Don’t Thump Your Melon

I’m sneaking out of the office early today to pack for a weekend trip that Hugh, the kids and I are taking. We are going here to spend the long holiday weekend soaking in the hot springs pool and biking the Glenwood Canyon bike trail.

Hugh and I made this same trip seven years ago for our seventh anniversary and a lot has changed since then. Specifically, the children will be with us which means less S-E-X.

More tragically (Hugh: What could be more tragic than less sex?), it means that both Hugh and I will have to wear bike helmets. We always insist that the kids wear theirs so it seems only right and proper that we lead by example. You all know what that means, don’t you? No pictures.

I am all for bike safety and will do whatever it takes to protect my melon but; the resulting helmet-hair is just not something I am willing to inflict upon you all.

You're welcome.

Ok, fine! Maybe one picture.

He Who Forgets History Is Doomed To Repeat It

Once a month; I get wicked cravings for things that are Very Bad For Me. Things like bagels slathered in veggie cream cheese and pink frosted donuts with sprinkles and French fries dipped in chocolate (Ever tried it? No? Do not judge me!). These cravings signal the approach of the Raging PMS Monster and, while I know this, I never fail to ask myself; what the fuck?

And, so it was that I woke up this morning with a strong, nay-urgent-desire for a McGriddles sandwich despite the fact that I have never in my life tasted a McGriddles sandwich and am not entirely certain that they still exist on any McDonald’s menu in the free world. Do they? I have no idea. Still, the thought of eating what is basically a pancake and sausage sandwich caused me to drool in a manner the likes of which Pavlov’s dogs would have admired and once again, I had to ask myself; what the fuck?

Clearly the Raging PMS Monster employs the mind erase tactic demonstrated by Will Smith in that movie, Men in Black; it can be the only explanation.

For the record; I did not eat a McGriddles sandwich this morning.

But, only because I got distracted by a donut first.

I’ll Get You My Pretty

For the past week, The Girl has regaled us with enthusiastic tales of Middle School. She likes her teachers, loves having a locker, takes great responsibility in choosing a healthy lunch from the numerous options provided by the cafeteria and has put the whole nonsense about not having recess behind her. Each morning, she bounced out of bed at the sound of her alarm, dressed with great care, and happily set off on her short walk to the school; her happiness could not have been more complete had bluebirds landed on her shoulders and joined in whistling a freaking tune.

Naturally, for the past week; I have held my breath in silent dread of the moment when something would go horribly wrong and, that moment came yesterday when the child informed me, through a flood of tears, that she had been taken out of her PE class and reassigned to an additional math class. And, even though the teachers had stressed that it wasn’t because she was dumb or anything- just that they felt she needed a little extra practice- they totally made her feel dumb and, just what am I and her father going to do about this injustice?! She needs PE! She needs the exercise! She needs to improve her coordination and to build endurance!

And, yes, while it is true that all her friends are in her PE class and none of them are in the additional math class; that is totally not the point! Exercise, mother! Exercise is the point!

Le sigh.

I am less torn about the situation than I would have thought possible. She needs good math skills in order to do well in life, period. And, I seriously doubt that a semester break from her friends in PE class will prove detrimental to her social skills so; the math class it shall be.

In defense of my choice, I will remind her that I too suffered from a lack of mathematical genius for which my parents opted to have me spend a summer being tutored. Clearly, it didn’t kill me and, contrary to what she might think, I still made friends.

Plus, the case she is pleading tends to fall apart when one considers that this is the same child who routinely brought home low grades in elementary PE. As I recall, Not Participating Adequately being the recurrent memo on her report cards (one of her teachers once asked me what I thought it would take to get her to run the required timed mile and I honestly answered: a hungry lion chasing her. True story).

So, really, my decision has already been made even before I meet with her teachers at tomorrow night’s Back to School Open House and, since Hugh is working some extra hours for the police department while some of the regular officers are taking vacation time; guess who gets to be the bad guy and lock Rapunzel in the horrible Math Tower where she will whither and die on the Social Vine?

I might as well grow a hairy wart on my nose right now.

