, I ate dinner tonight while sitting on a pillow to lift me up.
Tonight I had to ask for a booster chair. I hate it when that happens!
My two older boys have been in baseball camp this week. They’ve had a GREAT time and its being taught by minor league and college baseball players.
There is some hero worship involved of course… the boys are stunned by these man/boys who can catch, throw, run, and pitch. And the funniest part is… my boys seem to realize they are just that, man/boys. They’re all in their late teens early twenties so my boys look at them as just big overgrown kids.
Today I found out that one of the man/boy coaches tried to use Son#2 to catch a woman’s attention and that COMPLETELY cracks me up.
Son#2 was summoned to this young man/boy coach and evidently this coach said, “Son#2, do you see that girl over there? Go ask her if she’s ever heard of Coach 'insert name here'.”
Now keep in mind, this girl is watching one of the minor league teams practice. We are home to the Palm Beach Cardinals. So she’s evidently into baseball. As far as we know, she’s one of their girlfriends.
So Son#2 said, “Why. Do you like her or something?”
Coach man/boy: I think she’s HOT. Don’t you?
Son#2: Eh, she’s OK…
I guess they ran out of time so he never got to go bat his big baby blues at the young woman and get her to notice Coach man/boy, but he told me later that she wasn’t near as pretty as his Aunt Mo and if Aunt Mo wasn’t dating Mo’s Beau, he’d set Coach man/boy up with HER, but he REALLY REALLY likes Mo’s Beau, A LOT, so he didn’t say anything.
I was laughing as in Son#2’s head Mo is his Coach man/boy’s age. Heh. Not so much. Coach man/boy is probably 21. Mo is 35. heh heh heh. My boys love their Aunt.
Dinner… I wish I had a video camera at times. Son#1 went to his buddy’s house (Son#4) for dinner the other night. Son#4 is an only child. His Mom told me that he said, “Wow, dinner here is so different than at my house… It’s so… quiet.”
Yup. Quiet at our dinner table, it is not. At dinner I hear all the stories… stories of things that happen between the three of them, little jokes, and incidents. Some of them horrify me at times, like the time Bones decided to go play by the lake where we knew one gator resided and one older brother grabbed him while the other ran to get me. We had guests at the table for that story. You could have heard a pin drop as I quit breathing.
I thought someone was going to have to give CPR to my sister in law.
Anyway, this is the tragedy of family dinner going by the wayside of the American household. You learn so much. Even stuff you wish you didn’t know. Or stuff you need to know, but its hard to listen to.
So tonight Son#1 was laughing hysterically while he told me this story:
Son#1: Mom, you know how we say, “You’re an ‘L’. You’re a Loooooooser”? Well today Bones said to Son#2, “OH yeah! Well you’re an ‘F’”.
Son#2: *bugged out his eyes in imitation to how he responded to Bones*
Son#1: Bones said, “Do you know what that means?”
Son#2: *still bugging out his eyes and now adding the mouth drop of horror* I told him I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know…
Bones: I told him F was for… FRRREAK! You’re a FREAK!
Son#2: I was so glad he called me a Freak. *whispering to me so nobody else could hear* Mom, I thought he was going to call me the ‘F’ word.
Now, I guess what’s so damn funny about this story is, that is what we all assumed. As soon as BONES, we’re talking Bones here, Mr. Unpredictable will say whatever is on his mind or whatever he hears as he is a total parrot, says ‘F’ we all assume the worst. A collective *gasp* and hush falls around us.
But when I look at my boy and he screams “FRREAK! You’re a FREAK!” I see the little boy he really is. The boy is 7 and he is still so innocent. The F bomb truly never crossed his mind.
I love my sweet boy. He is so yummy. Keep reminding me of that, m'kay?!
Those of you who stop by frequently know I’ve posted on my issues with remembering faces. I don’t actually have the disorder which is called prosopagnosia (I read up on it a few weeks ago). It is come and go with me and maybe it has something to do with how I meet people and the fact I’m horrible with names.
There is of course the additional fact that it’s now somewhat self inflicted. I’ve made a fool of myself enough times to be somewhat nervous about not remembering faces. That makes it worse. Don’t even go there with names… Ack!
Today Teresa of Technicalities has a VERY COOL post HERE on a quiz you can take to see how well you remember faces. I actually did very well.
But here’s the catch… I found that as I was going through the new/old faces quiz, I quickly memorized facial features so I could recognize them again. I do that sometimes when I know I’m going to see someone again, like I meet them once and know I have to meet up with them, I’ll pick out a feature.
Some people are just easy to recognize. I’d know them anywhere. For instance, Eric. How many 6’1” redheaded men from Tennessee are there?!
Now, how many 5’4”- 5’6” medium built brunette females are there?
I’m more inclined to botch up meeting a 5’4-5’6” medium built brunette that I’m supposed to know, than I am running into Eric unexpectedly in some weird place like Antarctica or in the streets of NYC. It’s just not going to be an issue recognizing him!
Anyway, very cool post by Teresa and two fun quizzes linked you can take on face recognition.
I was tagged by Susie of Practical Penumbra with this 5 things Meme… and of course I’ll expand on a couple of them as it’s my blog and… its what I do.
5 things in my refrigerator:
Three different types of milk. (whole, skim and lactaid)
Homemade vegetable soup
Sweet pickle relish (Blech)
5 things in my closet
Three Karate gi (I’m mothballing them this summer.)
One set of bagpipes (I need to start playing again…)
A handmade woolen Peruvian poncho given to me by a dear friend from... Peru
One set of Kingsize Christmas sheets and comforter and pillow shams (I change out all the sheets in the house to Christmas sheets for the month of December. Right about now all my male readers are thinking “Good Lord am I glad I’m not married to her!”)
A wool scarf in the McInnis family plaid (the background plaid of my blog)
5 things in my purse
An assortment of tubes of lipstick, gloss and lip liners(a woman never goes out in public without her lipstick… or so I’ve been told)
*ahem* feminine hygiene product *cough* (What can I say? I’m a safety girl…)
An F-22 magnet clip to hold papers on a metal cubicle cabinet
A kajillion dollars in change (I have a bad habit of just throwing my change to the bottom of my purse and hence my purse can be used as a deadly weapon.)
A jeweled butterfly hair clip
5 things in my Car:
A beach chair
A spiderman umbrella (Bones... The proverbial Tut Tut, it looks like Rain. I'm not kidding.)
