To answer my brother's question in my Deep Fried Salmon post, still no answer as to what fish was on what river, although I think my Mom was correct in her guess that it is the Missouri River and Chinook Salmon.
We will see. They were wrapped up on Halloween Parties in school today or some Lame-O excuse. I hope to have an answer by the end of the week... inquiring minds want to know.
OH!!! AND!!! I was cooking tonight and that Mrs. Puff cartoon came on! Holy crap! What was the probability of that? Well... don't answer that. In my world, the answer is HIGH.
We do Halloween here. Not big like some people I know (I was trying to link another blog as well... but their server must be down), but we do it fairly well. I have a ring of ghosts that I put out on my front lawn, the door is decorated and we put orange lights on the shrubs. We have little blinking lights and signs up the walkway and plastic pumpkins in the windows.
The boys each have their own pumpkin and they carved them last night with their father. I do not participate in pumpkin carving. Thatís a father/son thing in my house. We couldnít get the flash to turn off on my digital so this is the best we could do:
The boys and their costumes? Why change something that works? My 2nd son once again went as a Knight from King Arthurís Round Table, his alter ego. Those who know his name understand why he continues to go as this obscure knight. And I bit of a seque here, his costume? This was the frickiní shepherd costume I made for Ringo when he was in Kindergarten 7 years ago for the Christmas play. It was worn by each son and has now been worn twice for Halloween. Never in a million years, as I was sewing this little tunic for a Christmas pageant, would I have believed you if you had told me it would have gotten so much use!
Last year he declared he hated the shoes he wore and was going to make wooden shoes for the next year. Instead, when shopping for sandals at the beginning of the summer he bought a pair with Halloween in mind. Iím not kidding. He bought a pair he thought would look more realistic with his Knight costume. I refuse to tell the kid that Knights did not fight for the Crown while wearing sandals.
Meanwhile, we are still stuck on scary with the other two boys with Bones going yet again as ĎScreamí and Ringo asking for a new mask. It was the cheapest Halloween ever. I ended up buying one mask and one black robe. Loooooove that!
Throughout the night the kids in the neighborhood said they liked our decorations best, to which Bones replied, ďWhy? We do the same old stuff EVERY YEAR!Ē He is on a jag that we need MORE Halloween decorations. The fact is, hardly anyone decorates and the fact we do, excites the kids who come by, especially the really little people.
Bones came in the house excited that heíd gotten me some of my favorite candy, Milk Duds. Heh. Red licorice is right up there too, along with tootsie roll pops preferably cherry or chocolate. I thought it was sweet that he was so excited he had special candy for me.
And I got a call from Man Boy, who some of my newer readers probably do not know about. Heís a kid I watched grow up, Iíve known him since his Junior year in High School. He graduated to play college ball, and in the summers would sometimes babysit my boysÖ his sister was always my primary babysitter. Heís 25 now and a beautiful young manÖ HUGE. But he is a Boy to me, although Morrigan had to point out to me once that he is NOT. Anyway, ManBoy was at his folkís house tonight when the boys came by for Trick Or Treating. He called me immediately when they left, to tell me didnít even recognize Bones. Bones has gotten so long and lean. His face has narrowed and he looks like a big boy now. It made me laugh.
So a good time was had by all, even though it rained.
And I have to askÖ how do yíall in the great white north handle cold Halloweens? Do your kids have to wear coats over their costumes?
This story is an odd twisted road. Follow if you can...
We were at dinner tonight when my 2nd son said, ďI think Peterís Mom looks like sheís in her twenties.Ē
I said, with claws out, ďReally. If you look at her face, she doesnítÖĒ
Peterís Mom has had cosmetic surgery, breast augmentation for sure, and I suspect a tummy tuck as well. She is TINY and something is just not right. And it annoys me that by what looks like a perfect 20 year old body, that has had work done, that my boys think she is so young when I know sheís not.
This whole cosmetic surgery to look 'perpetually 20' is a real peeve of mine. It really gets under my skin. And let me make it clear, I have NO PROBLEMS with cosmetic surgery. NONE. But the need for women in their late 30s and 40s in S. Florida to try to compete with the 20 year olds, irritates the stew out of me and it is pervasive down here.
Ringo said, ďYouíre right. Her face doesnít look 20.Ē
And not being able to hold back I said nastily, ďIt is amazing what cosmetic surgery can do.Ē
My husband, who thinks she is cute and sweet (she is very sweet to my husband but has rarely given me the time of day), shot me a nasty look while looking out of the corner of his eyes at the boys and said, ďYou donít know thatÖ She could naturally look like that.Ē
Me: Pulease. Donít tell me for a minute you think her breasts are real. They are SO fake.
Mr. T: fake?
My husband: Well, yeah, those are, but youíre implying other things have been done and you donít know thatÖ
Mr. T: Fake? Her breasts are fake?
Me: Youíre right. I donít know that she did, but I really suspect that she has.
Mr. T: Fake? How are a womanís breasts fake?
Me: Women can have surgery and have things implanted in them to make them bigger, perkier, rounder.
The boys, collectively: Oh.
Me: You knowÖ this is a conversation that stays at this table. (Lovely as I sit here blogging it, putting it on the ĎnetÖ) What happens in the home, stays in the home. There is no reason to talk about this fake breast stuff. It stays here.
The boys: OK.
Me: Seriously. Donít. Itís not something women talk about.
Bones (of courseÖ you had to see this coming): OH! (His eyes got real wide with some sort of knowledgeÖ a connection made.) Itís like Mrs. Puff.
Me: Mrs. Puff?
Bones (read this real fast and youíll hear it how I did): Yeah, on Sponge Bob. Mr. Krabbs wanted to ask Mrs. Puff out, but then he realized that Mrs. Puff was taken, because sheís a Mrs. and he asked where Mr. Puff was and then they showed him in a lantern and someone pulled a string and a light came on.
Me: Iím lost.
Ringo: Mr. Puff was dead. Heís a puffer fish. Someone turned him into a light. When you pulled the cord, a light came on in his mouth. They made him into a puffer fish lantern.
Me: *blink* *blink* How is a woman getting implants in her breasts like Mrs. Puff?
Bones: Oh, she doesnít want to talk about it. Mrs. Puff doesnít like to talk about it.
Holy crap. He and I so donít think on the same planeÖ or planet... or solar system.
Today in the car my 2nd son said to me, "Mom, do you know what a staple of the people who live along the Mississippi River is?Ē
Me: Mmm, no. What?
Mr. T: Salmon
Me: Salmon? Where in the heck did you hear that?
Mr. T: Science.
Me: Son, they donít eat Salmon off the Mississippi. Are you sure? Maybe you mean Catfish.
And he kept insisting and he said it with such conviction I suddenly doubted myself, even though I KNOW Salmon is one of those cold water fish.
So I grabbed my cell phone and said, ďGuess who Iím going to call and ask?Ē
Mr. T said, ďBig?Ē
And he was right. ĎBigí is the nickname they use for their Grandfather, who is really Big Daddy. Even funnier is ĎBigí is 5í6Ē and weighs 150 lbs. But he is big in their minds and he seems to know all the answers, which was evidently how we felt as kids or we'd not have let the nickname The Great Omnipotent One stick.
So ĎBigí picks up and I said, ďYour grandson has informed me that Salmon is a staple of the people who live upon the Mississippi River?Ē
Big: Heís wrong.
Me: I thought so.
Big: There has never been a Salmon that has lived in the Mississippi River.
Me: I told him that.
Now in the background I am hearing, ďMom! It says it in my book! The Native Americans just stood on the banks of the Mississippi and there were so many fish jumping out of the water, they could just use hooks to catch them!Ē
Big: He is confusing the Mississippi with some other river in the North West, Oregon, Washington... perhaps. Iím trying to think of rivers up thereÖ
Me: Or confusing fish.
Big: Do you think he means Catfish?
Me: I asked. He is INSISTING it is Salmon.
Mr. T has been tasked to bring this book home so he and I can sit down and actually read which fish and which river these Native Americans stood upon catchingÖ in great abundance.
I know Mississippi and if Salmon were plentiful there like Mr. T says, Deep Fried Salmon would be a Southern delicacyÖ with a side of hushpuppies, and since it is not, it is through the logic and reasoning I deduce that he has the wrong fish in the wrong river.
ĎTwill be interesting to hear the right answerÖ
** UPDATE: As I kissed him goodnight this evening I said, "Son, remember, tomorrow in school, look in that book. Let's see what fish was in what river."
He said, 'I'll bring the book home..."
As I left the room I heard a little voice say, "It might be trout."
I walked back in and said, "What did you say?!"
He gave out a little laugh and said, "It might be trout..."
Bing! Bing! Bing! I do believe we may have a winner!!!
I think Iíll not fly in Nigeria any time soonÖ
The whole thought is scary in general, but when a President of a country stands up and says that their airline industry needs to be overhauled due to corruption?
Yeah. I'll take a pass...Thank.you.very.much.
My 2nd son had been tasked to bring in a mini-pumpkin to school. He brought home this information on a sheet of paper that listed an assortment of other things to also bring in for the 4th grade Halloween Party.
But with all the papers I look at, I quickly scanned it and set it aside, never fully reading it in its entirety.
Today he said ďMOOOM. I need that mini-pumpkin for school! Iím supposed to take it in tomorrow!Ē
And I replied, ďWhat mini-pumpkin?Ē
As good fortune would have it, we were set to go to the pumpkin patch tonight anyway, as one does not buy their pumpkins too early in South Florida. And, for the record, should one decide to buy the pumpkin early, one definitely DOES NOT carve it any more than one day in advance.
The weather is too hot and humid down here. Every single one of us has a story of buying a pumpkin two weeks in advance, setting it on our front porch, only to lift it up to carve it and the bottom breaking off and sticking to the porch, whilst we are left standing with rotten pumpkin in our hands and gooey nasty black rotten mess oozing out of it. Cut it too early? Within days the face is caved in and black with mold.
Our newspaper even has a pumpkin cam on-line, where you can watch this carved pumpkin as it starts to decay. Last I checked, the face was caving in like one of those old lady apple dolls. Hey, the joys of living in South Florida. Canít beat Ďem with a stick.
(For the pumpkin cam go HERE and then scroll down to web extras. Iím sure it wonít be up much longer, so look while you can.)
Anyway, my husband is home (the pumpkin event is a WHOLE family event) so we went to the patch which is sponsored by our local United Methodist Church. Weíve been taking pictures in that patch for 11 years.
As we walked up, I quickly surmised there were no more mini pumpkins left. On our way home I had my husband stop at a grocery store near the patch, where I also foundÖ no mini pumpkins.
Finally I looked at Mr. T and said, ďSon, its not looking good. Everyone is out. You need to start wrapping your mind around an alternative. How about a BIG navel orange?Ē
His eyes widened and he said, ďMOM! NO! She said a PUMPKIN. I canít walk in there withÖ AN ORANGE!Ē
Back in the car, I had my husband stop at the Publix nearest our home for one last ditch effort to find this mini pumpkin. We walked in andÖ it was obvious. There were no mini pumpkins.
Mr. T picked up a largish pumpkin and said, ďWell Mom, I guess this will just have to do.Ē
It was my turn to raise my eyebrows and widen my eyes, ďDude, that wonít even fit in your backpack. There is nothing MINI about THAT pumpkin. We need to think of an alternative.Ē
And as we walked around the produce aisleÖ we stumbledÖ uponÖ some Butternut Squash.
Holy crap. We both stood there looking at them. I held it in my hand and felt its smooth texture and I looked at my son and said, ďWow. Look at this. It looks like a frickiní squash in Veggie Tales (Jerry the Gourd). You could dress it like LarryÖĒ
Keep in mind this is the kid who wanted to play Tuba because of a damn talking cartoon cucumber. (Larry)
He looked at it and said excitedly, ďMOM! This is it! Iím taking a SQUASH! NOBODY else will have a squash! Iíll make it a super hero. Like Larry. This is GREAT!Ē
And the two of us got to laughing so hard while holding this daggum squash, I thought Iíd pee.
As we walked around the store, he holding his squash, I said to him, ĎYou are the coolest of cool cats, Mr. T. I want to be JUST LIKE YOU when I grow up.í
He said, ĎMom, youíre already grown up...Ē and I replied, ďYeah, but I still learn things from you.Ē
To be 9 and to not give a crap what anyone else thinks. Most 9 year olds are already in the conformity stage. Gotta look the same, gotta be the same, canít be different, must be a round peg in that round hole. Heís never really been that way, but you never know. My biggest fear was that he would feel like a dork taking in something other than a mini-pumpkin.
But not Mr. T.
Heís got his squash and heís a happy man. He cannot WAIT for school tomorrow where he can show all his buddies. ďLook at what *I* have! I got a squash!Ē
Heh heh heh. I canít quit laughing. It cracks me up.
My husband has been gone since Thursday. It's been me and the boys... something we do fairly frequently in the fall and spring. Usually I try to make dinners that we like, but their father hates.
Last night I made a dish called bierocks, which I make out of a pot roast I cook throughout the day and Pillsbury Hot Roll mix. The boys were quick to tell me that their dad likes bierocks too, but I'm all about the comfort food this weekend.
My nerves were damn close to shot going into this business trip and I need anything to keep them from being completely frayed.
The boys have been running me on the edge of sensory overload for the last couple weeks. I'm just... done. Done with the arguing. Done with the hitting of each other. Done with the name calling. Done with the noise. Done with the incessant... everything. Done. And last night they damn near threw me over the edge.
