tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7529407832545534202024-02-07T08:09:24.422-05:00In Good ShapeMy Life: With TwinsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.comBlogger206125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-57951485591454469682016-02-04T16:01:00.000-05:002016-02-04T16:02:43.506-05:00Long Ago & Far AwayA&P are 19 today.<br />
<br />
I have tried to remember everything I could, down to every last tooth and curly piece of little fly away kid hair. However, that's impossible and I'm the sum of many parts and scraps of memory in entirely the wrong order.<br />
<br />
There was the time that I looked at the wrong school calendar (wrong year, genius!) and scheduled a trip to Arizona for a week that was decidedly not Spring Break. We went any way. I think this was second grade. Peter may or may not have nearly fallen into the Grand Canyon.<br />
<br />
Once they ripped down all the blinds in their room for the third time and I bought a shade. I was feeling super smart. They ripped that down and used the piece along the bottom of the shade to mutilate their faces. They were two.<br />
<br />
Exhibiting early reactive behavior worthy of a talk show, they would stick their fingers down their throats and throw up at the exact same time to watch us race around like idiots trying to save the carpet, or couch, or random Grandparent. They were 10 months old.<br />
<br />
Andrew woke up once when he was four to tell us through tears and screams that Jesus wouldn't stop calling his name. Shortly after Peter lamented that he was to blame for the crucifixion by denying Jesus repeatedly. We switched churches after that to find a Sunday school with a less literal curriculum.<br />
<br />
We put them on planes to England, France, Spain, Morocco. We put them on trains to New Mexico and watched them hike down the Appalachian Trail. We skipped down trails in Montana and rode bush planes in Alaska. And they got checking accounts and left for college. Then, I disjointedly remember that time I overfed them saltines on Interstate 69 to Muncie and they erupted- two sleeves, each, of slightly digested flour, salt and gastric juices. We traded that van in shortly thereafter.<br />
<br />
The consistent memory is awe that I hadn't left them behind at the grocery store, or forgotten to feed them, or to pay tuition. And awe that I get to be their Mom.<br />
<br />
How cool is that?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-77389603749892843022016-01-23T11:30:00.003-05:002016-01-23T11:30:43.252-05:00Lies: The pig was not buying groceries<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I hate car washes. I can't tell you how much I hate them. The cloth tentacles covering your car and the soapy goo are primordial. To get an idea of how much I hate car washes, slam the tips of your fingers in the hinge side of a door while picking up cat vomit. This is how much I hate car washes.<br />
<br />
My car was covered in a mixture of road salt and other unidentifiable grime and so it was time, today, sigh, to keep the paint from melting before my eyes in the garage. After pulling into the tunnel of certain death, I immediately started skimming Facebook for something to keep my mind off the sea monster that was eating my Honda.<br />
<br />
That's when I saw this: "I'm 28 and I just realized that the first pig was not buying groceries." I'm perplexed. I'm 45 and I don't think her post was age related. I sat there trying not to get motion sick from the incessant rocking of Ursula the evil car eating mermaid and rolling this thought over and over in my head "The pig wasn't buying groceries?"<br />
<br />
Then, it hit me.<br />
<br />
The pig was not buying groceries.<br />
<br />
That pig was a combination of roasts and ribs and lard at the market.<br />
<br />
Lies.<br />
<br />
All my life I've had a happy image in my head of a Porky Pig like porcine skipping down the road with a gingham lined basket to fill it with candy corn and figs and maybe a bottle of pig preferred Bordeaux.<br />
<br />
Lies. The pig is in the basket. Someone else's gingham lined basket.<br />
<br />
I figured out a long time ago that the "Ring around the Rosie, Pocket full of Posey" garbage was about children dying in the London gutters of the plague. For some reason, pox riddled urchins dying in the street is less shocking than my snappily dressed pig friend sliced into easy to fry sections.<br />
<br />
Tim says the other pigs were doing happy things and not to fret.<br />
<br />
Poor piggy.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-17388799277674061902016-01-02T15:57:00.001-05:002016-01-02T15:57:31.433-05:00Change of Control<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If I stare at this boy enhanced log long enough, one of two things will happen. First, I could fall asleep. Second, I'll realize it was long ago on a lake in Montana and there's no going back. What a choice and the first one could be embarrassing.<br />
<br />
The plan was easy. Have the children. Raise the children. Throw children out of the nest. Welcome children back for brief periods to ensure that the far reaches of the pantry don't get lonely or that any dish or glass or spoon goes unwashed.<br />
<br />
I go to sleep much earlier than the throngs of college students that inhabit our house at various hours of the day. Falling asleep leaves me vulnerable to a few outcomes including numerous awakenings every single time someone opens or closes a door. Those chimes have come in handy to prevent escape from doors and windows, but now I'm not supposed to care that someone is making repeated trips to the garage.<br />
<br />
The more acute vulnerability is the super annoying walking in the sleep habit I've had most of my life. Somewhere between numerous door chimes and a half baked dream sequence about needing to cook dinner and lay out towels for a non existent football team passing through at 2 am, I take a stroll. Sometimes I say things to random teenagers that I encounter. Sometimes I just get water and find myself waking up in the kitchen alone with a box of uncooked pasta in my hands.<br />
<br />
Explain that to an unrelated eighteen year old who was just hoping to grab some Oreos from the kitchen, unmolested.<br />
<br />
The boys know I do this and are skilled at redirection and sending me back on my way upstairs. Yet something is left undone or uncooked like the pasta.<br />
<br />
My nocturnal wanderings are worst when the illusion of control is missing. I never had any control but at one point I was able to get those children to stand somewhat placidly on that log in that Montana lake. For my next trick, I'll try not to scare anyone for the remainder of Christmas break.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-92193045641096517032015-12-21T14:51:00.001-05:002015-12-21T14:51:58.164-05:00Watermelon Shoes: Can I tell you 2 Secrets?<img src="http://tse1.mm.bing.net/th?&id=OIP.Md5c11aa21d022eabe26ecdafcd78a674o0&w=239&h=178&c=0&pid=1.9&rs=0&p=0" /><br />
First, this is a repost from 2010 but I think about this guy frequently.<br />
<br />
Secondly, I obsessively read obituaries.<br />
<br />