My work badge (hanging from my rear view)
One strand of green Mardi gras beads (hanging from my rear view)
Weight lifting gloves
And from here I shall tag the following five:
Thank God for golf.
Personally? I hate the game. Perhaps it is my complete lack of eye hand coordination that started it, but I’ve never been able to watch it on TV either. Fishing. I could never watch fishing. Watching golf and fishing, to me, is like watching grass grow.
I think George Carlin did a comedy routine about cemeteries and golf courses and what a waste of land they were. He must live in South Florida where there is a golf course in everyone’s backyard, the equivalent of Pensacola, Florida where there is a church on every street corner.
Anyway, about six months ago, my better half decided he would take up golf. Now even though I personally want nothing to do with the game, I was ecstatic that he was taking up some sort of hobby. Anything. Something. I didn’t care. The man just needed something outside of his profession. I kept saying, “WHAT are you going to do when you retire? You will feel that there is an enormous void!”
Me? No. I happily fill my time with volunteer work. But that’s not him and I could see that he’d retire and have NOTHING to do. So I think its good he start thinking of things now he enjoys, building the potential of things to do in retirement.
He played his first game in the beginning of May with Mo’s Beau when they came to visit. Mo’s Beau was the PERFECT person for him to play with as… 1) he’s just picked up the game too and 2) he has this amazingly positive attitude. It’s infectious. It cracks me up.
For example, we were at Bones’ t-ball game and Mo’s Beau had brought with him a Golf Magazine. He’d read it off and on as we watched the running helmets putz around on the ball field. And I’d hear him remark, “I can feel it! I’m becoming a better golfer just in reading about it!!!”
I love that.
They came back from his first game and I said to my better half, “Babe, did you play in tennis shoes?”
BH: yeah. What else?
Me: Don’t you need golf shoes?
BH: You don’t have to have golf shoes…
Me: Do you need a pair?
BH: *big pause* Hun, I have SOOOOOO many problems with my game, whether or not I have golf shoes is the LEAST of my issues. It wouldn’t help in the least.
I thought that was pretty damn funny.
But this leads me to Father’s Day and why I suddenly love golf. See it? Can you see it coming?
All month I’ve been thinking, “Crap. It’s Father’s Day. They got me something for Mother’s Day. GRRR. WHAT IN THE HELL are we going to get him?”
And then it occurred to me, “BING!” “He took up golf!” “BING BING BING BING BING!”
I have stores and stores I can peruse now looking for things I know he does not have! Cute little things to put on his golf clubs! Towels to wipe his hands. Gloves. Shorts. Golf socks. Golf paraphernalia has SAVED me in holiday gift giving!
I LOVE GOLF. Now I hope he just sticks with it…
In 1997, my Driver’s license was up for renewal. I had just had a baby six months before and in some sort of hormonal fit, cut off all my hair, in what would be reminiscent of the pixie hair cuts I had as a kid.
I have a thing about enjoying my anonymity, although I have met some bloggers, and I don’t post pix of myself, but this picture made me look 12 and the temptation to put it up has been overwhelming. My husband said in fact it does look like a young version of me, so the picture stays put, off the blogosphere, but I feel quite certain that I may very well be the only person alive who truly LOVES their driver’s license photo!
So you can imagine my horror when I received notification that my license was up for renewal.
NO! Say it isn’t so! The thought of relinquishing the ONLY fun DL photo taken in the history of licenses was more than I could take! Surely the next one would make me look like a haggard matron. Blech.
I think my DL photo is such a scream, I take it out and show people. Absolutely.
Needless to say, I was hysterically happy when I received my notification in the mail saying I could renew on-line, which means… I am keeping my DL for another 10 years?
It very well could be that I will be 50 years old and have a photo on my DL that makes me look 12.
Life is good.
I thought that was one so... cool. It is part of someone's routine, but its not normal to the average American.
That is something S. Floridians do and take for granted, although not me personally. I have a citrus tree that I’ve posted on before… it has the nastiest tasting fruit ever. Horrid. The tree must have come from the depths of citrus tree hell. That bad. TGOO can vouch.
I don’t have an avocado tree, but am now contemplating the planting of one!
But something today happened at work that made me think of RPs comment. I ran into work, late for my frickin’ Tuesday telecon, dialed the phone while opening e-mail, and noticed an e-mail from my tech lead declaring fresh fish dip on his desk.
It would seem he and a co-worker of mine went boating this weekend and the co-worker caught a King Fish. So my lead smoked it and turned it into fish dip for all of us.
Holy crap. I could have eaten the whole bowl. And as I returned to my desk with dip and crackers, my mid morning snack, I thought, “Oh this is another thing that is great about living in S. Florida. Fresh fish dip. MMMMM.”
About 5 years ago, during a hot Florida summer, I was driving home and saw ahead of me… road kill. Whatever mammal it was, and it looked to be a possum, it was bloated and rotting in the hot Florida sun, on that hot Florida highway.
And… I ran over it.
It was purely by accident. I was trying to avoid it, but I was boxed in with the car next to me, I mis-judged, and my aft left tire hit that decomposing mammal head on.
And it exploded.
I heard the pop. The sound of a swollen decomposing carcass exploding under one’s vehicle is not a sound one forgets.
And as soon as it happened I realized, I had road kill guts on the under carriage of my van.
But of course, upon arriving home, I’d completely forgotten about it. With the chaos that reigns in my van with three boys, I didn’t remember the bloated road kill vs. my rear left tire incident. So I got the kids out and into the house and closed the garage door.
I came out a couple hours later, into my 90+ degree garage, and the stench was overpowering. I almost hurled.
I didn’t want that stuff washed out onto my driveway, so I kept my van outside for the night and the next day I took it to one of those car wash places and tried to wash the undercarriage. My van smelled like that for a week. It didn’t matter how much soap and water were applied with that big long wand, I wasn’t able to get it clean and so my van smelled of bloated road kill carcass for way way too long. It wasn’t AS BAD as that first day, but it wasn’t good either.
And what is bringing this up? My van smells that way again. I don’t remember running over anything, but we came out the other morning to run errands, and although it was not as bad as it was those 5 years ago, it was not good.
Blech. Am I the only one this has ever happened to?
Two years ago, the Hurricane Folks said a ‘cane was coming and S. Florida thumbed their noses. Well, not me, but a lot did.
