You know, we're aging. I get that.

The drummer looks like they just rolled him out of his cardboard box, decided his shirt was too dirty to salvage, and had him take it off.

He looks like a suspect on CSI (vegas or ny, Miami is never anything but neon colored and/or freshly waxed skin glistening with a slight sheen of sweat).

I've written before about how badly tattoos age when they become covered with old man fur. I really think a cut up tee shirt was in order. Grandpa's nipple rings are flapping and he needs to pull his pants up. I realize that he is in a rock and roll band and cannot dress his age, but maybe they could give him the Dynasty treatment--not the beaded shoulder pads, more like the Linda Evans/Joan Collins soft filter.

Wrestling may be the end of my sanity.

It's possible that Big O got the haircut from hell from his wrestling coach at the tournament on the Weds before thanksgiving. We're looking into a Jack sponsorship deal.

It's also possible that I advised my son that his stepfather would have kittens if Big O knocked a tooth loose because he was not wearing the mouth guard I got for him (after his father was going to cover "all" the costs and we bought it all). It's further possible that I then clarified that while kittens sound cute, it would in fact be full grown hellcats emerging from the Honey's ass to consume us all. Which got the adorable grin I was looking for while still getting my point across that my boy had better WEAR his damned safety gear.

If he loses a tooth on top of the *cough* modified bowl haircut, he's not going to get to talk to a girl until college.

How do you choose which hurts you hold onto?

I find that I am drawn to two kinds of people in my life...Brainy smarts and wild flamboyance. The brainy smarts, well, I loves me a big brain. The sparks that fly from big brains are what make life worthwhile for me. But my own big brain gets me into trouble and I over think things and start feeding my own insecurities, which leads me to the other recurring character in my life, the loud flamboyant one who shows no fear. I have said before on this blog, I am at times paralyzingly shy. Completely socially retarded. I assume that people forget me as soon as they meet me, and that they are not talking to me. So when I make an outgoing friend, I am fascinated by them, and enjoy their ability to force me out of my shell. Sadly, the other trait of flamboyance is a certain carelessness. They make off the cuff remarks and promises that don't pan out, and it's no big deal.

In general one of my best traits is that I don't stress over things, I am the one that sucks it up and moves on. But I have to say, sometimes it feels like I can hold a grudge like a muthafucka.*

I shake things off and move on, but I soak it into my big brain and start analyzing it, and over analyzing it, and get all butt hurt. The Honey is a Master of Butt Hurt. The people who have stood me up or inadvertently hurt my feelings are banished forever in his mind, and he sneers when their names are mentioned. Which is kind of nice that it's on my behalf, but ultimately it gets exhausting. Sometimes it's people I love and adore, sometimes it's people I am still genuinely fond of. I can't function while in butt hurt mode. I have to be able to put it away and move on with my day. The Honey likes to buff and shine his grudges and set them out where he can see them. Mine are hidden away in a cupboard in my brain, and I only bring them out for a polish when I get my feelings hurt.

I got my feelings hurt today and I so don't want to add it to my dark little cupboard to trot out the next time someone disappoints me. I wish they were at least righteous grudges that I could be proud to hold onto, you know? Then I could call them up and say "Fuck you for killing my dog, ruining my career, or re-electing Dubya after he'd clearly fucked it all up (Hey, wait a minute, I could be onto something..)" But how do you call someone after fifteen years and say "Fuck you for giving me a pencil cup for Christmas when I gave you a full set of towels because I THOUGHT about you and what you needed. And while we're at it, fuck you for casting me as Mare Winningham in the "Who would play you in the movie" game! Because you, lady, are no Sharon Stone." See? They aren't even GOOD grudges and hurts. They are petty and small. It is my sincere hope that by typing this out, I get it out of my system, so that whatever dark gremlin made me just google a picture of Ms. Winningham--who is a fine character actress, don't get me wrong--will crawl back into the cupboard for a while.


*Greg Beck, wherever you are, I still miss your posts.

Brian Crook, Where are you now?

Brian Crook is no longer Brian Crook. He changed his name, and we lost contact.

Brian wasn't even my friend, he was my brother's best friend when we lived in Sacramento. He and his younger brother, Brent, lived across the street from us, around the corner from Birdcage Walk as it was under construction. I would get sent over to call my brother home for dinner and
Brian's mom would always tell me to get a piece of candy from the dish--I was four or five, people, that was HUGE. Brian's family had also come from Redding, but they lived in Enterprise. Being four or five, I had no concept of subdivisions or parts of town. I thought Brian and his family had lived on the Starship Enterprise. I always wanted to ask if I could see their uniform shirts.

The Crooks moved back to Redding about the same time we did. The boys made their own skateboards, for YEARS. They became fans of Devo, of Blondie, of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. They double dated. Then Brian and his family moved to Portland. My brother went to live with them the next summer. It broke my heart. I hope Big O always makes time for Little O the way my brother made time for me. I'm sure a sister six years younger worshiping you was a drag sometimes. My brother sent me tapes for my birthday, Synchronicity, by the Police, and Bonnie something, she sang total eclipse of the heart. (Sweet lord, why am I telling you that? I apparently have NO kind of filters or dignity) I about wore out that Police tape.

I'm thinking of Brian Crook because after my brother went up, Brian came down and stayed with us. He brought his guitar, and on lazy afternoons, he would sit in the family room and play Beatles songs on his guitar and sing them with me. It was heaven. I sing. It's just my nature, I sing constantly, to the point of annoyance and monotony, at times.