I've done this since I learned how to read. I stopped reading them for a while after my Uncle Steve died unexpectedly because I was chicken. Now I'm back to reading them and thinking about what a gift every darned day is. <br />
<br />
So there I was, reading the obituaries on Saturday night, in the New York Times. (I am so Tim's dream girl!)The Saturday death notices are easier to tackle and I can read them with less "short attention span theatre" in my brain. At the end of the section was an obituary that commanded me to get up and do something IMMEDIATELY. That's a new one- when have you been commanded by a recently passed away person to get up and do something- do not pass go- do not collect $200 just go do it right that very minute. <br />
<br />
The direction? Google "Watermelon Shoes." Fine, I'll google Watermelon shoes. <br />
<br />
The first article that pops up is a NYC blog from May, 2009 about a cool old guy from Manhattan that wears shoes decorated like two watermelon slices. Eccentric, yes, but here's the best part, he only wore them 13 times a year. <br />
<br />
Tim said, "Maybe he should have bought more than one pair and he could wear them as much as he wanted."<br />
<br />
I guess, but that's not the point. He savored his watermelon shoes and wore them only on very obscure days that meant only something to him. The last sighting of the shoes appears to have been some time in August of this year.<br />
<br />
Riveted I plastered the instruction"Google Watermelon Shoes" on my facebook page. Not many people saw it or, knew quite what to do with it. I am strange like that. My friend Dan wrote back and asked "what would your 13 days be?" <br />
<br />
In my tracks I stopped cold. I have no idea. Boxing day? My birthday? Or something pedestrian like Thanksgiving or maybe historic like April 14th when Lincoln was shot. Or is every day special enough for watermelon shoes?<br />
<br />
Got to get me some of those shoes.<br />
<br />
The Watermelon Shoe guy just died of a massive heart attack. He was so proud of his shoes and the blog about him that he commanded everyone he met to "Google Watermelon Shoes."<br />
<br />
Do it. Now.<br />
<br />
Love from me and mine to you and yours.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-91635603996321969662015-12-20T10:01:00.003-05:002015-12-20T19:46:41.552-05:00The Boast & the Cocktail Toast<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRzgGXxSCT3-ZmWAO7LPLB9dOcSRNJH-sM2OWSqFFrlwW5bJylys0Rc_VoZaxm6zd_NWV5FjC3zSZ1816V5ztuzSeg94sBtbAS_v_bokjKD3HmnCkQgr6ZWh8w_fPX8Xzr-B8bN__-ELPv/s1600/th.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRzgGXxSCT3-ZmWAO7LPLB9dOcSRNJH-sM2OWSqFFrlwW5bJylys0Rc_VoZaxm6zd_NWV5FjC3zSZ1816V5ztuzSeg94sBtbAS_v_bokjKD3HmnCkQgr6ZWh8w_fPX8Xzr-B8bN__-ELPv/s1600/th.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I don't enjoy tall tales</span>.<br />
<br />
Paul Bunyan makes me nervous because he's got the ax and the blueness of his ox must be an optical illusion.<br />
<br />
Stumbling across Mr Bunyan at a cocktail party would result in all sorts of problems, especially if he's hogging the cocktail toasts and drinking too many Manhattans. He would probably greet me with a gregarious guffaw and slap me on the arm, invading my personal space. If I can see the rings of your contacts, even in a dark room, you are too close. The hide color on your ox is not found in nature and that's suspicious.<br />
<br />
The ax is swinging precariously close to the picture on the wall- someones dad painted it of a covered bridge. Paul doesn't care and he's got a story- probably a story about the time he invented a super ox feeder or cheese cuber. Even better he's founded something like the Unified Northern Indian Topographical Ermine Development Corp, LLC. (Interestingly, that's UNITED).<br />
<br />
I need to found some kind of entity and brag about it at parties.<br />
<br />
I think about asking him for cash or cut lumber or even a chance to fondle the ax, but he's pretty wrapped up in the greatness that is Mr Bunyan. He works his way around the party talking to other tale tellers like Mr Worm. This Mr Worm will overpower just about anyone and he's usually manhandling you and trying to kiss you on the mouth despite your repeated warnings that the lip fungus is still pretty active under the lip gloss.<br />
<br />
You know you have a situation when Paul and the Worm can't see eye to eye on their carnivorous, competitive cocktail toast eating. But Paul has an ax and he might just use it on something other than the cracked acrylic "Sunset over Covered Bridge" by someones Dad. <br />
<br />
The Worm drinks and texts. Maybe there's a better party out there somewhere with no competitive foundation stories and more finger food. (Note to the Worm, we can see these because we share them with the other party goers.)<br />
<br />
I knock over a cup of cocktail onions.<br />
<br />
Bunyan loudly regales us with his tales of the formation of UNITED making everyone, including the Worm wonder why he's bothering with our little party anyway. It must be exhausting to remember all of those details about stuff you make up and I can independently verify on the Internet- remember though that Al Gore invented that last item.<br />
<br />
It's unlikely that Mr Worm or Mr Bunyan will find my little blog.<br />
<br />
Or that I picked their pockets when I knocked over the onions. <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-74709916299754811762015-12-13T09:20:00.000-05:002015-12-13T09:20:27.113-05:00Hey KidI have no idea where I've been. That's a lie. Sorry.<br />
<br />
Why did I start this line in November, 2012...<br />
<br />
<b><i>You know which one you are so sit down and listen. First, you're killing me. Your eyes</i></b><br />
<br />
I know exactly where I've been. I started to be afraid of writing and of words. I was afraid of my punctuation and sentence structure.<br />
<br />
I was actually more afraid of what you might think about what I said.<br />
<br />
The neighbors are watching, I thought. If there was something wrong with the kid's eyes, then everyone at the high school would know and that's about the least cool thing ever.<br />
<br />
Maybe I was trying out some kind of wacko poetry. In fact, this is why I like Twitter so much. If you only have 120 characters it is kind of hard to offend some one or get in any kind of trouble. Although there was that one girl that threatened the entire city of Dearborn on Twitter. Note to self: don't threaten cities.<br />
<br />
Let's just get out with it. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">I've been hiding </span>- living in the pictures posted on Facebook and in 120 character tweets in a massive tableau of generally useless missives. I did hear recently that you can order a pizza with it though so I don't think that's a useless exercise if your blood sugar is low and your really want pizza.<br />
<br />
Back to the kid, whomever it was, I don't know what you did but we obviously moved past it. I'm not in prison and neither are you.<br />
<br />
Did you sit down to listen? This is highly unlikely, but our household has tended to be loud so I'm certain that I got my point across. I wonder if I actually got up mid sentence to holler at you. You know what? Let's go with that and then I disappeared.<br />
