Bones is 5'2", maybe, and he has HUGE hands and wears a 10 1/2 shoe. For those not in the know, those are big dang feet for a kid that height.
We all joke about it to some degree. His Godmother comes with me to all his performances and she always says something like, "When he sings, I can't get past his hands. They're just SO BIG!"
He got in the car the other day after school and said to me, 'Mom, what is the deal with my hands and feet?'
I glanced over at him, returning my focus on the road and said, 'You'll grow into them. Hands and feet always grow first, like puppies and paws.'
He looked out the window and then started to grin. He said, "There is this 7th grader that thinks it's a riot. Whenever he sees me in the hall, he walks with his feet out wide and his hands way out, like they're so big. It's really funny..."
Today I said to him, "So, is that kid still walking funny with his hands out when he sees you?" to which Bones replied with a smile, "Oh yeah, but now he calls me, Mr. Clown".
Why do girls keep writing all over my sons? What the heck is up with that?
For the last few days, Bones has gotten in my car covered in marker... his hands and his arms.
He got in the car today, I took a deep breath and said, "You are thin. You are white. But I don't see any blue lines. Why are they mistaking you for a piece of paper?"
He said nothing.
I continued, "What is with these girls writing all over you? Every day, hearts, flowers, "I was here", X marks the spot... What gives?"
And then I said under my breath, "They probably all look alike too..." since I have this thing that all teenage girls look alike.
He got all huffy and said, 'NO! They don't. Mikaela is a tiny Asian girl. Kirsten is a medium sized white girl. And Kaley is tall, thin, and black...'
"Well, there you go then. You have United Nations writing all over you..."
Last year, T had some girl that used to write on the back of his neck. In GREEN. He'd come home and there would be a green dot or a green flower at his hairline.
It made me NUTS.
As we got out of the car I said to Bones, "Tell them your Mom said you aren't paper..."
He replied, "Right."
Bones came home from school and told me the following story. Remember, he goes to a public school for artistically inclined children, he being a vocalist.
Evidently a young man in the 6th grade chorus had gotten himself in a bit of trouble. The vocal director, finally sick of this young man's antics, told the student, 'I'm done. I want you to sit down and write a note to your Mom and Dad, tell them what you've done, then have them sign it and bring it back to me tomorrow."
And that is what the student did.
The next morning, the young man brought the note to class, handed it to the vocal director and sat down.
The vocal director looked at it and said, "Wait. What is this? I can't read this..." to which the young man replied, "It's in Polish. I had to write in Polish... My Dad doesn't read English."
The stunned vocal director gathered himself up and said, "Come on. We're going to call your Dad..."
Now as Bones was telling me this story, laughing hysterically (he wasn't in the class, but the other vocal director told some of the older kids this story because she thought it was a riot), my first thought was... Polish?
Folks, I live in S. Florida, West Palm Beach to be more exact. When I think of languages spoken in the area, Polish isn't anywhere on the list.
Spanish (close 2nd to English)
Creole (we have Haitians and Islanders)
Portuguese (we have Brazillians)
French (distant 5th, as we have Canadians)
Romanian/Russian (there is a heavy Romanian/Russian population on the West Coast)
Not seeing Polish on this list. I'd add German before Polish.
So that was the first thing that came to mind. I've never met a Polish immigrant in S. FL.
But what followed is what made me *blink*.
Bones continued, "You know Mom, Mr. K had to follow up and make sure that letter was real..."
Me: Well, of course it was real...
Bones: Not if it had been me. If I'd written that letter it would have said, "Mom, this is a letter telling you that Mr. K thinks I'm one of the best students he's ever had and that I am a real joy to have in his class. He wanted me to write this so you knew what a great kid I am..."
Me: No. You'd not...
Bones: Oh sure. Anything to make me look good...
So much for all the seven years of Catholic schooling.
It tastes like dry meatloaf and cloves.
It is an odd feeling to walk through an Irish restaurant, full of patrons, behind my father who is dressed in full on Scottish McInnis formal attire, complete with kilt, sgian dubh, and sporran, as patrons stopped their dinner to watch.
The Burns Night Supper was last night. There was piping, poetry reading, toasts and single malt scotch.
Haggis was interesting. I'd do it again... but once a year is enough. The taste of cloves is not my first choice in a main meal. That's a dessert taste.