Today, a Hurricane is hitting the other coast way up north, giving us only wind and rain down here in Palm Beach County… NONE OF THE SIM MODELS show it coming down here… and I go to Publix today to buy my normal groceries… and… they’re out of milk.
Damn close anyway.
I walked up to the milk and this little woman in high heels was standing there in the milk section looking completely exasperated. I realized she wanted a ¼ gallon of milk and couldn’t reach it. All that were left were 5 gallons of skim and a few ¼ gallons of 2%, pushed way back against the wall as it was the last row.
I looked at her and said, ‘I’ll get it for you…’ and I climbed up into the milk case and took one for her and one for me. I said, “I have no shame… and I’m not wearing high heels.” I was clad in sandals and jeans, my normal attire.
Most folks have generators now and they know… get your perishables now as once a hurricane hits, the grocery store won’t be open for about 4 or 5 days. So they stock up on things like milk.
I was stunned by the milk situation, considering we aren't taking this hit, so when my Better Half came home from work I told him I needed to get gas for the morning errands. Sure enough, I got to the gas station and only high test was left. Everyone had filled up their cars and their generator jugs with the cheap stuff.
So that’s the difference between two years ago and now. We don’t mess around anymore. Everyone has the gouge. We’re all singing from the same page. It appears this sucker is going to hit the Big Bend some time on Tuesday. I can’t imagine the chaos on that coast. Holy crap.
... I started blogging.
Wow. I don't think I ever expected I would stick with it this long. I know there have been times I've quietly thought of hanging it up. Those thoughts were pretty prevalent in May. I have gone dark for a few days at a time, but never for any great length, excluding hurricanes! Just a warning shot, my going dark for a week or two, that it could happen... but I'd put a post up first letting you know.
I write for me, as I've said in the past. It is my therapy if you will... I need to reflect on my day and laugh at my life. It is a great way to end the day.
But a funny thing happened upon starting this blog...
... people really did start to read and kept coming back. I was stunned. I still look at my sitemeter sometimes and laugh to myself thinking, "There are a lot of crazy people out there if they keep coming back to hear whats in my crazy head!"
...and I met some of the most wonderful people. I NEVER in my life expected to meet the people I have met while blogging. I've gotten to know other bloggers and consider them dear to me. I've gotten to know some of my commenters and love to see what they have to say. It's a community I've grown to care about.
I never expected that. At all.
I don't blog politics and probably never will. I wonder if people wonder if I even keep up with politics. If you are one, the answer is yes, I do. Very much so. I have very formed opinions on all sides of politics, but I just don't post them. Politics is not my happy place.
And even though I post on my family and the chaos that is my life, I never want my blog to be a trainwreck. I'll shut down before that happens. It's my happy place. I hope when people read that its their small happy place too.
I'm not good about commenting in my comments. I read EVERY SINGLE COMMENT made. And there are times that it is my commenters that make my day. I LOVE the things y'all write.
My life is like everyone else's. I go through very dark dark times. For the most part, I don't blog that stuff. And I have found that my readers have kept me bouyed through much in the past 2 years.
I never expected that either.
I have some changes coming shortly to my blog. I'll be updating my blogroll. Those that know me know, I am HORRIBLE about updating my blogroll. TERRIBLE. So I'm going through my sitemeter to see who is coming from where to make sure I blogroll those who have blogrolled me. If you have me blogrolled, please e-mail me so I can reciprocate!
I'm also adding quotes this week to my sidebar. I received many and I'm putting them up!!
I guess I'm essentially just putzing in my sidebar area this week, but have been hesitant to as MUNU, my host, has had some problems with spam crashing it the past week or two. Things seem to have settled down, so I'll be playing this week.
So... to you all... my readers I say, "Thank you. Thank you for coming back. Thank you for laughing with me. Thank you for laughing at me. And thank you for making me laugh in turn."
I was perusing my sitemeter today, just to see what kind of stuff I've been googled for as of late. It's been awhile since I've tip toed through the google hits.
I am #1 for Chocolate Bunny Butt.
I am not so proud for being #3 for both Hung Like a Camel and Suck my Weenie.
And I'm #1 for 'Boys that have to pee real bad when they are in the car'
This disturbing trend of all these hits dealing with body parts... lower body parts at that... was not lost upon me.
I was laughing, however, when I saw many hits for someone who obviously swallowed a porcelain crown. I wasn't laughing that they swallowed it, but laughing that I'm getting hits for it. That one came from the post on the time I inhaled that frickin' Cocoa Puff.
Not one of my finest moments, even though it was GREAT frickin' blog fodder.
I was talking to T1G tonight about various places we’ve lived and things we’ve seen.
Every place seems to have some unique quality, that others may never have the opportunity to experience.
If you live in the mountains, there are people in America who will NEVER ever, in their entire lives, be in the mountains.
If you live near a beach, there are people in America who will NEVER ever run their feet through the sand.
If you live in the desert, there are people in America who will NEVER ever say they’ve had the experience of seeing desert terrain.
I’ve seen snow on the desert, been scuba diving with enormous sea turtles and manatee, gone hiking in the mountains… and NEVER taken it for granted. Every time I’ve done something as simple as go to the beach, something I could do nearly every day if I wanted to, I realize, there are people in America who NEVER ever will be able to say they’ve done what is possible for me to do e-v-e-r-y day.
And so as T1G and I were speaking, he brought up the first time he saw the Northern Lights.
I’ve never seen the Northern Lights. There is a high probability I never will. Very high. It may be something some of you see EVERY year or every season or even once a week, as I’m unaware of Northern Lights frequency.
But I will probably NEVER see them. When you look at the sky at night, and you witness the beautiful event, you know you can say, “There are people in America who will NEVER ever see the Northern Lights”.
I am one.
But it is something I want to do before I die. It’s something I want to see. I think about it frequently.
So I have two questions:
What is it you have around you, in your state or your area of the country, that you have done, that you do or see frequently, that some may take for granted, that you feel certain that there are people in America who will NEVER ever experience?
And what is it you’ve never experienced, that you know others in America do, that you would like to do one day?
I heard rumblings yesterday of some ‘tropical weather’. I jumped on The weather channel site when I came home from work and saw this:
I was at Publix last night, picking up breakfast food for tomorrow, when I walked through the water aisle just to pick up 2.5 more gallons. I do this throughout hurricane season. I just pick up a bottle every time I go.
Everyone else is doing the same. June 9. And the water section was nearly empty.