<br />
But I'm back.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-16830924374584761972012-11-03T13:46:00.001-04:002012-11-03T13:46:46.504-04:00DisclosuresI went to get my hair done this morning. I was pleased to see a Town & Country magazine on the shelf by the chair. The hairdresser said "I knew you would like that. That's my Mom's favorite magazine."<br />
<br />
Her mom is 45.<br />
<br />
That's just ducky. But I'm over it now that I typed it.<br />
<br />
You know what I'm not over? Being personally attacked. Someone out there really thinks I'm evil and surprisingly, it's not one of my children. <br />
<br />
So I talk to myself a lot. "It's OK," I say,"not everyone has to like you." "It's OK, you're still a good person even though this person apparently wants you dead and fired and living in a van down by the river."<br />
<br />
Even worse, you extend an olive branch. You try to be the bigger person and they further attack you and use your goodness as an example of more evilness. It's so twisted you are starting to wonder if you're living inside the Old Testament but without the tents. Are people really this awful when they're supposed to be all grown up? Yes, yes they are.<br />
<br />
You know what else I'm not over? Someone telling me that I look like a soccer mom. My kids don't even play soccer. I don't drink Starbucks and drive around yakking on my phone. Do soccer moms even do that? What is a soccer mom anyway? Seems to me like she might be in better shape because no one's trying to ruin her reputation except for the other evil Moms on the PTA. That is probably worse- all hail to you Soccer Moms who have people on the PTA attack you. I stand in solidarity.<br />
<br />
I show up for work every day in high heels and I even wear seasonally appropriate lip gloss. I say smart stuff (sometimes) so why do you care if I've got grass clippings on my floor mats and mummified french fries in between my seats? By the way, don't blame the kids for those. That and the dried up dripped ice cream is from me. Have you ever tried to drive 75 mph, talk on the phone and eat an ice cream sundae? Not recommended.<br />
<br />
I may need to show up at church tomorrow to revel in the whole Jesus loves me this I know stuff otherwise it's going to be another long week. I may also spray myself from head to toe with nonstick cooking spray and let that crap just slide right off (the bad stuff, not the Jesus stuff).<br />
<br />
Maybe I'm over it now.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-67807727266261445942012-10-28T15:13:00.000-04:002012-10-28T15:13:21.397-04:00The Home Team<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This guy puts up with a lot of crap. Coming off of what could be describe as "the week that would not die", there he was to take me to dinner. I got one of those drinks with the champagne floating on top. Vodka and champagne go together like peas and carrots.
<br />
The week that would not die, is still not dead and it's already another week. I hereby put a fork in last week. It's done now and time for an afternoon drink with some champagne on top so I can forget about the week that I just ceremoniously killed with a fork.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-53181102799347810182012-10-22T20:40:00.001-04:002012-10-22T20:41:38.998-04:00For Halloween I'd like to be a shrubberyIt occurred to me today that once, A&P really only cared about cookies. I found this picture of them from preschool. Interestingly, Andrew is on the left. I guess the preschool teacher obeyed my commands. If you don't count me dressing up as a shrub and standing really close to the playground, I never was much of a stalker and more of a dictator. <br />
<br />
I remember putting A&P on the bus for their first day of preschool- they were in the "special program" because they didn't speak much of anything that anyone could understand. The people that gave them the assessment just looked at me like I'd totally screwed them up and they were only 3. A&P knew what they were saying. After a lot on unintelligible stuff, things would happen, like they'd rip the blinds off the windows. So don't tell me they're behind, you persnikety preschool assessment people. I'll never forget hating on them. Not that I'm bitter.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I put them on that big old bus to send them to preschool to learn to talk like everyone else (like that's important), unstrapped, just loose to fly all over the place. They had to go over two sets of railroad tracks to get to the school. Part of the way was a divided highway. Some of it was a two lane road with a ditch next to it. Dang you Wood County and your bus eating ditches. (Back before I was worried about the ditches eating the car, I was pretty convinced they could gulp down a cheese wagon.) <br />
<br />
A&P hollered and moaned. I gasped and beat my chest like a tribal medicine woman being attacked by a python. It was horrible. I found out later that the neighbors watched the whole thing. Like we were their own personal Telemundo- all the thrashing and wailing but without the priest or the kidnapping or the subtitles.<br />
<br />
A&P finally got on that giant bus. They were the only children on it. I ran to my car and I chased that giant bus. I wanted to make sure that if it ran into the ditch I could fish the boys out through the window. Screw the bus driver, she could save herself. At a stop light, I actually made the mistake of pulling up next to the right side of the bus. I peered into the bus for a glimpse and to my horror the bus driver opened the door and gave me the "roll down your window, you psycho" sign. So I did. "Go to work," she said. And I did. After I fluffed up my shrub costume so I'd be ready for recess.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-31336472329156516952012-10-21T19:40:00.002-04:002012-10-21T19:40:58.832-04:00Is it a Felony if...<span style="font-size: large;">One</span> of the benefits of teaching a kid to drive is the full service fill ups. On Monday, I was heading out of town and it only made sense for me to take advantage. Lucky for me, as soon as we got in the car, a co-worker called me back. I'd been waiting all day to talk to him, so I had to do it then, and I wasn't the one driving, so no harm no foul. All was well until the kid pulled into the gas station just as some maniac was circling the lot in a big expensive car (something I'd rather not pay for). My child was oblivious to this meandering menace and continued to approach the pump. Sensing impending doom and another deductible to pay (already 2 so far in October), I scream <span style="font-size: large;">"BRAKE! NOW! DO IT NOW! BRAKE!"</span><br />
<br />
The unsuspecting and now audibly victimized co-worker says "Hey, I can call you back...." No way, I scream. I've been waiting to talk to you all day. "I don't like how this sounds. It sounds dangerous," he says pensively. What? No way. How could this be anything less than safe- being driven around town by a 15 year old. I do it all the time!<br />
<br />
You're too close to the pump, I say. Do it again. Oh MY GOLLY you're going to rip off the mirror. Do it again. OK, that's better. <br />