A good time was had by all...
Today is T's 16th Birthday. I'm not sure why it's made me sad. Ringo's 16th didn't make me sad.
And I've had to really process through this... there are no favorites in this home. I love them all equally... each brings something different to my heart.
But of the three, T has been the one who has been the easiest. We've had our issues. Don't get me wrong. The speech issues were very troublesome, but overall, he's my easy kid from the 3 hour labor through middle school and into the teens.
He never gives me grief. He's the rule follower, the one who studies. He does his work and doesn't really complain. He gets up early to study. On Thursdays, without anyone asking, he gets up and takes the garbage out to the front.
Rarely do we have to ask him to clean his room. I've never had to harp on him to bathe or brush his teeth. If anything, he'll be after me to get him a haircut... I never have to remind him.
I never have to ask him to shave for school, remind him to tuck in his shirt, or wear a belt.
I can't imagine him giving me the levels of hell my eldest can give me. He doesn't stress me like my youngest.
And I think I realized today... that 16 is bugging me because I'm going to struggle when he leaves home. He is of the calm when there are storms in this home.
He's the one I worry for as well. He hates change, he doesn't like to make new friends.
He did not transition well to high school. It took a good 7 months for him to find his feet and find a couple good friends. In reality... he has one.
Don't get me wrong. Everyone loves T. T hangs with everyone. But there is one only kid he considers a friend.
That's what I worry about in college. I worry about his going away and struggling to find his way, find a comfort zone.
Life is about change. And I guess 16 makes me sad, because 18 is around the corner, he is such a good kid, and for 18, there will be a lot of change and he'll have to do it on his own... I'll be far away. And I dread that time.
That's what's been on my mind.
My football freak is 16.
He was up early this morning as he plays the trombone at the local Presbyterian Church for volunteer service hours. He was at their summer music camp this past summer and is hoping to be a volunteer for them this summer, working with younger trombone players.
It's funny to me how he was determined to play the trombone in 4th grade and here we are now... 10th grade... and he loves it just as much, if not more.
He will probably make Eagle Scout in the next year. He's applying to the Annapolis STEM program for this summer (fingers crossed). He feels certain he wants to be an engineer, although I truly think he'd love stats, given his freakish football stats nature. (Do you know in the BCS bowl, he predicted someone's yardage to nearly 10 yards? I know that's not stats, more hunch, but how crazy is that?)
He told me this year that the smart girls in his grade were mean, and the pretty girls were mostly not the brightest. (The one girl he thinks has it all going on is not someone he would ever dare ask out. She's the ring made of unobtainium.) I told him he could date the pretty girls that weren't so smart... he didn't have to marry them. He's resigned himself not to date. Maybe that's better... less drama. He says he's noticed how much drama seems to swirl around the girls and he finds it annoying.
It's always kind of funny to hear his take...
He is the one who will struggle most when Ringo leaves. They are tight.
And to my second son, Mr. T, on his 16th birthday I say, "Happy Birthday my 2nd son. Should all the children be so blessed to be as loved as you are… for if they were, I suspect the problems of this world would be so very different… We love you so..."
Let's think of all the reasons a kid would be nervous going to high school, shall we?
- Being a freshman
- Not knowing anyone
- Intimidation over curriculum
- Not wanting to look like a jerk on campus not knowing how to get around
- Worried about procedures
- Worried of not fitting in
- Worried about not wearing the right clothes
- Grades count
- Being small since all the Seniors are close to real height
Did I miss anything? Think back to when you were going to be a freshman. Did anything make you nervous, if so, did I miss it? Think about it before I tell you what Bones' worst fear is.
Here we go.
He is scared because kids are... having sex.
He told me this and I said, "Dude, teenagers are having sex at ALL the high schools..."
This did not help. I got, "They are? Are you kidding? Why? Why are they not waiting until they get married?! I don't get it..."
And on and on he went in this little freaked out voice and finally I said, "Listen to me, they are NOT having sex during class. It's after school. Not in front of you in English..."
To which he replied, "Yeah, well, their practice rooms were all dirty and I asked one of the high school students helping out and he said it was because people have sex in there."
