My brother had requested a special song be played at the reception. We were all to put in requests when we sent in our RSVP cards. This one had been kept a secret from Morrigan. When he sent me the following YouTube video I could NOT quit laughing. (I think this is what really started the YouTube war.)
Its from our childhood... of course.
He told me at the reception that he had even watched the video enough to see if he could dance like they did, but found it impossible unless he was holding something like a guitar in his hand.
Good grief... these guys are so thin they look like they had to have been strung out on something and never ate.
So... for my brother TN, since they weren't able to play it, and my sister Morrigan, so you can laugh as hard as we did when we watched it the first 10 times... I give you: The Groove Line by Heatwave.
The reception had started and it was time for the father/daughter first dance. Keep in mind, TGOO was clad in kilt and other attire known to go with said kilt, such as … his sporran. For those not in the know, the sporran is that little purse the Scots wear in front of their kilt.
TGOO is particularly proud of his sporran. It is that of a fox. He named it Mulder. Mulder gets better care than most live animals, of that I am sure. When he is put safely away in his special box, little blue plastic Dixie cups are put upon each ear to assist in keeping their shape… keeping them pointy and suitably fluffy, as fox’s ears are to be.
And so the time comes for the dance and Morrigan gets on the dance floor with TGOO and I hear her say before she steps too close, “Heh. I don’t know about that fox, Dad…”
Fox nose and all.
He laughed and quickly shifted Mulder to the side where they commenced dancing.
The Infamous Mulder
One of the oddest things I heard was from Bones. As I posted before, Mr. T was the only child to step up to wear the kilt, complete with mini-sporran and plastic Sgian Dubh.
The tables for the reception were decorated with little red and clear glass hearts, scattered about the center piece. Boned picked up a few to keep.
The next morning I said to Bones as I was nuzzling in his neck kissing on his cheek, trying to get his mosty toasty little body to wake up so we could head back home, “I’ve packed up your stuff, son.”
He looked at me and said “Wait. Where are my hearts? Oh that’s right. T kept them for me in his sporran.”
Never did I ever expect any of my kids to even know what a sporran was, except they do know Mulder, let alone use one or reference their brother storing stuff in one for them. It was just kind of funny…
We are back in the routine, getting up, going to school. The kids were sluggish this morning, not wanting to do anything but sleep. They had a wonderful weekend and are wishing they were still at their grandparent’s home.
This morning, however, hammered home that I am really living with a pre-teen. What I called the *blank stare* really bugs the ever living crap out of me, nearly as much as the monosyllabic answers. This is this morning’s conversation, as best I can recollect, he was sitting on the couch and I was at the kitchen table.
Me: Son, it is 6:52, you leave for school in 5 minutes and you’ve eaten nothing.
Ringo: *blank stare*
Me: You have to eat something…
Ringo: *blank stare*
Me: What time do you eat lunch at school, 11:30?
Me: That’s 4 and a half hours from now.
Ringo: *blank stare*
Me: You’re going to get hungry. How about an apple?
Me: Cold grapes. You love those icy cold grapes I have in the fridge…
Ringo: *blank stare* ……… No.
Ringo: *blank stare*
The thing is, when you see him out and about, you never know that this is how he gets at home. Hell, at the wedding reception, I hear he was in the middle of the floor playing air guitar jamming out on his knees. People were telling me that and I said, “Who? My son?! My 12 year old?!”
But it is what it is. Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde. No clue who I’m ever going to get… I guess that’s part of the ride.
My eldest boy and me just after the wedding.
And so the Great Wedding of 2007 is upon us. Preparations abound as the Rehearsal dinner is tonight here at my folks’ home. Pedicures for the wimmin folk are scheduled for this afternoon with pedicures for Mom and Morrigan following. The bride is to have a massage this morning. Evidently the DJ is studying massage therapy on the side. Interesting combo…
The city of Pensacola is in somewhat of a state of mourning as the Blue Angels are home based here. Yesterday many gathered on the tarmac as the Fat Albert flew in to carry LCDR Davis’ body home for final burial. His funeral is tomorrow with his wake at the Mustin Beach O’Club bar following.
Morrigan’s wedding is on the beach in the evening with the reception following at the same location.
The O’Club will have many celebrations going on that day… the Celebration of a life tragically lost too early and the celebration of two lives coming together in a union to start new together.
The yin and the yang. Black and the white. The suffocating grief of some hearts while others will be giddy with what the future may bring.
It is life. Tomorrow should be interesting…
… my Boys’ rendition.
In the asexual Mom-mobile today I think I heard someone say, “Let’s play the quiet game.”
This would have transpired between Mr. T and Bones.
And then the following conversation ensued to the best of my recollection, keeping in mind that Ringo was riding shotgun next to me, reading.
Bones *sucking on his fingers*: slurp
Mr. T.: time out. I call no making noises. Time in.
Mr. T: time out. But you can cough, sneeze and breathe. Time in.
Bones: time out. Can you yawn? Time in.
Mr. T: time out. Yes you can yawn. Time in.
Bones: *Big YAWN* time out. I’m glad you said that because I really had to yawn. Time in.
Bones: Time out. Did you see that person over there in the car? Time in.
Mr. T.: Time out. You can make noises when you eat too… time in.
Bones: Time out. Did you see this in my backpack? Time in.
Mr. T: Time out. I call you can’t just time out to say things. Time in.
Me *looking at Ringo and speaking in a whisper*: is this incredibly odd? You just say time out when you want to speak?
Bones: time out. I want to play the ‘still’ game instead. Time in.
Ringo is looking at me and quietly laughing.
Mr. T: time out. The still game? I’m eating French fries! Time in.
Bones: You can talk… and breathe.
Ringo: Did I just hear him say you’re allowed to breathe?
Bones: And you can make any movement required to eat French Fries. Otherwise you have to stay still…
And that would be our rendition of… the Quiet Game. Its… not so quiet.
I was in the mall today looking for white knee socks for Mr. T. He’s wearing a kilt to the wedding, so we need him with long white socks. Knee socks will work best.
I went to SIX stores before I found them. I finally found them at the local uniform store. I guess little girls don’t wear knee socks anymore. But that’s beside the point.
I walked into one of our local ‘kid’ stores in the mall. It looked kind of high end, and had lots of cute girl clothes in the store. Now that I’ve been in it, I realize its mainly preschool, but at the time I didn’t know.
I spoke to the woman working the register and they didn’t have what I needed. She pulled out some pink ones with purple dots and I thanked her profusely and said, “I need white. My son is wearing a kilt in a wedding this weekend and as much as I hate to put him in girl’s knee socks, this is what we will have to do… unbeknownst to him.”
And suddenly she was very interested and we started talking about the Great Wedding of 2007 and finally she said, “Wait. I will call The One Who Knows Everything…”
I must’ve looked rather doubtful. She continued, “No. Really. Wait. The One Who Knows Everything… truly knows everything…” and with that she dialed the phone. A couple seconds past, the other line picked up and she said, “Dad…I have a question…”
I nearly spit. I could not quit laughing. Afterall, we do not call my Dad The Great Omnipotent One (TGOO) for no reason. She got off the phone with an answer (he said Sports Authority and try a sports sock which was on our list) I laughed and said, “Oh my God! I am laughing! I say the same thing about my Dad!”
And she said, “No, really, it’s the relationship I have with my Dad…’
And I said, “I totally get it! We call my Dad the same thing. And my boys… we’ll be in the car and they’ll say, call big Daddy. We need to know the answer to…”
I couldn’t stop laughing. What a riot. And for the record, phone calls to Mim and Big's house this year, that I remember have been: How do you make a nuclear bomb? How did Harry Houdini die? Is Madagascar a real country and if so, how big?
And for the record, I know my Mom definitely answered the last one, but she may have answered the one about Harry Houdini too. I can’t remember… so many questions are fielded on a daily basis.