Happy Anniversary to TGOO and Mom!
Six dates over a span of 4 years, and now 44 years of marriage!
So I am sitting here waiting for That1Guy to arrive. He is spending the weekend with us. The boys are excited. I’m sure in their mind it’s another person to play catch with. Since baseball started, being in my home is like having a dog that wants to play fetch constantly!
Of course I’ve been somewhat concerned as to what we will do tomorrow. This is not exactly the best time of year for T1G to be in South Florida. The man was born and raised in Wisconsin, hell, he lives just over the border! The weather we have is MELTING weather! He might melt!
The beach is out. The pool is out. And so I have a list of things we can do and I’m going to let him pick… all activities that don’t require him being in the heat and HUMIDITY.
Sure, y’all have heat. But I’m telling you, it is our humidity that will kick your tails.
Anyway, his arrival is imminent and I hope he’s ready as tomorrow afternoon we’re having a BBQ with VW and her boys… so there will be 5 boys.
Well… including the other’s holding y-chromosomes, there will actually be 8 boys and VW and me!
Oh and VW is bringing cupcakes and she’s concerned that they’ve ‘fallen’. I said to her on the phone, “And?”
She replied, “Well, they may not have been done enough…”
Me: Have you tried them?
VW: We’ve eaten three…
Me: You could crumble them in a bowl with chocolate icing and they’ll be GREAT!
It’s cake! With chocolate frosting! Who cares what it looks like!!! Yahooo!
I know, y’all have been missing out on stories of Mo and Bou. Here ya go.
Today I was driving back from shuttling my children off somewhere when I drove upon a teal blue Pontiac Tempest. Per Google, it appeared to be a 1966. Beautiful car, I was drooling and I’m not one to drool over cars. I love the old cars.
Through my last two years of college (I lived at home), my folks had an extra car for me to drive, a 1974 Plymouth Valiant, that my uncle who is a brilliant engineer, had fully restored. I had issues with the car, mind you, it occasionally would stall out first thing in the morning, something that was eventually fixed, but not on MY watch. There’s nothing that gets the blood flowing than being in a car that decides to stall in the middle of a 4 lane highway.
I still get beyond nervous when I’m in a car that starts to sound like it has stall potential. High anxiety attack comes to mind. My own little version of PTSD. It is one reason I refuse to drive my husband’s sports car… even after it’s been fully rebuilt since that car wreck, it has idling issues I refuse to deal with.
Anyway, so I’m talking to my kid sister, Mo, when I see this car and we start to reminisce about the old Plymouth, as she drove it in high school after I’d left home from college.
So says Mo: That was a great car. I made out with many a boy in the backseat of that car! Oops… sorry.
Bou: What?!!! I NEVER made out in the back of that car!
Mo: Oh. Your loss. It had that great backseat.
Bou: And I NEVER made out in the back of our 1970 Lemans either and it had a HUGE backseat.
Mo: Well I don’t know about the Lemans, but the Plymouth… very comfy backseat. You know how those seats were fuzzy?
Bou: NO! I DON’T KNOW HOW THOSE SEATS WERE FUZZY! I NEVER MADE OUT IN IT!
Mo: Oh yea. You said that…
Bou: Besides, I COULDN’T have made out in that backseat of that car as when I drove it, it was FULL OF BOOKS! Three feet full of books. All I did was STUDY. Remember?
(That last one was a most definite dig.)
Mo: I drove that car in college…
Bou: Yes. But I had books.
Mo: I drove it my freshman year at PJC!
Bou: Yes. But did you BUY BOOKS?!
Mo (laughing): Yeeess!! I bought books my freshman year! I didn’t quit buying books until my senior year!!!
Bou: There is something so wrong with that statement.
Mo: I only had practicums. And it was just that 2nd semester of my senior year I didn’t buy books. I only had that one class… or two… that needed books…
Bou: Yeah, I remember. So you just checked them out of the library.
Really it was a trade off. In her major, she checked her books out the last semester… I fell asleep with my books open on some nights. But her classes were made up of all women… mine… heh. Almost all men. I had eye candy in my classes.
I think I got the better deal.
I just never made out with a boy in the backseat of that Plymouth. Dammit.
So here is a question to my readers…
Do y’all fold those fitted bed sheets?
I was folding sheets today and found myself holding my king size fitted sheet. So I did what I always do and I crumpled/kindasorta folded it into a square shape and shoved it in the closet.
I always figured this was standard.
When I first got married, my husband found me doing this and he said, “What are you doing?”
Him: What. What are you doing?
Me: I’m folding the fitted sheet.
Him: Uh. No. This is how you fold one…
And!, he did this thing where he took it, folded it in half, pressed the corners into each other, and blinked his eyes or something, and the damn thing was folded like you’d get at the store!
And so the next time I folded the laundry, and I came across the king sized fitted sheet, I looked at it, folded it in half and thought, “Screw that…” and crumpled/kindasorta folded it into a square shape and shoved it in the closet.
Am I the only one who does that?
OK, OK, OK, I concede that maybe making a song/poem/cheer about Greens being good for your Colon is not the way to go. The Straight White Eric was right.
I will say, however, that the comments in that post were well worth the post itself. (I recommend reading them if you haven't.) Suzi of My Own Thoughts, had a frickin’ funny story. Good grief. And then Jerry of Back Home Again, lists this book he has in his restroom called ‘The Gas We Pass...The Story of Farts’ which brought up great discussion between Mo and I as the boys have this book I bought them called “Everyone Poops”, leading us to wonder if it was the same author.
We shall be getting this book for the boys. It sounds like a MUST read. For sure.
Oh and then we have TGOO’s stab:
I like collards
The leaves are green,
Eat'em with corn pone
And your colon is clean.
(We have a family joke about corn pone… blog fodder. I must remember…)
And I actually have to say, my boys are excellent eaters. Just on their druthers alone, they ‘druther’ eat meat and potatoes than veggies. Ice cream is on that list way above Green Leafies as well. But, it’s not uncommon for my boys to grab a bag of carrots and eat them as a snack.
Just come dinner, there must be something to argue with me about, and lettuce is one.
Now, even though dear Eric thinks that this is not a GREAT idea or as he put it, “making up a rhyme about veggies being good for colons is just wrong”, I decided to give it the old college try one more time.
I thought of it today while driving, recalling all the comments I’d read about various vegetables, and I called Mo to pass it by her. I nearly laughed myself silly reciting it to her.