I bought Little O the Disney sing it because my girl loves to sing, too. Imagine my glee at discovering that the microphone is compatible with Rock Band. The Honey bought me the Beatles Rock Band disc for my birthday. I told him we could get the guitars and drum set later, I just wanted to sing.


I didn't know I knew the words to Dear Prudence, but listening to it, I don't hear the Beatles singing, I hear Brian Crook. It makes me smile.

I hope someday he googles his old name and finds this. I hope his kids (I hope he has kids) buy him Beatles Rock Band and sing it with him.

Notes for Next year:

NO PROPS!

What works excellently for trick or treating (and, by the way, it totally DID work for t-o-t), does NOT work for parties or work. Having your costume lying in a corner because you cannot function while holding it, or are afraid you're going to put someone's eye out in close quarters? Fail.

Everyone at the party had couples costumes, so next year I'll try to make that happen, too. The Honey is outta luck in terms of hooched up. I have to be able to wear it to work and trick or treat with my kid in it. I also have to come up with something that the Honey will wear. He's muuuch more conservative about which costumes he'll wear. I was thinking about Boris & Natasha, although really, I should give that to our Host and Hostess from this year's party. They are very aware that she is taller than he is (Whereas I don't care that I am taller than the Honey) and she's already slim and dark haired. She could rock the tight purple dress. But her man wore a Mario costume all night, so she can talk him into anything. Just getting the Honey into all black would make my life much easier.

On a separate note, getting Little O Disney's Sing It has just re-affirmed my belief that my kid is sweet thanks to a lack of cable in her life. Even Disney would be too much. Maybe especially Disney. I know that Shar-Pay is a caricature, but does Miss Priss? We had a long talk about how she behaves towards people, because Little O loves singing her song, but it kind of makes me queasy to hear her sing it.

There's a whole generation out there that has grown up watching that shit unsupervised, because Mom & Dad think Disney's okay. Those are the same kids that worship Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian, and think it's okay to order a "Fitness pole" for your room at 16 (Don't ask, it's a long horrible story).

Big O has kind of settled into a groove as he starts high school, so I am a little less worried about him. Little O is wobbling in an interesting spot. Yesterday she said to me,

"When I sing that song at school, it's almost like there's these girls that are listening and laughing at me. It's like they sneak up on me. Isn't that WIERD?"

Apparently, when I drop her off in the mornings, if none of her friends are there yet, she plays Hannah Montana by herself. I love that she is so blissfully unaware of how mean girls can be. I hope she gets to continue being that blissfully unaware. Nobody needs to learn THAT lesson in the first grade.

Sigh.

A nice cozy Sunday listening to my seven year old tunelessly singing along to her new Disney sing-it for the wii.

It's kind of my definition of a perfect Sunday except for the Honey being stuck at work and no Big O.

I am a fairly laid back parent. I don't do hysteria and drama. So my reaction caught me of guard when the Ex told me he was at the Urgent Care with Big O. He's got the flu. Yeah, the Dr. at the clinic says it's probably THE Flu. The Ex said he may as well keep him there to keep it away from Miss Priss and the Elder contingent on our side (Mrs. G & Mama Dina). I appreciate that. But. My boy is sick.


I want him here, logic be damned. The blogosphere is full of horrifying H1N1 stories. Feel better, Bubby. I'm busting the door down if your dad says you're still sick Monday.

I blame Anne Geddes.

I do not have any weird Flemish art in jigsaw puzzle form. Am I depriving my kids? Was this yet another way my parents snuck culture into my life? Because this picture was THE epic jigsaw of my childhood, and one of the measures of how grown up I was...how far could I get before I gave up and put it away for another few years?

Little O (Who turned 7 today, by the way, but I'm ignoring that particular trauma--my baby!) has strawberry shortcake and My Little Pony puzzles, and there is a Baby Bee puzzle from Anne Geddes that still has not been opened, although she is very interested-- for about three minutes.

This concludes my random thought for the day.

Holy Holy Water, Batman!

Yep. It's done.

Little O was entranced by her Rosemary rosary. :)

Her padrinos got a band. Technically, there were TWO bands. Insane!

I thik a good time was had by all, although I am still deaf in one ear from the band. Next up? Halloween!

Cowbell, or Jellyfish? I also need a smoking jacket for the Honey, who will be going as the devil. I got him some great horns...

I'm crazy. That's why.

Little O is finally getting baptized.

It has blown up to a huge party thing, from a simple sprinkling of holy water and some lunch with her padrinos afterward.

I apparently hurt the feelings of Favorite sister in law by not choosing her to be the godmother.

I told Little O that she is going to start going to church and her face just crumpled. Since I hadn't imagined she'd have any objection, I was *ahem* taken aback at her reaction...was I raising the devil child?

"What's wrong, baby?"

"Mama, church is in SPANISH. I don't understand it."

Poor baby. We always take the Honey's mom for high holy days, and it IS always in Spanish. I explained that she could go to the English services, and she cheered right up.

But her baptism will be in Spanish. I don't think their priest speaks more than a few words in English. I wish Father Dan were here. He could do it in Spanish AND English--but I think he would make us do the whole classes thing. He was my friend Leisa's priest, and he agreed with me back in the day that you don't do the wink-wink kind of thing in God's house. I knew Big O's dad wasn't taking him to church, so why would I lie and say we were going to raise him as a Catholic?