Today... I threw their butts outside. I didn't care. It was that or I was going to frickin' lose it all together.
Tonight I made my favorite dish from when I was a kid, my Mom's cheese fondue. The kids loved it, thankfully, so I know I'll make it again. They asked for chocolate fondue for dessert, and I used that as a huge bribery to keep them out of my hair. It has worked.
I don't know why any of them thinks hitting is acceptable. I have never hit them. I don't know why treating each other like complete crap seems to be acceptable as I have never treated them like this, nor do I treat anyone around me like that. I don't get it.
One minute they are hugging each other and are sugar and rainbows and the next minute they're trying to beat the ever living snot out of each other, at outrageous noise levels.
And I'm done.
I've kept my cool for the most part. Separating them into separate rooms. Keeping one on each side of me when in the grocery store (the two youngest are my big offenders). Time outs and timers. Throwing them outside. Separating them in the car.
And quite frankly, I'm not looking for advice, so don't give it unsolicited or you're going to piss me off and I'll delete your comment. No shit. I'm venting. Its my blog. I'm allowed.
But tonight I await the 9:00 hour, when I can put them in bed, turn out the lights and sit in my quiet hot bathtub with a good book, in complete silence and soothe my nerves.
I don't want to talk to anyone, touch anyone, be touched, smell, think, or taste. Nothing. A sensory deprivation tank sounds pretty damn good right now.
I have to get to tomorrow and some weeks, that's a tough thought. Tomorrow.
Good Lord. At least Ringo watches this stuff and LAUGHS with me. Itís not just me.
I heard shouting in the backyard. Ringo and I looked out the slider to see my 2nd son standing in the swing set fort, looking down upon Bones who was standing mid-yard. They were shouting at each other. Each had a toy weapon.
It escalated until I saw Bones yelling at the top of his lungs, his little body starting to shake, when he gave a final burst and THREW his nerf gun to the ground in a fit of uncontrollable anger.
Do you know who he looked like?
Frickiní Steve Spurrier.
He just needed a visor instead of a nerf gun. Holy crap.
That kid is so not going to South Carolina...
Boys. Hamsters. Canibals. Godiva Chocolate.
I'm telling you, I'll never see a Godiva box again and look at it the same way.
I laughed. I wanted to hurl. I wanted to laugh again.
AFSister has it HERE. Good Lord... that would so happen to me. But thankfully... it has NOT. Heh.
My Mom is really funny. She says things sometimes that completely crack me up. She has always been the straightman to her two kids (not me, Iím not the funny kid), but she has a wicked funny sense of humor.
Weíve been talking about death a lot more lately. Not sure why it keeps coming up, perhaps because she and Dad are aging, as the rest of us are, and the latest conversation was because one of their neighbor's just died. My Momís philosophy on life has become, ďDeath Happens.Ē And she shrugs.
And I think itís funny.
She has a baked rigatoni recipe that I gave her that she now calls ĎFuneral Rigatonií. It feeds the masses, fills them up, and tastes great reheated. She takes it to the family when someone dies. And sheís even made up this really funny song about her coming with the Funeral Rigatoni, Ďstep aside, Ďcause someoneís diedí or something like that. Itís really really damn funny.
But I was telling her today, ďDonít you and Dad make any assumptions on whose going firstÖ because Iím not.Ē
I guess the big hope for my parents, in my eyes, would be that theyíve lived great lives, fulfilled, and theyíre both kind of tired of living, theyíre in their own home, and they both fall asleep and wake up dead. Preferably at the age of 100. And they both have all their faculties and are in good health.
But nobody is ever ready to lose a parent, even at 100, and the thought really does sicken me.
My Mom and Dad are both in excellent health. She had a physical a year or so ago and her doctor said to her very solemnly, ďDo you know what your biggest health risk is?Ē
And my Mom, suddenly very alert and waiting to hear the big news said, ďWhat?Ē
And he deadpaned, ď9 mile road.Ē (My Pensacola readers will so get that. For those who have never been there, itís become this crazy ass 4 lane road where I think everyone drives with a death wish. My parentís neighborhood sits off of it.)
What always surprises me, however, is how at a certain point, some couples just Ďassumeí one is going to die first.
Case in point.
My mother in law and father in law planned their entire futures around his dying first. All their retirement planning was based upon this assumption. She was a retired school teacher that had a good pension coming in, so their planning was based on what SHE would have when he died.
Except suddenly it was the day of the Epiphany, sheís on the altar leading the parishioners in the Rosary, when Boom, she drops dead.
Kind of put a whole kink in the olí retirement plan.
Not to mention the family dynamicsÖ something that still hasnít quelled after nearly 7 years.
Then you have her sister, who married for the first time at 65, to a man who also had never been married and was also 65. Both of them were probably the quirkiest people I had EVER met in my ENTIRE life, and their marriage to me, has proved my theory that ĎEvery Pot has a Lidí. They were great together and we were so happy that these two extraordinarily odd but well meaning people found each otherÖ and so late in life.
She got cancer, esophageal, which has a very low cure rate, and so we all knew, that but seven years into their marriage, a marriage truly made in heaven, that she would dieÖ leaving him a mourning widower and we were certain that he would be unable to go on without her.
But then one day, one cold snowy day in October, in Northern New Jersey where they lived, he went to the Post Office and slipped and fell, hitting his head on the icy frozen stepsÖ and died.
Just like that.
Her cancer had not completely ravaged her body yet, she had been fighting the good fight, more than likely for him, but upon his deathÖ she died two weeks later. The cancer may be the cause on her death certificate, but I think it was a broken heart.
So assumptions cannot be made. Nobody knows what the fickle finger of fate has in store for any of us. There are no crystal balls.
Assumptions really canít be made.
And Iím not sure where Iím going with this except itís a long stream of consciousness spurred by a very funny conversation about death with my Mom.
And my Mom? She wants written on her tombstone, ďAlready?Ē
Children are so different. You raise them the same, but how one responds to one thing, may be so totally different from the others.
For instance, I can look at my two older boys cross eyed and they stop in their tracks.
Bones? I distinctly remember saying to him when he was in preschool, I was so exasperated by his constant challenging and pushing the limits, ďYOU! YOU! YOU! YOU should be SO VERY afraid of me! And youíre not!Ē
And his elder brothers in unison saying to him, ďYou really shouldÖĒ
We all lose it. It happens when youíre a parent. In the last 7 years probably, I promise I have had my head spin around 8 times, and vile green goop vomit spew forth from my eyes and mouth, too many timesÖ I cannot count.
But Bones? He stands there, with the look of, ĎAre YOU talkiní to ME?í Makes me nuts.
To date, heís the only one of my children Iíve actually had to no-kidding spank. It made an impression. Heís not made the mistakes of that week since. (Big offenses.)
Anyway, the other day at dinner the following conversation ensued to the best of my recollectionÖ setting: Dinner table. Entrťe: Spaghetti.
Bones: Have I eaten enough to have dessert?
Me: No. Eat it all. I didnít give you that much.
Bones: Ahhhh, really?
Me: You can get down if you want. I couldnít care less. But Iím telling you now, that plate is sitting there ALL NIGHT and if you think for a minute you can eat ANYTHING OTHER than your dinner tonight, you are sorely mistaken. I make ONE dinner. That is it. It will sit there all nightÖ until you eat it or until its time for breakfast.
Bones: OK. Mom. Can I eat just the meat or do I have to eat the spaghetti too?
Me: What part of this dinner became, ĎLetís Make a Deal?í Do I look like a Game Show host? I am YOUR MOTHER. What part of ĎEAT IT ALLí did you not understand? Do you get it? This is NOT ĎLetís Make a Dealí.
Ringo: Wow. I sure wish Iíd had the guts to be 7 years old and think I could play Letís Make a DealÖ
Heh. My 2nd son as wellÖ it would never have crossed his mind either.
But Bones? Push, push, pushÖ pushing the limits all day long. The rules must not pertain to him. He must surely be the exception. Wheeling dealing, thereís got to be some way he can get his way.
Makes me nuts.
And NO. I do not budge.
He ate his dinner. They all just wear on me some daysÖ
Have you ever put so much garlic in something, that after dinner your tongue felt like it wanted to escape?
Yeah. That happened tonight. Dinner tasted great while eating it, but my tongue is hating me right now and would like to jump ship.
Today justice was served.
We spoke of it today at work. Articles were read. Mr. Magoo said at 6PM he was going to toast to it.
I suggested that someone should play sizzling bacon on the radio as they did all those years ago when it was resurrected in our state.
But... sizzling bacon wouldn't have worked now as Ol' Sparky isn't around anymore.
Lethal injection is the choice nowadays.
We spoke of firing squad today. It seemed fitting.
Slow and painful seemed fitting as well.
Danny Rolling is dead. May he rot in hell for eternity.
The Scholastic Book Fair was at the kidsí school today. I worked it, of course, as my kids think I do nothing at the school. If they canít see me, I must not do anything. Heh.
Anyway, I do dread the Book Fair. The kids want all the funky overpriced pens, erasers and posters as well as the books. So we cut a deal. If they want something that is not read, like a poster or a chocolate smelling eraser, they must buy a book. And they must READ the book.
Rather, this is the deal I cut with my youngest two boys. The eldest is a whole other issue. Heíd buy every book and read it in a week if I let him. He emptied his piggy bank last year, buying as many books as he could. Iíve had to reel him in and explain that buying books are a poor investment for himÖ we are better going to the library since he reads everything we get within a week. He seems to have finally gotten it, but heís still very excited at the prospect of buying a couple books.
So Bones bought a Sponge Bob Joke book and a Sponge Bob story book, so he could buy his Pirates of the Caribbean poster. Thatís cool. I just want the kid to read. He is READING every joke. All of them. Reading. Sounding out words, being patiend and trying... and READING. My kid who barely passed reading last year.
How have you spent your evening? Iíve spent mine so far, sitting here writing this short post while listening to Sponge Bob jokes.
What did Mr. Krabs say when he found an ancient bug in the dictionary?
Why thatís the oldest tick in the book!
Oh yeah. It doesnít get much better than this!
Today is The Grouchy Old Crippleís Birthday! The big 6-0!
Happy Birthday, Denny!
And that reminds me of my cake story.
We were all getting ready to gather for the Hysterics at Ericís when I realized there were three birthdays that weekend and I decided a birthday cake was in order. So I emailed Eric and asked for the name of a bakery in town.
He gave me the name of a great little bakery in the town of Athens, Tennessee, A Líil Something Sweet, just 10 minutes up the road.
So I called the proprietor, a lovely woman named Laura, and told her Iíd like a half sheet cake that said, ďHappy Birthday Jimbo, Zonker, and SWGĒ, chocolate with vanilla icing, and I ordered a Hummingbird cake just in case we had people at the party that werenít into the whole chocolate thing.
I emailed Eric and told him Iíd ordered a cake and he sent a response and said, ďÖItís Dennyís birthday in October tooÖĒ
Ack! I am so bad at birthdays! So I called Laura back and said, ďThis is Bou from Florida, I need another name on the cake. Can you please add Denny?!Ē And she did.
I emailed Eric a note that was along the lines of ďDone!Ē and I got a response that said, ďÖAndÖ its Elissonís birthday in OctoberÖĒ
Crap! Did I say I was bad with birthdays?! Oh yes. I remember pretty much my immediate familyís birthdays only and if it werenít for the fact I know Iím a Christmas Eve baby, as in Ďconceived oní, Iíd probably never remember my own September birthday.
And who would have ever thought January was such a festive month?! All these October babies!!!
So I called Laura back and said, ďI have another birthday to add!Ē and she said, ďHoneyÖ your cake is made andÖ thereís no more room!Ē
I felt awful. I did, I did, I did. And I felt even worse when I got yet another email from Eric that said, ďÖAndÖ itís RSMís birthday in October as wellÖĒ
It turns out RSM had to leave early due to prior engagements, something about attending a wedding or some nonsense, so I felt I had a bit of a reprieve, but still felt awful about forgetting Elissonís birthday.
Saturday rolled around and Sissy, Morrigan, Elissonís wife She Who Must Be Obeyed (SWMBO) and I all went to the annual Pumpkin festival in Athens and strolled around where we saw the baby pig, there were quilts in the arts section and we heard banjos in the distance. And the bakery had a table that was by far the most popular, where they sold pumpkin rolls, derby pies, and an assortment of baked goods. (Their chocolate brownies were to die forÖ)
Laura had a young woman working for her and had her take us up to the Bakery to get the cakes. I looked at the cake and said, ďCan you squeeze an ĎEí on this cake?Ē
And so their cake read, ďHappy birthday Jimbo, Zonker, SWG, E and DennyĒ, with the E being a slightly different color, but hey, Elisson was represented!
(Photos courtesy of CaltechGirl. Thank you! Click to make Big.)
That night with 24 black candles we celebrated with a big round of Happy Birthday and all feasted upon this fantastic cake, while I continued to inform people that the difference between cake and doughnuts is exactlyÖ NOTHINGÖ and therefore any leftovers could in fact be eaten the next morning.
And so the next morning, after Elisson, SWMBO, Jimbo and Ken cooked a great breakfast, Morrigan and I had a slice of cake.
It was just as good the next morning.
Filed under ďYou just canít make this stuff upÖĒ
Tonight the two younger boys asked me to snuggle with them for a couple minutes after tucking them in. I started with my 2nd son, cuddling his little body into mine, burrowing my face into the top of his hair, inhaling all that is sweet.
In a whispered voice we had the following exchange:
I whispered: I love you.