<br />
The beleaugered co-worker says sheepishly "<span style="font-size: x-small;">Hey I made my wife do all the driving with our kids, now I know why</span>." Did your wife end up in rehab? Did she leave you? Do you hate her? Does she have PTSD?<br />
<br />
To the kid I say "Take the credit card, fill up the tank." The kid looks at me like I just fell from a rotating, celestial orb and says "I don't remember how." <span style="font-size: large;">WHAT? <span style="font-size: small;">I holler like he's just put my clothing on a wire hanger</span>. Just FILL UP MY TANK</span>. The coworker is again molested and mumbles something about the building being on fire and needing to hang up. <span style="font-size: large;">My Eye, it's sponteously combusting</span>. I continue with call only to see the kid tapping on the window waving the credit card and mouthing "What do I do with this?" He's filling the car all appears OK, but he should not be waving the card so I get out anyway. Did you put it in the machine? "Um no. " That's a problem. I'm so distracted that we almost commited a fuel drive off while my coworker is burning up in his office. Did you know the kid's dad is a prosecutor? I'm already on such thin ice with the fam, Jesus, the CIA, the Southern Conference of Evangelical Baptists.<br />
<br />
We survived, the tank got filled, we made it home and I spent the week dashing about. I'm pretty cranky about the dashing so we'll just leave it at that and say that I'm awfully happy to sleep in my own bed occasionally. The other thing that totally blows about being gone so much is that the boys visibly grow when I'm not paying attention. And want to drive cars. They used just want french fries. *Sigh* For anyone that knows us, Andrew is on the left.<br />
<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-11994450190614944602012-10-14T16:19:00.001-04:002012-10-14T16:19:17.079-04:00OwlsDriving has gotten a little easier inasmuch as I don't fear for my life as much as last month. I figured out that drinking first is very helpful and takes the edge off for me as a passenger- like an Ativan before a flight. This was a technique recommended to me by my insurance agent so it's a sanctioned driving lesson strategy.* <br />
<br />
Wahoo! Let's get on the expressway to practice lane changes... <br />
<br />
Kid: I'm changing lanes and checked the mirror<br />
Me: You'd better look again<br />
Kid: I already looked. You're such a worry wart. Besides, what do you think will happen? Some Fiat will sneak in behind that truck?<br />
Me: Yes and stop swerving when you turn your head because I'll spill this open container.<br />
<br />
How does that happen exactly? Turn your head to the left and the car shoots to the right when you rotate the wheel in the same manner as your neck. Problematic for sure when you're speeding along next to a concrete wall. <br />
<br />
Me: <span style="font-size: large;">*Screaming*</span> You can't do that!<br />
Kid: Do what?<br />
Me: <span style="font-size: large;">Try to kill us!</span><br />
Kid: Stop yelling! We're fine! I can explain why I did that!<br />
Me: Explain to me why my drink is in my lap<br />
<br />
The other kid has similar issues, but instead of looking over his right shoulder to check before changing lanes- he brilliantly opts to look right and attempt to rotate his head 360 degrees to check the left lane. <br />
<br />
Me: What the hell are you doing?<br />
Kid: You said hell<br />
Me: There's more of that if you don't stop trying to turn your head around backwards. Are you Beetlejuice? An owl? <br />
<br />
Me: You just did it again!<br />
Kid: What?<br />
Me: You are not Linda Blair<br />
<br />
Me: Turn your head THE OTHER WAY<br />
Kid: Seriously, why do I have to do that. I checked the mirrors<br />
Me: I'm irrational and my drink is on my lap, turn your head<br />
Kid: Holy cow- there's an entire truck with a boat trailer back there<br />
Me: Ta- da!<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Don't send me links to rehab units. Although, on second thought, please do send those, I'll bookmark them for later. Just make sure they're beach front, staffed by Dr Drew and washed up celebrities so I can feel superior in my sickness.</span><br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-15013896072460397882012-09-24T21:28:00.001-04:002012-09-24T21:30:43.480-04:00Burning RubberThe first rule of driving, living, being a mountain climbing sherpa, or bass hand fishingperson is to be defensive. Always plan on someone else doing something so stupid and ridiculous that you find yourself saying "I can't make this shit up." As it happens, I say that all the time.<br />
<br />
Whilst driving home from church to pick up the tent that we were supposed to take on the first trip (Note: you cannot protect yourself from your own stupidity), I witnessed the irritation of a 15 year old temp holding vehicle operator expressing frustration with the "old person driving like she's old and insane." To his credit, she was kind of old- not like 45 old, so even I thought she was old. She drove so slow that the kid (late braker, in this case) was getting a bit antsy. And then, in the middle of an intersection, in a residential neighborhood this pyschopath did a u-turn and drove on the grass to turn around. Late Braker's eyes were like saucers. I can't make this shit up.<br />
<br />
Every day I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to keep others from enacting cockamamie schemes to do one thing or another. I wish I knew how to karate chop these dumb ideas out of the thinker's skull before it becomes a fully articulated scheme. I'm sure this is justifiable violence.Also, not fabricated horse pucky. Maybe this paragraph should be saved for my inside voice but it's just that defensive mechanism thing.<br />
<br />
Anyway, Late Braker drove the minivan this weekend and managed to squeal the tires, although not spectacularly like Tire Squealer. I'm starting to feel inadequate that I don't go peeling out of the lot at the grocery store with those 3 gallons of milk and Eggo waffles in a cloud of smoke. That's living that could be enhanced with some needless road noise. And maybe some high caffeine energy drinks.<br />
<br />
I guess this is one of those times when you can learn stuff from your kids- the restorative power of a little noise. Here I am trying to help them aniticipate the u-turning, grass squashing idiots and I could be venting all sorts of energy on rubber burning off on the pavement and supporting their efforts to do the same.<br />
<br />
Can you imagine having to deal with all of this as sherpa?Teaching some teenagers to drive and peeling out my tires on the way to work everyday sure beats keeping some yokel from plunging into a crevasse. I can't make this shit up.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-30095907532841433322012-09-16T20:51:00.001-04:002012-09-16T20:51:10.383-04:00Late Braker and Tire SquealerIt's been another fun filled weekend of teen driving in our house. I'm envisioning my own MTV reality show kind of like "16 and Pregnant" but instead called "15 with Temps." The show would be essentially the same- lots of crying and gnashing of teeth- some yelling- some swearing- some drinking- some hurling. This is all within 5 miles of the house. I wonder if Adele would sing one of her sad songs for the opening credits.<br />