Bad Boyz, Bad Boyz, Whacha Gonna Do

We had some excitement at the Place of My Employment yesterday; a member of our fine constabulary came into the building and recommended that we go into lockdown whilst he and his colleagues search the immediate vicinity for a fugitive.

And, yes, those are the words that he used; colleagues, lockdown, vicinity, fugitive. So. Exciting!

So, we locked the doors like the good citizens that we are. Then, we climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing where, by virtue of a large picture window, we were able to watch as fifteen members of our police department surrounded a house with their weapons drawn.

Apparently, the search was over and we were now looking at a stand-off between law enforcement and The Fugitive. So, not knowing how long the siege would last and, not being able to go anywhere on account of the whole being in lockdown thing (not to mention the fact that our cars were all blocked into the parking lot by various police cruisers and support vehicles), we did what any reasonable human beings would do; we pulled up some comfy chairs, popped a bag of popcorn and settled in for the show.

Television makes this kind of thing look so glamorous and, you know, dramatic! But, by virtue of being married to Hugh for all these years (fourteen next Tuesday!); I know better. And, now, so do my co-workers; watching the officers stand stock-still holding assault rifles for half an hour while the negotiator tried to talk the guy out of the house got a bit dull, is what I'm saying.

Finally, however, there was some movement around the house in response to which, the officers quickly formed a single-file line and, after some jostling for position, prepared to storm the front door.

Co-Worker I: Oh, oh! Here they go! They’re lining up! Ok, wait! They’re shuffling around! Ok, here they go! No, wait! More shuffling around! God! What is the holdup?!

Co-Worker II: Maybe no one wants to be in front when they break the door down. There is a potentially dangerous fugitive in there, you know.

Co-Worker I: Oh, yeah. So, how do they decide who goes first? (Looking to me for the answer since sleeping with a cop makes me the expert on all matters relating to law enforcement, apparently.)

Chelle: Well, they’ve all been through hours of rigorous tactical training in preparation for just this type of situation.

Co-Worker II: Right! So, what do they do?

Chelle: Rock, Paper, Scissors. Loser goes in first.

Co-Workers I and II: Oh.

Like candy from a baby, people.

Co-Worker I: OH! THERE THEY GO!

And, they did. They kicked the door down and went inside the house and, a half hour and another bag of popcorn later; they brought the guy out, loaded him into a squad car and escorted his ass to jail.

One of the officers, who also happens to have been a groomsman in our wedding (fourteen years ago next Tuesday!), gave us the thumbs-up to unlock the door and our day went back to business as usual.

Now, don’t you think it says a lot about our community and, specifically about our faith in our police officers that we felt safe enough to enjoy a snack during a fugitive stand-off? Yes, yes, it does.

Also, how pathetically boring it must be when something like a police stand-off with a fugitive rates right up there with a new movie release as high entertainment? Yes.

Eh. Either way, it was one less hour that I had to spend at my desk.

It Was a Good Weekend Even If I Am Mean

With school back in session and the end of summer just around the corner, I made an executive decision to ban all neighborhood kids, playmates and other friends of my children from my house this weekend.

As I explained to my children, I wanted a little downtime to decompress from the start of school and to reorganize our household as well as some time to reconnect with each of them on an individual basis.

They reacted as though I had said I was planning to boil their bunny.

Seriously; how could I be so meeeean??!! Why am I trying to ruin their lives? Why?! I am-like-the worst mom, everrr!

Yes. For this I got stretch marks.

All the drama aside, I did manage to decompress quite nicely. For one thing, Emily was kind enough to take the ingrates off my hands for a morning of shopping on Saturday. She treated them each to new school clothes and deli sandwiches and they rewarded her with their very best behavior because, you know, she’s not meeean.

While they were gone, I managed to cross almost everything off my “to do” list and was even able to relax a little bit which was nice. Of course, seven seconds later I realized that I had a sore throat, headache and runny nose and I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening tossing and turning in a fevered semi-catatonic state on the living room couch so, it’s official; the school/germ season is upon us, mucus membranes, beware.