The Great Wedding of 2007 is upon us, this few short days away. Saturday. And since the event is to take place on the beach, a pedicure was in order pour moi.
I’ve never had a real pedicure. I had one a few years ago with PFB when she got married, but I specifically told the tech that she could not take off my calluses as I was doing that whole Karate stint at the time. Calluses can make or break you in Karate. So this one, now that that Karate phase of my life is over, was a complete pedicure, complete with callus work.
According to Morrigan I was in desperate need.
Now… I will say… that although there were some nice parts of the pedicure, the whole filing of the toenails thing was so utterly and completely miserable, I may not be able to do it again. I was doing Lamaze breathing to get through it. I think I did more Lamaze breathing with that portion of my pedicure than I did with the birth of my 2nd son that I did with no drugs… but then again… it was a quick birth.
I keep my toenails short anyway, so to file them… Ugh. I can’t even think about it. It makes me want to vomit. It’s like nails on a chalk board. Ick.
The whole ‘warm water jet’ thing was very nice, although the jets tickled my feet. I’m ticklish, which can be a bit of a problem when that whole, ‘rub the big funky stone all over the feet’ part comes in. Also at the end when there is the foot massage? Yeah, from the way she laughed at me, I think its not normal for people to giggle and pull their feet away.
But then… she pulled out… this thing that was like a mini-cheese grater. It was tiny. It looked like she should ask me if I wanted shredded Parmesan cheese with my pedicure. Later, when she took it apart to sterilize it, I saw it was a little contraption with a tiny razor blade in it, but for writing purposes I will call it the ‘cheese grater’.
So she took this cheese grater and started running it over my calluses. I didn’t feel a damn thing. I think I have skin as thick as an elephants. And as she ran the cheese grater across my calluses, skin was dropping onto the towel like… well… like a lot.
She looked at me and said in her Japanese English accent (this is a woman who is very dear to me, mind you), ‘Ahhh! You find new diet! You lose 5 pounds!”
Good grief. It was nasty. I said to her in reply, “Hey! Easy there! That’s 41 years of walking you have on that towel!!”
So my feet have been cured. I guess. They’ve been grated, clipped, buffed and polished. They look really nice… but they’re feet. They’re functional tools. I probably won’t do it again, but I have to admit… they do look nice.
Ok, Ok, Ok, I have to come clean here. I didn’t do just the facts during The Talk. (Ref yesterday's post) I mean… I did. But at the end, I always add a thing or two… like…
I tell them all the bad words that mean sex. I think this is kind of a useful thing for them to know. They’re going to hear it so they might as well understand what the meanings are. With Mr. T, I got wide eyes and a “OH! I’ve heard ALL OF THOSE before!” Humping, screwing, fucking, all of it. (Gotta love what I’m going to get googled for on this…)
And then I always tell them about mammals. Now I have learned since last time when I said to Ringo, “Do you remember when we were on the farm and we saw those horses and you said, “Look, Mom! They’re giving each other piggy back rides!”? Well, they weren’t. They were mating.”
To which Morrigan informed me, “Great. Now he thinks everyone does it doggy style…”
Well, I gave that thought. I said to T the same thing I said to Ringo about the horses at the farm and then I added, “That’s how animals do it…”
I figured that was clarification enough. But instead, I got a little boy staring at me, calculating.
Do you know what he was calculating?
How long a horse’s member must be to reach from behind all the way in as horses are so damn big.
I’m not kidding.
He stood there staring at me and finally he said, “I don’t see how that works. Mom. That’s a LONG way!”
And I said, “YES! YES IT IS! Horses are huge…”
I think my sister is sitting there reading this saying to herself, “NO. She did NOT say that to him!”
I do, however, think I should get credit in that I did NOT explain the saying, “Hung like a horse…” although I suspect he has not heard it, but when he does… he will DEFINITELY get it.
Heh. I crack myself up sometimes...
That would be for THE TALK. Yes. It has happened again. Ten years old seems to be the magic age for my boys to suddenly ask the question, a rather innocent question I might add, a question that they always seem absolutely completely SHOCKED when they hear the answer, even though they’ve watched Animal Planet since… forever.
And so the topic started with people having babies and pregnancies, as his Aunt is getting married on Saturday at the Great Wedding of 2007 and he expects they’ll have children, and suddenly Mr. T said to me, “So exactly how does that happen? Do you just want a baby and you get one?”
Funny he should ask how that happens as I seemed to not have been able to figure it out being perpetually pregnant for about four years. Or so it seemed at the time… to both me and my friends. I didn’t impart that upon him.
So I did what I always do, or rather what I did last time, and I kept it very biological and unemotional and matter of fact, explaining that all mammals did this.
Of course I got the little boy stunned silence look. I quickly said, “You need to understand, the man does NOT pee inside the woman! OK?” and I explained the physiological changes that happen in a man’s body. I so hate the thought of them getting sex and peeing confused.
His concern of course is that this entire thing ‘hurt’ and how would this possibly be something someone WANTS to do… a common sentiment I’m finding with kids. He seemed a bit frightened at the thought that the male may not get his member back. Gah! I didn’t see that one coming. At one point he looked at me and said, “Wait. This means YOU did this.” I nodded and then he said, “Mom, you did this THREE times?”
This is like frickin’ déjà vu. Ringo was more horrified at the thought his father had done this three times. “Dad did this THREE TIMES?” at which I answered with a laugh, ‘OH.YES.HE.DID!’ Heh.
"Well, see, I know it sounds icky, but when you're a man and your voice has changed and your body is growing hair and you're shaving, then this is something you WANT to do and God made it so it feels good."
He said, "How does it feel good? There are two ways things feel good, Mom. There is feeling someone's soft cheek and then there is *touching his heart* the kind that feels good here."
I replied, "Both. It feels good both ways. God put nerves in places so that the entire thing feels really good all over and you like doing it and you want to do it."
So. We'll see. I kept hammering home this 'love someone/marriage' thing.
Suddenly his eyes lit up, like a light bulb went off… an epiphany of sorts, and he said to me, “But Mom. You really only wanted two babies. But you have three…” and I corrected him and said, “No. I only PLANNED on having two babies, but I have three… that third was just an unexpected blessing” to which he continued, “So. This means… you only did it two times wanting a baby and then you just… did it once because you wanted to?”
Heh. Who says my boy ain’t sharp? Sharp as a damn tack.
And so the questions continued through the night, which I fielded left and right. Some questions definitely made my eyes widen far more than his did when I explained the entire sex thing.
I suspect there will be more. I did tell him repeatedly that this was big boy conversation that he was only to have with me and/or his Dad and not his buddies or his little brother.
Bones. I cannot even imagine how that conversation is going to go…
We had a wonderful weekend with Sissy coming in on Saturday and spending the evening and Sunday afternoon with us before she headed to Miami for business. (Sidenote: We watched The Illusionist with Edward Norton, one of my favorite actors, and I really enjoyed it…)
Anyway, my boys know Sissy as she is one of Morrigan’s dearest friends and so with every visit to Atlanta, when Sissy has been around, they’ve been able to hang out with her. This was the first time she’s been to our abode.
While she was here, we went to the beach, watched a movie, had her play Whoonu with the boys, and she just blended with everyone, although there is no doubt she must’ve thought at times she was visiting the circus.
The boys have a nickname for everyone in the family and their best buddy. Ringo is Lard, Mr. T is Triscuit, Bones is Craisin, their buddy, Son#4 is Puke, their father is Father Jacobs and I am Mother Tortellini. They actually call us at times, Father Jacobs and Mother Tortellini, I’m not kidding. This is pretty common.
We have no idea where these names came from. We just kind of go with the flow here...
So Sissy was sitting with us at dinner, the boys were talking about the family nicknames and Mr. T looked at Sissy and blurted, “And you’re Sesame Seed Joe!”