You don’t really think I write this stuff to entertain YOU do you? Oh no. I write for me! Oh yes.
So today’s foray into the realm of good eating for your colon is as follows, and I do believe it is my last stab, of which I am sure Eric is thankful:
Beans will make you Toot.
Spinach will make you a Brute.
Asparagus will make smelly funky pee.
And Green Leafies will give you a clear colonoscopy!
I know. I can year the accolades now. Poet Laureate for sure one day, right? I do think that my initial try at poetry while whacked out on painkillers was much better, however. I think those good drugs must’ve gotten those creative juices flowing…
OK, so I’m having a tough time getting my kids to eat their vegetables.
Well, not all vegetables. They’ll eat broccoli. But if I make a salad, they always say they’re too full.
I figured scientific logic was the best way to get the boys to eat them. Forget the, “Eat it because I said so” or “Eat it because it’s good for you” stuff. I figured, if I was specific, they’d get it and they would comply.
I was never so good at the theoretical side of math. This evidently applies to my entire life as this vegetable theory is just that… a theory… of which I am not good.
And to the best of my recollection, this is the conversation that occurred at our dinner table recently:
Boys in unison: Do I have to eat my salad? I’m too full… Look. I ate all my chicken.
Me: Yes. Eat it.
Boys: But look at all the chicken and rice we ate! We’re too full now!
Me: The chicken is lean protein and is good for your muscles. The rice gives you energy. Roughage. You have to eat your roughage. Your colon needs those green leafies.
Me: It’s true. Your digestive system needs those green leafy vegetables. It helps your body work better…
One of them while looking at his bowl of salad, actually they’re ALL staring at their salad: Digestive system? That’s the part that helps you poop right?
Me: Umm. Yeah. Eat your green leafies. They’re good for your colon.
And for the record this whole, “Greens are good for your Colon” thing has NOT worked.
I’m thinking that maybe I need to make up some greens cheer like they have for beans. You know, “beans beans are good for your heart"?
Maybe it could be ‘Greens Greens are good for your colon, the more you eat them, it will never get swollen”?
Heh. I won’t quit my day job.
** For those not in the know, Veggie Tales are kid cartoons**
Today is Bones’ Birthday. He’s 7. There are days he seems so much older… and days he is my baby.
This morning I had to work and had a sitter coming to the house. It was 7:15 and I was getting ready to leave, but couldn’t without wishing him a Happy Birthday. He was still sleeping.
So I lay down next to him, spooned into him and kissed him on the top of his head, quietly whispering, “Happy Birthday” and he snuggled his little body more into mine… and my heart melted.
He is so yummy.
I let him sleep a wee bit longer, then came back 10 minutes later to give him one final kiss. I found him lying in bed; he’d gotten up and picked up his Scrapbook from Kindergarten, and placed it in bed with him. His teacher made every child a scrapbook last year highlighting all that they did, taking pictures for the parents of every event. And so there he lay, with this scrapbook, flipping through it, while still under the sheets, as if reviewing his life.
It was so cute and yet so touching.
As I snuggled with him tonight, wishing him his last Happy Birthday of this year, I recounted my favorite story of his birth.
Bones was but a few hours old. My folks brought Son#1 and Son#2 who were ages 4 and 2 respectively, in to see us. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to act all happy and peppy, and LOOK that way, after feeling like you’ve been to hell and back? Well… it wasn’t that hard. I was high on life, even if I did feel like crap.)
My eldest walked right up to the bassinet, peering in at his newest brother, then looked at me, then looked back at the big bundle, then back at me and finally, eyeing me he said, “How’d he get out of there?”
That always cracks me up.
Of course this year, Bones had ALL SORTS of questions as to the semantics of pushing. Good Lord, I did not see that coming. He asked me if it was like farting. I nearly spit.
He said, “Isn’t it embarrassing?”
And I said, “No Buddy. Look at the gift I got. I got you…”
He is so sentimental. My little 7 year old, reached up, kissed my cheek and said, “Thanks, Mom.”
Every year at Christmas, I make a calendar recapping the previous year in pictures. Each month of a boys’ birthday is dedicated to them. June is obviously Bone’s month. This is his Birthday Collage.
He’s my rough and tumbly boy with a big mouth and a big heart.
Happy Birthday to My Bones, which is short for J-Bones… which is short for J-Boney Buns. In case you didn’t know. *grin*
Today was spent most of the day in thought of my youngest son, it being his birthday and all. (See post above for his birthday post.) My boys are my world. I would never have dreamed that I could love three little people so much… that I’d be willing to die for someone like I would them.
I was cooking his birthday dinner when I realized I’d forgotten an ingredient. Set to go to the store, he looked at me with his big blue eyes and said, “Mooooom, I really really don’t want to go.” With that, I called my husband’s office to see if by chance he could come home early and on his way pick up the missing item.
His office said he’d run outside with his business partner. There had been a terrible traffic accident, and their desks overlook the busy road, from the 2nd floor, a big plate glass window, they can see for miles. Evidently my husband looked up from his computer just as an enormous crashing sound occurred to find a full size SUV T-bone a small/mid size vehicle.
Immediately he was on the phone with 911 as his partner grabbed medical equipment, flying down the stairs yelling for my husband to bring with him what he might have forgotten.
My husband got down the stairs to find his partner circling the car, manic, saying to him, “She didn’t make it. She didn’t make it…” and my husband not comprehending, saying, “She is. She made it.” And his partner saying “No, no, no, not the driver… the passenger…”
And my husband looking at him in horror saying, “Passenger? Oh my God. There’s a passenger?”
When you have kids… so many things change in your life and one is your perception of death. Your heart always ached before when a child or young person died, but when you have your own, there is a slightly different angle added… the angle of ‘it could have been mine’. And that was the angle of today as his partner looked on in horror, the inability to do anything, the added crush of being in the profession of helping people, and helplessly watching it before his eyes, and knowing he has two teenagers of his own.
And they could have been his. Or their friends. And even though they were not kids we knew, the horror of it all is just that… the horror show of all horror shows.
There was nothing they could do. Three jaws of life to remove the door to get to the passenger who had become one with the door upon impact. Jaws of Life to remove the still unconscious driver.
At the scene was a man who was in traffic with the other cars at the time, terror in his voice and he kept saying, “She never stopped! She turned right into her!(referring to the damaged car) She couldn’t stop!” (referring to the driver of the SUV).