2nd son: I love you too.
Me: I love you more.
2nd son: No, I love you more.
Me: No you donít. Its not possible. How does it feel to have a mother that loves you so much?
2nd son: It feelsÖ really good.
I snuggled with him a couple more minutes, kissed the top of his head and made my way to my youngest's room. I cuddled his little body into mine, burrowing my face into the top of his hair, as is evidently my ritual with them when we snuggle. And I started our whispered exchange that too is a ritual:
Me: I love you.
Bones: I love you too.
Me: I love you more.
Bones: I know.
Heh. Cracked me up.
It is the end of October. Parent/teacher conferences were last week. I noticed I didnít have a note in Bonesí backpack.
For the last two years, by 1 September I was being forewarned Iíd need one. For the last two years, my conferences were by the end of September, the teachers unable to wait until everyone elseís conferences as things were going so poorly.
But this year, I had no note.
So today, after school, I slipped in his teacherís classroom and said, ďI really really donít want to take your time. I really donítÖ I know youíre so busyÖ butÖ are we not having a conference?Ē
Iíve known this teacher for four years now. She knows my family. She smiled and said, ďNope. Not this year. Weíre not doing conferences for 2nd grade.Ē
I got nervous and said, ďYes, butÖ do WE need one? Do WE need to talk about how heís doing? Do I need to hire him a tutor for anything? Is he doing what he needs to do in class? Maybe I can schedule one with youÖĒ
She looked puzzled and said, ďNo, Bou. Heís doing GREAT and he follows all my directions, raises his hand, sits in class quietly, pays attention. Wait.Ē
And she went to her filing cabinet and pulled out a folder she had on him and said, ďLook. His last assessment, he scored a 95%, and 88% and a 100%. Heís doing great. Heís reading right where he should be, heís comprehending, heís writing complete sentencesÖ he is a great kid who is doing well.Ē
And I just stood there. Blank look. She smiled at me and I finally said, ďBy this time last year, Iíd already had a conference. By this time last year, he was barely passing 1st grade. By this time last yearÖ I was crying in his teacherís class as I didnít know what to do. And this year we did the low low dose of Ritalin on school daysÖ LOW dose, only lasts 7 or 8 hoursÖ and he loves school, heís learning, heís doing well, heís behavingÖ heís participating.Ē
ďI see it happen, Bou. Some kids need it and this is working for him. He is doing really really well and if you had not told me you had him on something, Iíd NEVER have known.Ē
I just keep waiting for the shoe to drop. I wait for the call. I wait for the notes. I wait for someone to come up to my car at pick up to tell me some horrible thing from school. I wait to hear how he is struggling. I wait to hear him get into my car and tell me all he hates about school. After two yearsÖ it is what I know.
I canít get passed this is my kid and I know I posted it once before.
It is conference timeÖ and I donít have one. And my kid is doing wellÖ and he LOVES school. And I sit here amazedÖ
Holy crap! Weíre getting a cold front! Iím to put my sandals away, get out my clogs and brace myself to retrieve my sweaters from the back of my closet!!
ItísÖ going to getÖ toÖ low in the high 50s on Tuesday night and a high in the mid-70s that day!
Say it isnít so! Fall is here!
Of course it will only last one day. Then weíll be back in the 80s, but hey, its progress. The last few days have been in the 90s. A sweltering humid awful 90s.
I went walking Sunday morning at 9:30. A mile into I thought, "What in the hell was I thinking... this is why they invented gyms. With air conditioning." It was 80 already with 80% humidity. No more walking until end of November. Bah!
I so miss those four distinct seasonsÖ
Tammi passed through today. Quick. LikeÖ likeÖ likeÖ a really fast Tammi!
I took her to a couple of the stores in the area I thought she might be interested in seeing due to her profession, we quickly met up with VW and her boys who were sweet as sugar and entertained us with jokes as only little boys can do, grabbed a quick lunch where unfortunately there were all waitresses and no young nubile scantily clad men (dammit), took her to another store and thenÖ Poof! She was gone!
I will say I was a little nervous. She had only two requests if you rememberÖ blackened grouper for lunch served by nearly naked young nubile men. And as much as I really really REALLY wanted that last one to come true, it just was not going to happen. Every restaurant I thought of was served by women and if men were involved, they all wore too much clothing. Even tight white tshirts would have done it, but none of the restaurants I could think of had such attire with the young men eye candy.
And then I couldnít find a restaurant that served grouper, let alone BLACKENED grouper. My Better Half said to me when I told him of the meal request, ďUm. Yeah. Good Luck with that oneÖĒ At the last minute VW reminded me of a restaurant that had just opened and holy crap, they had grouper on the menu and you could even get grouper sticksÖ blackened!
I had nachos.
She had fish.
Which reminds me...Iím waiting for when I get home to Pensacola for Christmas where I can satisfy my hunger for deep fried oysters. The panhandle is where itís at, baby. Oh yeahhhhh. My gall bladder issues gone, it be deep fried oysters at Christmas break!
Anyway, so she zipped in and zipped out and the infamous Road Warrior was on the road heading back. We had 2.5 hours together.
Iím hoping for a couple days next timeÖ it was so good to see her.
And those rumors of her shrinking (link not found as she is having blog problems) are highly exaggerated. Iím not sure what yardstick they use at her doctorís office to determine height, but someone lied to them. Sheís still over 6 feet and Iím still under 5í3Ē.
And it wasnít her fancy pants or her glasses.
It is what it is...
I was walking out of the mall with my eldest boys the other day when in the parking lot I said, ďhmm. Iím trying to remember where my van isÖĒ
Ringo said, ďItís in this aisle, MomÖĒ
We kept walking and walking, down the aisle he picked, and finally I said, ďYouíre wrong. My car isnít here.Ē
Then right in front of me I saw my van and he turned and looked at me and said, ďOh. Really?Ē
He looked at them and I said, ďWait. Does that pumpkin look rotten?Ē (Our pumpkins rot very quickly down here.)
Ringo started to laugh and said, ďYeah, I think its startingÖĒ
So I went over to the comments and put my comment, ďRingo and I think that pumpkin looks rotten! LOL!Ē
And my son sees this and starts to laugh and says to me, ďYay! You know what LOL means!Ē
I am telling youÖ my kid really really thinks Iím a big frickiní dork. Oh donít get me wrong, he is very sweet about it, but he thinks Iím a dork.
BTW, the pumpkin isnít rotten. Tater and Tot just covered it in black markerÖ
Iíve known Tater, VWís eldest pretty much since he was born. VW and I used to go to breakfast when he was just a little dude, barely sitting in a chair.
Now Tater is in pre-K 4 and in his class is a little man Iíll call, Jack. Jack is the youngest of three boys and his eldest brother is in Ringoís class. Iíve known Jack sinceÖ he was in utero.
So imagine my surprise to find out that two women I know really well, one of them one of my dearest friends since college and the other the Mom of one of my eldest sonís best friends, neither of whom know each other, each have a son in this same preschool class.
They don't live in the same neighborhood, their kids won't go to the same elementary schools and neither of them is the Protestant denomination of the preschool they send their children too.
Palm Beach County is pretty big. But I call it ĎThe 6 degree of North Palm Beach CountyĒ. Be careful what you say, 'cause chances are whoever youíre saying it to is related to or is the neighbor of, or has a cousin three times removed who is married to, whoever you are speaking of.
It is unreal sometimes.
Anyway, I was at a picnic/birthday party on Saturday when I saw Jack. I have found that Jack and Tater can both beÖ difficult to understand. Itís still like that at age four sometimes. It takes a while for certain letters in speech to Ďcome iní so its just a matter of understanding each childís speech patterns.
So I said to Jack, ďDude! I know someone in your pre-school class! Do you know Tater?Ē
My two eldest boys were watching him with me, watching him think. Jack replied in his little screechy 4 year old voice, ďI know Tater. (Jack is pulling on his hair.) He has blonde hair andÖ he is pimple boy.Ē
First offÖ I was surprised he said, Ďblonde hairí as all three of my boys used to say, ďwhite hair.Ē SecondÖ I looked at my boys and said, ďDid he say Pimple boy?Ē
Jack said, ďNOOOOO. PI-MPLE boyÖĒ
I stood there puzzled still and Ringo said, ďNo MomÖ Pickle boy.Ē
This made me laugh even harder. Tater has this alter ego, ďSuper Pickle BoyĒ. And the fact that this alter ego has made it into his 4 year old class so completely cracks me upÖ but what has me laughing even harder is the fact he was able to actually convey this to his little buddy, Jack.
I canít understand a damn thing these kids say sometime but they have NO PROBLEM understanding each other.
Heh. Pickle BoyÖ
My second son, Mr. T (formerly The ProfessorÖ I actually call him T or Mr. T at homeÖ the kids at school call him Mr. T which I find funny as heís this little tiny white boy with bright blue eyes and no bling), has taken me on as his project. He thinks I cuss too much. VW assured him this morning at our weekly breakfast that I am trainable.
I have my doubts.
Heavy traffic will do it every time.
So Ringo and Bones had birthday parties to attend today and that left Mr. T with his ever loviní Mama for a short time. We strolled around when I offered up that a chocolate milk shake might make the time more bearable as it was so daggum hot today. He was all over the chocolate milk shake.
As we walked around talking and sipping, I said to him, ďItís hotter than three hells out hereÖĒ
And he replied, ďWell, technically Mom, it is not. Each hell is about 1 billion degrees and its only 100 degrees, so really itís not even hotter than oneÖĒ
Really. No kidding. And the best part isÖ he was only off by 10 degrees. It was 90 degrees.
I got a mathematical analysis on how hot three hells probably are vs. our day in a sweltering October S. Florida Day.
The conversation took a turn as he discussed how he hates nuts, in particular in his ice cream, and in particular he hates those big nuts. (Discerned by me to be Walnuts.)
Me: Really? You hate all nuts? I can understand WalnutsÖ they kind of taste like wood, but pecans? And peanuts?
Mr. T: Oh I like those. And almonds. And pistachios. I like pistachios. Sunflower seeds are great too. You know Sunflower seeds are great food for on the goÖ
Great food for on the go? Who am I talking to? A little commercial for the Sunflower Seed Association?
So we have all this Ďhigher thoughtí going onÖ logical analysis on our weather vs. hell or three hells, what food is good Ďon the goí, when in the back of my asexual Mom-mobile I heard the following:
Mr. T: Mom. You know how they say they donít know if fish burp? I think if you see a fish making fish lips and then see bubbles, heís really burping.
Now THAT is the 9 year old I knowÖ bodily functions and getting to the root of the nitty gritty parts of life likeÖ fish burping.
Life is good when youíre 9.
I was over at my blog daughter Mrs.Whoís blog abode when I saw THIS post. Of course I started to laugh when I saw the answer as I was so wrong, but I laughed out loud when I saw VWís comment.
(Mrs. Who is an elementary school teacher and itís a picture one of her kids drew.)
The post made me giggle, the comments made me laugh. Funny stuff.
So Sissyís recap which is HERE, touches on a couple things I feel inclined to expand upon. And by the way, itís a good recap as I was with her for most of the weekend.
I donít drink. I quit drinking shortly after I started seriously dating my husband. He doesnít drink really and never has. I, on the other hand, drank way too much before I met him and upon our dating I realized, I didnít need it. So I stopped.
WellÖ that and the fact that I realized that once I started I really had no control over stopping, which leads to uncomfortable situations, like nearly throwing up on the priest during communion as the night before I spent drinking way too much red wine. Way too much meaningÖ drink, throw up, drink, throw up. Yeah. Lovely.
I still donít do red wine. Actually I donít do wine at all. I think it all tastes like vomit. Iíve wondered why but now believe that suddenly that mystery has been solved. Ainít blogging great?!
I love chocolate. Iíve blogged on it a few times. Damn I love chocolate. Dark in particular is the fave, but I simply love it.
And so we were at Ericís and Jimbo brought a bottle of something called Chocolate Vodka. Holy crap. Chocolate in a bottle? I had to have a shot.
But I know myself and there was no way in hell I could do a whole shot and stop, so when Eric was pouring, he split one with me. I just wanted a taste. I didnít need any reenactments of many moons ago of vomiting, stumbling, sleeping on floors curled up in corners, and being the gentleman he is, he split one with me so I could have a taste.
Good Lord. Chocolate Heaven in a Bottle.
Not so much longer, I was walking through the kitchen when I saw a shot glass ĺ full sitting between Mo, and Sissy. ďWhose is that?Ē I asked. Morrigan replied, ďMine. I am fighting that cold. Iím not going to finish it.Ē
So I said, ďOk. I willÖĒ and I dropped the last part of the shot and suddenly realized why I loved drinking so much.
I found myself making my way to the rocking chair in the corner of Fiona and Ericís family room, taking off my boots and socks, leaning back and letting the warmth envelop my body.
Melloooooow. It felt so good. And that mellow feeling stayed with me, even when Eric had out his NCO sword and was giving directions just a foot or so from me, even when he jokingly threatened to run himself through when nobody was listening although I did feel the mellowness start to have the edge shaved off, and even as, well, then Redneck and he were talking about the sword and I realized Eric was going to give it to him and suddenly, ĎGood feeling gone!Ē and I got up to the kitchen.
Couldnít watch that part. Holy crap.
So the joke with Sissy and Mo was along the lines of, I donít drink UNLESS of course there is chocolate involved. ThenÖ I will.
A womanís version.
I was in the house with Morrigan and Sissy when I looked out and the guys (and some girls) were about to shoot off a rocket. Yabu had brought it with him.