I took a deep breath and said, "Fine. If you are freaked about using the practice rooms, I'll get you a roll of lysol wipes. You can wipe it down before you practice..."
He rolled his eyes.
This is freaking him out on a big deep scale... this kids having sex.
He keeps asking me little things like, 'What do you think this high school is known for?"
I told him they were known for kids being different and that it was OK. That you could be gay, have blue hair, be emo, or be normal, nobody cared.
It's a frickin' ART SCHOOL. Give me a dang break. I assured him that there were drugs, alcohol and sex at EVERY high school and the bonus was at THIS particular public high school, there were no gangs, guns, and knives.
Good grief. I am so hoping that in four years, as he's getting ready to graduate, that I can say, "Do you remember when you were so freaked out because kids were having sex?"
So this high school, if he gets in, here are some vids of the vocal department. Boys first: (Tempo change at 1:22, great solo at 3:45)
And the full on Chorus: (Solo...:59)
And on a little side note... while I was searching for a video, I found this odd wedding video... a flash Mob of Les Miz. A group of the people AT the reception, all very talented amazing singers, surprised the bride and groom.
You have to see it... how amazing is this "One Day More":
Is the sound it made as he hit it OUT of the ballpark.
He said he felt great. And unlike when he says that about a Math test, I believe him. He knows when he does well on a vocal test. He knows when he sings well. He knows when he can sight read a piece. He knows when he can pick out a single note from a chord.
Those things he knows.
Is it possible he still could NOT get in? Yes. But not because he didn't nail the audition or give it his best.
There are 20-25 spots. Over two hundred kids audition. They take the boys first... see who passes and who does not and from the boys that pass, the top one or two are separated out and given a slot and the rest are put in a lottery. They need five to seven boys and 15 tried out. There may be more that audition later, but for sure, we had 15.
We think all the boys auditioned today. It took three hours... Bones was number 12 and at 15 minutes a piece... we were there a long time.
So if everyone passes... he has between a 33% chance and a nearly 50% chance. The other slots are filled by the 185 girls that will audition... same thing, the top girl or two are pulled and reserved and the rest that pass their audition go into a random lottery.
So... yes, he nailed it... but if he is not the top boy, he is now in a lottery pool.
His buddy, Colton, of the story below about the vinyl, we were blown away when we saw him.
He was wearing a dark black shirt with white polka dots the size of half dollars and a black bow tie with black dress pants.
Bones can't wait to ask him tomorrow if anyone said anything about his shirt. It was CRAZY.
So I'm at peace. He is too. We have to wait until April to find out.
I just wanted him to nail his audition... the rest is out of our control, but preparation was within our realm.
Now it's the number game... fingers crossed.
Have any of you read the John Wells series by Aaron Berenson? I'm reading the Midnight House and I like it. I have to always wait for the next Mitch Rapp or Scot Horvath book to come out... and I stumbled on this character John Wells.
I was thinking of going back to the beginning of the series and starting with book 1. Yes? No? Opinions?
Bones audition is tomorrow at 5PM. I'm a mess. He's a headcase. I'm trying not to be a mess around him. I'm trying to be the picture of calm.
No reason there should be two headcases in the house... but I'm a disaster inside.
His last lesson was tonight. Last week he said to me, "Mom, I've been practicing since MAY. I'm done. Let's get this over..."
But today he was not so confident. I kept him from his Chorus practice tonight, worried he'll get sick before hand. He's such a case he said to me, "Maybe I should get a flu shot..."
And I replied, "Last week. No flu shot the day before, my friend. Take a deep breath."
But I'm taking no chances. He's not riding the bus tomorrow. I'm taking him in so he's almost late and can't hang out with anyone. He's going to his Science class and one choral class and then I'm getting him before lunch.
He said to me today, 'I know you have a back up plan. You always have a Plan B"
I just didn't have the heart to tell him that I frickin' HATE Plan B and I'm praying, praying, praying... we don't have to inact it.
Please, Dear God, let him get in.
I'll post his song later in the week... three months ago and now. You can see the improvements.
Meanwhile, one of his buddies is a funny guy. I'll call him Colton.
Colton goes through these obsessive phases. He dresses very mod surfer cool. He has wire rim glasses like the 60s, crazy blond hair that is like something you'd see on an artist. He dresses in surfer shorts and oversized button down shirts, usually capped off with a bow tie... that HE made.