<br />
To protect the innocent, I won't use names. Twin A is Late Braker (LB). Twin B <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">is Tire Squealer (TS). </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">LB is a pain in the ass. Try driving along and thinking about how long you could possibly go without braking for the dead stopped traffic in front of you. Now count to 4. Now brake. That's a dang Late braker. To prevent what seems like the inevitable collision, his howling Mom's instructions require him to leave a football field between him and the cars in front of him so we may look strange driving around and stopping at stop lights a 1/4 mile away. It's self preservation.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">Did you know that if you pull really hard on the passenger door and lean to the left, it is still impossible to will a vehicle that you are not in control of back onto the roadway? Just checking.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">I had no idea that the tires could squeal on our boring old family minivan. That was until TS hopped in the drivers seat and drove us home from Mexican dinner when I was too lazy (read: bone dead tired) to cook dinner. TS settled himself in and declared that the boat of a minivan was the coolest thing he's ever driven. Interesting for his 2nd vehicle, but I'm not counting. Then, he floored it and we all hit the back of our seats with tires squealing. There must have been smoke. This was pulling out of the parking space. I've never heard the car make that noise. TS was thrilled. TS's father had by this time assumed a crash position in the back seat and was reciting traffic violations from memory from the Ohio Revised Code along with the punishments sure to be dealt out by an unsympathetic magistrate. TS could have cared less. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">We had the misfortune of allowing TS to drive the minivan again only to have him squeal the tires at a very busy intersection in the middle of town. People were staring at us. Isn't it supposed to be the kids who don't want to be seen with the parents? I wanted to slap on a wig and change clothes so as to avoid being recognized with this child turned maniacal minivan racer. I'm waiting for him to give up on using the doors and start hopping through the window like it's the General Lee.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">A friend of mine told me that she only ever let her kid drive in the cemetery. If only I had been that smart.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-7213266869573797692012-09-09T20:48:00.002-04:002012-09-09T20:48:51.680-04:00At Least the Bumper Won't Be ItchyThis teen driving thing is pretty intense. I'm glad I don't have a heart condition and I'm hoping that the crushing chest pain is merely anxiety. One kid waits entirely too long to brake leaving me with visions of sitting inside the trunk of that Lexus in front of us. The other kid can't stay between the lines, weaving back and forth like he's speeding along in a miniature Shriner car and coming precariously close to the curb, river, ditch, giant tree, whatever. Meanwhile, I take deep cleansing breaths and watch small snippets of my life flash before my eyes. After a particularly harrowing ride with Son #2 today, and with our entire family at risk in the car, he squealed up the driveway as I gripped the seat with one hand and covered my eyes with the other. "You're supposed to accelerate into the turns, Mom." Sure. He then peeled into the garage while all of us screamed, out loud this time and all I could think about what how the dining room might be redecorated to accentuate the Volkswagon that would now grace the west wall. Alas, he applied the brakes, but not before squishing the heck out what was ever in front of the car and we saw a fountain of clear liquid shoot into the air. I thought this was gas and had visions of the house bursting into flames. Tim shot out of the backseat like a rocket, ran around the car to find that Son #1 had flattened a gallon jug of poison ivy killer. The next time we end up in a ditch, at least the car won't be at risk for a rash. Awesome.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-29410097135043314342012-09-04T20:28:00.001-04:002012-09-04T20:28:22.873-04:00Why Yes, Please Take Me out For Ice CreamI just came back from teaching Peter how the fill the car with gas. On the
way to the gas station he said, "how am I going to pull up next to the pump?"
Very carefully. I didn't tell him that I once drove away with the nozzle still
in my car- ripping it off of the pump (Dave's Marathon, Elkhart, Indiana c.
1989). Peter asked a lot of questions about paying for gas which causes me some
concern. Maybe he was just interested and not planning a drive off.<br />
<br />
In Ohio you have to have the kids drive with you for 50 hours (in addition to
24 hours of driving school and 10 hours with an instructor). The 50 hours for 2
kids at the same time is a lot of driving- it's like I need a sabbatical fron
work to have the time to teach them to drive. A few weeks ago when we started,
they were pretty tentative and I feared for pedestrians and parked cars. I told
them they had to drive to the school for the back to school orientation and they
flipped out because they would have to park the car in the parking lot at the
high school- No way are we driving, they hollered. We'll have to park! I assured
them that whenever you drive a car, you eventually have to park it- or crash it
into a ditch. The former being the preference They also both still have the
tendency to hug the side of the road like they're working for the postal
service. I'm surprised we still have the mirror. But, they're getting better and
I no longer curl my toes or bash my foot onto the floor trying to make the car
stop at every stop light- only occasionally. I do scream and assume the crash
position and pray out loud, when the situation warrants it, like when I think we
might be going airborne over a bump. Did you know this place used to be a swamp?
That means that all of the roads are lined with giant, super deep ditches that
eat cars. How fun do you think it is to stare down into one of those things when
your kid is pretending to deliver mail that he doesn't have? That's right, you'd
scream too. As a matter of fact, you can scream right now on my behalf if you
want.<br />
<br />
I let Andrew drive through McDonald's to get his caramel frappe thing that he
likes and he drove up onto the curb in the drive through. Instead of backing up
and before I could talk him off the curb, he floored the gas and the car lurched
and tires squealed and we rocketed into the line without killing anyone. After I
realized that I was still alive enough to pay for his frappe, I've never laughed
so hard in my life. Tonight I let Peter drive us through for ice cream (I
figured after the gas experience we deserved a treat). He had a hard time
figuring out what window to roll down and hit the windshield wipers a few times.