Little O is going to have to go to church regularly. I will get her dressed up and delivered to Sunday school at least twice a month. In the wonderful world of Mexican Catholicism, that will be plenty. If we hurry with the catechism classes she can wear the same dress for confirmation. :)

Big O was in another quinceanera a few weeks ago, and I picked up the caterer's card. Little O saw it and leaned over to me and said,

"Mama, did you get their card so we can call them for MY quinceanera?"

Oh, sweet pea, you have so many dreams for me to crush...

Did you know?

I have the world's greatest teenage boy.

 

I have lots of Little O stories, because kids that age are so funny, discovering the world.  I write more about the struggles with Big O because, well, he's hitting those hormonal, homework filled years. 

 

Last night, as I was scrambling for dinner before I took him to quinceanera practice, I asked Big O to walk his sister next door to visit with Mrs. G.  He did NOT whine or complain or even heave a big sigh, he just paused as he walked out and asked me not to log him out, as he was chatting with one of his friends on MySpace.  

 

He was back two minutes later, the Big G had sent him back to get some sidewalk chalk, because she wanted the three of them to play a game.  He STILL did not complain about getting roped into something else, just typed a quick note to his buddy and left with the chalk.

 

I walked over to get them, and the Big G had him playing a giant game of Hopscotch.

 

I love that he played this game without reservation, that he listens to the Big G respectfully even when he can't understand (because of her accent) quite what it is she's telling him.  

 

Sometimes  I wonder if I've got this parenting thing all wrong.  People say that they don't ask their older kids to watch their younger ones, because it's not THEIR job or responsiblity to raise their siblings, they should just be allowed to be a kid.   Guilt sets in because I ABSOLUTELY expect my boy to watch his sister.  He may or may not be paid for that.  At the same time, isn't that part of being a family? How do people teach their kids to be responsible if they never give them any responsibilities?    I freely acknowledge that spacing plays a big part in pulling this off... I listen to my friends groan about how their kids fight, and I think I spaced my kids juuuuust right.     

 

But watching him with the two girls last night, playing hopscotch when he'd rather be playing Call of Duty, holding his sister's hand as they walk around the corner, just because she's six and adores him, I just had to acknowledge that (setting aside all personal biases here) he is, in fact, the world's greatest teenage boy.

 

 

Mama Mii-a

So after the hideous realization that I am now the biggest girl in my office, I was all-in for the newest weight loss contest at work. sigh.

So in spite of the fact that my living room is still not re-arranged to my satisfaction, out came the Wii fit (Finally! I got it for mother's day). My Mii immediately blew up like the pillsbury dough-girl. I could handle that, but they made her shirt not fit so you see her belly. Now that's just rude.

Little O and I started going thru the games, and she looooves to wii-run. Wii-running is less strenuous than real running because you can just jiggle the remote to keep going when you're tired. If she wants ME to run with her, I pretty much just jiggle the remote. I'm working on it. She was thoroughly put out that I ski better than she does. My plan is to wii in the mornings after I make the Honey's lunch and send him off, before Little O gets up. ANY physical activity will be more than I have been doing! Wii Yoga here I come...

Happy Birthday, Big O!

I like to fix things. How do you fix *ssholes?

Last night, Mrs G was back in France, 1944.


She was hiding with her 3 month old son in the woods, not because the soldiers were after HER specifically, but because that was what you did when the soldiers came to town, you made sure you stayed out of sight.

She woke up in the hospital, having been knocked unconscious when the bombs hit. No one could tell her where her son was.

The man to her left was dead, and they were trying to amputate the leg of the man to her right. Then the next bomb hit the hospital. She dropped her burning robe and leaped from the second floor.

She wandered the eight miles to her home in a daze, naked except for one slipper.

She was 21.

When she got home, her neighbors had found her infant son in the woods but had not been able to find her. He was fine.

*********************

Saturday afternoon Mrs G called the Honey and told him maybe a stroke?

By the time I made it next door, her speech was gone, except for one word, the name of that son safe at the neighbor's home so long ago. I called 911 and the last few days we've been visiting her in the hospital.

Her daughter, who lives a few hours away drives in every other day, making preparations to move into her mom's home for a while, until her mom is feeling better.

Mrs G had lost her speech but was still able to write, so she has not been completely locked into her own mind. She is still sharp as a tack. But last night her speech came flooding back to her and she told me the tale she says she has never shared with her children.

The son from that story, the story that drew huge wracking sobs from her, lives in town and still has not been to see his mother, has not called to inquire.

I would like to hunt him down, but Karma or the deity of his choosing will see that he gets his. My role in this is just to make sure that her cats get fed and that she knows that we love her. But it's hard. I'd like to do more.

In which we traumatize the girl child.

We went sailing with my parents a few weeks ago. It was the first time ever for the Honey and the Kids--I was raised on the sailboat, it's just 6 months younger than me. I suspect it was the consolation prize for my father for trading in the Porsche when I was born.

The Honey and the kids loved it, but Little O wanted to go swimming. With me. RIGHT.NOW.

It WAS hot, so we found a quiet cove and Big O and I jumped into the water. Then it was Little O's turn. Do you see that photo? The one where she's wearing the bulky blue life jacket?

We explained that she HAD to have a life jacket on and KEEP it on in order to be on the boat. It would keep her from sinking and keep her safe, which is always our biggest priority. She accepted it without a peep.

So I jumped into the lake, and in spite of the 100 plus degree temperature, that water was a bit chilly. I thought to myself,
"oh, this isn't going to last long at this temperature..."