The rocket went off and evidently got stuck on top of the house, evidently by the sound of the ďKathunkĒ we wimmin folk heard from inside as it hit. Heh. I looked out the front window and saw That1Guy putting a ladder up to the house, and JohnnyOh about to climb up the roof.
So I went and sat on the front porch to watch. I mean, you canít beat front row entertainment. And it was free.
It was that whole train wreck thing really. Theyíd all been imbibing sinceÖ I donít knowÖ Noon? and for some reason it seemed like a good idea to climb on the roof to rescue the rocket. Now JohnnyOh was not in the right place to get said rocket and this part gets fuzzy, I do believe either T1G was holding onto, or someone had handed Johnny Oh one of Dennyís braces he uses to walk.
I was just watching thinking two things: ďHmm. Am I safe where I am sitting if that gutter comes off the house?Ē and ďAre they really going to have this guy get on this roof to get this rocket, this guy whose had a couple beers, and then hand him this brace that Denny uses to walk with, Denny who broke his back falling out of a tree, to try to get the rocket off a roof. Am I really watching this?Ē
So it was deemed unobtainable from that angle, and as Johnny Oh started to torque the gutters off the front of the Straight White House, the Straight White Homeowner sent them to the back of the house where fetching said rocket would be easier. And there are not gutter issues. Johnny Oh got down and T1G moved the ladder to the other side of the house, and I quickly walked through the house to the back porch and pulled up a chair to watch.
I mean, you canít beat front row entertainment. And it was free.
I knew just the general bantering between T1G and JohnnyOh would be worth it in itself. And I was not disappointed.
And as JohnnyOh climbed down I said, ďHey! What was the altimeter reading?Ē as there was a wager going on how high that sucker was going to launch, half the crowd thinking it was going to the moon and the other half thinking the imbibing Propulsion Engineer wouldnít get it off the ground.
JohnnyOh replied, ĎThe altimeter switchÖ is on OFF.Ē Seems the acting Propulsion Engineer forgot to flip the switchÖ Heh. Cracked me up.
I love this.
Rachel of Pereiraville and her husband have what I hear is an AMAZING Halloween party every year. Her ever lovin' husband has built a coffin and they are THE house on the block.
But that's not the part I love. I mean, I do, but that's not THE part.
I LOVE the fact she invites everyone. Now I don't mean Joe Bag O' Doughnuts down the street, which I'm sure she does,... I mean people like our Governor JEB, or the guy running for Governor on the Republican ticket, Crist, or... or...
Heh. Go HERE. This so frickin' cracks me up.
Iím not sure where I would even begin with this weekend. There was just so much. Holy crap. Iím not kidding.
I had a BLAST.
The weekend started with my flying into Atlanta and shopping for dresses for the wedding with Morrigan. Then we went to Sissyís where we road tripped it up to Ericís. Morrigan and Sissy crack me up. I laughed so hardÖ
Ack! Soooo much happened. So much GREAT stuff. Crazy guys camped out in Ericís backyard. I had a funny time ordering a birthday cake. I petted my first baby pig, that I thought was a Chihuahua and found out that mother pigs will eat any babies over the teat allotment. (As I said to Sissy and Mo, ďIf I had three babies, but only have two breasts, I feel certain I would not have felt inclined to eat that third baby.Ē Morriganís reply, ĎYou donít feel inclined to eat afterbirth like hamsters do, either, do you?Ē Some mammals are justÖ kind ofÖ icky.) Watched a guy who was crippled from falling out of a tree hand his walking brace to a slightly inebriated guy climbing a roof to get a rocket (a woman's take fo' sho' but still very funny... post already in the hopper for tomorrow). Had a shot of Chocolate Vodka and it was soooo good. Thought I might actually see someone run through by a really big sword. Heard snoring through a wall and an elevatorÖ in a hotel (Holy crap was that funny...). Ate some of the heaviest pancakes I have ever had in MY LIFE. (But they were good!) Wondered if I had accidentally stepped into a convention for Big People. Nearly froze (again).
Reaffirmed why I care so much for the people I knewÖ they make me laugh, they are so amazingly kind, and they are justÖ good folks.
AndÖ added to the list people I am happy to have met and hope, oh so hope, to see again. There is more of course, but in meetingÖ I met:
Caltechgirl, my adopted blog daughter! I got to finally meet her and she is more than smart, she is funny. AndÖ she got to wear the hat for who traveled the furthest. Itís some sort of Viking hatÖ coveted. Trust me. It is the COVETED hat!
Big Stupid Tommy, who is big (Iím short, so Iím kind of hobbit sized next to him), but not Stupid. And I wish Iíd been able to see him for more than literally the 30 seconds we had. Dammit.
Velociman, who is also big, and who was one of the crazy men who slept in Ericís back yard. He got there late and left early, but it was good to finally meet the VelociGod. He and DaxÖ they just have an amazing memory for things theyíve seen and read. I find it astounding.
Dax Montana, who is big and exudes an amazing warmth, and who was one of the crazy men who slept in the backyard, but evidently came prepared as he brought THE TENT, fire wood, multiple sleeping bags, blankets and what not to keep warmÖ and I hear they were needed.
Yabu, who is not so big and fits right with Mo and I, and who parked his car in Ericís backyard and was really hoping to spend TWO nights in that tent instead of just the one, and who kept me laughing most of the weekendÖ
Ken! I met Ken the Bodyguard!!! He doesnít have a blog, but if you read Jimbo, you know of Ken. He felt poorly and I was not able to spend much time speaking with him, but he was such a nice guy. (And he is big too.)
Georgia and Recondo32, two of Acidmanís dearest friends, it was such a pleasure to meet them. Georgia is a riot, an extrovert who will pull you in and Recondo32 is as warm as the Southern Sun on a spring day. (And they are both big.)
And for the people that I got to see again, people that bring a smile to my face when I think of them: Denny (big), Zonker (big), Eric (big), Johnny Oh (medium), Jimbo (not big), Teresa (big- it was so good to hug her!), Sissy (medium), T1G (BIG), RSM (medium), Elisson (hmmmÖ mediumish big?), Elissonís wife SWMBO (who Mo and I keep saying is so daggum strikingÖ medium), Redneck (big), and Ericís buddy J (medium). OhÖ and my sister Morrigan (small).
Notice anything here? Almost ALL TALL PEOPLE! Big. It was a blogmeet of BIG PEOPLE!
And a special thank you to Eric and Fiona for having us in their home. I hear Fiona could be up for Sainthood. And EricÖ Umm. Yeah. Not sainthood. Heh. He would be the saint with a bottle of Scotch in one hand and a shovel in the other! Seriously, a big thank you to both of them. They rock and we all had a MARVELOUS time.
More to comeÖ That is for sure.
Iíve never understood why the American Cancer Society has not targeted men when getting the word out about Breast Cancer.
None of the organizations do. And I donít get it.
Donít get me wrong. It is not the responsibility of our men to remind us to check. It is not their responsibility to make our appointments for our mammograms. None of it is.
It is ours.
YetÖ if you think about it, those of us women in long term serious relationships, who knows our breasts better than our men? Well, other than us, that is a given, but reallyÖ it is our men.
This month two women I know well have been diagnosed with Breast Cancer. Both of them are the age of my Mother, one of them probably one of her dearest friends, the other a mother of my husbandís best friend. I know these womenÖ I know them well. I know details of their livesÖ like if they open their gifts on Christmas Eve or wait until Christmas day. Things like knowing all their children, where they live and how many grandchildren there are. Where they were born, how many siblings they have and their senses of humor. I know their husbands and how long theyíve been married.
I know these women.
And I am afraid for them.
I know women who have been diagnosed and have lived. So far.
And I know women who have been diagnosed and diedÖ old, middle aged and young.
Iíve been in Hospice and held the hand of a friend of mine who lay dying, in a coma, body wracked with the disease.
I know a woman who had stage 4, it had metastasized, and she is on year five of remission. But she and I knowÖ we know that they got her to five yearsÖ but will she see 10?
The statistics are infinitely better than they were 20 years agoÖ 10 years agoÖ even 5 years ago, yet beyond 5 years, it can still be tough. They can get you to five, but can they get you to ten? Can they get you to... 15?
I have a woman dear to me who has been in remission for this her second year. And itís her second occurrence in five years. I was traveling with her a few weeks ago and she said to me, ďI am 63 years old. When I was diagnosed the first time I knew Iíd beat it and live out the rest of my life until I was old and gray. But it came back. And nowÖ I just want to make it to 65. I want to see my granddaughter get to high school. I take nothing for granted and no longer think I will die old and gray.Ē
Sobering. Realistic, but sobering.
I go every six months. There are things we are Ďkeeping an eye oní, Ďgetting a good baselineí. Between ultrasounds and mammograms, I am there every six months, I dare not forget.
Ever found a lump? I have. I called my doctor in a panic. He got me in the next day. It is a terrifying experienceÖ and mine ended up being nothing. But until I knew, I found myself unconsciously constantly putting my hand down my shirt, doing breast checks at the sink, in my car, while folding laundry. ďIs it still there? Did it grow in the last five minutes since I last checked?Ē
On my fatherís side there are three sisters, cousins of ours. Of the three, two have had breast cancer. The second one was diagnosed but three months ago, I believe. She is weighing her options, their having removed it all, but she will probably, if she has not already, have her other breast prophelactically removed.
Thatís what my paternal grandmother did. Back in the dayÖ back in the day when they took your breast, the lymphatic tissue and all the muscle, leaving nothing but what looked like a birdís rib cage. She had the first removed and then went back six weeks later and said, ďTake it.Ē
Could you do that? As a woman, could you look someone in the eye and tell them to take something from which you fed your babies, something in which you and your spouse enjoyed in the marital bed, the things that fill out your clothes and make you look womanly?
I think of that often. My grandfather was not known to be an affectionate man. A Ďreal Son of a Bitchí has been batted around when referring to him before he mellowed in his 50s and had grandchildren, the word Ďmellowí being used loosely. But my grandmother told me that when she cried and was horrified as to what she was going to have done to her body, the mutilation to save her life, he tightly held her in his lap and said, ďI didnít marry you for your breasts.Ē
I think of that often. My answer would be yes. My grandmotherÖ as my role model.
Every year I know more women diagnosed. And every October, when it is Breast Cancer Awareness Month I wonder, ďwhy do they not target our men?Ē
Why do they not tell our men, ďIf you love your woman, make the breast exam a part of foreplay once a monthĒ?
The men love our parts that make us soft and curvy. They know how they feel with their fingers, their tongues and their lips. They should be brought on as part of the team to fight itÖ I suspect they would not be repulsed.
I suspect they would happily obligeÖ
This weekend was spent at the home of the Straight White Guy. He had a few folks over and Saturday was his birthday as well. We had a GREAT time. I met a few bloggers Iíd been wanting to meet as well as some non-bloggers Iíd heard so much about.
And of course I got to hang with some people I have grown to care about. Wonderful people.
This weekend will probably be several posts over the course of the week.
We all make our decisions in life. My theory is we all do the best we can do as parents. If I screw it up, well, my kids have to learn to deal, and get therapy to fix it if they must. And they can hope to do a better job when itís their time.
This is so my Momís fault.
When Morrigan was giving me the Ďliquid low-downí on packing all liquid less than 3 oz in a baggy to travel, I went to my purse and grabbed all my lip glosses and put them in a baggy.
But then I thought, ďWait. All lip stuff needs to stay together.Ē
So I threw in all the lip liners, lip sticks, lip balm with the glosses.
Upon looking at the bag I realized, ĎI think I have a problem. A lip make up addiction.í
And this is SOOOO my Momís fault!!! As we left the house as teenagers she would always say, ďWhereís your lip stick.Ē
Or Morriganís favorite. The three of us were in the car. Mo didnít have lipstick on and my Mom said, ďHmmm. One of us looks dead in hereÖĒ Heh. Love that.
Mom and Mo are good about changing out purses, lipsticks, even their ear rings. I wear the same gold post ear rings every day. I carry the same black purse unless Iím going someplace that requires a nice purse. And I carry ALL my lipsticks with me, formerly shoved in a pocket of my purse, now in a baggy, so I have any color at my whim.
Here is my addictionÖ for all to see. I think I should be ashamed. Instead I keep thinking, ĎI need more pinkÖí
6 lip liners
2 lip balms
5 lip glosses
6 lip sticks.
And a partridge in a pear tree...
I got home later than I had intended last night. Late baggage, late flight, all that crap. I called my better half as soon as I got in the asexual Mom-mobile, knowing it was already the boysí bedtime, and said, ďTell them Iíll come into each of their rooms and snuggle with them for 5 minutes when I get homeÖĒ
I came home and Bones was already fast asleep. I kissed him on the cheek and went to my second sonís room. He had left the light on for me and was almost sleeping. As I kissed his cheek, inhaling the scent of my freshly bathed sweet boy, I heard him quietly mumble, ďínight MomĒ. My eldest was just crawling in bed as I finished tucking him in and gave him his good night hug and kiss on the forehead.
They were not happy I was leaving on Thursday, Bones in particular. Donít get me wrong, there was no weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth, but there were many questions about when I was leaving and when I was to return.
And of course invariably the questions and panic concerning who would keep their lives in order. They never worry about the food issue. Itís a given. Mom is out of town and its pizza or eat out every night for dinner and I do believe evenÖ lunch. But it was the little things on Thursday, ďMomÖ will you still pick us up from school today?Ē ďWill you be home to take us to school on Monday?Ē ďWhoís going to take us to baseball?Ē ďWhose going toÖĒ the trailing sentence was pretty much Ďlook after usí.