And it sounds like a mess, but the kid has style. He is in 8th grade and that kid has some serious style.
He went through a phase last year where he was making bow ties out of everything. He learned how to sew and he started making them. He wore a different one every day.
Then he went through a guitar phase. He carried his guitar everywhere, just strumming. (This is an art school... so this stuff is considered very normal.) Bones said he could walk out of class and hear guitar and know that Colton must be in the courtyard playing his guitar. He carried it from class to class.
Like I said... it's an Art School.
Maybe the guitar got too heavy, because soon he was onto the harmonica. Bones said he could be seen dancing a jig in the hallways, playing his harmonica, all the way to class.
Like I said... it's an Art School.
And the kid is a cool cat. The kid has style.
Evidently the latest phase is... vinyl. This was my conversation with Bones, who makes the conversations so dang funny with the expressions.
Bones: Colton has a new thing. He's really into... records.
Me: Records? Really?
Bones, shaking his head: I know. I don't get it. Mom, he's a friend. So I try to act like I get it. He gets all excited. Do you know what he said today? "My buddy and I trading. I'm hoping to get Lennon's Imagine"
Bones, big eyed, I mean bug eyed: Yeah. Imagine. And I've never heard of this guy, but he's my friend, so I'm all, "Oh that's GREAT Colton!" and I have no clue what he's talking about... some guy named John Lennon and now he's all excited because he's getting Sgt. Pepper tomorrow too. Mom. Sgt Pepper. No clue who this is... this is all 60s stuff, isn't it?
Bwhahahaha. John Lennon. "And I've never heard of this guy..."
A few years ago when I was training for my marathon, I walked in and my sports doc said, "You have the heart of an endurance athlete..." To which I replied, "But not the physical structure to go with it..." and he shook his head and said, "No... No."
Heart and attitude can get you through anything. It is the aftermath, when the physical breaks down, that you pay for it.
I made it through two half marathons, a whole, and all the horrible training that went with it.
- Up at 3:30 to start running by 4:30.
- Running for miles in places that were set up without bathrooms
- Physical therapy to get me through the races
- Nearly blacking out during the Physical therapy as it hurt so bad
- Feeling myself want to vomit as I walked into the Physical therapy place, knowing what was going to happen
- Still training... even though I knew what I was doing to myself.
Three years of Karate 10 years ago, training 4 hours a week, plus running, swimming, cycling, and lifting on the side. I hated the hand to hand combat since it was just me and a bunch of men and I could never win. But I stuck with it and that was the beginning of what I am now fighting with my left calf, ankle and foot.
Signing up for a marathon was when the real struggle started. And my trainers kept telling me, "You need to stop. You need to bust down to the half. Don't do the full..." and I said, "No. I signed up for the full. I WILL complete the full..."
And I did. As all of you know, because you supported me through the entire thing.
And then I got the call to ask to Mentor for the Half and I thought I was healed and besides, "running 13.1 miles is NOTHING compared to 26.2. Besides, my body didn't really start to break down until Mile 15..."
I am perhaps, the Queen of Rationalization. And of course, we have my boundary issues. I have to win. I have to complete. I have to have closure. Winning isn't always against someone else, but against my own expectations.
Said the doc during my marathon training, "You can't run for the next week. You need a week off."
Replied I, "So can I swim?"
And he said yes, and I swam two miles every other day, full on swimming, until I came back into his office more hobbled and in horror he asked, "What in the world did you do? You have achilles tendonitis now ON TOP OF your post tibial tendonitis...."
And when he found out, he was pissed and said, "NO. YOU can do NOTHING. Everyone else I can tell to walk or swim. But NOT YOU. YOU... are to do NOTHING NOW."
In my defense. I think he should have known. He's an Ironman Triathlete. He knows the mentality.
Just add in the fact I'm an endorphin junky. But aren't all of us that train?
So. All of this... for what?
I'm hobbled again. For two years, I have pretty much done nothing. I quit working out, no walking, no nothing. I gained about 15 pounds. And this Christmas, I found this great little gym where I have an electronic key card where I can come and go as I please, 24/7, and decided, "I can't not exercise anymore."