So the Honey passed Miss Priss into the water, onto the floaty cushion thrown out for general principle.

My poor baby.

As soon as she slid off that cushion, she completely flipped out. Shrieking and climbing on top of my head.

Apparently we had sold the life jacket so completely that she had absolute faith in it, and we never bothered to explain that she WOULD sink into the water, but that it would stop her from sinking sinking. She thought in her six year old brain, that she would float on the water where the life jacket touched the water. It makes sense. It also nearly drowned me before her father could pluck her back out of the water and calm her down. Thank God for the stupid floaty cushion.

She's fine and now that she understands that her life jacket was not failing, she's totally game to go sailing again.

What a trooper!

Cookies make the world go 'round.

Miss Priss made cookies in the shape of princess crowns, until I got tired of watching them break as they were transferred. Then we switched to hearts. She ran some over to Mrs G and the Grand Dame promptly popped the crown onto her head.

There are few things better than a six year old and an eighty-six year old both giggling like girls. :)

Exxxxcellent margarita party has me drunk blogging this fine and wondrous evening.

Sweet Jeebus am I going to e sorry tomorrow. possibly tonight.

Major points to the honey for being my designated driver.

Salud to Miss Blunt for throwing a fan-tabulous partay, even if she did call me on the abundance of cleavage I was sporting. It's not my fault they could have their own zip code.

And for getting Miss Sunshine and my new partner in crime to show--both of whom swore they were in for my B-day and bailed. 8 months later and still bringing it up...not bitter, are we?

Need to send my best Jen a box of books now that she is trapped in the deep south. Actually needed to send them to her sooner that this, but everything works out for a reason. She would not have wanted to schlepp them all the way to 'bama, but now that she's THERE...

Must.make.sandwiches.for.Honey. No chance in hell I'm waking back up at 4:30 to make them like usual.

The Heartbreak of The Flops

So, part of me wants to laugh and mock the commercials for "Restless Leg Syndrome" like I do pretty much any commercial with disclaimers like "Be sure to advise your doctor if you've ever had a Liver transplant."

WTF? My doctor's visits require medical history in triplicate, even if It's just for the yearly. Wouldn't your doctor KNOW if you have a giant fucking scar?

But let's get back to my point. Because RLS sounds like the winner in a pharmaceutical sales rep's "Make up a Syndrome" contest. Like Nanwrimo for leeches.

Except...

My hubby has them beat. He's got the Flops. It's not just his legs, people. His arms go flying, he kicks off the covers and then pulls them back up. He flaps the covers. That's my favorite. But he snores through it all.

He says I don't love him enough because we have not actually said vows in a legal type way.

Tonight he asked me to come to bed early and then (in his sleep) held his hand up over and over again to block my view of the show I was watching on the idiot box.

He doesn't understand that the fact that he wakes up each and every morning, not a bruise or a pinch mark on him, is the proof that I love him.

Why I need night vision goggles...

My brother and his wife are insane. Which is what makes them so Awesome.

Last night we all trooped over to the park across the street from their house.

In the dark.

To play Hide and Go Seek.


Five Adults, five teenagers, and a hopped up six year old.

Eldest nephew showed up in a ghillie suit...



I wish Big O had been with us. He's off wrestling at the State tournament...

I swear I have not run that fast before.
EVER.
Little O, who minces down the baselines and swears it's her top speed, discovered how to use her full stride as she "helped" whomever was It. We made her carry a light stick to keep from being mowed down on the stampede to base. It was still a narrow thing. She wasn't understanding that an adult running at full speed can't come to a complete stop just because they crossed the line, so please sit down on the wall. I almost pulled a Matrix/Jedi mid-air flip trying not to knock my own kid down.

I'm not down for football where my lack of co-ordination will let down my team, but hide and go seek? I'm totally in.

Sigh.

So I put my foot in it at work.

We have one very blunt, outspoken girl at work, and one very fiery person. The ladies of the fishbowl prefer to stay neutral.

So Miss Blunt observes that Miss Fiery tends to get sick when our boss takes personal days on Fridays. It should be noted that Miss F's best friend is the receptionist, so from time to time on a Friday, the Receptionist (and she's sooo much more than that, but we'll call her Miss Sunshine) says--"Will you guys be okay without her? Because Miss F is sick." Which is awkward for all of us, because then we're resenting Miss Sunshine for just doing her job and being the bearer of bad tidings because it's her best friend she's asking about, and we feel like jerks for wanting her to come in because we're slammed. We've all been sick, we all take sick days. Not many of us call in consistently when the boss is known to be gone.

Huh. Miss Blunt calls 'em like she sees 'em, and I rather enjoy her straightforward attitude, although I tend to be a little more discreet myself--usually.

But this week is graduations of all sorts, as well as our office's busiest time of the year. So while it was a scheduled MORNING off for Miss F, she was supposed to call in to see if we needed her, because the Boss just went on vacation.

She called at noon, and Miss Sunshine told her she didn't know, because the reps were on the phone and I was at lunch, so Miss F said she was going to grab some lunch and call back after.

So she DID call back. At 2:30. I told her um, yeah, come in, and she tells me then she'll have to drop her daughter off so it won't be until at least 3. Then she paused, waiting for me to say, oh, never mind then. I told her to come on in.

Miss Blunt takes a lot of heat from Miss F for talking shit, but this was enough, and I DO NOT LIKE talking ABOUT people. I think the honest way to do it is to talk TO them. So I warned Miss Sunshine that I was going to say something to Miss Fiery about the schmucky call in. She suggested, given Miss Fiery's nature, that maybe I send it in an Email.