He said that the driving is getting easier, but it's all the gadgets that are a
problem.<br />
<br />
Anyway, we're all still alive and now I have someone to drive me to the
grocery store and get my gas for a 100 or so hours. And to get me ice cream. So
I don't starve when we land in the ditch.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-86161942978764843892012-02-02T20:07:00.000-05:002012-02-02T20:07:28.635-05:00We're Having a FightWe argue about absolutely everything in our house. The inmates and the management have a series of disagreements as noted below. <em>Management (italicized)</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Types of mustard?</strong> <em>Dijon?</em> You're a fool.<br />
<strong>Politics?</strong> Andrew ripped up the note left by a conservative city council member in our front door. I don't like this person. <em>Honestly, it's City Council and they're not trying to put a colony on the moon populated by outcast Perrybsurg residents. On the upside, I have convinced Andrew that Mitt is short for "Mittens."</em><br />
<strong>The Drinking Age?</strong> <em>This is a big deal</em>. It's 21, maybe it should be 18.<em> (Um, no, it's not).</em> In Belgium it's 14, are you going to stop me from drinking in Belgium. <em>Um, ya.Or you can drink and then try to get up at 6am to go through a Flemish art exhibit. Your choice.</em><br />
<strong>Laundry </strong><em>There is not a vortex around the laundry basket.</em> Yes there is.<em> No, there's not- you're just a lazy slob.</em> Maybe my arms are broken. Don't you feel sorry for me?<br />
<strong>Clean Clothes</strong>. <em>Fold your clothes. I washed them, you fold.</em> What? Am I your slave?<em> As a matter of fact, yes, yes you are.</em><br />
<strong>Homework</strong> <em>Is it done?</em> Of course, it's mostly done. <em>Mostly done doesn't count.</em> Yes it does, I'll do it later. <em>Why do it later if you can do it now?What if there's an asteroid? </em>As if.<br />
<strong>On Leaving early</strong> I don't need to leave now. You're evil. <em>Yes, I'm evil, you need to be early</em>. Being early is for nerds. <em>Are you kidding me? I'm never late. If you're on time, you're late. So leave early.</em> No, I can't be seen early. <em>What? </em><br />
<strong>The couch</strong> <em>You're taking up 2/3 of the couch.</em> So what, I'm 6 foot 4. <em>I don't care, I bought the couch.</em> <em>Move over.</em> No, I can't fit there.<em> Then sit on the floor.</em> That's abuse.<em> So be it.</em>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-42000438278204325152012-01-26T18:48:00.000-05:002012-01-26T18:48:31.566-05:00Weird Stress DreamsAndrew just told me that I blog when I'm stressed. I've been gritting my teeth all day. My jaw hurts, but I'm pretty sure I could crush marbles.<br />
<br />
I know I'm whacked out when I have weird dreams. Last night, I was a volunteer in an orphanage. I went from room to room and picked up babies. (Weirder still is that I do not like babies. OK, before you send me hate mail, some babies are OK, but they're gooey and smelly and they make funny noises. Yes, I had them, but that wasn't my favorite.) So there I was the baby-phobe manhandling babies. I kind of took a shine to a baby named Derek. Derek suddenly turned into a 3 year old with really broad shoulders and a head that looked like he could smash rocks. But I kind of liked Derek so I picked him up and of course Tim was standing there because anyone can appear at any time in any dream. I said "Hey, I want to adopt Derek." Before Tim could even start to scream, the smart card fell out of Derek and he broke into little lego sized pieced. Poof. Gone. Wow, I said to the orphanage people, I broke your baby. Incidentally, you might want to warn people that your babies are run off of microchips. Then I woke up.<br />
<br />
Strange. Not as strange as the recurring elephant nightmare I used to have as a kid. I was in a large circus tent full of elephants that were multiplying at a rapid clip and I was running out of air. Poof, I'd wake up. I think I had that dream like 400 times and it still gives me the creeps. Hopefully Derek doesn't reappear since I smashed his smart card. Again, that was an accident. I'm not homicidal. Honest.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-80716634545123843942012-01-16T18:50:00.000-05:002012-01-16T18:50:40.672-05:00Crazy'Tis interesting that in all the few years that I've been slogging through this blog that I've never titled a blog, "Crazy." Considering that I feel crazy most of the time perhaps there's not generally a need to actually label the girl as actually "crazy." I prefer "sanity challenged."<br />
<br />
The "management" continues to have issues with the "tenants" (read teenagers). For one, what gives with the locking yourself in the bathroom whenever there's a request to do something difficult like, get up out of the bed you've been ensconced in for 12 hours or to turn off the light in your room? I have keys to the bathroom so locking yourself in there does nothing but make me see those little stars in my peripheral vision (my own personal Leonid meteor shower). <br />
<br />
However, the management did have one break- through with at least one tenant this week. I keep saying "You have to have a plan. Have a plan. Make up a plan. Strive for something- for so help me God and as God as my witness and we may be dealing with an angry Old Testament God- if you are living in my basement some day, I will just do something undesirable in your general direction."(I don't know what and I'm not commiting to what thing I might do because I shouldn't be using the energy to think about this.)<br />
<br />
You know what? One of them came up with a plan. It's a plan that actually has some potential and it involves cash money and college tuition (not paid by me, although I'll happily pay) and a job and an occupation. Of course, I'm not holding the tenant, I mean kid, to this. But, it's a plan!<br />
<br />
The other kid doesn't have a plan and no matter how many conversation hearts I speed eat while I type this, I cannot impose upon him a plan. I suppose he'll come up with something one of these days. I hope it involves cash money and maybe a Winnebago for me and Tim. That would be nice.<br />
<br />
Back to the crazy, if I have to explain where the crazy fits into all this, then you don't know me at all. For the record, I feel very sane except for the stars.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-69380140632125012162012-01-09T19:15:00.000-05:002012-01-09T19:15:39.177-05:00The Nun and Some KleenexI met with my very favorite nun again today despite the fact that the world was conspiring against me. <br />
<br />
At 7:01 am I pushed the button to open the garage so A&P could catch the bus. Nothing happened. After pounding on the button, still nothing happened. Tim came to the rescue. Thank goodness we can pull the red hanging emergency rope to get out of the garage! It came off in his hand. <br />
<br />
By this time, A&P were on the bus and me and Tim were standing in the garage in our robes trying to figure out how to get out-like rats in a one box maze. A few bolts removed here and there and we were free until I couldn't find my keys and I was further delayed. Do you ever wonder if the universe is delaying you so that you don't get wiped out by an asteroid or something while you're waiting at a stop light? No such thing fell in P-burg today, but it could have and I made it to work alive.<br />
<br />