I have been doing light walking, trying to ease in, and cycling combined with beginning weight training... low weight high reps. Immediately the tendon flared up again.
I'm quickly approaching 50 (I'm 47). My body doesn't recover like it did in it's 30s. I'm aware of that and I've been really taking it easy. It's hard for my personality, but I have.
I went to a podiatrist and she's got me getting new orthotics, I'm banned from lower body weight lifting, running, elliptical, stair master and treadmill. I can cycle only. I can do upper body weight. I'm wrapped, iced, taped and compliant.
I have to be compliant. If not, there is surgery in the future and I'm not going that route. My husband wants me back with the sports doc I saw with my marathon, but he is 30 minutes away.
And my husband doesn't get it. I know on some level I must have some masochistic tendancies. I must or I'd not have pushed through it all and done more and never flinched at the thought.
But everyone has their limit and the thought of willingly putting myself in a position where I black out from pain... that's my limit. I'm saving that for when my new doc says, "Surgery is the option..." and I say, "no thank you" and walk.
If I was a horse, they'd shoot me. I'd be at the glue factory already.
Today Writersblock is doing her marathon. This must be my 4 year anniversary... It is this marathon I did back then. The Disney... in this wicked sticky weather.
I remember all of it... the best banana, the wanting to vomit after eating chocolate, running an 8 minute mile through Disney and feeling good, the gospel choir in full church robes, the high school bands, the cheering, my family coming out to support me, the txt messages I received that kept me moving, the ice cold coke my friend bought me, my body breaking down, my left hand swelling to twice it's size, feeling my shoes get too small, the ache, taking my left shoe off and seeing that there were bruises where the tongue hit my foot, along the stitching, not being able to walk to dinner with my family, the shuffling.
Walking into my sports doc's office the next day and hearing him say, "I have this overwhelming urge to strip you down and put you in a big ice bath..." and thinking, "I might be game..."
T asked me once if I'd do it again, knowing what I know now. I was hesitant.
But the answer is... Yes. Yes I would. But I'll never do another. And my running days are over.
My goal now is just to be fit. Keep my heart in good condition. Keep my weight down.
I'm not sure that's a bad thing.
It's better than being at the glue factory.
T called that game last night... off by only four points. He thought it would be 42-10.
The kid missed it by a field goal vs. a touchdown.
Two weeks ago when he told me this score I said, "That's pretty big, son. Where did you come up with numbers like that?" and he went into this big analysis of pound per pound of linemen against linemen, who rushed how much, how they did in past games, what their schedules looked like.
It was nuts. And he was off by four points.
But when it's the Gators, he goes into this statistical fog. Too much emotion.
I didn't watch the game last night. I'm over football. I'll talk about it, but I can't sit and watch it. I have too much in my head I have to work through.
So I walked into work today and said to my boss, "Did you watch the game?" and he said, "You know it's a boring game when the sports commentators start talking about the QB's girlfriend."
I had not heard about that at all. What a riot!
So a gaggle of girls showed up at my door step last night; they all seemed like good kids.
I found out who the mystery girl was who hugged me. I'd gone to bed by the time they left (my husband took the shift to stay up... we don't do mixed company here without an adult, no matter how nice everyone seems), and so the huggy girl sent my son a text this morning and told him to thank me for cooking them dinner and how she had a wonderful time.
Hey, the modern form may be txt'ing, but I'm cool. I like that she took the time this morning to pass the word through Ringo.
For this story, for the my Dad, so he'll laugh, I'll refer to one of the girls as Jane of the Murdering Campbells.
You see, not only is my parents' household one of the only households in America where you awaken to an answering machine message being left, wondering about the ordering of the haggis, it is still probably one of the only American households who refer to anyone whose last name is Campbell as 'of the Murdering Campbells'.
So much can be done with that. Glenn of the Murdering Campbells. Murdering Campbells Soup. Those little round faced tots that used to adorn the can could very well be thought to eventually turn into Murdering Campbells.
(For those not in the know, this would be referencing the Massacre of Glencoe. I made mention of this to Eric's wife once, the reference of my father to the Murdering Campbells and she was much in agreement. A Scotsman's memory is long...)
So I'm on my laptop paying bills and whatnot when I hear from the family room, a girl's shrill voice proclaiming her undying love and admiration for Justin Bieber.