I am the constant in their lives.
Itís my job. Itís what I do. I run this house and make sure everything gets done. The last message on my husbandís cell phone on Thursday night sounded like this, ďYour father is at the house with the boys. I didnít have time to finish unloading the dishwasher so the dishes are clean. Their baseball uniforms are in the dryer. Please check them so they donít smell sour on Saturday. They have a game on Saturday at 11:30, but need to be there by 11. Donít forget to pack them water and Bones will want snacks. Please check on their Monday practice. Love youÖ Bye.Ē
Luckily there was no school on Friday or Iíd have had to have left a list for Fridayís deal. He didnít have to contend with hot breakfasts, packing lunches, and pick up.
Not that he couldnít have. He could. He has. Heís great at it, but it is just smoother when I do it. And the boys realize it.
And so this morning I walked into Bonesí room to give him a quick kiss in an effort to start getting his tired buns out of bed, and as I kissed his warm toasty little cheek, running my fingers through his blondish red hair, his little eyelids fluttered and he slowly looked up at me, grinned, and rolled over, throwing an arm over me and pulling me close to his face so I could bury my face in his neck and smooch on him.
Even in his sleep he had not forgotten I was coming home.
Many people put in the comments of my below post on how you can get the little CPR masks. I have one at work. My husband got me one. If I get recertified, I will keep it on my key ring or just add one into my purse and into my car.
For those that donít know, itís a small mask with a one way valve. Air goes into the victim from the person performing CPR, but crap from the victim canít get into the Samaritanís mouth.
I told the guys at work when they saw me bring in the mask, ďIíll put my mouth to yours to save your life, but I draw the line at your vomiting in my mouth.Ē
I guess you could chalk that one up to a ĎMonk Momentí as wellÖ
This weekend was spent traveling, time with my sister and her fiancee, and people I have grown to feel great warmth in my heart when I hear their names.
Of course that means air travel, travel I put at the bottom of my list, even below that of the Greyhound bus, was involved. Most of you know I am not fond of air travel, for reasons varied. After 9/11 it has become almost too stressful.
I suppose I should keep it all in perspective and realize that really any time I arrive at my destination alive, is a good flight.
Alive is good.
Plummeting 30,000 feet out of the air, exploding into a fiery ball, or an uncontained compressor or turbine failure at take off or landing areÖ bad. But unfortunately while living in the moment, I tend to forget the simplicity of it.
Alive is good.
I fly so infrequently, purposefully I might add, that each flight brings with it changes.
I feel old. I find it stressful, these types of changes. Travel changes. It wigs me out.
Three flights ago was the first time I had to take off my shoes. I was aghast. As much as I love to be barefoot, I donít do so in public. Not in airports. There is something that feels soÖ undignified as to having to remove oneís shoes to go through security.
I make sure I wear socks now. The first time I was in sandals. I found myself amongst the shoeless masses, looking upon pair after pair of stockinged or bare feet. Mine were bare.
Were theirs clean? Who had foot fungus? Who hadnít bathed? Who had stepped in something unimaginably filthy and not washed their feet? (obscure reference that a few will getÖ) The potential for foot filth and grime was more than I could stomach.
A Monk Moment.
I wear socks now. And throw them in the wash immediately.
There are sometimes years between flights, I fly so infrequently.
The flight after that, I missed my plane due to the fact that my IQ appears to plummet occasionally to subnormal levels. ĎTis the only excuse I have. Sheer inexcusable stupidity.
And as I stood at the counter talking to the man from Delta, unbelieving that I had in fact missed my flight, I heard him utter these words, ďGo to the line of phones behind you and pick one upÖ someone from Delta will help you.Ē
I still was not over my initial shock that it was a Ďserve yourselfí check in. There was no line. Nobody greeted me. There was no human contactÖ just a machine that I was supposed to know how to operate to manually check myself inÖ a machine, that with assistance from the same Delta man, showed me I had missed my flight.
I looked at him and said, ďNoÖĒ
He pointed to the phones.
In a panic, wide eyed and pleading I said, ďNo. You donít understandÖ I need someone I can talk to. I have to SEE them. You donít understandÖĒ
And he kindly said, ďIím sorry. I canít help you. You have to use the phones.Ē
With great anxiety, I picked up the phone to speak with some faceless nameless stranger, who did not know me, could not see meÖ and could not understand the horror I felt for my mistake.
Some things just cannot be conveyed via phone.
She helped me. She was polite, but what I will never forget was the hand of the stranger. The Delta manÖ he had looked up my flights. He put his hand on my back and gently said to me quietly, ďAsk her for this flight. This is what you want.Ē
And his voice, his touch, his thoughtfulnessÖ all my anxiety was washed away. I knew it would be OK. And it was.
The flights this weekend I went into knowing I would wear socks. I would know how to check myself in. I could check my own baggage. Morrigan, who travels frequently, even brought me up to snuff on the whole Ďliquids in a baggyí situation. Still, leaving West Palm was a mess with heavy rain and accidents on my normal route to the airport. Long term parking was full and I was directed to ďPark and RideĒ.
Another first. I couldnít. Time was an issue. I was freaking. I parked in short term parking for 4 days. That one hurt come cashing in time. Trust me.
My return flight. Huge traffic to the Atlanta airport. Long lines of people. LONG LINES. Suddenly the lead time Mo and I had given me didnít seem like enough.
Someone had a heart attack at check in.
A desk check in Delta woman nearly standing on the counter yelling, ďIS THERE A DOCTOR?Ē
Buzzers of some kind going off as someone had grabbed one of those new heart get going machines off the wall.
Bags checked. I was checked in, rethinking this entire Ďget recertified for CPRí thing. I was going to do it for the guys in the office, since I know someoneís going to have a heart attack in there one dayÖ an inevitabilityÖ and wondering, if I were recertified, would I have helped that man? CPR is nasty. It was the international travel section. Who was he? Where was he from? What illnesses did he have? And I would press my mouth against his to save his life?
Suddenly I thinkÖ not so much. I am selfish. I would save the men I work with. I do not know if I could attempt to save a stranger packed in the Atlanta airport in the international travel line.
I do not know. Another Monk Moment.
Walking. Walking. I had to escape the chaos. Too much noise. Too many people.
Ticket in hand. No seat. What?
Long lines for security.
Security shouting at the masses, ďNO AEROSOL CANS!Ē ďPeople, Lay Your Bags FLAT!Ē ďPlastic bags for your liquids!Ē
Lines move slowly.
Display cases of what you can and cannot take on the plane. Thank God I left my Amdro at home.
And my oven cleaner.
No bins to put our stuff in.
Security guys just throw them in stacks in the middle of the floor. People clamoring for them.
Hundreds and hundreds of peopleÖ as far as the eye can see.
Take off the shoes.
Pray I get through.
Trains are packed. People look out the windows expressionlessÖ emotionless. Resigned to their fate that this will not be a good experience.
Do not speak to me. Do not look at me. Donít get too close. Cold. I hate that. I donít like feeling like that. I am with the masses.
I get on.
Over fueled plane. Wait 40 minutes as they suck fuel out.
Last bag off the plane.
A renewed passion for why I hate flying. It has become so barbaric. So uncivil.
I do this again in November. With my husband. And three kids.
Say it isnít soÖ
Alive is Good.
Well... I'm posting this not knowing if it will ever be read. As of now, my blog is kinda sorta... not there. I mean, I can blog, but nobody can see it.
I've become the invisible blog. If you blog and nobody can see it, have you still blogged?
*Update- Hunh. I rebuilt and it reappeared... Odd.*
Anyway, in the event it does reappear, I am off until Sunday night. No blogging. The place is going dark.
I'm flying out tonight to see my sister in Atlanta. Tomorrow morning we hit bridal shops to look for a bridesmaid's dress. Bridesmatron's dress. Bridalattendant's dress.
The BE-AUTIF-UL thing about being the only maid/matron/attendant is that I don't have to worry about how anyone else looks in the dress. Only Moi! Makes life easy!
Plus... I'm shopping with Morrigan, which is like shopping with my Mom, which means I'll be using the restroom before we go so I don't pee my pants laughing.
Bridal shoppes probably frown on that. The peeing. Not the laughing.
And from there we are hooking up with blogdaughter Sissy and we are off to see some friends.
Y'all take care.
Boudicca's Voice is silent.
Holy crap. What a small world. I know someone who lives in that apartment building in NYC. They are safe, but how scary.
And how sadÖ for all those families.
Work has been hellish at best the last few days. So Iíve been completely oblivious to all that has been going on around me as Iíve been steeped in blueprints, part numbers, paper, rulers, pencils, sticky notes andÖ more paper. My computer has no less than 15 screens open at any one time as Iím churning through my work to meet a deadline.
And its not that my co-workers arenít speaking to me, but Iím so swamped that theyíre leaving me alone and Iím sticking to myself.
Cubes line the walls in the small office in which we work, with me sitting at a table across from Joe and Mr. Magoo. I was entrenched in my current task, not listening to anyone. As I said, itís been a bad week and Iíve moved beyond cursing the Gods for letting me choose this as my profession and am quickly moving to the point where Iíd like to slit my jugular with a spork to get me out of it.
Life is not good in my head as of late.
And so my Tech Lead had come over to check on something and then standing a few feet from my desk, he found himself engaged in casual conversation with the bookends. Mr. Magoo with his head popped over the top of his cube, Joe standing at the entrance of his, and my Tech Lead leaning against a table, arms folded across his chest as they all joked.
I was tuning it all out, hearing nothing, not being rude, just totally zoned.
And then I head Joeís voice say to my Tech Lead, ďDidnít you say you had a tuna taco for lunch yesterday?Ē
The room fell silent, and I rose my head from my papers, still looking straight ahead, eyes slightly widened.
I slowly looked to my Tech Lead who had a completely blank expression on his face, looking at Joe, there was a definite shift in the air, that even an overly stressed out me could sense.
I started to laugh, a nervous laugh, and then everyone else started to laugh and soon the rest of the guys had popped their heads out of their cubes to see the responses, I gather.
I really think Joe had no idea what heíd said. He walked out, perhaps embarrassed and Mr. Magoo said, ďYou never know with Joe. You know how he is. And as soon as he said that I kept thinkingÖ Did he REALLY just say that in front of Bou? Sheesh.Ē
And that is when I realized that the huge pause in the room, the vast hush that had befallen all the men, was not so much what Joe had said, but that they were shocked he said it in front of me.
And I really really think he had no idea what he said, based on his reentry back into the room later although... it so totally could have been more embarrassed that he said it and then realized he was in mixed company as I'd been so quiet and not so noticeable.
And I really wish Iíd had my wits about me, instead of being so stunned, and had said to my Tech Lead after the tuna taco question, ďSoÖ did you? Did you go home for lunch yesterday?Ē
But he would have died nine deaths right then and there if I had, so perhaps it is best Iím a bit of a slow wit.
Oh, and it was a grouper sandwich. GROUPERÖ not tuna. SANDWICHÖ not taco.
Gotta love what Iím going to get googled for on this postÖ
I need to create a category on my blog called ďCanít make this stuff up.Ē
The following conversation occurred in the asexual Mom-mobile tonight, to the best of my recollection. The players are me and my two youngest boys.
Background: Morrigan and her beau are to wed in April, a beach wedding. They got engaged this past July, on the beach at sunset, before meeting the boys and my better half and me for a game of Putt Putt.
Bones: So why did Moís Beau give Aunt Morrigan a ring when he asked her to marry him.
Me: Because thatís tradition.
Bones: Wasnít he afraid he was going to lose that bright shiny ring out of his pocket before he asked her in the shop?
Me: *blink* shop? What shop?
Bones: You know. The shop he asked her in. I donít know the name.
2nd Son: He didnít ask her in a shop. He asked her in the carÖ
Me: *blink* No he didnít! He asked her ON THE BEACH!
2nd Son and Bones: He did? Are you sure? Because we saw them at Putt PuttÖ
Me: YES. I AM SURE! They went to the beach, he asked her, then they came to see us and played Putt Putt.
There was quietness in the asexual Mom-mobile as this information was being processed and they were trying to make sense of things.
Bones: So, do you have to get married where you are asked?
Bones: He asked her on the beach, and theyíre getting married on the beachÖ do you have to get married where you are asked?
It was a logical question. I was surprised he came up with it and the rest of the conversation continued discussing what would happen if it rained that day.
But this led me to think about my one of my best friends from college.
She was truly one of the sweetest girls Iíd ever met. Her now husband of nearly 20 years was in Naval flight training when she met him and he was quite the romantic, let me tell you. They had been dating a good while when one night, after a good romp in the sack, while listening to their favorite band, Journey, he turned to her and said, ďSo, you wanna get married or what?Ē
Heh. I donít think her parents know that story. Imagine if what Bones said was trueÖ all of us having to cram into that low rent apartmentís tiny bedroom, standing around the bed while they said their marriage vows.
Cracks me upÖ
I learned today that one does not judge their baseball team by the first inning of a game when theyíve only played the field.
I went to my sonsí first baseball game tonight. I sat on the bleachers watching our team field first, missing catch after catch, wild crazy pitches, walk after walk. It was a frickiní train wreck.
I text messaged my sister and said, ĎOMG. We SUCK!í
And thenÖ the other team fielded andÖ theyÖ sucked WORSE! Holy crap. I didnít think it was possible.