After a good night’s rest and, courtesy of an over-the-counter medication and vigorous foot massage delivered by my devoted husband; I felt much better on Sunday. Well enough, in fact, to spend the day in the kitchen making a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup which I then enjoyed while watching The Kill Shot marathon on Spike TV while my offspring crafted an entire carnival worth of rides out of K’Nex and Tinker Toys for which The Girl's Polly Pockets and Bratz dolls were most grateful.

When I pointed out how well they were getting along and how nice it was to have a quiet day watching them play together, they grudgingly agreed and all was right with my world.

I guess time spent with my kids is worth my being mean every once in a while.

I'm still on the fence about the stretch marks, though.

There Are Starving Children in China

Despite my numerous pleas for him to clean his plate last night; the Man-Cub’s peas remained untouched. When I gently (or, as Hugh would have you believe-in the harpiest way that a harpy ever harped) reminded him that he used to love peas; he agreed. But, he informed me, that that was “back in the day”.

Yes, back in the day. You know, before he became the world’s most absurdly small adult ever to attend the third grade.

Right. Nevertheless, I reminded him that, on this day, as his parent, it was my responsibility to see to it that he got his daily nutritional requirements and, if that meant that he needed to eat his green veggies then, by god he would eat his green veggies. And, furthermore, since I will be his parent for the rest of his days, he could just go ahead and plan on me gently (in the harpiest way that a harpy ever harped) reminding him to eat his veggies until the day they drag my emaciated corpse out of his spare bedroom.

He rolled his eyes but, he ate his peas and; I'm sure there is a small part of him that is impressed with the dedication that I am willing to show to my parental responsibilities. I hope his wife feels the same way.

Well, That Was Anti-Climactic

The Girl and I dropped the Man-Cub off at the elementary school first this morning. We walked him to his classroom, met his teacher, waited while he stowed his belongings at his assigned desk and then kissed him goodbye on the playground. His farewell to us was typical; “Seez ya, bye!” and, he was off to wreak havoc on the monkey bars with the rest of the third-grade boys.

At the Middle School (once again, a little vomit at the back of my throat; not pleasant), The Girl and I entered the building where we were greeted by a throng of students, none of whom appeared terribly nervous. Unfortunately, they didn’t appear terribly knowledgeable about the first day procedures, either so; I volunteered to seek out some assistance. Before I did, a boy belonging to some of our family friends approached The Girl and asked to see her class schedule and, being an entire year older than her; proceeded to fill her in on her new teachers while I staked out my place in the line forming at the information desk.

When I got back to The Girl, after having been instructed to take her to the first class listed on her schedule, she was talking to an older girl who I recognized from one of the various cheerleading camps that The Girl has attended over the years. The older girl had been dropping her younger brother off at the school before heading to the High School for the first day of her Senior year. She assured The Girl that it was perfectly normal to be a little nervous and admitted that she was, too. Then, she offered to walk The Girl to her classroom, you know, if The Girl and I wanted her to. I left the decision up to The Girl and…

….let’s see…arrive at her new classroom with her mother or…. with a high school cheerleader….hmmm......whatever would she decide?

Exactly.

So, I accepted defeat gracefully and asked her if she wanted a kiss or if I should just walk away. She thought about it, momentarily, and compromised by asking for a hug. So, we hugged it out and the last I saw of her, she was cruising down the hallway with the senior cheerleader as the son of our family friends trailed enviously in their wake.

I think she’s going to be ok.

And, I didn’t throw up.

It Must Be Tuesday

Because, Volunteer TMI is on duty at the front desk. So far, I haven’t had to listen to anything regarding her bodily functions but she did tell me all about her television viewing habits. And, lord, are they B-O-R-I-N-G. So, after much discussion; I think I have convinced her to give Big Brother 8 a shot, not because I am totally loving this season but because I think she may just find a simpatico soul in Evil Dick, who also tends to share too much information with those around him.

Also, he is evil. And, a dick.

Neither of which describes Volunteer TMI, just to clarify. She is a bit on the over-sharing side but sweet, nonetheless.