I'm completely thrown. I had heard that girls were in love with him, but I guess in my head I thought, "No friend of my sons' have that little common sense..." or perhaps it was along the lines of "Ringo's friends are 18. That's a teeny bop thing...Middle school".
My eyes bugged, I had a direct line to the family room where I could see my son and he could see me, but I was hidden from his friends.
My head swung around and I looked at him in shock. I mouthed, 'REALLY?' and he quietly nodded his head.
This morning we had the following conversation. He had saved all his Christmas money and had a new exhaust system put on his car. He ordered it on-line and then had it installed yesterday.
Me: Ringo, really? Jane of the Murdering Campbells is REALLY in love with Justin Beiber?
Ringo: Mom, she's not the only one. They both are... (referring to the girl that was sitting next to her)
Me: Blows me away. I... had no idea.
Ringo: It's beyond that Mom. For Christmas... they bought tickets to his concert. They paid MORE for those tickets than I paid for my exhaust system. And guess what? My exhaust system will last the life of that car. Their tickets? Two hours. I don't get it...
Mars vs. Venus. Cars vs... Justin Beiber.
I'm siding with Mars.
Ringo had a some friends over tonight. I made a tray of baked ziti, a salad, and baked brownies.
I just didn't think it was necessary to ask the SEX of the people coming over.
I cooked for a bunch of boys with a girl or two.
It was a bunch of girls.
Which is fine. They're all laughing and watching football. T and Bones are with them as well, so there is a crazy laughter in the house that is fun.
But girls... are so different.
For instance, this young lady walked in my home, gave my husband a big hug and then came over to where I was and gave me a big hug, before she went into the family room.
My husband and I were at the dining room table on our respective laptops doing work.
After she was out of ear shot, I looked up from my laptop and whispered, "Who was that?"
And he replied, "I have no clue. I thought you knew her..."
All the girls look alike to me, other than the color hair.
I said to Ringo at some point, knowing there would be a couple girls, "So, which girl is coming?"
Ringo: Megan is coming.
Me: She has the black hair, right?
Ringo: No. Blonde.
They all look the same. They wear the clothes from the same stores, they all have the same shape, and they all wear their hair exactly the same way... straight.
The ONLY thing that helps is that some of them have different color hair.
Otherwise, it's just walking estrogen coming into my home. They all look alike.
This happened at work today.
Whenever we have a new group of engineers come in, my boss and I say, "Kindergarten is in session..." We swear these kids don't shave.
Today I was in the breakroom, washing my lunch dish. At the microwave was one of the new young engineers, who I don't know. His lunch smelled fantastic and I said to him, 'Hey. That smells GREAT. You win the 'best smelling lunch of the day" award'.
To which he replied, "Thanks! I'll tell my Mom!"
It was all I could do to contain my laughter as I left the breakroom. Every guy in my room knows this story. I could not keep something like that... to myself.
My bedroom at my parents' home is off the kitchen. That means I can hear people leaving messages on the answering machine from the bedroom.
I wonder how many American homes the following happens in:
It was 8AM, I was laying in bed staring at the ceiling, contemplating my day, my husband had left an hour earlier to go golfing.
The phone rang, the answering machine clicked on and I heard a male voice leaving a message for my Dad.
"Good morning, TGOO, this is Joe Schmoe. I'm calling you to talk to you about the Burns Supper. I need to order the Haggis."
Only in my parents' home.
Cracked me up.
For years, there were certain objects that were hidden within the family. I'm sure most families have these oddities.
There are three things that get hidden, that you might find in your luggage after returning home from a trip to my parents' or that you might find in your home after my parents or a siblings have left.
There are no real rules for hiding these three things, except you can't hurt or endanger them. It's an unspoken rule... we'd never do something like that. You can find a hiding place that can take seasons or years to find.
For instance, one of these items can be hidden in the pocket of a wool overcoat, not to be found until that coat is worn again.
Then again, it can be as simple as unpacking your luggage only to find one of the three objects stuffed in your clothing.
1) The Pitted Dates. My folks will correct me, but in the late 70s we were stationed overseas. The military contracted out a moving company who packed my parents' home in Jacksonville and moved all our stuff via slow boat to China (literally).