And there you have it. Her new family nickname. I feel certain this is going to come up at the Great Wedding of 2007. Just a suspicion…
Even I, who lives under a rock, cannot escape the strains of the news media. The television news media.
My husband is, unfortunately, something of a news wonk. He watches FOX at night, which means as much as I try to tune it out, I still hear it. I prefer to receive my news from the local paper and the internet. It is not that I feel it is better... but I have control then. Its not audio AND visual... sometimes thats too much for me. It stresses me out.
So. These are two thoughts I have for the television news media.
Leave the students at Virginia Tech alone. Go the hell home and leave them alone. There is no doubt in my mind that they are SICK of you, because I'm sick of you and I'm not living that gut wrenching horrific tragedy.
So pack up, go home, quit following the students and faculty, stay off their campus, and go do your own thing. Far far away from the State of Viriginia.
Second... I'm really frickin' sick of hearing Alec Baldwin's voice. REALLY sick. And I want to know who the bad guys are in this really. Other than Mr. Baldwin, who we all knew has 'anger management issues'.
Who leaked this tape for everyone to hear? His ex-wife? Because honestly, if it were not humiliating enough for his daughter to receive such a message, having it played on every newscast, every day, hour upon hour, has got to be even more humiliating as now all her friends have heard it, all her teachers, everyone she sees in public, everyone... about 10 times or more. I think we have it all memorized by now. This is what they associate with her as well as... him. So really, I think that the ex-wife and her atty are dirtbags too and I suspect quietly giving the recording to the family judge would have been perfectly sufficient.
But really. The biggest bad guy again is... The Television New Media! Bing Bing Bing! Leave them alone. Let the courts do their job. Go away, quit playing the recording. We've heard it. We're done with it. And if anyone in the television news media said you had this little girl's best interest in mind, I'd spit in your face. By playing this over and over and over... you have damaged her, probably far more than her father has and will.
But hey. Who really cares about the students at Viriginia Tech and a little girl in California? It's all about the ratings... right?
Now excuse me while I buy ear plugs...
I don’t typically tell stories of my husband. He’s not blog fodder. But sometimes he’s so damn funny and this time I could not pass it up.
He took up golf last year. It’s a corporate thing… most of his clients golf as well as his peers. Plus, I keep telling him he needs a hobby for when he retires. I said to him, “I have acquired a life over the years and when you retire, it does not become yours.”
Cold, but true.
So he has taken it up, but unfortunately he has not had the time to put into it that he should. He works a lot of hours and although he has a client that is an instructor and has been helping him, he needs to play a game every week and hit balls a lot during the week. Instead, he plays like every three months.
Or he’ll binge play. He’ll play a couple weekends in a row and then not play for months.
About six months ago, a client of his said to him, ‘Ohhhhh! My boyfriend just took up the game. Please play with him!!!”
Now… this boyfriend is in his 80s, just took up the game and had NEVER had a lesson. And, this couple lives in a very exclusive neighborhood in our area.
My husband said yes and when he came home and told me I said to him, ‘Oh baby! Did you tell her that you suck?!”
Ever the supportive wife that I am… we still laugh at that.
The day arrives, and the boyfriend comes with one of his buddies, whose in his 90s. The buddy used to be a great golfer, my husband could tell, but now he’s old and has poor muscle tone and can hit the ball straight as an arrow, but no further than 50 or 60 feet.
Meanwhile, as I said, the boyfriend has just started and has NEVER had a lesson.
On a side note, these old men are very very wealthy and at one point, hit their balls in a water trap. My husband said they spent 20 minutes trying to dig out their balls… they HAD to get them back. Finally my husband was like, “HERE! I’ll GIVE YOU one of MINE!”
Anyway, they had started playing at 10AM, so they just about made it to hole 9, about Noon, when the elderly buddy said, ‘OK. Time for lunch…”
And… that… was… that. They were finished.
My husband came home and said to me, “I won!!!” Heh. We still laugh.
Flash forward to earlier this month. The Great Wedding of 2007 is this weekend and Mo’s Beau is a golfer. All the guys are golfing Saturday morning and so about two weeks ago my husband realized “Holy crap! I need to work on my swing and try to get rid of this slice!”
He’s been out hitting buckets of balls, and had a lesson with his client earlier this week. His client said, “You just have to get over this hump. Most people have gotten over it by now, but you’ve not been practicing enough to get through it…”
And so today he went to hit balls. And tomorrow after work he is going to hit balls. He’ll probably hit Tuesday and Wednesday as well.
As I said to him, he working to get over this “Hump of Suckage”. We shall see…
Heh. He’s so funny when he talks about his golf game.
I’m raising boys, not saints. I am. But I have to tell you… I wonder about some people and their kids.
I had to take Mr. T to the pediatrician today. We were sitting in the room waiting, teasing and talking, when the wall next to us shuddered. We heard banging in the room and it was if a human pinball was next door. T and I looked at each other with eyebrows raised and then stared back at the wall. I was waiting for the wall to bow, instead the picture shook.
This happened for awhile and then the good doctor walked in and I said, “Ummm… what’s going on next door? Is that the woman with the three little kids?” He smiled patiently and said, “I think they’re trying to break through…” We laughed but I was kind of horrified. Even though I joked with a “Three small kids, I’ve been there”, in reality, I had not. My kids never acted like that. I usually had enough snacks and stuff with me to keep them suitably occupied.
A short while later it happened again, this time with his witnessing the wall reverberating. All three of us looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
And it’s funny, because as we were discussing T’s issues I said, “You know… I do think it could be internal stress.” He jokingly looked at T and said, “Stress?! You’re 10! What kind of stresses are in YOUR life?” T, who gets along great with him, laughed back and said, ‘A lot! I have school and grades and all sorts of stuff. You don’t know stress! What kind of stress do YOU have?!”
And as the doctor and I were laughing at him, and T was nearly laughing himself silly, the doctor said, ‘Oh you don’t even want me to LIST the stresses in my life… I don’t know where I’d begin’ and as if on cue, the wall shook and the little people next door appeared to be trying to break through and I said, “Well… we could start there…”
I don’t tolerate poor behavior like that from my kids. First I don’t put them in situations where they could possibly melt down. When they were small they never went to the mall. We never went places unless I had to, where I had to worry about boredom and other issues. Its not that I believe children should be seen and not heard, but if there is a chance that the ‘heard part’ is going to be ugly sounds, then… we didn’t go. Hence, when each child was 15 months old, until about 2 ½, we pretty much never went out to eat. Why ruin other people’s meals? And the minute they squalked? Boom. I was out the door with them. And my kids didn’t run around in restaurants either.
I lived at the pediatrician’s and the grocery store. Those were major outings for my kids. And so in my trusty bag I had crayons, toys, snacks, and anything else I could think of to keep them occupied during that time.
But as I said… I am not raising saints.
Last night I asked my husband if he minded if we just went out for dinner. We occasionally get take out, but otherwise, I cook every night. For some reason, I’d been craving fish like a mad woman, fried oysters again, and I just wanted to go to this little restaurant down the street, that did not have fried oysters, but where I could get fish.
Bones came out ready to go… wearing a light jacket. Now, folks, it may be chilly up where you are in the great white north, but it’s already hotter than three hells here. The dog days of summer are upon us and I’m happiest in shorts, light t-shirts and no shoes. It’s hot.
I looked at him and said, “You can wear that, but its hot out and you’re going to look like an idiot.”
His father gave him a hard time and Bones said, “Mom said I could wear it! I don’t care if it’s hot and I look like an idiot!”
So he wore it out. Whatever.
We were standing in line and there was a elderly man in front of us, tall, thin and frail, the man not only didn’t have any body fat upon his bones, but there appeared to be a great lack of muscle mass as well. He was slightly stooped over as if osteoporosis had set in.
And… he was wearing a light jacket.