After all that, I made it to see the nun too. I asked her if God broke the door and hid my keys. She is so cool and calm. It's probably because she doesn't have children. Although, she does live with other nuns and apparently nuns can be kind of tough to live with. I may have her beat because I'm certain that nuns don't leave underwear in the middle of the bathroom floor for two weeks until the other nuns flip out and demand it be removed or there will be "sanctions" from the "management."<br />
<br />
I'm also certain that A&P are funnier than those nuns. We've had a running commentary with A&P for the last week and a half about our trip to the post office to file our passport applications. Next to us at the counter was a lady mailing a very big box. Her parcel was packed into a giant box that had shipped Kleenex at one point in time. She answered appropriately when the postal service representative inquired as to the presence of explosives, liquids or other illegal substances. Good for her but it got Peter to thinking, why was she shipping all that Kleenex. We roared and laughed and pointed at him and made him feel small whilst we hooted. "Seriously," we scolded, "it's the shipping box!"<br />
<br />
Indignant, Peter replied cooly, "How do you know that? Maybe she bought some Kleenex online from Amazon, doesn't like it and is returning it."<br />
<br />
We chortled some more.<br />
<br />
"You don't know that there isn't Kleenex in there! Maybe she has a relative with a cold."<br />
<br />
I laughed so hard that I snorted. (I hate it when that happens. I think I did that at work today, but not in front of the nun.)<br />
<br />
The Kleenex debate is renewed almost daily. Peter's still convinced the lady was shipping Kleenex, but maybe he's right. Regardless, we still whoop and wail it's so funny.<br />
<br />
Nuns laugh, but I bet they don't snort. If the garage doesn't open tomorrow and my keys are misplaced, I'm not going to try so hard to leave. I'll curl up with some Kleenex and call it a day in case the asteroid is coming.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-21615143129722920542011-12-20T18:26:00.000-05:002011-12-20T18:26:32.721-05:00Good EnoughThere's a fine line between perfection and good enough. Or if you ask the nun I've been working with for the last few months (she's been helping me learn how to stop being insane and just "be." I'm not sure if it's working or not- OK, it's not), it's a big chasm between perfection and good enough. <br />
<br />
(She's a delightful, very centered nun. Probably perfect although I would get in trouble for saying that.)<br />
<br />
<strong>Perfection</strong>: Eye Liner, mascara, contoured eye shadow and $150 eye cream<br />
<strong>Good Enough</strong>: Glasses. No one can see the bloodshot eyes because of the glare.<br />
<br />
<strong>Perfection</strong>: Iced martini glass, frozen shaker, filtered water ice cubes with suspended raspberries, Dutch vodka and lemon liquor and sugar rimmed crystal glass.<br />
<strong>Good Enough</strong>: Mid Shelf Vodka and a straw (note that even in the good enough category, it is UNACCEPTABLE to use the bottom shelf.)<br />
<br />
<strong>Perfection</strong>: Even keeled response to all stressful professional situations. (No threats of homicide or bodily injury on myself or others either for affect or as a true threat to the general public.)<br />
<strong>Good Enough</strong>: Feeling hateful and occasionally spitting.<br />
<br />
<strong>Perfection</strong>: Dressed and fed children reading "War and Peace" on Christmas break while studying ahead for winter finals.<br />
<strong>Good Enough</strong>: Out of bed before noon, dressed by 5pm, please A&P. And there are frozen waffles, knock yourselves out.<br />
<br />
If I can only <span style="background-color: yellow;">pound </span>this into my thick, thick skull: good enough is all that anyone asks of you, me or that lady down the street with the perfect Christmas lights. The little voice in the back of my head is really bothered by the laundry in the bathroom and the fruit flies and the cat hair and the dust on the floor in the hall. Said another way, if God wanted things to be perfect I'm certain we wouldn't be celebrating a stable and some stinky shepherds with their equally foul sheep with the accompanying excrement. Or those wise men? Really, Frankincense, aren't those stinky bath salts that the kid can smoke to get high? A savings bond would be way more appropriate.<br />
<br />
Lastly, even without the perfect combo of 5 fruits and vegetables per day, my monster children are 6 foot 3 at age 14. God obviously allows for some wiggle room on the requirements.<br />
<br />
I declare this post, good enough. If I say it 100 times, maybe I'll believe it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-76838046913502624412011-12-15T20:07:00.000-05:002011-12-15T20:07:39.476-05:00RetoolingHere's what's going on my head.<br />
<br />
Should I blog? Nah, it's too much work. Easier to drink at night and then fall asleep drooling on the pillow. <br />
<br />
Wait, someone might think I have a problem. (Define, problem? I'm above ground, how bad can it be?)<br />
<br />
I can't blog about nearly 15 year old boys because that's embarrassing. Somehow, along the line, I became embarrassing. This probably occurred around the time I dropped some kids off at school in my Christmas pajamas and it was May and sunny at 7:30 in the morning and everyone could see that my jammies had Christmas ornaments on them. <br />
<br />
It's been an interesting few months. I won't bore you but suffice it to say we're all still kicking. This reminds me, speaking of kicking, hold one moment, while I scream the following (it's like in real time!)<br />
<br />
Me: PETER! ARE YOU PLANNING ON DOING ANYTHING WITH YOUR LAUNDRY?<br />
<br />
Peter: Ya, when this show is over.<br />
<br />
Me: THAT'S STUPID. JUST GO PUT YOUR CLOTHES IN THE DRYER.<br />
<br />
Peter: 5 minutes.<br />
<br />
Honestly. Turn off the lights. Pick up the shoes. Push in the chair. Don't smoke dope. Use your napkin. Stay away from whores. It's really rather simple.<br />
<br />
I thought if I turned to God that maybe I'd have a better chance of raising the urchins or at least keeping one of them out of prison. I'm pretty sure you have to push the chairs in at prison. I'm pretty sure that God doesn't think I've got this under control.<br />
<br />
At dinner tonight:<br />
<br />
Me: PLEASE DON'T USE DOPE. I read some article about high school students and reefer and I'm totally freaked out. <br />
<br />
Kid: I don't use marijuana, Mom.<br />
<br />
Me: Well then stop watching that reefer madness show and telling me how much money you could make if you moved to California and opened your own dope pharmacy.<br />
<br />
Kid: It's just a show.<br />
<br />
Me: I'm turning off the cable. Don't do stupid stuff.<br />
<br />
Kid: Like in college when you hid in the bushes so you didn't get arrested? Dumb like that Mom?<br />
<br />
<br />
So, to blog or not to blog. What comes out of my head and onto the fingertips may be a problem.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-20712695608828533302011-05-27T17:48:00.000-04:002011-05-27T17:48:57.524-04:00SexI knew that would get your attention. And this post really is about sex, or not having any.<br />
<br />
So when you're 14 and on your way to High School in the fall, there's stuff that needs to be discussed. Some people don't like to discuss it and I am sitting in a house of 4 people that would rather debate the efficacy of mold retardants than talk about sex.<br />
<br />
After confirmation, the church decided it was really important to beat the confirmands senseless with what they should and should definitely not be doing in high school, or anywhere while in high school. In our case, knocking up young ladies. There were two sessions about keeping yourself pure and A&P were hauled to both of them. <br />
<br />