The driver of the SUV… she climbed out of her truck, and my husband said collapsed right there in the middle of the road, in front of her truck. Incapable of doing anything.
She never had chance to stop. The passenger in the car never had a chance. It will be amazing to me, knowing what I know now, if the driver makes it. It was over in a split second.
And last night, I was over at blog brother _Jon’s of We Swear, where there was a post on disaster preparedness and the wonderings if there could have been a terrorist strike today, this day on 666, and my comment was along the lines of I intended to just bake a cake, cook dinner, and celebrate my son’s birthday.
But as I cooked dinner tonight, listening to the voices of my children rise in a crescendo at the prospect of celebrating yet another year of theirs, a cake, the dinner, presents, I prayed to myself, praying for a family that was in the same time frame receiving the most horrible phone call imagined, one that a lifetime of nightmares are built upon.
Life seems so temporary to me at times. So short. I spent a lot of time hugging my babies tonight.
Last week I took the boys out for lunch. On the wall of the restaurant was a picture of the USS Kennedy, an aircraft carrier. Great discussion ensued amongst the boys then as to how an aircraft carrier is named. I had only half an answer as The Great Omnipotent One was on the Saratoga and the Lexington and then I knew of some named after Presidents, like the Ronald Reagan.
Knowing they needed a complete answer, I do what I always do when stumped and… called home. I typically don’t talk on my cell phone in public and NEVER in a restaurant, but I made an exception as TGOO was to be folded into the conversation, as was my Mom the last time I did this. I figure if they don’t have an answer, they can look it up on the internet while we’re talking.
He knew this answer, having been a Navy man.
We hung up and the conversation continued to flow the way they always do with my boys… jumping all over and always ending up at the unexpected.
And the unexpected of the day was whether or not the President had a machine gun holed up in his desk in case a bad guy got through the Secret Service. (This tangled path started as we’d been previously discussing the jobs of the Secret Service, yet another honorable job, and then at some point a bit on spying and how to become one. Go figure.)
Anyway, so I told them I felt certain that the President didn’t pack heat and they argued with me that surely I was wrong, and that they were MOST CERTAIN that he kept a machine gun in his desk for just those instances when a bad guy must be blown away.
So… I called TGOO AGAIN and his answer was, “No, he does not have a gun in his desk.”
The boys are throwing questions to him through me, “Yeah, but what if a bad guy gets in???”
TGOO, through me, “They won’t get past the Secret Service.”
Boys: But what if?
TGOO: They WON’T.
End of story.
They believe him, but not me. Then again, that’s why he’s The Great Omnipotent One.
Later on in the day, after returning home, I received a family e-mail from TGOO that of course resulted in quite the family e-mail stream.
As you all know, our annual ceilidh is coming up on July 4th. This would mean that every few days or so, we receive an e-mail from TGOO reminding us to fine tune our talents for the big event.
We’ve received an e-mail with an attachment of last year’s group shot.
We’ve received an e-mail with a picture of the fire works he’s already purchased.
We’ve received little reminders… like a count down.
And I believe y’all know from THIS post, that my boys have decided to do this Black Knight scene from Monty Python’s Holy Grail. I reminded them of this the other night, and the following conversation occurred, which I in turn sent to my family in response to the ceilidh countdown e-mail, and I will say that my brother (Toluca Nole) handled it quite well, as surprised as he was:
Me to Son#2: so are you doing the Monty Python thing?
Son#2: We don't have a Patsy.
Me: What about Bones?
Son#2: No. He wants to play the Green Knight.
Me: Oh. Well, what do you want to do?
Son#2: Get Uncle TN to play Patsy. And Mimi has the shells we need for him to do the clopping noise.
Upon informing Mimi and TGOO that there is supposedly something in the house for TN to use to make the clopping noise, it was decided that TGOO will go ahead and split a coconut and have the boys help him clean it out. That way the boys can say they’ve cleaned a coconut and the UBER EXCITED TN will have his props for playing Patsy.
This should be interesting…
I’m already laughing my ass off.
And I thought, “Wow. I live in Florida. We grow ‘em the size of small dogs down here. I can do this!”
I just needed a new story. Well, nobody NEEDS a new roach story, but I figured a current run in with a roach would do the job. I forgot in Bou’s Universe, ask and ye shall receive.
First, do you remember the first time you ever saw a big roach? I don’t mean those little 3 mm roaches of which people up North talk of. I mean those 3-4 inch jobbies… in particular the ones that fly.
Skeeve me out they do.
I was 8, going on 9. We were living in temporary military quarters Jacksonville, Florida. I opened a kitchen drawer to get a spoon and saw an enormous roach sitting in a spoon. Sitting there like it was his hang out, layin’ like broccoli.
I closed the drawer and decided I’d just have to forgo eating while we were there. Luckily we didn’t stay long.
Five years later, living in Pensacola, Florida, with a house nestled amongst the pine trees, we had a real palmetto bug issue. My folks had an exterminator, but you can only do so much. Nothing quite ever gets your blood flowing like opening a cabinet and having a 4 inch roach fly AT YOU.
And they hiss. Or maybe it’s the sound of their ‘wings’. No clue. But there is noise involved.
Good God. Just the memory wigs me out! Holy crap.
And the one thing that comes a close second to a palmetto bug flying at you, is having to step on one. There is something about the sound of the ‘crunch’ that completely skeeves me out as well.
Oh… all the sounds a roach makes, from the sound of it landing on something a soft “tick” as the hard shells of their bodies hit the counter or floor, to the sound of their scurrying, to the sound of the crunch when they get squished.
I think I’m having some sort of anxiety attack as I type this post.
A couple weeks ago, I had to visit an elderly acquaintance of mine. I’d not been to her home before. I drove up to find she lives in one of the very quaint, but very cool, older Florida homes, on the intercoastal waterway. She’s lived in this home since the 1960s, when water front homes were affordable.
Now her neighborhood is filled with mansions, as when the retirees who built there in the 60s move out, their homes are scoffed up by the rich, torn down, and a mansion stands in its place.
Truly unfortunate, it is, as these mansions all look alike. These little Florida homes, such as hers, have SO MUCH character to them. And her gardens? Good grief. Her entire yard is nothing but orchids and ferns and the most magnificently tended to garden complete with a little porch swing that sits out to overlook the waterway.