Bones tugged at my sleeve, looked at me indignantly, pointed to the man in front of us and said loud enough for the family to hear, but actually, probably not loud enough for the man to hear, although… he could have (I’m banking on hard of hearing), ‘Look at that man, Mom! He’s wearing a jacket and HE doesn’t look like an idiot!’
Gah! I gave the whole cut the hand across the throat sign.
We are evidently still working on social graces…
I can’t remember if I’ve posted about this before, but when my brother and I were kids, we used to play this ‘OH YEAH?’ game where we would try to outdo each other in hand to hand combat… verbally.
It would go something like this.
“If you don’t watch it, I’m going to break your nose so the bone of your nose goes up into your brain…”
‘Oh yeah? Well before you do that, I’ll grab your ear in such a way that I can rip it off!”
“Oh, yeah? Well before you do that, I’ll break your leg so the break goes like this (shows potential breakage points) so it never heals!”
Ahhhh… the bonuses of being the children of a military man.
Well today he and I played a more adult mature version of “Oh yeah?!”, a version that involves memory lane and… Youtube.
He sent me a Youtube that he’d found from something we watched as children, and so in turn, I sent him one… kind of an ‘up the ante’. He went and found a link to something else and on and on it went until we both emailed each other simultaneously with a video from a show called Lidsville.
A truce was called at that point. You can’t top Lidsville.
The Youtube links we sent back and forth were Lidsville, the opening to Zoom, Electric Company, scenes from Sesame Street (Morrigan sent us that one), The New Zoo Review, to name a few. My favorite is linked below… a link that will be completely lost on all those bloggers of baby age like Eric, Oddy, CaltechGirl and Sissy. Sissy… well… I’m old enough to be her Mom, but I try not to think about that. Heh.
And so the link to my FAVORITE show as a kid, I even had it in lunchbox form. A metal Bugaloo lunch box. We were obviously big fans of Sid and Marty Kroft. Sigmund and the Sea Monsters, Land of the Lost, HR Puffinstuff… the young people are saying, ‘WHA?!’, but trust me, it was GREAT stuff… They don’t make shows like that anymore.
(If Sissy calls home and says, “Mom, have you ever heard of the Bugaloos?” and her Mom says, “Oh that was my FAVORITE show when I was a little girl”… I might barf. Ugh.)
This one is for my brother, Toluca Nole (TN), who any new readers will know as the guy who leaves the crazy comments that are sometimes a bit off color. Heh.
When he was a little guy, corn silk white blonde hair, blue eyes, rosy cheeks, truly one of the cutest little guys you ever did see, short and stocky so that TGOO nicknamed him Fire Plug, he had some favorites on Sesame Street. One time one of the muppets ate some sort of egg sandwich and I think he requested those perpetually for the longest time. Believe it or not, I think it was Cookie Monster, but he’ll correct me if I was wrong.
This was all before Elmo and Snufflupagus.
This was way back with Mr. Hooper was taunted by Big Bird and Oscar ruled with Cookie Monster being the crazy guy.
But my brother’s favorite all time parts of Sesame Street were the Falling Baker. I went on Youtube and put in all sorts of stuff, finally finding the clips with ‘Sesame Street Baker’ where there are a bunch of clips all that end with the infamous Baker saying something like, “Foooooouuuuurrrrr, Roooooooot Beeeeeer Floooooooattts” as he missteps and falls down the stairs spilling said floats all over himself.
So with that… Falling Baker #8.
What a find... ;-)
On a much lighter note from yesterday's religion post and equality police I give you... my favorite skit from Sesame Street when I was a kid. Heh. Still cracks me up... I don't know why. (This Youtube is from a version of the Muppet Show, one of my all time favorite shows.)
And just so you know... I read every damn comment I get. Y'all make me laugh and think. Thank you.
And so I thought I'd never read any Kurt Vonnegut. I was wrong!
I got an email today from TGOO with a link to one of his short stories. Harrison Bergeron.
I remember I was in 7th grade and I had a book of short stories. I have no idea where it came from, but one evening, I just sat down and read every story. Harrison Bergeron was one. I read it twice.
But I never remembered the name of the story, nor the author for that matter, although the story stuck with me. For years I have wondered, "Who wrote that story about the couple sitting in front of the TV unable to remember the odd ballet they were watching as the equality police did their thing..."
It has truly haunted me through the years... the visuals of this story in my mind. And today when TGOO sent me the link... I read the very first paragraph and instantly knew, THIS IS IT!
Odd. How odd.
The other day I was leaving ‘a friend’s’ home when she said to me, “You know I’m still praying for you! Prayers are in the works… not just mine!”
I just smiled at her as I left. If it were not the fact she is the mother of my eldest’s best friend, I’d write her off.
My husband doesn’t get it. He says everyone could use some prayers. Prayer is a good thing.
I was wondering whether I’d blog on this, but it has now been over 24 hours and I’m just as frickin’ pissed as I was then… so you get it spilled out here.
See, the thing is… she’s not praying for something going on in my life. She’s not praying for my health or for something that has been weighing heavily on my mind.
She is praying for my eternal soul. I don’t believe as she does and she is praying to God that I will see the light and walk the righteous path.
And that bugs the ever living shit out of me. I hate it. HATE IT.
It bothers her I do not go to church with my husband and boys. I don’t go because I don’t believe as they do and for me to go would 1) be a waste of my time as I’d sit there wishing I was somewhere else doing something else and 2) be extremely hypocritical. I’m not a hypocrite.
Trust me, my going to the gym and running 5 miles and burning off steam from the previous week to start this week fresh, is a far better way for me to start my week then for me to sit with a bunch of people I don't know, don't care to know, and listen to someone that is going to tell me things I don't necessarily believe. That does nothing for me. NOTHING.
And so she and whoever else is praying for me… that I will see the goodness of the way they believe and suddenly want to walk their walk and talk their talk and be… like them.
They want to change me because obviously I’m not good enough. Only THEY know what is right. They have the key to my salvation. I’m obviously not smart enough to know what is good for me. I need someone to lead me down that righteous path.
I think this past weekend, she’s done herself in with me. I’m done. I’ve heard the whole, “It saddens me when I’m in church and I see your family and you’re not there…” too many times. She asked me what we did over Spring Break and I said that the beginning of it was Bones’ 1st Holy Communion and that now all three had finished and I could put their pictures on my wall. Her reply was pointing at me and mouthing, “You’re next…” and then I got the crap about how she is still praying for me.
Well she can keep praying. And next time she says it to me I’m going to flat out tell her how fricking offensive I think this entire thing is and how if she is going to keep it up, I’ll just not bother to speak to her or hang with her. Ever.
I’m really chapped over the entire thing.
And I wonder who these other people are now, these people praying for my eternal soul. Honestly, I’d rather burn in hell (not that I believe in one) than have to spend an eternity with the self righteous. I don’t think its Father. As a matter of fact, I KNOW it’s not Father. He is fine with how I believe and he is a very humble man. And I feel certain it’s not the principal. That just leaves about 100 Moms I know.
I am now eyeing them all with the utmost suspicion. I want to hang with NOBODY that doesn’t like me for me and feels this need to lead me to be THEIR righteous way.
My husband doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get why this whole thing pisses me off so much. I said to him, ‘One of the only good things about leaving the South was the fact I didn’t have to have people constantly trying to get me to repent and to follow THEIR paths of righteousness. I so hated that.”
I remember when I was with Morrigan and Sissy, our first drive to Etowah for a blog meet at Eric’s. As we were driving through the beautiful countryside I sighed and said, “I could so live here…” Not five minutes later there was a big billboard, BIG billboard, in black and it said something about Jesus and repenting or something like that.
I said to Sissy and Mo, ‘Strike that. Jesus lives here. I don’t want to live here.” Jesus to me equates to evangelizing, people screaming at me from the streets to repent, and the self righteous. Not Christianity as a whole mind you, just when you start publicly evoking the name of Jesus. I've lived it too many times.