So Now Miss Fiery is completely pissed at me, and doesn't see how it's any of my business that she took two and a half hours to take her kid to lunch, because the boss told her she could (take him to lunch, that is). I think she really believes that if the boss had been in the office she really would have taken two and a half hours and then called in STILL not ready to come back.

Wouldn't it be chickenshit for me to let Miss Blunt take the heat for saying what we were all thinking, but never saying it TO Miss Fiery? I'd rather have it out in the open, so we can all move on.

Sweet Jeebus I hate drama. I hate it even more knowing I threw gas on the smoldering embers of this particular drama, but I also have to live inside my own head, you know?

BE a good citizen.
Treat others like you want to be treated.
Take other people into consideration.
sheesh!

***************************************

update!

So my boss asked me to apologize, not for the message, just maybe for the delivery of said message, and Miss F and I are okay again.

I wish you could see her...

I HAVE to figure out how to post cell phone video.

Because there are few things better than Little O with her newest obsession...

She does the sprinkler. All Damn day.

hi-larious.

She's also reading Ramona Quimby, Age 8 to herself. In Kindergarten.(!)

Little O sums up Western Religion...

On our recent road trip to see my folks, Little O grabbed 2 books for the long car ride.

 

One was her new Highlights magazine, and the other was the child's first Bible that she got for Christmas.

 

We were rolling through Williams when she slapped the book shut and announced,

 

"Well, I read the whole Bible."

 

Really?  And what did you think of it, Miss Priss?

 

"Well, I was really sad when they killed Jesus, but then they put him in a cave, and put a rock in front of it, and he came back, so I felt better."

 

Um...

 

Well, actually, I guess that's about it, isn't it? 

Thank you, thank you very, very, muu-u-u-u-uch.

I wasn't really expecting to get the Lohan/Spears Parenting trophy for the month of April.

 

I'm really quite overwhelmed.

 

In my defense, Little O really does think the song SAYS "Thank You". 

 

I didn't correct her.  So when my six year old skipped through Wal-Mart singing that sunny little Lily Allen song, she really was singing Thank you, and not in a wry social commentary sort of way.

 

Big O smirks, because he knows what the song is actually saying in it's chipper tones. 

 

It does end with a k, and the second word IS you.

 

Once Little O figures it out, she'll still sing it Thank you. 

 

But I was silently singing along with her as we fought the crowds last night, and I have to say, it was delicious.

 

I'm well aware I'm going to hell, no need to comment (hahahahahahaaaaa).

 

 

weighing close to a thousand pounds...

Ah, Sayre, where is Operation Lose That Ass when I need it?

I'm trying to cook at home again. We've been baaaaad about going out. But right now with Miss Priss and her Tee Ball and The senior O and his wrestling, I'm not HOME to cook, and the Honey's new job necessitates early bedtimes. So If it's not almost done by six, we just need to go grab something. It's ugly, folks.

Senior O makes it sound like he's almost through with high school instead of about to start it. Elder O?

Little O has finally, at long last, embraced bedtime. I have resisted bedtime stories, holding them out as a carrot to lure her into her own room. Baby, tonight was the last chapter of Little House in the Big Woods. YAY! As a bookseller, can I tell you how long I have waited for these nights?

Big O had no kind of attention span for long stories. He is a rapid reader himself, sadly following in my voracious reading habits--I didn't mean to imply that he's not a reader. But at six? Not so much.

We have discovered a new bookstore. It's only open on Saturdays, and everything is a dollar. They run it out of an industrial park on the east side. Can I tell you, I would never have gone within six blocks of this place if I hadn't been staring at their sign, barely visible from the Starbuck's parking lot. Hmmm....you're a shifty serial killer, but you're lazy, and you want to lure me into the space where your 70's van is waiting? Okay, I'm in!

Actually, the Honey's sister had been telling me about it for weeks, but kept bailing on me when I called her to go. So I dragged the Honey with me a few weeks ago. It was sweet. Not fuzzy animals in Easter baskets sweet. Dude, where's my car? sweet. My eye only twitches a little that they stop at sorting by category---sort of. After that it's good luck, suckah!

But last weekend after we MISSED Big O wrestling in Modesto by minutes, and only because they wrestled out of weight class order--Little O and I went to see if we could find the next little house book. We came out with fifteen books. Three little house books and eleven American Girl books. By my calculations, that's about what we would have spent on two American Girl books at B&N.

With the Honey's new improved early bed times, Miss Priss reads to her daddy until he falls asleep. She reads him American Girl stories. Daddy, meet Felicity. :)

Oh, the Horror

My bra is creaking like an old creepy staircase.

 

Does this mean it's about to lose structural integrity and everything is about to burst forth?

 

Because let me tell you, the ample proportions of my youth have given way to epic proportions.  Someone could get hurt if this thing gives.  sigh.

 

*****

 

Going to Tahoe with the Hot New Wife and her friends in May.  No way I'm dropping fifty pounds in a month.  Just gonna have to jiggle my way through.  I realize I'm whining, but I frigging hate to dance.  I doubt I'm talking them into skiing or board games.  It's drinking and dancing.  shiiiiit.

 

Good thing I like her.  Her friends are also very gracious in their bafflement. 

 

I am equally baffled.  Even when I was in my twenties, I didn't dance.  I drank, but it was more of a kick-back chillin' with friends kinda thing.  These girls drink with a purpose.