I tried in vain to get information about what was presented. I got nothing. I was getting most of my information from a friend whose son told her everything. Feeling jealous and let down, I figured I was being frozen out of the purity information. But I thought I'd try anyway.<br />
<br />
Wednesday at dinner I said to them "Just tell me one thing that you learned at church." Peter replied, "one in four people has an STD." Hey, that's pleasant. I kept myself together and asked "What do you do to keep from getting an STD?" Loaded question, not sure where this is going to go.... Andrew says emphatically, "KEEP YOUR PANTS ON!" Oh good. That's great advice. Every time you leave the house for the rest of your life, I will implore you to KEEP YOUR PANTS ON. They learned something!<br />
<br />
Later when downloading with Tim, he confessed that Peter had shared in the car on the way home that one in four people has an STD. This is how this conversation went.<br />
<br />
P: One in 4 people has an STD<br />
T: Well, I don't have an STD... so I'm pretty sure neither of you has an STD.... and there are 4 people in our family... who does that leave?<br />
<br />
Nice, thanks.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-10154205021796073182011-04-23T18:17:00.000-04:002011-04-23T18:17:46.760-04:00An Open Letter to the Reptiles in my YardDear Mr Toad,<br />
<br />
I know you have a place in the food chain. You probably eat bugs or something. But can I offer you a bit of advice?<br />
<br />
When you see a giant hand coming at you in the bush, could you hop aside? Is that too much for a girl to ask? I already have a "Prince" so I'm not going to be kissing you and there's no need to sit still. I also don't have any desire to touch you and I'm pretty sure you have salmonella.<br />
<br />
By the way, when you don't move and I see you and nearly touch you while schlepping oak leaves out of the boxwood bush, I scream. This scream echoes all over the neighborhood and everyone things I'm a goofy drunk because two feet behind me is an empty martini glass.<br />
<br />
If at all possible, it would be appreciated if you could spread the word to your reptilian friends- snakes and the like. Oh, and the lizards (snakes with legs) could you tell them too? You're all creepy and too closely camouflaged to all of the leaves and dirt and I can't hardly stand the thought of touching you or seeing you creep away like I didn't almost see you or touch you. Can we just be honest? If I wanted to eat you, you were right there. (I have the willies.)<br />
<br />
Lastly, I'm prejudiced against reptiles in general but I have a high degree of tolerance for leaf peepers. I don't ever see them but they hang out in the Black Swamp vestige behind our house and I love to fall asleep while they're singing. But, Mr Toad, you might take note that they stay far away and I have never screamed at them.<br />
<br />
Thanks for your consideration.<br />
<br />
The Idiot in the HouseAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-49111406765981648322011-04-17T19:49:00.000-04:002011-04-17T19:49:58.789-04:00And Now Something InterestingA&P were camping and backpacking this weekend in the rain and gale. It's all good and it builds some character- just like when I had to walk to school past the creepy houses when I was 4. This is why I am so twitchy.<br />
<br />
Back to A&P, I was concerned that they might get wet so $300 and a trip to Bass Pro later, I felt a little better. Although everything is waterproof, I still had to have the can of waterproofing spray. It felt like insurance.<br />
<br />
Long story short, I never had time to do anything with the waterproofing spray so off they went with the manufacturer's statement that they were waterproof. The spray languished on the counter. After A&P left, I said to myself, "I should really put that away in the cabinet." But then I got distracted by some Mexican food and a carload of girlfriends. Nevermind.<br />
<br />
A&P arrived home today no worse for the wear until Peter tried to wipe me off the planet. (Let's take a moment and recall that Peter is the clown type offspring who turned my dryer into abstract art. He's been on my list.) I walked into the kitchen, minding my own business, not hollering at anyone or even being annoyed despite having just put in a load of rain and topsoil, soggy laundry. Oh no, who cares about that, it builds character.<br />
<br />
When what to my wondering eyes appear, but Peter precariously holding a 12 ounce can of waterproofer. Before I could even draw a breath to swear at myself for neglecting to put it away, he dropped it on the floor where the lid and the white push cap popped off and flew across the kitchen along with a 4 foot stream of high pressure waterproofing silicone spray. With catlike reflexes I lunged for the can thinking I could turn it upside down in the drain of the sink before it turned my kitchen into a glazed toxic waste dump. I grabbed the can and spun around to leap to the sink only to lose contact with the now waterproofed kitchen floor. I went flying and then <span style="font-size: x-large;">THUD</span>. Or maybe it was KA<span style="font-size: x-large;">-THWACK</span>. Or <span style="font-size: x-large;">ARE YOU KIDDING ME, NOW IS WHEN I SELL YOU TO GYPSIES IF THEY'LL EVEN TAKE YOU.</span> <br />
<br />
I managed to crawl off my floor which was now a giant skating rink and dump the can upside down in the garbage disposal. Peter says "<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Hey, sorry about that</span>." Ya, speak up, and me too because I won't be able to move for the next three days.<br />
<br />
On the upside, the kitchen sink is wicking water rather nicely.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-752940783254553420.post-90630763777898499822011-03-27T15:36:00.000-04:002011-03-27T15:36:09.942-04:00Head in the DryerThanks to my Number 2 son, the inside of my high efficiency dryer is purple. <br />
<br />
My husband walked in the the laundry room to remove a load of clothes for Peter to fold when suddenly there was screaming. "Oh my Gosh, this is awful!" and "Oh, come quick!"<br />
<br />
I thought the laundry room was on fire.<br />
<br />
Alas, there were no flames or billows of noxious gas. But the inside of the dryer looked like a monochromatic Jackson Pollock experiment.<br />
<br />
"Did you check the pockets?" I hollered.<br />
<br />
Indignantly and probably correctly my husband responded "No! I told him too!"<br />
<br />
"Since when is a 14 year old trustworthy with any large appliance?" This is the kid who turned chicken nuggets into charcoal by microwaving them for 22 minutes.<br />
<br />
After the yelling and accusatory statements, it fell to me to figure out how to keep the laundry from turning blue or purple for the rest of our lives. I briefly thought about buying a new dryer, but then I remembered an old Heloise trick for removing ball point pen with hairspray. So with my head in the dryer and a 14 year old cloth diaper turned rag, I began spraying the inside of the dryer with hairspray. The fumes were off the hook. I think I saw Jesus in the back of the dryer. Miraculously, whether Jesus was there or not, the ink dripped down in long blue and purple lines. It came off, mostly. We decided the next step was to sacrifice a load of kid laundry before we dared wash a load of white shirts. So far, so good.<br />
<br />
I read a short story once about a lady in England who became so depressed that she turned on the gas and stuck her head in her oven. I wasn't depressed, but angry, and it wasn't a gas oven but an electric dryer filled with an entire can of aerosol hair glue.<br />
<br />
If anyone asks, it's art.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00348222082847062344noreply@blogger.com0