I have no issues with Judaism, Catholicism, Protestantism, or any other organized religion as long as the people of that faith don’t try to press THEIR beliefs upon me. Once that starts, I tune out, my eyes glaze over, and I want nothing to do with them.
Very simple. Really. Try to save my eternal soul… and I will be quietly hoping you personally burn in your own private hell.
I don’t think I’ve blogged on a Dinner At Bou’s in awhile. This happened a few weeks ago and I was reminded tonight as my eldest two boys brought it up re-enacting the scene as they laughed themselves silly.
We were sitting at the table, the five of us, having pleasant conversation, which probably means Bones was just eating and mentally on his own planet with his drummer, when out of the blue Bones said to us, blurting actually, “So am I going to go to High School or am I going to get stabbed?”
At that point, all chewing ceased, all eyes were upon him doing one huge simultaneous, *BLINK!*.
Finally one of us said, escapes me now as to who it was, “What?”
And then Mr. T looked at Ringo, took his fist and pretended he was stabbing Ringo in the chest, and Ringo then gave way to a surprised look at being stabbed, closed his eyes, went slack jawed, and slunk down in his chair as if he were melting.
Tonight’s dinner was an impromptu resurrection of said scene, beginning with Ringo imitating Bones’ outburst and then Mr. T jumping into the fake stabbing scene.
Bones just sat there watching, both times actually, completely oblivious as to why it was funny, or the fact it was directed at him.
I suspect life is nice and cozy on his planet… listening to the beat of that drum.
I’ll have you know, that according to Google, I am #9 for “my left boob is bigger what does that mean?”
I found that in my stats today.
So I guess I should answer for them as they came to my site.
It means that you are absolutely fereakin’ brilliant. Absolutely.
No need to send thanks or throw flowers. Showering me with ‘muffins’ will do just fine. Thank.you.very.much.
Update: Lovely. I'm #2 for 'bra stuffing correctly'. Muffins, ladies... muffins.
And while portions of the nation are suffering through a 2nd odd freaky Easter Winter, here in the Southern part of Florida, the dog days of summer are upon us. It was 93 degrees the other day according to my little car temp thingie.
Now before you think I’m bragging and gushing, I’m not. I don’t like the heat any more than I like the bitter cold. My kids said to me today as they hopped into the car for the ride home from school, ‘Mom, would you rather live where it snowed or live here in this heat?”
I said, “What kind of snow? Define cold and snow. You mean Iceland?”
Me: Good. Because I could never do Iceland. You mean New York, New Jersey or Connecticut?
Kids: Yeah, could you live in New Jersey?
Me: No, I hate their politics and it’s too bloody cold and icky. I’d rather live somewhere that is 9 months of heat than 9 months of dreary cold.
Kids: But… it snows!!!
The problem is… my kids have never seen snow. They picture winter wonderland.
Me: Exactly. And with snow comes months of dark dreary rain where there is NO snow. Yuck. Cold, bitter wind that bites to the bones.
But I’d prefer four seasons, which is why I’m excited about one day settling in NE Alabama. Four distinct season… 3 months of each season. I.cannot.wait.
Anyway, the heat is not what is bothering me, although I did feel like the skin was burning from my face today. What bothers me is that we are in the midst of a massive drought here in south Florida.
Massive. Covering our water district’s ENTIRE territory… a first.
We are on water restrictions and have been for awhile. They say it may be one of the worst droughts we’ve had in recorded history and to make it worse, we have more people. More people = more people who need drinking water AND more people who WASTE water.
Right now we’re still allowed to water our lawns, from 4AM to 8AM, two days a week with designated days based on our address.
After the drought ends, there is talk we will be on permanent water restrictions… as we should be with this size population... thank you to the State, County, and cities for allowing the developers to run roughshod all over us, overstraining our roads, our schools and... our water supplies.
We had about two inches of rain this winter and our lake, the big blue lake you see in the middle of the state when you look at the map, is down over three feet.
There is genuine concern of salt intrusion into our wells. This could be as economically bad for us as a hurricane. Our farmers are in deep trouble.
And those not on well think it won’t affect them? They are wrong. In an article our newspaper did today, an emergency manager said we could very well even have brown outs if our power plants can’t get water for cooling.
That’s not all though. We get to add fire to the equation. We are at over 800 in the drought index. I found this very cool drought site that shows where the biggest problems are in the nation. Southern California is in BAD shape, worse shape than we are. (Click on the 12 week animation. Very very cool. You can see the problems Texas has had.) What it does not show, this drought map, is how much trouble the various water municipalities are in. We’re in deep doo doo. I don’t know about Southern Cal, but I’m going to expect it’s a similar situation as they are so densely populated as well.
We’re in a burn ban, obviously, and this past weekend a nature preserve caught fire, burning 35 acres and forcing people to evacuate their homes. I know that is nothing compared to the roaring forest fires they have out west, but… we don’t have forests. It is over built down here and we only have, outside the Everglades that the builders would LOVE to pave over, smatterings of preserves surrounded by homes. That is a slight exaggeration, but not much the closer you get to the coast.
I don’t panic during storms. Rain, wind, water… it does not scare me. Fire scares me. It is the thought of a fire during a hurricane that scares the crap out of me. Tornadoes and fires.
What we need is a good rain every day. That’s not going to happen. Rainy season starts in June, so it will only get worse before it gets better. But a few Tropical Depressions wouldn’t bother me at all.
Meanwhile, my kids have asked me if I’d call in on neighbors who didn’t adhere to water restrictions. (They’re giving us a nark line.) If it means the difference between drinking water and salt intrusion into my well, power and no power, you’re damn straight. I’m not going to lose my frickin’ drinking water because someone or some golf course or some business feels a sense of entitlement to our water sources when the rest of us are cutting back. For those neighbors I know, however, I’d make a personal call first.
I hope it doesn’t come to that. I hope everyone really is taking it seriously. Because it is… very serious.
Have you ever had a conversation and thought in the middle or at the end, “Oh. No good can come of this…”? Actually, that happens to me a lot, but tonight’s that occurred during a parent meeting… it was bad enough that I came home and said to my husband, “I have to tell you what happened because this is so going to bite me in the ass…”
Let me state up front, that I’m fine with porn. Video, hardcopy, internet, I don’t care, as long as it’s between consenting adults. We don’t have any in our home, its not what my husband particularly cares for, but neither of us have a problem with and I think folks get way to bunched up about it. I also feel strongly that it doesn’t belong in the hands of children… although we all know that as they morph into teenagers they will seek it, in particular boys.
I’ve hung out with guys WAAAAAAY too long to think otherwise. All of them talk about their first Playboy or some stash they found (like hitting some type of pre-pubescent y chromosome lottery) or hiding in forts looking at stolen pictures of Miss November surrounded by fall colors and sucking on a zucchini.
Background out of the way… on to tonight’s story.
So I was sitting with some parents going over some scheduling, a mom and dad across from me and a Dad next to me. We were making small talk until the meeting actually started. We were speaking of the end of the year party for our kids being at a local water park. The Dad next to me said, “Oh we should go on such and such a weekend as the Hawaiian Tropics bikini contest is going on…”
And I said, “Hunh. Well. There is no hiding that one. It’s not like you can say in a situation like that, “I buy it for the articles.””
He replied, “Oh I don’t buy it for the articles. I DEFINITELY buy it for the pictures. By the way, when should I start hiding them? I don’t yet and my kids have never noticed.”
The Dad across from me said, ‘I already keep them hidden’, to which his wife replied, “I think they’re not hidden enough.’
And not really putting a filter from thought to mouth I said something along the lines of, “Oh well, I wish we had them in the house…”
Leaving it… just… like… that.
Silence was at the table and the Dad across from me, the one with his wife said, “I think your husband and I need to switch wives.”