We obviously arrived much earlier than our stuff. When the boxes were unpacked, there was a box of Pitted Dates... that had made the long trek from Jacksonville to Taiwan.
And the box got shipped back less than two years later, from Taiwan to Pensacola, FL.
Since then, they have become one of these items you might find in your home... passed from person to person.
2) The Corn Pone. In the very early 80s, probably 1980, TGOO made a batch of corn pones. Nobody liked them.
The one remaining pone, probably just not thrown away, he hid immediately. It's first hiding place was in place of the bar of soap in the shower.
The only problem was, it was wet and started to mold, so TGOO encased it in plastic. It's been hidden amongst us ever since.
3) And last, but not least is... The Indian. As children, we would go to my paternal grandparents' home and play with all the old toys in the old toy trunk. There were legos of the orginal kind, old Playskool people, and odds and ends.
But always inside was the one toy none of us wanted to play with.
I'm not sure who in the hell thought this would be a great toy, a toy that was evidently my Dad's. The Indian looked more like a corpse in a blanket. It truly, verily I say, scared the ever living hell out of us every time we opened the trunk.
None of us, nor our cousins, EVER played with The Indian.
When Mo left my parents' home after Christmas, there were little odds and ends of things they'd accidentally left behind. The realization had occurred earlier in the day that my bro... still had The Indian.
One of the items she forgot, was something she was given at Christmas as a gift from my Mom's sister. Somewhere, somehow, my Aunt had found this ghastly tree topper that used to be my grandmother's.
A silver shell to act as a backdrop, the tree topper is a plastic angel sitting on a plastic cloud. The cloud lights up with the light reflected off the silver shell, I'm sure to make it look heavenly with the angel sitting in the light.
Except my brother dubbed it 'the Farting angel' when we were kids and the name has stuck.
Mo accidentally forgot her new treasure at my Mom and Dad's home, so I took it upon myself, to carefully package it up with... The Indian... and send it to her home in Atlanta.
In the box as well was a can of Coconut Milk. T cannot eat coconut. It makes him throw up. So as a joke, for Christmas, Bones wanted to get T a can of coconut water, except I misunderstood and bought him coconut milk.
It was not going to do... so we got the correct stuff, and I stashed the other in my parents' pantry. Upon looking for recipes to use this sweet milk in, I found really, it's only good for Thai food, which I never make.
So I put it in the box for Mo.
Let us recap, shall we?
In Mo's box was... small items they forgot, a can of coconut milk, the farting angel, and... The Indian.
She immediately emailed us all the following, Subject Line: DAMN IT!!!
I got the Indian!!!! It was staring up at me, just like it used to in the toy box!!! And wait, how did I get the coconut milk!!!! That’s T’s!
And to get the full effect, here is... The Indian. Perhaps one day there will be a picture of the Farting Angel. Mo has already said that she'll put it on a tree in her home.
You know... Tradition and all that stuff.
We're all about Tradition.
Dinner conversation tonight.
T: UF is going to CRUSH Louisville.
Bones: I think it will be 31-10.
T: I chose 35-10.
Bones: He wanted my score, but he won't choose what I choose.
T: Right. So Mom, pick a score.
I closed my eyes, put my hands out in a meditation pose, thumb to fingertip, closed my eyes, "OOOOOOOHHHHHHMMMMM"... opened them, looked up to the sky as if praying and said, "17-10".
And I picked up my fork and commenced eating.
T: Are you nuts?
I looked quizzically at him, dropped my fork, went back into my meditation pose, "OOOOHHHHMMMM", opened them again, shook my head and said, "Nope! 17-10".
Me: Look, you have rose colored glasses as to what this season was about. You don't remember all the screaming and yelling and craziness and they nearly disappointed you... consistently. I lived that 10th level of hell. I stand by my score.
Louisville is currently kicking UF's ass and I am in the dining room doing some work on my laptop. I yelled into the family room, "YOU KNOW? I THINK I GOT SOME LINES CROSSED WHEN MEDITATING ABOUT THIS GAME. I THINK IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE 17-10 LOUISVILLE..."
I was met by silence in the other room. Heh. They are currently praying it is ONLY 17-10 Louisville and not 40-10.
I heard my husband lean over and say to my eldest, "Even if you get into UF, I think you need to go to FSU". *big grin*