Fall ball is made up of kids with a huge array of skills... or lack thereof. This league is ages 8-12, some with NO prior ball experience and some with a lot.
So on one team you can have a 12 year old who has NEVER played a day in his life, along with an 8 year old just moving up to kid pitch from coach pitch, along with a kid who has played all year long throughout his kid life starting at age 5.
It makes it challenging for the coaches. And it makes the games quiteÖ odd.
We ended up winning 20-5. I was pretty stunned.
So we suck, but weíre the 2nd to suckiest team. That could change. If weíre like last year's team, weíll LOSE the next game 20-5.
And of course we parents never say a word. We cheer for everyone, both teams. But inside, weíre all quietly saying, ďWow. We really suckÖĒ Heh.
My middle son has been talking lately of a little boy in his class that is a little odd. I think the other boys have teased him, and one of the boys in his class was suspended for it. Mean spirited teasing is not tolerated with his 4th grade teacher.
Iím happy about it.
And so my middle boy comes home and tells me often that this little boy, who Iíll call Tony, is a bit Ďweirdí. I told him weíre all a bit weird, but some peopleís weirdness just seems more obvious than others. I told him just to accept this boy for who he isÖ as long as he was not a mean kid.
Today he came home and I asked him how Tony was and he said, ĎMom, itís the little thingsÖ like the fact heíll only sit with the girls and not with the boys before school starts.Ē
Me: Maybe heís not comfortable with the boys because some of them have been so mean to him.
Mr. T: Yeah, well, Iím never mean to him.
Me: But the boys are, so he hangs with the girls. Cut him slack. Besides, not too long ago, you only hung with the little girls.
Mr. T: That was Kindergarten. That was a long time ago and for different reasons.
Kindergarten was a long time ago? How quickly they grow upÖ in their own minds!
Me: So, heís just doing it later than you did.
Mr. T: Well, I hung out with the girls because they were really nice to me and the boys were always throwing legos at each other and were dirty and disgusting. The girls liked me because I was so small and I was a good actor andÖ I played house with them.
Why did I not know of this Ďplaying houseí until now?
NowÖ there is NOTHING wrong with him playing house with the girls. Iím just completely STUNNED that this did not stick to him some how in schoolÖ here 4 years later, not being referred to in some teasing way still to this day because at one time he preferred to play house with the girls than throw legos with the dirty disgusting boys.
But you know what the defining factor was? I truly believe this. Mr. T is athletic. Heís not big, but heís very athletic and heís been the fastest kid and one of the most adept soccer players in his class for a couple years now. Everyone knows heís the fastest.
And I think that is what has set him apart from this little boy, Tony. Not that I donít think for a minute that the harassment wouldnít be RELENTLESS if Mr. T decided to play house with the girls in 4th grade over playing with the boys, but I think this is why it didnít stick in Kindergarten.
He just had one little trait that the boys in his class admiredÖ and it was enough that he hasnít been pegged yet. ďYetĒ being the key word as oneís entire world can turn on a dime when youíre a kid.
Iím hoping this little boy feels like he can fit in eventually. Iím glad heís got the girls. There are a lot of kids that have no oneÖ
Ok, Ok, OK... I have been tasked.
I have two weeks to find a restaurant here in town that has blackened grouper on the menu served by young nubile nearly naked men.
I think she said nearly naked.
She may have said scantily clad... and then my brain turned it to nearly naked.
Its all so... fuzzy.
Boy, it has been so long since I've had single eligible woman friends! Usually I'm with friends with kids and we're looking for restaurants that have crayons and don't mind if someone eats mac 'n cheese with their fingers.
I'm not sure whose going to have more fun at this lunch...
Tonight was the first night ofÖ Cotillion.
I signed my 6th grader up for the Cotillion Season. We received an invitation for him to partake about a month ago and it didnít take long for me to think, ďYesĒ. Actually, it required no thought.
It was a given.
I try hard to show my boys proper table manners, how to be polite, introduce themselves, and how to act in public with adults.
It is an uphill battle. They are boys. I just hope that something is taking along the way.
PlusÖ I realized today when I was at the mall picking up my sonís blazer that it must be hard to listen to a woman who is incessantly on you about the importance of table manners and being gentlemanly, when the next day, the very same woman cannot even find her damn car in the mall parking lot.
I think it kind of undermines the whole ĎMom knows whatís going oní theme I try to project.
Anyway, this Cotillion Season has required my son to own his first jacket, tie, and dress shirt. We got him new dress shoes as well. Standard attire for my boys around the house is shorts. Shoes and shirts appear to be optional, except at my dinner table when shirts are mandatory. When out and about, tshirts, shorts, and tennis shoes are the attire du jour.
So this blazer, tie, dress shirt thing was new for him and I was surprised he took it so well. There was no weeping, whining and gnashing of teeth. As a matter of fact, he picked out his own outfit: black blazer, blue shirt, red tie. Khaki pants had been decided on previously. He looked really good.
Iíll have to take a picture next time.
I suspect he is not fighting me so much on this as a few of his guy friends are taking, as well asÖ he gets to dance with girls.
This could be interesting.
Bones was taking a shower today and I heard him yell from the bathroom, ďMooooom! They left Mr. Smoochy Pantís soap heeeeeere!Ē
We knew something would be left. Its an inevitability when youíre traveling with the little people.
Shortly thereafter, fully cleaned and his hair spoofed out from drying it with a towel, Bones came prancing up to me, ďMom! Smell me! Smell my body! What do I smell like?Ē
Me: (I love to smell my children. They smell so sweet to me.) UmmmÖ Mr Smoochy Pantís soap?
Bones: Noooo. Mom. I smell like tropical cocoanut. Its our new soap! Couldnít you tell?
Hunh. I have a feeling he will be my child that eventually attempts to bathe in cologne, the one I lecture that the cologne should follow you into the roomÖ not enter the room before you.
I donít know. Just a feeling.
Ringo got in the car today and said, ďJeff danced with four girls and he only remembers who two of them were.Ē
He continued, ďI think itís funny. I danced with every girl and not only remember every girl I danced with, but what song was playing when we dancedÖĒ
He did NOT get that trait from his Mother.
And why is it he can remember every girl he danced with and what song they danced to, but he can't remember to bring his trumpet to school on Tuesdays.
Iíve heard more about the danceÖ little bits are being leaked out.
For instance, one of the girls told their mother that you NEVER make eye contact with the boy you are dancing with. All the girls talk to the girls, while all the boys talk to the boys, they all just happened to be paired off and swaying to the same music.
One of the Momís sons happened to be the DJ. She told him in advance to keep an eye on the kids from the stage where he was set up, to make sure none of the kids were being mean. (This bullying thing has everyone on alertÖ parents, teachers, staff, older siblings.) I said, ďMean? Wow. Thatís not what I was worried about. I was worried abou the kids getting Ďtoo closeí.Ē
She laughed and said, ďOh NO! Not at OUR school dances. The Social Study teacher lectures all the kids before the dance that there should be room for the Holy Family between them when they dance. And if kids are dancing too close, the principal will tap on them on the shoulder and say, ďAhem. Leave room for Jesus.Ē
Heh heh heh. I canít quit laughing. Maybe you have to know the characters, and our principal cracks me up. The kids are scared to death of him, but I think heís a riot. I could just picture his big intimidating self hovering over the kids as he taps them on the shoulders saying, ďAhem. Leave room for JesusĒ, while inside heís laughing at all of it.
Some days its so much more fun being an adult than a kid...
TGOO sent the family THIS really funny link today. Heh.
When he's finished speaking, make sure you click on the options in the Main Menu... Make sure you click on 'The Basics'.
Cracked me up.
Shoe over at Chou Chope had a great post on her sonís artwork. I liked the fact he got her ring on the correct finger. It takes the eye of a mother to pick out the other items likeÖ there are too many people in the picture!
Today I went through Bonesí backpack and found a picture he drew for class on what he did this summer. Itís a folded Ďcardí. On one side he wrote ĎThis summer I went to Naplesí. On the other he drew a picture.
Now. Allow me to tell you what we did in Naples.
We ate out every night. (Unfortunately) One of them was a cool restaurant on the intracoastal.
Bones snorkeled in the big ass bathtub they had in our bathroom. I even put out pictures on that one.
We hung out at the pool THE ENTIRE day.
We ate poolside.
They had strawberry slurpies. (Kind of like daiquiris without the alcohol).
We ate at a great pizza place for lunch one day.
We let the kids rent a movie in the hotel one night off the hotel TV system.
They had a GREAT slide at the pool that the kids loved.
OK. I think you catch the drift. They had a great time, we did a lot of things, and there was an awful lot to choose from.
What did he choose?
Bedtime. All of us laying on the beds.
We can still fit the three of them on one bed, although that is changing. And so this is what he drew:
(click to enlarge)
Let us talk about detail first. He got the chair, the four poster beds, the TV, and the nightstand with the lamp. He even got the order of the boys correct in their beds. If I recall Son#2 did in fact sleep in the middle this trip.
BUT, what is with the loin clothes that all the Y chromosome holding people are wearing to bed?
Where are the blankets?
And, WHY, am I evidently NAKED? Thankfully he does not have me anatomically correct. I assure youÖ I DO NOT sleep nakedÖ in particular with my boys in the same daggum room with me!
According to this picture, we lay on top of our beds, no blankets, the boys and their Dad wear a see through loin cloth, Dadís being green, and the boysí blue, and Mom, who thankfully has no distinguishing body parts, other than long hair that it appears I wear in pigtails, sleeps in the buff.
And this is so unlike his other drawings. I canít believe he didnít fit that Ďman eating bunnyí in there somewhere. He must be under the bedÖ with the big pools of blood that are missing from this picture as well.
At least we won't end up in therapy with this picture. When my eldest son had this SAME teacher for 2nd grade, at the prodding of a friend, he drew a picture of the school blowing up with the caption... oh so fitting... Boom!
His buddy thought it was great. The boys were carrying on when she found it. She went absolutely ape sh**. There were letters home, prayers written, threats of parental conferences and suspension should this happen again.
The boys still talk about it. Of course they laugh now, but even my parents heard about this incident when they were here.
Bones was explaining the punishment process at school. Every kid has a clip. First offense, move your clip to 'stop'. Second offense, move your clip to 'think'. Third offense, move your clip to 'pray'. Fourth offense you go see 'da man'.
And of course everyone smirks when they talk about 'pray' as Ringo raises his hand and says, "Yes, of all the boys in the family, *I'M* the only one who had to move their clip to 'pray'."
As if this is a badge of honor.
So keeping it in perspective... this is a pretty good picture. Even if I am sleeping naked. With my boys in the room.
My 3rd sonís First Holy Communion is coming up in March. The kids making their first this year also put together a quilt. Each child decorates a quilt square with the theme of reconciliation, pictures and ideas provided for them in a quilt packet, and then they place it on the altar during their 1st Reconciliation. In turn that following Monday, I pick up all the quilt squares, if I happen to have a 2nd grader, and put together the quilt, which is then given to someone who is being prayed for.
One year it was given to my friend J., who died the following year. The reconciliation quilt was on her coffin instead of flowers, as the casket was brought down the aisle of the church.
The funeral was sad as it wasÖ horrifying to all of usÖ but seeing the quilt atop her casket brought it that much closer.
This past year, the quilt was given to a mother who was also sick. She died this past July and I found out today, the quilt was on her casket as well.
It is a quilt to signify healing, to show that prayer is in your midst.
If you recall for my second son, I posted the quilt as it was put together. (I cannot believe Iíve been blogging that long.) You can see that finished quilt HERE, with it in its beginning stages HERE and just the top HERE.
I have some Moms who have volunteered to assist, which makes me nervous. One year one of the volunteers botched it upÖ and I ended up redoing her work. So Iíll have to make sure my volunteers truly understand that Iím serious, if they canít do the job Iím asking of them, then I donít want their help.
I hate to be rude about it, but the project already takes me well over 40 hours. (I should clock it this year.) I donít need anyone screwing up their end, especially when I told them EXACTLY what was expectedÖ laying out all the pitfalls, and explaining in GREAT detail what I could NOT accept, leaving me to fix it, adding another few hours to my already big job.
And trust me when I say, I am very good at laying out expectations and the how toís. There is NEVER any doubt in anyoneís mind about what I need and how I feel about something. But sometimes you get these people who have to do their own thing and then screw up, leaving me to smile sweetly while I grind my teeth.
I have no time or patience for thatÖ this being my 4th quilt for the school.
Anyway, so today I went to buy the fabric for this yearís quilt. Itís just plain white. I walked up to the counter, overhearing a conversation between a younger woman and the older fabric cutter, both employees. They were talking about a local massage school, where I happen to know the owners and have had experience with them.
As I handed them my fabric, I apologized for overhearing them, but thought they should know that it was a great school and they could get a full body massage for $25, and with them on their feet all day, hunched over fabric, it would probably help them relax.
We chatted a bit and after they were finished helping me with the fabric, the older of the women said to me, ďThis fabric isnít on saleÖĒ
I nodded and said, ďNo, míam, itís not.Ē
She looked at me for a minute, pulled a coupon out of her apron and said, ďI have an extra 50% off couponÖĒ
Holy crap. I could not thank them enough. I was so surprised. I was buying 8 yards of fabric and fabric is not so cheap!
The younger of the two looked at me and said, ďNo, thank YOU for being so nice to us. Youíve made our day. Trust meÖĒ
Ack! How awful is that?! These women are that abused? NOBODY deserves to be abusedÖ ever. I loathe the person rude to the waitress. LOATHE them. I cannot stand to be around the person who verbally kicks the cashier at my supermarket. And I wish Iíd been there for ANY of the ugliness to the fabric cutters at the fabric storeÖ I would have spoken my mind.