 

I'm so old, and happy to be so.

 

*****

We took the kids to the zoo and then to old town Sac, and they had a good time, them we went to Makuni's for sushi downtown on a Friday night. 

 

We all agreed it was very CSI Miami, and the Honey and I were waiting for a blonde to come flying over the upstairs balcony.

 

The O's thought it was very glamorous.

 

Photos after the camera recharges!

 

Please Pass the Reynolds Wrap.

Mmmmkay.

Sitting in my silent house (okay, silent except for The Honey's snoring), my answering maching keeps giving a little electronic shush-shhhush noise, as if it were wind in the wiring.

At this hour, I must admit that it's creeping me the hell out, and I begin to sympathise with people sportin' tinfoil hats. Or poor, overbaked Plasticman from Redding.


****************************

On a separate note?

Class act, there, Mister former President.

Asked to comment on Obama's handling of the economic crisis, Dubya said "He deserves my silence" and said that in times like these we should support each other, not attack each other. Which I take as a jab at yappping Mr. Cheney.

Any jab at Cheney is a jab for the good guys--So was not pardoning Libby. It has to suck to get booed at speaking engagements. Still a failure as leader of the free world, but I feel for him.


Okay, the answering machine just did it again. I think I need an exorcist.

Good night, all. (all 2 of you)

Chicken or the Egg?

So Big O stayed at his father's last night. 

 

The Ex is infamous for waking up late and dropping Big O off still needing a shower, so I called his cell this morning...no answer.

 

Shit.

 

But my phone rang, and it was the Ex's #.  Whew!  I didn't bother with a greeting (because I, too, am eternally running late in the mornings),

 

"Hey, just making sure you guys are up and running, and please make sure he gets a shower before you come over."

 

A man's voice replied,

 

"I made sure he got up, and he's in the shower now."

 

Bwaahahahahahaaaaaaaa

 

"Okay, Big O, I love you, see you soon."

 

 

 

 

 

 

And in local news...

The crazy local happenings at the legal epicenter of our fine (okay downtrodden) county? That whole family is batshit crazy and ruuuuude. Soon as I heard the name, I thought, oh, well it WOULD be one of them.
Yes, I realize that I am going to burn in hell for my thoughts.

***********************************************

Speaking of hell, what in the hell was ABC thinking, cancelling Life on Mars?

WAAAAHHHHHH. Every.single.show.I.like.

I am the goddess of death for great TV shows. I am the Gorgon. As soon as I turn my gaze upon it, it's as good as dead.

Dark Confession Time--possibly a Dorkfession.

I have a secret to confess.

I really can't believe I'm going to tell you this.

Kristy, my world music loving friend, you should look away. I'm about to expose the shallow end of my musical gene pool.

I need to quit stalling.

Friends, all two of you still reading this FB orphaned blog, I have a weakness.

A prediliction, if you will.

I've tried to stop. I've tried immersion therapy in the good stuff, trying to cleanse my palate. (Jeebus, is that spelled right?)

But...but...I kind of, um, well, I may have spent more money on bad euro pop than on anything with a guitar in it. Music seems like such an indulgence, and because my tastes are sort of thrash-y I tend to leap at anything lighter.

Which is how I ended up with:

Robbie Williams*

Lilly Allen

and

Freaking Lou Bega (Oh, the shame)

I also purchased my first Madonna album as she was going through her cowboy/Ali G phase.

I hope you don't think any less of me. (sob!)

I know that Robbie Williams is a former boy band member, and come on, Lou Bega just seems like an ass. Don't mess with Lily, though, 'kay? I love to hear little O sing that song. It's less fun to hear her sing Alfie, which is her true favorite, but she doesn't know what she's singing yet, and it's still not Genie in a Bottle or anything.

*The Robbie Williams video goes a little fangoria on you at the end, just a warning.

Wednesday Hero-and a lttle Jen

Sgt. Kelly Keck
34 years old from West Liberty, Kentucky


Secretary of the Army Pete Geren congratulates Sgt. Kelly Keck after presenting him the Purple Heart.

On September 13, 2008, Sgt. Kelly Keck, a combat medic serving in Afghanistan, was wounded while trying to aid his fellow soldiers who's truck had just been struck by an IED. "I stepped off the road to try to get to the side of the truck, and the next thing I know I hear a loud boom, and I'm laying on the ground," he said. Sgt. Kelly had stepped on a land mine. He was flown to a field hospital in Jalalabad where he ended up losing three fingers on his left hand and his right leg below the knee. "It was quite an ordeal," the soft-spoken soldier said.


These brave men and women sacrifice so much in their lives so that others may enjoy the freedoms we get to enjoy everyday. For that, I am proud to call them Hero.
We Should Not Only Mourn These Men And Women Who Died, We Should Also Thank God That Such People Lived

This post is part of the Wednesday Hero Blogroll. For more information about Wednesday Hero, or if you would like to post it on your site, you can go here.




I watched Black Hawk Down over the weekend for the first time.

The Honey was baffled to look over and see me crying. I never cry at movies*.

I don't think I was crying for my nephews, at the though of them being in a situation like that. I think it was the thought of ANYBODY in such a clusterfuck. Knowing what was coming, too, because I had said at the beginning of the movie that there was only one story I remembered about Somalia, and it wasn't pretty. Yup, that's the one.