It’s breathtaking, all the work she’s put into it. She loves to garden and has quite the green thumb.
Now her home, unlike most Florida homes that are concrete block, is wood. Inside as well. Inside her home would appear dark except for the gargantuan picture windows she has that overlook the waterway. So this beautiful sunlight comes in, bouncing off the water as well, into this dark wood home.
Cedar, perhaps? Even her ceiling is wood. You can see the beams. I truly LOVE her home.
So she and I are talking, her boyfriend is sitting with us, and he gets up to get something, leaves the room, and she turns away… and in that split second, out of the corner of my eye I see something FALL FROM THE CEILING.
Holy crap. It was like only *I* was meant to see it. The timing. It was as if the Roach Gods knew there was someone to be freaked out and dropped one from the ceiling in the split second that literally everyone was gone or turned away… except for me!
As I watched it fall from the ceiling, my acquaintance having her back turned still, I braced myself for the unmistakable ‘tick’ I would hear as it landed. I stood there completely frozen as I eyeballed it and it scurried under her stove.
I said nothing. Not a word. I mean, truly, what was I going to say? “Hey, Donna, I just saw this big ass roach fall from your ceiling and crawl under your stove!” ?
Even though we all know that it’s not a factor of cleanliness, but rather a factor of WHERE WE LIVE, we’re all still horrified when we find roaches in our home, in particular when there are guests.
And as good luck would have it, as I turned to say goodbye 15 minutes later, leaving them in their kitchen, ANOTHER roach scurried on the other side of the room, up against the sink, where my friend said, “Oh my!” and quickly grabbed a newspaper and CRUNCHED it against the tiles.
And once again, I just stood there, like it didn’t phase me, but inside, blech, I wanted to crawl out of my skin.
She looked at me and said, “This season, I am having the worst time! Never in my 40 years living here have I had this problem. Why just last month, we were sleeping and I felt something drop onto my shoulder and it was a roach! It fell from the ceiling right onto me… as I slept!”
Her boyfriend was laughing saying, “It’s true. It’s true!”
I nearly hyperventilated. I said, “Donna… I have to tell you, I’d have to move. I could not live here.”
And that’s the truth. The good and the bad, the beautiful gardens and the roaches. The roaches outweigh the view of the water and her gardens.
I’d have to main line an anti-anxiety drug to live in her home. Holy crap.
For a wee bit over 3 years, I’ve been getting my nails done by a Japanese lady in town. I go every two weeks and its my personal splurge on myself. I started going to her when I realized I had started to bite my nails again.
Yup, it’s a habit I had as a child and one I pick back up when seriously stressed. My other really bad habit is picking at my cuticles, bloodshed is not uncommon, but I have found that if I keep my nails manicured, unless really stressed, I won’t pick at my hands.
So I go once every two weeks, going weekly was too costly, but I could rationalize every other week and it did exactly as I intended… and over the last couple years, she and I have grown rather close.
We talk politics, kids, religion, cultural differences. She was widowed at a young age and raised her daughter on her own, and on a manicurist salary, put her daughter through college and her masters degree… no loans. She works hard and is sharp… she is so sharp. Very wise and grounded. Opportunities for education just were not there for her as a young woman in Japan, having 15 years on me. But she has done very well for herself here, in America, although she has struggled..
She’s a GREAT woman. I admire her and even had my Mom meet her last time my Mom was visiting.
So today we were talking and I said, ‘I’m starting my hurricane shopping, have you started?”
She lives alone and sustained great damage to her home during the last hurricane. ‘No,’ she said, “I don’t need to.”
Now I was rather horrified and she said, “I don’t drink much water, so I have enough in advance and I don’t need a lot of food. Hunger is a state of mind.”
She followed on with, ‘When I was a young girl and I would say I was hungry, my Mother used to always tell me, “The children of Samurai, never say they are hungry.” So I never say it. Not even now.”
I was rather taken back by this. After these past few years, I know so much about her family, but this was so odd. So I replied, “Children of Samurai? Your family, they were Samurai?”
And she said that they were. Back when Samurai were part of their culture, during that part of the Japanese history, her family were Samurai. If that part of their culture had continued, her brothers would have been Samurai as well.
I found the whole thing fascinating.
Just when you think you know someone…
My neighborhood has been approached lately to take part in a national survey on drugs, alcohol and tobacco use. Mental health questions have been thrown in for good measure. When we first got the letter I thought, ‘Sure, what the hell…”
Sure enough, they showed up at my doorstep a couple days ago, a pleasant woman, wondering if I’d participate. Absolutely was my answer. I’m all about data.
Truth be known, I’m HUGELY envious of the data geek receiving this data at the end. I’d be sifting through it all, hour upon hour, looking for trends and emerging patterns. Very fun job they have.
I’m not kidding.
So she came this morning, computer in hand, and had me take the test. It’s done by lap top as well as ear phones so she can’t hear what question I’m on. It’s all about privacy.
Like I care if she knew what my answers were. Really. I don’t.
Whatever. I put the earphones on and took the test and I think the looks on my face were probably worth her coming to my house to see me take the test.
Did you know people sniff gasoline?
Did you know that there is something called Georgia Home Boy… and that it’s a REALLY REALLY bad thing? And I don’t mean because he roots for the Georgia Bulldogs during football season, which is BAD ENOUGH, but because Georgia Home Boy is slang for a really nasty drug.
And there is something called a Blunt. I swear I thought it said you take a cigarette or cigar and take out the tobacco and replace it with pot or something. Either way, evidently a blunt is something you SMOKE. I only knew of one definition of Blunt and that was usually in reference to ME by my sister, Morrigan, who likes to say I’m ‘Blunt and Insensitive’.
This test? It was a HUGE education. Holy crap. I learned all sorts of names for all sorts of awful stuff you can put in your body. Crank is no longer an emotional state as in, ‘Stay away from Betty Lou, she’s a real CRANK today!’ It’s now some totally bad mind altering substance. Gah!
So I went into this test thinking I must be pretty normal… until I got half way through it and it’s having me look at charts of different types of prescription drugs asking me if I’ve ever taken them with the intention to get high or if I obtained them illegally.
Or dealt them.
I was looking at these pictures thinking, “Oh… My… God! I’ve never even heard of half this stuff!!!”
Blue pills, red pills, yellow pills, white pills… it was like some sick Dr. Seuss book written for the characters of the Matrix.