I am so done with rude people. I hope they all rot. And how sucky is our society that I found myself REWARDED for just beingÖ civil and polite. The scary part isÖ this isnít the first time.
Oh crap. I forgot this part about last night‚Äôs dance. It is filed under ‚Äėcan‚Äôt make this stuff up‚Äô.
We were in the car and I said something to my son about dancing and he said, ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs easy. All you do is just stand there and sway‚Äô.
Now tell me, who here has not joked about the way kids dance? The sway in one place? One of the Dads I know calls it The Frankenstein.
And so for my son to readily admit it and not even know that we adults laugh at ‚Äėthe sway‚Äô, was pretty priceless. But then he added:
‚ÄúExcept for dancing with Anna. She spins and stuff.‚ÄĚ
Me: She spins and stuff? And what do you do?
Ringo: Try to keep up! But it gets really confusing‚Ä¶She makes it hard to dance.
Heh heh heh.
I did ask him today at dinner about his buddy Harry. If you recall he is the little boy who was NOT going to the dance because he wasn‚Äôt into girls, hated to dance and doesn‚Äôt eat. At the last minute he had a change of heart. I asked him today about Harry and all the dancing.
Ringo said, ‚ÄúMom, see, he drank all this coke. And so he had this huge sugar high. Then he got bored. So‚Ä¶ he danced.‚ÄĚ
As we went for pizza tonight he said, ‚ÄėI have to have water to drink. I‚Äôm not allowed to have anymore coke. I drank 20 of them last night‚Ä¶‚ÄĚ
I don‚Äôt let my kids drink coke, or as you northerners like to call it ‚Äėpop‚Äô or ‚Äėsoda‚Äô. I don‚Äôt drink it and when they‚Äôre with me, they don‚Äôt either.
Me: 20 cups of coke? Last night? WHY?
Ringo: That‚Äôs all they had, Mom.
Me: Good Lord. Do you want me to ask them to have water there next time?
Ringo, giving me this stunned crazy look: NO, Mom. WHY would I want you to do that?!
I sat there for a minute and finally said, ‚ÄúOh. Yeah. I guess you liked it‚Ä¶‚ÄĚ
I‚Äôm such a dork sometimes.
I got my haircut the other day. I decided to flip through some books at my hairdresser's to see if there was something that would catch my eye other than ‚Äėstraight, slightly frizzing, medium length and brown‚Äô.
My second son was with me, curled into my side as I looked. I came to the first picture of hair cropped, more like a bob, and silky smooth. He looked at it and said, ‚ÄúYour hair won‚Äôt do that Mom‚Ä¶‚ÄĚ
He was right. I flipped the page to some girl with blonde hair, all crazy. ‚ÄúMom, that‚Äôs not your hair either‚Ä¶‚ÄĚ
As we went from page to page, I made little comments like, ‚ÄúThey put too much crap in her lips! She has fish lips!‚ÄĚ or ‚ÄúHey. If I get my hair cut like that, do you think that I‚Äôll suddenly look as thin as she is?‚ÄĚ
That elicited a ‚ÄúMom‚Ä¶ I don‚Äôt think I can answer that one‚Ä¶‚ÄĚ
He must be taking dodgeball lessons from his father.
I kept flipping through pages until I got to something I liked and seemed reasonable for my boring brown straight hair.
As I closed the book, saving the one page, my son looked at me and said, ‚ÄúMom, face it, those are professional models. Your hair will NEVER look like that!‚ÄĚ
Ahhhh, sweet honesty.
I took the book up with me to my hairdresser and she exclaimed, ‚ÄúOh!My!God! Are we going to do something different?! Are we going to go short?!‚ÄĚ
Me: Phht. Hardly. I‚Äôm married with three boys. My hair will forever be long as none of them can handle the thought of my having short hair. The abuse I would take for cutting it off would be more than my self esteem could take. Just take a ¬Ĺ inch off‚Ä¶
Hairdresser: Oh. I had hope‚Ä¶
Me: But! I have a picture of how I want you to trim it up! I want‚Ä¶ BANGS!
Hairdresser: Oh. Joy.
Just a little side note on football. I‚Äôve been following football pretty heavily this year. I used to be a BIG college ball fan, but had fallen from it, other than the Army/Navy game. (Go Navy!) For some reason this year I‚Äôve been sucked back in and am following my SEC like my kid was on one of the teams.
And of course I found out this week that I went to high school with someone on the Alabama football staff, so Alabama has raised in my personal SEC ranks. Even though I didn‚Äôt KNOW the guy on staff‚Ä¶ I know members of his family and hey, that‚Äôs good enough for me.
I‚Äôve not blogged it‚Ä¶ but now that Spurrier is gone, I‚Äôm back to being a diehard Gator fan. ‚ÄėBama is now back up near the top again‚Ä¶ plus my cousin is going there as well. ‚ÄėBama used to be one of my faves, but then when The Bear was no longer coaching, their fans got REALLY REALLY ugly to the new coach, throwing bricks through is home windows when they‚Äôd lose and stuff like that, and that pissed me off so much, I swore of ‚ÄėBama.
But, ‚ÄėBama is back in my good graces. Even though they kind of sort of suck this year.
Anyway, has anyone but me noticed that that field goal kicker for the Gators, SUCKS?! I don‚Äôt think he could hit a broadside of a barn. Do they not have anyone else in the line up?
Good God. The kid must have performance anxiety or something. They need to get him into therapy to get him over it, do some hypnotizing hippy stuff‚Ä¶ I don‚Äôt give a crap what they do nowadays‚Ä¶ or YANK HIM.
And I‚Äôm sure I‚Äôll fall out of most everyone‚Äôs good graces that follows SEC ball and hails from Georgia or the Florida/Georgia border, but I HATE the Dawgs. I always have... and always will. I‚Äôm rooting for Tennessee today and it‚Äôs a tough looking game.
The only time I‚Äôd root for the Dawgs is if they played South Carolina‚Ä¶ Spurrier‚Äôs new home.
You‚Äôll never hear me utter the words, ‚ÄúGo Cocks!‚ÄĚ
Well‚Ä¶ at least not when talkin‚Äô ball. Heh.
Ringo had his first dance tonight. One of the Moms invited a group of us over to hang out until the dance was over. The boy Moms made a bit of a pact to tell each other if they heard anything since we all seem to be living with the ‚Äė6th Grade Code of Silence.‚Äô
It seemed rather surreal to be standing in the parking lot with all the other parents with a grandfather here or there, waiting for our middle school kids to come from the dance. Every now and then a Mom would walk into the dance, unable to stand the suspense of how it went.
I did not. It was his time. Not mine.
I did say to him a couple weeks ago, ‚ÄėSo, do they have parent chaperones?‚Äô
Ringo: I dunno.
Me: If you want me to chaperone, I can.
Me: I‚Äôd hang out in the kitchen‚Ä¶
Ringo: I‚Äôll keep that in mind‚Ä¶
Hey, I never want him to think I‚Äôm not supportive. I put it out there. If he wants to run with the ball, fine.
So when it came time for pick up, all the parents stood there in a big group, talking amongst themselves, looking to the dance hall, waiting.
As 9:00 approached, I walked to the door, telling my son‚Äôs best friend‚Äôs Mom that she was to spill it if she heard anything and I‚Äôd do likewise. I refuse to pry into his life, but I am incredibly curious. I‚Äôm sorry. It‚Äôs true. I just really wanted to know the answer to the big question, ‚ÄúDid he in fact stand there eating brownies the entire night or did he‚Ä¶ dance?‚ÄĚ
I got to the door, the dance not quite over, when a Mom came out with her kid and whispered in my ear, ‚ÄúYour son is in there dancing‚Ä¶‚ÄĚ So I stepped away from the door‚Ä¶ and decided to wait until he was good and ready to leave.
He is very rarely a chatter box anymore‚Ä¶ but I think I know everything. I‚Äôd get it all in short sentences. An 8th grade girl was the first girl to ask him to dance. Then the 7th grade girl down the street, who is Miss Popular, asked him too. I feel certain both their Moms asked them to ask him so he‚Äôd not feel awkward.
And I am forever thankful to them as‚Ä¶ that is all it took. Every girl in the room asked him to dance.
He said to me finally, ‚ÄúThere weren‚Äôt enough dances Mom‚Ä¶‚ÄĚ
Me: What? You mean it needed to be longer?
Me: More slow songs?
Ringo: There were a lot of girls that asked me to dance that I didn‚Äôt get to dance with and I felt really bad. They were all nice.
He never danced with the same girl twice. He only asked two girls to dance‚Ä¶ Caroline (who I think he may be a wee bit sweet on) and another girl. All his buddies danced the ENTIRE night, even his buddy who doesn't dance, isn't into girls, and doesn't eat. His one buddy was so nervous and really really wanted to ask a particular girl, so Ringo ran interference for him‚Ä¶ asking the girl on behalf of his buddy.
I liked that.
He told me when he didn‚Äôt like a song that he and his friends just went and got a drink so they didn‚Äôt have to dance. Kids seem to figure that out pretty young.
So‚Ä¶ it was a hit. He loved the dance. He‚Äôll do it again. And I think next go round I won‚Äôt be getting the ‚ÄúI‚Äôm going to the dance to eat brownies‚ÄĚ. Heh.
Bones is at his first sleep over. I like the Mom. I really do. I just think she is a bit‚Ä¶ scattered. So I‚Äôve been nervous about it and earlier in the week, was very upfront about why I was nervous about his staying.
I was diplomatic‚Ä¶ but didn‚Äôt pull any punches. She needed to know my concerns and why I felt the way I did. Two days later she called to tell me that a friend of hers was coming over to watch the kids while they swam (the pool was my biggest freaky fear) and that he was a fireman/paramedic.
I have noticed since our ‚Äėtalk‚Äô that she appears almost a bit frightened of me. Wary. Unsure. I‚Äôm fine with that. I have enough friends‚Ä¶ I have to look out for my kids. I don‚Äôt give a crap if Moms like me.
She is a divorced Mom and she had told me she recently got engaged. I‚Äôm excited for her. Genuinely so. Today I asked her, ‚ÄúSo when is the wedding?‚ÄĚ and her reply was‚Ä¶ get this‚Ä¶ holy crap, ‚ÄúWell, my family wants me to get married TODAY, but I want to wait until after the baby is born‚Ä¶‚ÄĚ
Finally I said, ‚ÄúBaby. What baby?‚ÄĚ
Turns out she‚Äôs pregnant. I couldn‚Äôt tell. I gather she is about 20 weeks‚Ä¶ and I couldn‚Äôt tell.
Turns out all the kids know too. I just didn't.
So‚Ä¶‚Ä¶.. I know none of it is a big deal. In the big scheme, not really. But y‚Äôall have to understand that my world is a pretty ‚Äėnormal‚Äô world. I send my kids to a small Catholic school. Most parents are married, and some are widowed or divorced. My kids understand that bad marriages happen to good people. It happens. We talk about it so they realize it‚Äôs not the kids‚Äô fault‚Ä¶ sometimes it just doesn‚Äôt work.
I have also found that all of us parents are quiet about talking about sex with our kids. Honestly? I‚Äôm considered the maverick of the bunch when it comes to the sex talk. I had a Mom call me last week because she heard *I* was the Mom to talk to on how to handle it. The Moms all just think I‚Äôm so funny about it‚Ä¶ the comedy sex talk I guess. I am quick to remind them that my son is the one that thinks everyone does it doggy style, but hey, he knows the facts. (The sex talk is HERE for those of you who have not read it.)
And although I have no intention of teaching my kids that sex is reserved only for marriage and I have EVERY intention of preaching safe sex, I‚Äôm not really ready to explain to my kids why David‚Äôs Mom has a kid, is pregnant, and there is no Dad.
I know. It is probably not odd to anyone else, but it is in my world. I‚Äôm kind of hoping Bones doesn‚Äôt notice‚Ä¶ I‚Äôm not ready for that.
Tomorrow Bones has his first sleep over and Ringo has his first dance.
Bones packed as soon as he got home from school.
Ringo intends to pack himself full of brownies... there appears to be a group of boys that will be hanging at the food table. He informed me that Harry who said he wasn't going due to the fact he does not like to dance, does not eat, and has no use for girls, is now going.
Middle school kids are such social creatures.
So this should be interesting. I'm nervous about the sleepover.
I'm excited about the dance... although I know I'll get no details. That middle school code of silence... it appears to have struck us hard here in many areas. Monosyllablic comes to mind.
My friend and her son left this morning. Her son had instructions to teach his uncle and Grandparents how to talk like a pirate. My folks leave tomorrow...
I'm a bit depressed. My house will be so quiet.
Did I say that?
yes. I did.
Last night the older two boys had baseball practice and we all attended. My husband met us there after work and my Mom, TGOO, the boys and I rode with my friend and her son in her 8 passenger mini van. Being a beautiful evening at the park seemed like a nice way to spend the evening.
Mom and TGOO took the boys to the ball field, while I stayed behind to help with Mr. Smoochy Pants. My husband pulled into the parking lot at that moment. While my friend gathered her stuff, my better half and I each took a hand of the little man, who is now just 2 ¬Ĺ and walked him to the ball park.
Could it have been only 5 years ago that we did this last? It felt so natural to have a little person holding on to a finger from each of our hands as we slowly strolled through the parking lot, his little legs hippity skippity and happy, as he bounced between us.