The Honey saw my point though about streamlining benefits, because anybody who has gone through something even remotely like that while we eat pizza and watch football should be TAKEN CARE OF by the entity that sent them there, not made to jump through hoops.

Come on, Mr. Obama, I am looking forward to hearing your plan for THAT mess, too.

* Once upon a time, the bad boyfriend & I went to the movies with his best friend and HIS roommates. They were older than I was, and all very artsy and philosophical. They were by far my favorites of the bad boyfriend's friends. So we went to see Jacob's Ladder with Tim Robbins, and when we got out of the movie, they were all nowhere to be seen. Turns out they had all gone home to cry for the rest of the night at the deep concepts and heavy thoughts the movie had provoked. All I could think was, really? I thought it kind of sucked.

I'm not a great follower, I think. These were people I admired and wanted to hang with, but all I could think was that they must have been hitting the bong too hard, because huh? I think it's related to my loathing of most poetry. My old friend Ray relishes deep philosophical conundrums to the point that he is pursuing theology in school. I think I could make a living writing infomercials. Different paths, but the same need for faith, right?

Valentine Madness

So my favorite of the Honey's car guy friends got married last night.

At the hockey game.

We're tickeld because Garry is over the moon for his sweetie, and if she would agree to get married on the ice at a hockey game for the texan-hockey nut? It must be love. It was part of a radio station promotion, so there were 103 couples doing the deed, including one guy dressed in a turkey suit. Whatever.

Garry looked sharp in his suit, Shannon was pretty in her polka dots, but as the hockey game went on, I became distracted.

Down in front, right up against the glass? I swear he looked like Biff Henderson. It may have been the baseball hat, it may have been the big earpiece.

The Honey was laughing at me as I snarled obscenities at the bloonde who kept blocking my photo. But I got him, Not until the game was over, and you can't see his earpiece, but I got him.

 

Not sure who Biff is? He's Letterman's Stage manager guy:



The Honey says it could just as easily have been James Earl Jones and maybe white girl should shut her pie hole.

I'm such a dork. ARGH! I'm a bad dork, though, 'cause I missed the Dorkteenth. Shit. Consider this my Dorkteenth confession.

in love with love

A few weeks ago Little O was studying a baby shower invitation, cooing over all of the fuzzy baby details, when she stopped and asked what R.S.V.P meant.

I explained that you put that when you want someone to write back to you.

Her latest obsession is making homemade valentines by the THOUSANDS. At the bottom of each one, she writes R.S.V.P. Then she sends them all to her father and I. I have tiny paper hearts and full sheets of paper all over my house. We no longer speak, we write love notes.

The Honey says I'll have to explain RSVP soon, and I know he's right.

Her stick figures are getting more lifelike every day, though. We can't spell BACKWARDS in front of her anymore. She's getting that same wierd fakey laugh her brother has. She remembers her knock knock jokes.

So for just a little while longer, I am going to savor each little RSVP she writes and I'll Respondez Si Vous Plait to each tiny scrap of love she sends me in her fanciest curli-q writing.

My name is Jennifer

...and some days I feel like this guy. I refer to myself as socially retarded, but some days it's just that I'm annoying. I fall into patterns and say the same things over and over again in conversation to fill in the gaps. If we're walking by each other and you seem to be expecting something but we've already said hello for the day? You'll probably get a snippet from Camptown Races.
If someone is giving me news that I don't want to hear? "It's all an adventure."

Is is like social tourette's? I know it's annoying, but it just falls out of my mouth.

I'm filling in for a different department and it's fun to learn a new job. My co-worker in...hmm...it's not the fishbowl, let's call it the tank--the toilet tank. Don't get me wrong, it's nice back there, and there's a lot more room, but there's also the potential...well, you get the idea. Anyway, my co-worker in the tank is someone I really like. She's new to the company, but our sons are friends. People, I am trying so hard to NOT be annoying. I've told her she can stop me when I start singing, because half the time I don't realize I'm doing it--which wouldn't be so bad if I sang anything good. No, I hum the Chicken Dance for no reason. It's annoying to ME.

I'm also really bad at ass kissing, apparently, because interpersonal politics are so NOT my bag, baby. There's a whole lotta ass to kiss in the tank.

******

And on a happier but FB related note, I just realized (When she joined four more stupid groups including "no-such-thing-as-pro-choice" and "Global warming--see? I told you they were making it all up!") that I could opt to get less news from the sweet but misguided eastern cousin, so unless she actually asks me to join, I don't have to get mad each day. Because seriously, If I wasn't so boy crazy I'd be flying a rainbow flag in my front yard. Just because. I AM a California girl,, and the only reason my dad turned out to be a republican is because he made money. I know I got my hippie ideals and need for logic and reason from my parents. I think my mom secretly IS a democrat. Because she's my hero like that.

Wednesday Hero

Gunnery Sgt. Nick Popaditch


In 2003, Sgt. Popaditch, along with 1st Tank Battalion, rolled into Baghdad from Kuwait at the start of the Iraq War. They had just taken the city and the tank that Sgt. Popaditch was in had rolled up to a 40-ft statue of Saddam. I think we all remember that statue. Popaditch was given a cigar by a fellow Marine and as he smoked it an AP photographer snapped a picture of him.

Fast forward to April 7, 2004. Sgt. Popaditch's wife was vacationing with their son when she received a phone call informing her that her husband had been injured in an attack. The turret of his tank, that he was situated in, had taken two direct hits from RPG's. He fell through the hatch to the floor of the tank. As he struggled to his feet, he began to shout orders to his men but go no response. He then realized that the attack had caused him to go deaf in both ears. But that was only temporary. He then reached up and felt that his head was wet and knew it wasn't good.