I spent the whole time hitting ‘2’ for ‘no’ and ‘enter’. The test took me 20 minutes and went like this ‘2’ ‘enter’, ‘2’ ‘enter’, ‘2’ ‘enter’.
And when I finished I realized that this test, which was supposed to take an hour, took me so little time… because… I’m not normal, if the average is ONE HOUR. I just kind of assumed I was. But… I’m not.
I’ve never had a cigarette touch my lips, I’ve never done any kind of illegal drug, I don’t drink, I don’t do prescription drugs or painkillers to get high and never have, and I think that… that’s not normal.
And I sure as hell have never dealt anything but cards at a card game.
I think if I’d put that I have smoked in the past, a whole other panel of questions would have appeared. What do you smoke? How often do you smoke? How many packs a day? Have you ever quit? Could you quit if you wanted? Have you ever sought assistance to quit? And on and on and on. That question alone answered to a Yes, probably increases the test taking time by 5 minutes.
If I’d put that I drank, same thing… a whole panel of questions would have come up, When did you drink last? How many did you have? What did you drink? Did you have 5 or more drinks in that instance? How many times this week did you have 5 or more drinks in one instance? This month? This year? And on… and on… and on. At least another 5 minutes for the drinking question as well.
At the end, when we were finished I said, “Wow. That didn’t take long… I guess I’m kind of a freak.” And she implied that I was just at one end of the spectrum, that she has people take the test that it takes TWO HOURS, as they try to remember the last drink they had, what kind, how many, how many days in a row, etc, what drug they did last, how many times, how frequently they do it, etc.
And then there was this whole question session on how easy it is to obtain drugs.
First question was: How easy is it to obtain Pot? It was on a scale of 1 - 5, 5 being the impossible to 1 being a piece of cake. I looked at her and said, “I have NO FRICKIN’ CLUE how easy this is. I don’t know who I’d call…” and she said, “Well, you can put a 3 on that.” And the more I thought, the more I thought she might be right as I actually may know a person or two.
But the next question was “How easy is it to obtain LSD?” and I hit ‘5’. Oh MY God! LSD? I HAVE NO IDEA! And then it asked about Heroin?! Holy crap! From then on I just hit ‘impossible’. It’s impossible when you don’t even know where to begin to get something like that. No clue. At all. THANK.GOD.
I should call that crank, my Georgia Home Boy, and see if he can hook me up with some of that smack or we can drop acid or score some blow, or if not, I can just take my wheels down to the Office Depot and get me some of that great correction fluid to sniff while I chill and watch TV tonight, or better yet, I don’t even have to leave the nest… why I can just pop open the gas tank to my wheels, pull up a chair and inhale me some gas fumes and get totally whack. At 3 bucks a gallon, I got me some dual purpose goin’ on.
I tell you what. This big world scares me sometimes. This rock under which I live, is pretty damn cozy at times.
The results come out in March. I told her I want to see them. I guess I want to see how much of a freak I really am… But far better to be a freak on MY END of the spectrum than on that other end. Good Lord.
This one is to be filed under, “Your Children MIGHT be from Florida When…”
Bones' 1st grade teacher, every year, pulls each child aside and starts out a phrase and has them finish it. Then she writes them out and gives them to us in book form.
For instance, Don’t Count your Chickens Before:
Zachary: You count your Cows
Valerie: You count your Tigers
Bones: You put your finger in your mouth
Samantha: You roast them.
Oh and then we have You Can Catch More Flies With:
The practical Bones: A net.
Icky Chase: Your tongue. (no thanks)
New Age Pearce: A dream Catcher
Very practical Will: A bucket with a top.
Potential Exterminator Mark: A fly swatter.
Observant Ryan: A garbage can.
And then we have You can Lead a Horse to Water bur You Can’t:
Bones who has never ridden a horse: Get on it.
Imani who understands what water is also for: Make it swim.
Lily who must have a pet: Leave it there.
Mitchell the philosopher: Lead him to a desert.
Valerie who must think the horse is like my bus: run over someone.
Ryan who also understands this water thing: make him take a shower.
Grace, who has me baffled: put him in a wheelchair.
Then there is A Bird in the Hand…
Bones: Don’t drop it!
Josh: would be a chick.
Ryan: a duck in the other.
Danielle: should be put in a tree.
Luke: Can’t lay eggs.
Jimmy: is comfortable.
Derek: pet it softly.
Ryan (different): will bite you.
However this one was had two key indicators that our children live in Florida:
People who live in Glass Houses Shouldn’t:
Bones: Go near the walls.
Martha who lives in the South obviously: live near a football stadium.
Mark: Play soccer in the house. (Thankfully *I* don’t live in a glass house by the way my boys play...)
Samantha: Sleep in their beds (because of lightning)
Luke who is obviously not modest: Leave the blinds open.
And then we have:
Tommy: Live where there are lots of hurricanes.
Grace: Stay there for hurricanes.
I’m betting that if these kids lived in North Dakota, hurricanes would not have popped up in one answer!
Hmmm. Summer vacation. What to do, what to do. *fingers tapping on my desk*
Phht. In my dreams I'd be wondering. Tomorrow is 2 June. I live in Florida. Tomorrow I am off with the boys to do my hurricane supply shopping, as in water, food and batteries. I hate this. This means tomorrow I’m dropping a couple hundred dollars, and then of course, I will continue to add to the supplies as I see fit.
Every now and then I buy something and find it’s disappeared. Boys sometimes can’t resist the temptation to eat the pop tarts that have been stashed away.
This year, perhaps I’ll take a picture of my stash, so y’all can see what it looks like.
Then again. Maybe not.
Seventeen named storms are predicted, with nine of them to be hurricanes. The way the currents are running right now… the highs… the lows… the La Ninas and all that other crap I don’t understand, there is thought in some meteorological think tanks that Florida and the East Coast will take a pummeling this year.
I hate this crap.
I really really do.
And if I read in the newspaper or anywhere else that, “This is the price you pay to live in paradise” I’m going to go non-linear and beat the crap out of someone.
Pensacola is damn close to paradise.
West Palm Beach, Florida is NOT. It may have been at one time, but I assure you, it is hellish on a good day now.
Six more months and this season is over.
And I’m sure some of my readers are thinking, “Oh. Great. That means she’s going to be blogging the frickin’ WEATHER for the next 6 months.”
And to that I say, “Bite me.”
Yeah. I’m feeling a wee bit cranky… Bah!