The other Dad was laughing and I said, “Wait… that’s not what I meant.” The Mom was laughing and I continued, “What I MEAN is… at least if there is hardcopy in the house I KNOW what my boys are rifling through. If they’re searching for it on the internet… I have NO CLUE!”
(My boys can’t search for it on the internet now… I’m talking about later when their wily ways will find a method.)
Of course they all laughed and said I was right (that is debatable) and that they’d not thought of that. Then again, they all have small boys and I have a 12 year old. My thoughts are in a different place than theirs.
And so as I got in my car to leave I thought, “This is so going to come back and bite me…” Good Lord.
Some of you may have been wondering about The Quilt. I do have a final picture of it, taken with this cute little new camera my husband bought me to replace the very nice digital camera I lost in the Great Camping Flood of 2007.
If you recall, each child making their First Holy Communion, created a quilt square. In turn, a couple mothers and I sewed them together, and then I quilted the entire gargantuan 80 square masterpiece.
We are not sure where this quilt will go. I have told many of the Moms, "You do NOT want this quilt". It goes to a family or institution that needs prayer. Past quilts have adorned caskets of their recipients. One of the quilts I put together is adorning a wall at the local children's cancer center. Another is hanging in a woman's and children homeless shelter.
We may never know who receives this quilt. Sometimes they are quietly given to a family in need. I don't need to know. It does not provide closure to me. Closure was in its being finished. But I do hope that whoever receives it, realizes how much love went into it. I know I grow very attached, but each little hand that touched it was as attached, if not more so, than I.
I read this morning that Kurt Vonnegut has passed. I have not ever read anything by him... but feel perhaps it is time.
A few years ago, I read the autobiography one of my favorite authors, John Irving. My tendancies for books tend to go along the lines of fiction with twisted, sometimes dark, humor thrown in. Mr. Irving's quirky characters slay me. Anyway, so he has a book out called, "Trying to Save Piggy Sneed" and in it he writes of his childhood and how he got started in writing.
You must be wondering what this has to do with Mr. Vonnegut. Oh and by the way, speaking of writers I love, my blog daughter Sissy of And What Next, sent me an email that Pat Conroy is writing a new novel. Ahh... good news.
Back to Sneed, Irving and Vonnegut. What I read in Mr. Irving's book, which I enjoyed, was that many of these writers know each other. Mr. Vonnegut, senior to Mr. Irving in age, taught him or something at some point. Details escape me as its been so long, but many of these men know each other and they sometimes write each other into each other's books as characters, taking little funny digs at each other.
I found that to be... humanizing. Fascinating. Very cool.
I am surprised I've not read anything by Vonnegut. I am a voracious reader, although not quite like TGOO. As a matter of fact, I had an event to go to earlier in the week for a dear friend of mine who was being honored as one of the Women Volunteers of the Year in Palm Beach County, and the event had an enormous silent auction. As the other women twittered around looking at handbags, jewelry, flip flops, perfume, spa days, and what not, I bid on a big basket of books. And to my great joy, I won!
And so I shall put Mr. Vonnegut on my list of authors. I do not read a lot of sci-fi, but if you read one of his books and found it to be interesting, throw it in my comments and I'll try it.
And if you have not read about the life of Kurt Vonnegut, I suggest you do so. I was fascinated that a man I had heard so much about... that I truly knew so little about the life he led. His life alone seemed like a most fascinating read...
I’m a bit behind on blog fodder. There has been plenty, but lack of time and high stress kept me from posting some of this. I’m trying to remember back to it and put it up as I have time.
And so… it goes… that my eldest son, Ringo, who is in 6th grade, and takes Spanish, had a project due. A project he knew about for weeks… but told us of the day before. It ranked right up there with last year when he said to me as he got in the car for our drive home from school, “Hey, Mom. Do you have your library card?” His book report was due in two days.
Now I was crazy busy at the time. I had the school books to balance, seating for a conference, a quilt to make for a Holy Communion, and a bunch of other crap I can’t even remember. And my son says to me, “Mom, I have a project due in Spanish. I have to make a sombrero. It’s due tomorrow, but don’t worry. Just get me some cardboard and I’ll make it…”
Of course. Famous last words. And I was content to let him make his sombrero by himself. He had the entire thing planned out in his head.
He’s 12. He must learn.
I got him cardboard and told him to ‘have at it’.
It gets rather blurry here. I know my husband came home and I was cooking dinner and on my way out to a meeting… a school board meeting. Must’ve been a Tuesday. As I was running out I remember saying, “YOUR son has a project due in Spanish. He is handling it. He may need some help cutting the cardboard. If you help him make the cut, I know he’ll appreciate it. He can do the rest.”
Or something like that. Very close. I don’t remember profanity. That’s a bonus.
And so I came home to find this ENORMOUS sombrero. Holy crap. HUGE.
It would seem my husband had no problems helping and it became a father/son project.
Mistake. Both have a bigger is better mentality and I was not home to temper it. I find that is my job in this home… frequently… as the lone female, to keep everyone grounded off the planet of ‘bigger is better’.
Oh and ‘the need for speed’. Those two planets seem to rotate around each other.
I said, “HOLY CRAP! What IS this?! It’s HUGE!”
My husband said, “Sombreros are big!”
I replied, “Not THAT big!”
My husband was quite proud of their project. My son was VERY proud of their project. He was to have a theme and he decided it was ‘airsoft’ guns, hence the pictures of the airsoft guns all along the hat and the green airsoft pellets. (I kept saying, “Know your audience! Do you REALLY think an airsoft ‘gun’ theme is good for Catholic school?” His teacher let it slide… I was expecting she’d make a point, but she did not.)
This is how gargantuan the sombrero was… ¾ of my kitchen table.
For a better idea, this is my son wearing it. There was a small cut out for his head. He looked like a frickin’ mushroom. (A couple poses just to show the vast ridiculousness of it...)
I think my son finally got the idea how out of proportion his hat was when he showed up at school, with this 3 foot in diameter cardboard sombrero that his mother had to carry into class when every other child had this small hat sitting upon their books… no mother in sight.
You gotta laugh…
And so the last fitting for one bridal attendant’s dress was this past Friday.
That would be me. And one dress. In case you’d forgotten. The great wedding of 2007 is to take place in but less than 20 days.
Although I am short, and not a big person, I am broad shouldered, and broad hipped for that matter. Waistless in West Palm Beach. I look like good breeding stock. There is nothing fragile flowery about me. Get me to talking and expressing myself and it is quite evident there is nothing delicate.
Anyway, so I had to buy a slightly larger size top than bottom as my top is big. Not busty. Just big. I’m big in the rib cage. I tell people, when you are 5’2” and you are pregnant, that baby has to go somewhere. By the 6th month, I had run out of free torso space, which pushed those babies up into my rib cage, making them ‘expand-o’.
And they don’t shrink back.
Trust me. I have wondered if I bought something really tight that I could wrap around me for 3 months, torquing it down as I got used to it, if I could push my rib cage back into place. I think the answer is ‘No.’
Where was I? Oh. So I had this larger top so it would fit around my rib cage and the seamstress told me they had to take it up in the shoulders. A woman that typically wears the size I bought is about 4 inches taller than I, so I said “fine”, paid and told them I’d be back April 8.
I put on the top on April 8 and it… ‘cupped’ on the left side. It is hard to describe, but it is as if the left side of the top ‘cupped out’. It looked funky.
The seamstress of the day at David’s Bridal was this very very sweet woman, tall, willowy, soft spoken, SWEET, did I say sweet? Yes. Very. I will call her… Meghan. And I said to Meghan, “Something is not right here. Is this how it’s supposed to look? Did they take it in too much?”
And Meghan looked at me and pulled and straightened and then looked concerned and said to me, trying to be very delicate, “Well… they took it in correctly, but it is more obvious now… well… see… not all women are exactly the same… size. Sometimes we are… just a bit… well…”
To which I said, “I have one breast bigger than the other. Yes. My left. I’m not offended.”