But it didn‚Äôt feel like I had another. It was a different feeling. It‚Äôs the feeling of being able to love on a child, look after it, play with it‚Ä¶ but NOT have to get up with it at 2AM! I suspect it was a lesser feeling as one feels when they are a grandparent. Great joy.
So as I smiled inwardly, listening to the little man‚Äôs chatter, his holding onto my husband‚Äôs finger and my hand, I looked at my husband and said, ‚ÄėDo you realize, if I were my Nana, this would be our grandson?‚ÄĚ
I am 41. My Nana was a war bride. She had my Mother at 17. My Mother had me at 24. Nana was a grandmother by 41.
We laughed at the thought and I added to my Mother when we got to the bleachers, ‚ÄúMom, if I were Nana, I‚Äôd be walking with my grandson‚Ä¶ to come see his Great Grandparents in the bleachers!‚ÄĚ
She was laughing at that first part, but stopped quickly when I said that last part‚Ä¶ she and TGOO being Great Grandparents. We were all laughing at the thought, but my parents could very well be Great Grandparents at 65 and 66.
My Mom kept giving me the look of "I'm not ready to be a Great Grandparent!!!" Heh. That thought still cracks me up‚Ä¶
The magazines are arriving in great abundance to my home. The number of magazine deliveries increase exponentially as the holidays draw near.
So my Mother was looking through the magazines this morning and she found this picture.
She said to me, ‚ÄėI think you need one of these for your trips north so you don‚Äôt freeze‚Äô. (I have two trips planned in the next eight weeks... trips that will take me to potentially extraordinarily frigid weather. Well... extraordinarily frigid in MY book.)
That would be minus the snow shovel of course. She thinks I just need the tent thing‚Ä¶
Those who know me know, the coat won't be enough.
Mr. Smoochy Pants awoke this morning, walked into the kitchen, saw TGOO and crawled up into his lap and gave him a big hug, laying his head on TGOO‚Äôs shoulder. My Mother walked in the room a few minutes later and he looked at us and gasped, so surprised and happy to see her. Mr. Smoochy Pants is so yummy.
I have video I took of him playing the dulcimer with my Dad.
Today we took him to the little park where the boys play baseball. It‚Äôs located on the intracoastal waterway. Only in South Florida can you play baseball and be on the intracoastal. Truly the beauty of South Florida living.
At this little park is a little beach. The ball fields are up on a hill, and below is a little sandy patch‚Ä¶ a beach‚Ä¶ right on the water. We took him down there where he went ABSOLUTELY NUTS whenever he saw a boat. He would shake, reverberate as if his very cellular structure would come apart, and he‚Äôd yell, ‚ÄúBOAT! BOAT! THERE‚ÄôS A BOAT!‚ÄĚ to everyone within ear shot. And then he‚Äôd add, ‚ÄúWAVE! WE ALL WAVE!‚ÄĚ
And like trained chimps we‚Äôd all wave at the boat.
He is in LOVE with our hamster. At one point the boys took the hamster out and she had a temporary escape under the dishwasher. I was cooking and turned around to see this tiny little two year old tow head splayed out on my kitchen floor, looking under the dishwasher while my second son laid out raisins to lure her out.
As I stood there watching I thought, ‚ÄúIf you had told me 27 years ago, that I‚Äôd be in my kitchen cooking and in my home would be my best friend from high school and our sons‚Ä¶ all the commotion‚Ä¶ looking for a hamster‚Ä¶ talking like a pirate‚Ä¶ I‚Äôd have never believed you.‚ÄĚ
And so this evening when my friend was putting Mr. Smoochy Pants to bed and they were saying their prayers, he ended with, ‚ÄúAnd God Bless Bou, and God Bless Big Daddy, and God Bless Mimi‚Ä¶ and God Bless Arrrrggggh!‚ÄĚ
We mustn‚Äôt forget the pirates!
There‚Äôs a two year old in my home. The sound of a small child‚Äôs laughter has been reverberating within for the last few hours.
My best friend from high school is here with her son, the little boy you all know as Mr. Smoochy Pants. My folks are here as well, so my house is full of commotion, love and laughter.
And of course my boys are having a blast with the little man‚Ä¶ and my folks are too.
Mr. Smoochy Pants has been busy playing with all the new people and evidently TGOO spent some time alone with the little man, although I don‚Äôt really know when that happened.
We were sitting down to dinner, everyone at the long dinner table in the dining room when TGOO said, ‚ÄúMr. Smoochy Pants‚Ä¶What does a Pirate say?‚ÄĚ
Mr. Smoochy Pants looked up and with a crinkled face said, ‚ÄúArrrrggggh!‚ÄĚ
Heh. Pirates are a big thing with us. We‚Äôre all cracking up as every now and then we hear this little boy stop what he‚Äôs doing, look up and say, ‚ÄúArgggggh!‚ÄĚ
That is truly one of my favorite things about 2 year olds‚Ä¶ the stupid pet tricks. Now he will go home to his Daddy with a new stupid pet trick and it is cracking me up.
What is up with the Bridal Industry and dress sizes? Or the frickin‚Äô women‚Äôs fashion industry for that matter.
If I go to Ann Taylor or Ann Taylor Loft, they have me in some obscenely small size‚Ä¶ as if I will buy more clothes if it appears I am a size or two smaller than in a normal store.
But if I go to a Bridal shop, and this is no joke, they have me in a dress that is a full THREE SIZES LARGER than my normal dress size.
What is up with that?
I surely cannot get all jazzed up over buying any dress that has a number three sizes that of my normal number.
It‚Äôs absurd. What is this hang up we have now over sizes? My Mom is over it. Perhaps the closer a woman is to not giving a crap what size she is wearing, the closer she is to reaching some sort of inner Nirvana.
I‚Äôm not there, although I am getting there quickly. As the bridal store chick broke out the dress two sizes larger in number than my normal size and it was too tight, my Mom said, ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt even care about sizes anymore. If it fits, I like it, I buy it.‚ÄĚ
How do they come up with women‚Äôs sizes anyway? Is there even a standard?
I want women‚Äôs clothes to be like men‚Äôs. Waist and inseam. And since our neck doesn‚Äôt change, how about bust and arm length? Or bust and waist?
I‚Äôm so done with this 2, 4, 6, 8.
The fashion industry can kiss my butt. I can‚Äôt tell them what size that might be, as it appears to vary depending on the store, but they can kiss it anyway.
My Mom and TGOO are in town for the week. Whilst they are here, I thought this might be a good time for her and me to look at Brides Maids dresses. I'll be looking again with my sister when I'm in Atlanta in two weeks.
The color of the day shall be red. Well, actually white of course, but red for me. Red dress and a pedicure is what I've been asked to wear. Asked of course being the active verb, as if I had said, "I really really hate the color red" the reply assuredly would have been, "Ok. What color do you want to wear?"
But as it is, I like the color red and it is actually a color I can wear and enjoy wearing, outside of black, white or gray. Shades of gray. I am shades of gray. I blend.
So off my Mother and I went to look at dresses and I chose a small Mom and Pop bridal shop to stop in first. There were racks of dresses from which to pick and I was given the instructions from the owner that I could order any dress I wanted, in the store, no matter the color on the rack, and they'd have it to me in red.
We picked four dresses to try on, mostly strapless or halter style, all that can be cut to tea length. It's a spring wedding, on the beach, hence the requirement of a pedicure for my foot attire. Appropriate as I'm a Southern girl and shun the shoe wearing business as it is.
Give me bare feet or give me death.
Or something like that.
Truly I say to you, my sister is a most wonderful and flexible person, but to proclaim I could be barefoot, puts her on an even higher pedestal than I had put her before this big event made my 2007 calendar.
To try on dresses such as these, for you men folk not in the know, can require special undergarments. I do believe the name of these are Merry Widows. And so I was sized for one, the young lass working the ‚Äėshopp, explaining she thought I was a 36B, my Mother in agreement, and my shaking my head and saying, ‚ÄėI don‚Äôt know‚Ä¶ I do believe I am a 36 C‚Ä¶ but I do need something that sucks me in and pushes me up.‚Äô
And so she brought in said undergarment, with push up pads in the bra, one 36B and it fit, after my dear sainted Mother and I shoved my body into the garment, sucking me in as required and pulling me out in all the appropriate places. It wasn‚Äôt uncomfortable and I must say, it was nice to see I looked like I had a bit of a waist and seemed so‚Ä¶ busty.
I tried on the first halter dress, very cute and fun. But the halter part, something was just wrong. I kept saying to my Mother, ‚ÄúLook at my boobs. Something is not right‚Ä¶‚Ä� As my Mother attempted to squish my body into the dress she said, ‚ÄúI‚Äôm afraid to zip it up the rest of the way‚Ä¶ we might pop the zipper!‚Ä�
I walked out of the dressing room, which thankfully had nice lighting and ONE mirror as opposed to the white light and tri mirrors of the department stores, leaving one wondering whether one should slit their jugular for the sheer greenish pasty tint of their skin or for having to lay eyes up parts of the body eyes should never be laid upon‚Ä¶ in particular after the birth of three babies. The young lass waiting upon us was in fact waiting outside the door. She had me stand in front of the bridal mirror, had me hold my hands tightly on my waist and then‚Ä¶ she zipped that sucker up.
Better her than us. It was tight‚Ä¶ but‚Ä¶ I had a waist! Incredible really, as I do believe I have not had any sort of waist like that since the birth of my last son. Waistless in West Palm Beach.
The dress was cute, but really there was a boob problem, so I nixed it. And although I had a waist, it was kind of‚Ä¶ roman looking. Odd.
Off to the 2nd dress we went, which definitely had more a roman motif. Cute, but once again, it had a boob issue, amplified by this crystal star pin doohickey that had been placed smack in between ‚Äėthe girls‚Äô. Finally I said to my Mom, ‚ÄúThey look‚Ä¶ sooo‚Ä¶ ROUND!‚Ä�
And that was the deal with both of the first two dresses. As cute as they were, very fun, I had big ROUND boobs.
So, there was a big NO to those two dresses.
Eventually we got to the last dress, which we both liked. Strapless, with a nice flow, and my boobs didn‚Äôt look big and round like missiles waiting to be shot out in defense. (link refers to end of that post) I looked trim as well‚Ä¶ well, kind of. The dress was one size too small and the young lass was bound and determined to stuff my body into it.
I told my Mother that I felt like that woman from Steel Magnolias. I moved my hips and said, ‚ÄúLooks like two pigs fightin‚Äô under a blanket.‚Ä� Tight. The dress was TIGHT.
The young lass had me squeeze my waist in and she continued to shove my body into the dress. Halfway through, I looked like a stuffed sausage. A five foot two red stuffed sausage.
My lower intestines met my lungs.
My ovaries crowded into my kidneys.
Before she finished zipping she finally said, ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt want to squeeze you anymore, I don‚Äôt want to hurt you.‚Ä�
I was feeling for all those women in the deep South in the antebellum days being tied into those corsets.
When we left the store I told my Mom it was just so nice to breathe! It was if all my organs immediately relaxed. I‚Äôm still very aware now of where my lower intestines and ovaries are located. My kidneys appear to be happy that their personal space is no longer being violated.
We will see what we find in Atlanta, but as of now, this is the dress in my head. One size larger of course. I hate to cough up a uterus in the middle of Morrigan's wedding. Bad form and all that jazz. Even if I don‚Äôt need that organ anymore‚Ä¶
Last month, I was over at Richmond‚Äôs at One for the Road, perusing the Carnival of the Recipes and I found THIS recipe for Sea Bass with a Dijon Mustard-Champagne Sauce. I decided to try it when my parents came in.
So the Sea Bass was on the menu this evening with mashed potatoes and fresh steamed snap beans.
The recipe was EXCELLENT, as was the meal. But I did learn something. I am a good cook,. but I don‚Äôt venture out into the whole ‚Äėgourmet‚Äô realm much or much past 'comfort food' for that matter. So when this recipe called for shallots I thought, ‚ÄėHmm‚Ä¶ garlic on steroids?‚Äô
I knew they were in the onion/garlic section. I finally found them, not bothering to look at the label that said it was in the onion family. So I completely missed out on this fact‚Ä¶ until I cut into one and realized that shallot is some strange name for ‚Äėtiny intense onion that will burn your eyes out of their sockets‚Äô.
They were very yummy though... even if water did gush out of my eyes as I cut them.
My folks are here for the next few days. Needless to say, the house has been bustling with the positive energy of my boys, at the impending arrival of their grandparents.
We did the big Sunday dinner, where I nearly botched up the baked chicken, with my father in law as well as my husband‚Äôs brother, his wife and their little girl. Big Sunday dinner.
So as my 3 year old niece was leaving with her parents, we were all hugging her goodbye, when someone said, ‚ÄúYou didn‚Äôt hug Big Daddy!‚ÄĚ referring to my father.
TGOO, being dramatic for her, feigned crying she was leaving, bending down on one knee and throwing open his arms to her.
She stood there for a minute and then said in her crisp exact 3 year old voice, ‚ÄúWhat is wrong?!‚ÄĚ as she rushed to him to give him a big hug.
We were laughing as he explained he was sad she was leaving.
She replied, ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt be sad. I‚Äôll see you again! Next time you come to my house, I‚Äôll give you a toy‚Ä¶‚ÄĚ
Heh. It was so damn funny. She is getting close to 4 years old, which is my favorite age. We‚Äôre going to have so much fun with her‚Ä¶