In the aftermath of the attack, Gunnery Sgt. Nick Popaditch had lost his right eye. And because of that he now proudly wears a prosthetic eye with the Marine Corps. logo embossed on it. On November 10, 2005 Gunnery Sgt. Nick Popaditch was awarded the Silver Star, the nation's third-highest award for heroism in combat. He also has a book out titled Once A Marine.

You can read more about Gunnery Sgt. Nick Popaditch here and here.

These brave men and women sacrifice so much in their lives so that others may enjoy the freedoms we get to enjoy everyday. For that, I am proud to call them Hero.
We Should Not Only Mourn These Men And Women Who Died, We Should Also Thank God That Such People Lived

This post is part of the Wednesday Hero Blogroll. For more information about Wednesday Hero, or if you would like to post it on your site, you can go here.

Sing it! Ding, Dong...

All over Oz, tiny people are dancing jigs around their televisions, Dick Cheney is hanging up his flying monkey suit...

Let's hope the people give the new wizard time to work with what's left, because he's got serious damage to repair, and the flying monkey brigade are not known for their patience...

Okay, I swore no more facebook.

There is this cousin of my father's, though. She is so unhappy about Obama being elected. I have other friends on Facebook that are, too. But this lady joins every freaking group that is protesting his election, his inauguration, his choice of towels for the white house. I have this overwhelming urge to tell her to suck it up, we let Dubya play with the football for eight long bloody years, and it's our turn again.

But she's old, and she just friended me because she's doing a family tree thing, and I guess it's not a bad thing to remember they are out there, and they re-elected Dubya even after he fucked it all up. She'll be my own little alarm clock reminding me to stay politically active. It makes me want to join stupid groups every day just so Obama's picture will show up on her profile--every day.

questionable names

You know I always enjoy reading the names of the colors on nail polish. They get so CREATIVE.

I think Febreze brought someone over from the nail polish industry over to name their new fragrances, but I have to be honest. I know when they named it Moroccan Bazaar, they were thinking exotic spices, a grand adventure kind of vibe. But I picture Sweaty North Africa, crowded bazaar, and third world plumbing.

You?

Again with the Facebook, Jennifer?

I know it's a cop out to not blog in forever, and then blog about Facebook. It's like trying to talk through your relationship issues with the other woman, no?

But it's such an interesting phenomenon! I've always used my bloggy blog to track my life, my REAL life, and it's public, so anyone could stumble upon it, but no one is really interested, and that works out for me. My brother knows it exists and stops by once in a blue moon, but I showed it to my folks, and they didn't really express an interest. I'm okay with that, it's kind of freeing. The Honey knows it's here, and he could read it at any time, but I am not a big secret keeper, so I'm okay there.

I type my thoughts to vent, and to keep my brain from atrophying because trash is just not that stimulating. But I also don't shy away from the suckier aspects of my life. I'm always a little taken aback when I go back a re-read my blog posts because I seem to be a bitter and ranting girl, which is not my day to day REAL life nature.

What I find funny is the nature of Facebook, which is a little more like the family Christmas letter. Everything's sunny and happy on Facebook. Former classmates have fabulous black and white photos, looking sleek and urbane, living the cocktail party existence... OR black and white and funkadelic, cool in that hipster way I never did pull off (Yes, Kris, that's YOU!).

I wanna put a photo of me with piles of laundry, hair still as frizzy and UNstyled as ever, maybe throw Little O hanging off of one arm as I cry at Big O's report card.

What a horrifying thought--am I like the Roseanne of Facebook?

Mexican food is trying to kill me.

Remember the habanero eye?

Now I have Posole Thumb.

At the Brother in law's last night, fishing in a pot that was, I kid you not, three feet tall, sitting on top of the stove, using a ladle that was about ten inches long. Terrified I was going to pull up a snout or a big hairy ear.

I'm scooping up hominy, and fire engine red broth, hominy and broth. Getting full, looking for a way to set the ladle down on my left without spilling the soup in my left hand. Turns out, I don't need to work about it, because the stupid styrofoam bowl folded in half, and scalding posole starts running steadily over my thumb, down my palm, and back into the pot. It's nice to be efficient. I kept thinking it was over, because the bowl would stabilize, but then it would cave in again.

I stand out at these family affairs no matter what, but I stood there torn, because while I really wanted to scream and just drop the bowl, my sister in law spent all frigging day cleaning her kitchen to a spotless--sterile--environment. That shit, in addition to never ever coming out of my clothes, would be all OVER her kitchen.

If I dropped the bowl into the soup, the soup was hot enough that I could envision it melting away before I got it back out, thereby ruining the SIL's pot of soup large enough to feed many third world countries, and the entire menu for her par-tay. So in the end, I very carefully poured the hominy back into the pot and ran cold water over my hand. Which felt delicious, until it occurred to me that I really couldn't stand at the sink all night. As soon as I stopped the water, my thumb was throbbing again. I am proud that I didn't cry, even when I went to the bathroom so I could run water over it some more in private. Today I have a lovely blister/callus that runs from the tip of my thumb to the first knuckle, covering about a quarter of the surface of the thumb. Under the thumbnail is kinda tender, too.

Last night was kind of a sucky throbbing thumb, but I did find someone to play Scrabble with at the other sister in law's house (where fucking posole was also served).

How was your New Year's Eve?