I heard a slight sigh of relief and she continued, “Yes, you are slightly bigger on the left side. You were aware of this?”
Aware? Are you kidding me? When I was nursing, I could feed a 3rd world country by myself and ¾ of it came from one frickin’ side. I was so huge on the left side and milk came out so fast, my babies, who had not just fallen from a turnip truck, by the end of the first week, tired of sputtering and nearly drowning in the mammary free flow, used to get wide eyed and CRY at the sight of my left breast coming towards them. Ever wonder what baby nightmares are comprised of? Not me. I KNOW. My babies were afraid of my left breast coming to get them.
And as I slowly coaxed them to take the breast, shortly there after they’d try beating me with their small little fists, preferring to starve than to have to deal with the Mammary Monster.
Yes. I am aware that my left side is bigger, although Meghan and I have realized it is by just a half cup size... when not full of milk.
Left side? C. Right side? B and a ½.
And so now I stood there staring at the ‘cupping’ of the neckline of this blouse, being caused by the ‘C’ side, something that I think is not typically noticeable, although I will admit that every time I get dressed now I look to see, “Can you tell there is a B and a ½ on one side?” So far I have convinced myself ‘no’, although while doing biceps in the gym today, I thought perhaps it is more noticeable than I had normally thought.
I'm the HunchFront of West Palm Beach. I think perhaps I should walk with a list to the left... knuckles dragging the ground on that side. Lovely. I stop at ringing bells at Cathedrals...
And I was wondering… ‘Great. What do I do now?’ I was looking thinking, “How do I squish one side smaller…” when Meghan said to me quietly, “What we need to do is make the other side… bigger… to even it out.”
OH! That makes sense. ‘Tis a lot easier to make them bigger than smaller. Hell, girls have been stuffing their bras with tissue paper since… the invention of tissue paper! Actually, it was probably invented FOR stuffing bras and then someone noticed it worked well to blow noses as well.
Meghan picked up this half circle shaped thing and said to me, “What you need is a muffin.”
Now I may be wrong, but I think she called it a muffin. I’m not exactly the girliest girl in girltown, but I’m pretty sure it was a ‘muffin’. It could’ve been a doughnut, but I do feel fairly certain it was in the bakery vocab. Brownie? Cannoli? I think it was muffin.
She proceeded to take this fabric bra stuffing, the woman’s version of tissue paper, and went to put it in my bra, looking flushed when she stopped and handed it to me to place. I said to her, “Look. I’ve had three kids. I’m not embarrassed by much. Not so much. I practically had bleachers in the delivery room with the last kid as so much went so very wrong and for about 10 years straight, I always had an audience in the restroom. I’m cool if I don’t get this right and you need to fix it.’
Another small sigh was elicited from her as she had come to realize… I really am not uptight. I just want things ‘right’.
And so the ‘muffin’ was placed and suddenly my B and a ½ matched my C and the blouse fit and all was right in the ‘bridal attendant’ world.
Good grief. Whoda thunk it? Now I just need to find a ‘muffin’ of my own…
I need an ‘Empty/Full’ magnet for my washing machine. I do so much laundry and sometimes I forget I have a load in there… until 2 days later I open it and there a load has been sitting… getting sour.
I hate it when that happens.
So I need a magnet to remind myself I’ve run a load. I seem incapable of remembering I’ve done laundry.
I know you’ve seen jokes about it, but seriously, my day can go something like this (a peek inside my mind… a scary thing)
“I need to get that laundry out of the washing machine. *walking through the kitchen* What is this spill on the floor? *gets paper towels, notices I’m out, goes to pantry to get some* Oh this pantry is a mess. Why are these bags on the floor? *picks up bags and straightens pantry. Closes pantry* Oh crap. paper towels. *gets paper towels and cleans mess* There are dishes in the sink again… *cleans dishes in sink* what am I going to cook for dinner? Oh chicken. We’ll have Chicken Divan. Do I have broccoli? *looks through fridge for ingredients and makes list* Oh I need to buy new snacks for their lunches too… *goes back into pantry to assess food for kids. Goes back to fridge and notices paper on counter* I need to file some of this paper… *
And on and on it goes. Notice I never made it back to the laundry room? The thought never again crossed my mind that I had laundry in the machine? No. And I can pass by it and be totally oblivious. Usually I remember the next morning when some kid says, “Mom! I need a PE uniform!” If something like that hasn't occurred… then I don’t remember.
I need a magnet. I’m going to have to start looking for one…
To the beach we were bound yesterday and… I am old. Older and wiser I would think…
VW and I were to meet for breakfast, but this being Spring Break and the fact I try to find something for the boys to do each day, and the beach being on my radar, I asked her if we could combine the two. Dunkin’ Doughnuts at the Beach.
Two Moms, five boys, and two boxes of doughnuts. Can’t be that with a frickin’ stick.
Our boys were slathered and three of the five kept t-shirts on… with only Ringo and Bones insisting sun screen was enough. Both Moms were slathered and wore hats and by half way through, I was covered in a towel too.
She was there by 9, my boys and I by 9:20. She and her young ‘uns left at 10:30 and my boys and I at 11:20. My boys would have stayed all day, but I was just flat uncomfortable. It was too damn hot, even under that towel I kept draped over my legs.
I am ‘affeared’ of the sun. At 41, I can’t bake like I did as a teenager and I look back aghast at what I did, as if it were the equivalent of saying, “When I was a kid, we inhaled large quantities of Benzene for fun!”, and I’m horrified at the thought of my boys baking. Skin cancer is an ugly and horrible thing.
VW and I both said there was hardly anyone at the beach. Its Spring Break here and at 9:30, we pretty much had the beach to ourselves. But as I was packing up at 11:30? The place was packing it in.
As a teenager, we always went at the peak hours. (Yes, uppermost in my prayers is I don’t get skin cancer… we also soaked ourselves in baby oil, but that’s another story.) Every 30 minutes, the local radio station, TK-101, would tell everyone on the beach to “FLIP!” and following the station’s directions, coming from our little beach radios, the beach would practically flip in unison. If you’re going to burn your bod, make sure you burn nice and even… both sides.
So I get the people coming late. I did the same damn thing and although it now makes me shudder, I understand.
But what I don’t get is the folks coming with SMALL CHILDREN in the peak hours. Baby flesh. Toddler white skin. Skin that has never been burned or damaged, out in that frickin’ HOT S. Florida sun AT NOON.
We have never taken our boys to the beach at peak hours. We’ve left at peak hours, but never arrived.
The best beach time for us is either in the morning or at dinner time and dinner is best. The sun is not so intense and it’s not so bloody hot.
It was 85 degrees yesterday and it felt like the 90s. It was really really hot… and those idiots were out there with their babies.
Anyway, we have good pictures. My husband got me a cute little digital camera to replace the very nice one I lost in the Great Camping Storm of ’07 and it takes wonderful pictures. I got some good pix of VW’s kids as well as a few of mine.
Her kids were all about getting wet and rolling in the sand, which is a riot. Oh to be at the age where you get sand in your pants and all the nooks and crannies thereabouts and not… care.
Pictures to follow... as soon as I use the software VW sent me to bring down the size of the photos.
My friend PFB sent me her Visual DNA and it was fun, so I thought I'd take a stab. This is how mine came out.
If you click on Read My DNA down at the bottom left, it shows you the written analysis. If you want to do one yourself, click on the bottom right and they ask you nothing. You just pick from a bunch of pictures and it gives you your Visual DNA. No registering or anything. Kinda cool...
My perception of what is going on around me… my reality… has gaps.
I wasn’t aware.
For instance, this is my perception of what I thought occurred from 10:00PM last night until 8AM this morning.
10:00PM: Bones comes out from his bedroom, unable to sleep, concerned we are going to bed. He is used to hearing the drone of the TV at night as he tries to go to sleep and he struggles with sleeping when the house is quiet. We assured him he had plenty of time to fall asleep. He did. Probably 10 minutes later…
11:20PM: My bedside, Bones shows up saying he can’t sleep and he’s scared and wants to sleep with us. I inform him his father is fighting a cold and that he can’t, but I would go to his bed to sleep with him for a bit. (This happens about once a quarter…not often.)
2:30AM: I awaken realizing I have slept for nearly 3 hours in his bed and my arm’s asleep. I lurch back to my bed.
7:15AM: I hear my husband finishing up getting ready for work and Bones asking if he can take a shower.
7:45AM: Bones has wet hair and is sitting on Mimi’s lap getting smoochies.
So that’s my perception from 10PM-7:45 AM
Tonight I was driving the boys home from the pool when Bones said to me, ‘Mom, last night I had this dream that I had to pee SOOOOO BAD and I peed in my bed. A LOT!”
Me: Wait. What? I slept with you last night! You peed in that bed!
Bones: No. It was in the morning. I hadn't peed in the bed yet when you were there. It was a lot of pee too. It was ALL OVER! There was pee ALL OVER!!!
Mr. T: Oh yeah, he was running around all over naked saying he needed clean undies. He had pee all over him.
Me: Wait. You were sitting on Mimi’s lap getting smoochies! And you were covered in pee?!
Bones: Nooooo. I took a shower. I asked Dad if I could take a shower. And I didn’t run all over naked covered in pee. T made that up.
So here it was 7PM and I was having gaps of time filled… time I had no idea needed filling. I’m sure as his Mimi is reading this, she’s just as relieved that he’d showered as I was when I realized he didn’t pee in his damn bed until the wee hours of the morning.
No pun intended.
Bones had his First Holy Communion yesterday at the School Parish. Father likes to have it on the Saturday of Holy Week so the kids can take Communion with the family all during Holy Week… Palm Sunday as well as Easter Sunday.
After Communion Bones said, “That wafer tasted like cardboard. I know at our church it tastes different.”
His Big Daddy (TGOO) said, “How do you know that? Have you tasted it?”
Bones: No, they look different! I carry the Eucharist up to the altar on some Sundays and it’s a different color!”
Big Daddy: Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it TASTES different.
Bones: Yes it does. Ours are peach color. At our school, they are see through. They taste different at our church.
And so today is Palm Sunday and the first day Bones could take Communion at the church he attends every Sunday. I know he is awaiting the day he receives ‘the pizza piece’. We knew today would NOT be the day. But his Big Daddy was really waiting for Bones to get home so we could hear if there was in fact a difference in the taste of the Eucharist… from church to church.
Bones came in and immediately Big Daddy said to him, “So Bones, tell me, was there a difference? What did the wafer taste like today?”
Bones said, “It tasted like cardboard. I thought for sure it would taste different. Today’s were even see through like at Holy Communion.”
He sat on my lap, and said, “Next time, I’m going to take salt and put salt on it before I eat it.”
Now keep in mind that Catholics believe in transubstantiation. The Eucharist is not just symbolic. The substance of the wine and bread change into the blood and body of Christ. My family is not Catholic, but we know what the kids are taught.
Immediately I said, “You don’t salt Christ’s body…”
And my Mom quickly added, “The human body has enough salt in it.”
I couldn’t quit laughing. Let’s just salt the body of Christ before we eat it. I could just picture him pulling a little salt shaker out of his pocket.
Oh yeah. That would go over REAL big. Oh yes.
I had to take my dog back on Friday. I was sad. He was sad. Nobody else was real sad…
His breeder lives in Clearwater, Florida. I’d never been to Clearwater, but had heard its virtues spoken of many many times. From traveling there, I would say it appears to be true Florida ‘on the water’ living. That’s not for me.
From Tampa, Clearwater is not attached to the State. You go over a causeway to get there. It’s on those little finger thingies off of Florida that you see when you look at a map… on the Gulf. So it takes FOREVER to get to Clearwater, from Tampa,… or so it seemed. Do you know what I thought as I made my way to BFE?
If those folks get hit by a good Cat 4 or 5… they are frickin’ HIS-TOR-Y. Holy crap. The place is LOOOOOOW. Very low. Water everywhere. As I was crossing the causeway I kept picturing the water rising in the bay. The causeway taking a beating. Meanwhile on the Gulf side it would be rising as well. Good God. A Cat 3 will do some SERIOUS damage, but a 4 or 5… those who don’t evac are goners.
And it’s densely populated.
I came home saying to my husband, “You’d not pay me to live there. Come hurricane season, I don’t even want to frickin’ visit.” It gave me the willies.
Anyway, that’s not the big part of this post. This post is about something that happened real time that scared the ever living crap out of me.
I was tooling down I-60 East on my way home, just doing my thing, 55 mph, deep in thought, when I noticed a big black car pull up next to me, going the same speed as I. Whoever was driving decided they needed my attention. I looked over and there was this BIG guy, white guy, hair cut so close it was nearly shorn, yelling at me! He was pointing and yelling!
It scared the ever livin’ stew out of me. I immediately slowed down so he could pass thinking, “What did I do? Did I cut someone off? Did I miss something while driving?” I could not figure it out.
I stayed way way behind him. Frickin’ psycho. We got to a stop light and I stayed three cars behind him. I made sure I was in the same lane so I’d not end up next to him.
But the next light… he had pulled in behind me. He was right behind me and when the car stopped… he got out of his car.
I was suddenly terrified. I checked to see if my doors were locked. My windows were up. Out of my rear view mirror I could see him walking to my car… he was frickin’ HUGE and wore a black tight t-shirt.
I could feel myself starting to hyperventilate.
And then… he stopped. He stopped at my gas tank. I watched him… wondering what in the hell he was doing… and he put my gas cap back on and closed my gas tank, smiled, waved at me, and got back in his car.
Evidently when I got gas, I forgot to close my gas tank. He’d been following me to close it up… a Good Samaritan if you will.
And… from his t-shirt, that read “STAFF” on the back, I could tell he worked at a gym. He was big and in very good shape… and was just concerned.
Holy crap. I nearly stroked.
There were many negatives in taking the dog back on Friday. The drive was one. Getting lost in Tampa was another. The dog wretching in the back of the car was a real high point. Having to say good bye was not so cool.
But a seriously real positive was I got to have lunch with my blog bro T1G. He took time from work to meet me on the road, on my travels back to West Palm Beach. It was so good to see him again.
There are some people that you just slide right into comfort. That’s T1G.
He and my Mom have a running joke right now about music for the upcoming wedding and my Mom called my cell just as I was walking up to meet him. It’s that whole mother /daughter ESP thing, we have goin’ on. She said, “Are you meeting Joe?” I replied as I looked up to him, ‘I’m just walking up, Mom.” She said in turn, “You tell Joe that we’re not playing any of that crap music at the wedding!” Heh.
And his hair is so long! It took me a minute to figure out what was different, as I’m a bit slow on the take. I’m telling you, a couple more inches and the boy can wear a pony tail!
We ate at Hooters which was awesome. I’d not eaten there in about 16 years. I love their chicken wings. And he was happy because he liked his lunch and he was ‘forced’ to enjoy the scenery comprised of scantily clad women in tiny orange shorts and tight white t-shirts.
I know. It was tough for him. Heh.
We were at the vet last week getting established in case we ever needed one (and now we no longer have a dog… ) and there was a woman checking out that had two of the UGLIEST dogs I have EVER seen in my life.
One was brown and the other black and they had short short hair like a Doberman. They were not big dogs, small dogs with LONG legs, which make them look awkward.
They had small heads and slightly bent ears.
They looked like bats with long legs.
Anyone want to guess what they were? I have no clue, but we’re all really curious.