Speaking of over-sharing; tomorrow is the kids first day of school and my digestive tract is in a serious state of upheaval at the thought of my baby girl joining the ranks of the Middle Schoolers (bite me, SpellCheck). Let’s all say a little prayer that she doesn’t fall victim to the evil influences that she may come into contact with.

On the other hand, if she does fall victim to them; I’m totally signing her up for Big Brother 18.

Some Days You’re The Windshield

And, some days you’re the bug; I’m having a buggy day today.

In better news, the Barbies made it to Colorado and, if everything went according to plan; closed on their new house today. We had the good fortune of spending Friday evening with them and a good time was had by all. My children got to spend some time with their cousin and he got to experience Bossy Older Sibling Syndrome at it’s finest which, being an only child; probably blew his little mind. The funny thing is; the bossiness was directed at him by the Man-Cub who is, as we all realize, not his sibling.

Saturday, I had the pleasure of working (I just threw up in my mouth a little) at an event hosted by our city’s civic center. The event was ill-conceived from it’s inception, as I knew it would be and; I regard the entire thing as a waste of my time. Time that I could have spent with my children on the last weekend before their respective conscription to nine months of indentured servitude or, you know, school.

On the bright side; there were cookies. Lots and lots of cookies.

Of course, after eating said cookies; I was fairly worthless for the remainder of the evening. I did manage to supervise the children’s sleep-overs, however. And, while The Girl and her friend slept on the trampoline and the Cub and his friend slept in a make-shift tent upstairs, Hugh and I watched Vacancy and Disturbia, both of which I made it through, awake.

Which explains the two-hour nap that I needed on Sunday.

Which explains why I could not fall asleep later that night and why my ass is dragging today. It’s a vicious cycle and it all started with those fucking cookies.

Heed my warning folks; cookies be the devil.

The Chicken Dance; Not Just For Weddings

Hugh has been cooking dinner a lot, lately. I credit that to the fact that he and his grill are still in the honeymoon phase of their relationship and, until the bloom is off that particular rose; I intend to milk it for all it’s worth.

So, a couple of nights ago, Hugh decided to break in the grill's rotisserie attachment and we agreed that Cornish game hens would be the perfect thing with which to do so. I was unprepared, however, for how vulnerable the poor little things would look as they were being impaled upon the rotisserie rod.

Sensing my discomfort, Hugh attempted levity by dancing one of the poor bastards across the counter top to the tune of Boogie Wonderland. It didn't really help. Nor did his baby-chicken ventriloquist act for that matter. I was totally sad for those little birds.

In fact, it was all I could do to eat one of the poor bastards after Hugh had basted it with his special marinade and roasted it to a fine, juicy finish.

I powered through though; I’m a trooper that way.

(It was delicious)

Tonight, we are meeting Younger Sister and her family in a neighboring town for dinner at the Olive Garden. They are on their way through to Denver where they will have the final walk-through on their new house before the closing on Monday. I’m so excited for them and can’t wait to see them.

Also, another night that I don’t have to cook and I won’t have to see my food dance across the kitchen before I eat it.

Win-win!

I Knew It

A few of you have admitted to having the dream about not being able to open your school locker or something similar; I knew I wasn’t alone.

For the record, Hugh denies ever having had such a dream. He also claims to have never dreamed that he was flying or falling from a high building; two dreams that I have on occasion. In the flying dream; I am soaring over my childhood elementary school so, apparently; my education was the stuff of which nightmares are made.

Further proving that point, during times of great stress; I sometimes dream that I am in a college classroom, taking a final exam after having ditched the entire semester of class. I have, according to my husband; weird dreams.

Also, sometimes I lift my left arm in the air, stroke it with my right hand, sigh and repeat with the right arm, all while in a deep sleep. This is way more embarrassing to admit than having a few wack dreams.

On the other hand, I have never been heard singing Bad, Bad Leroy Brown in my sleep, unlike some people who will remain nameless.

HUGH.

36-24-36*

As of 8:00 this morning, The Girl is an almost 100% officially registered Middle Schooler (Look! I totally just made up a word! Go, me!). We still have to write a check for her PE uniform and various other fees ($50! Who says public education is free?!) but, she is all set, otherwise.

She seems fairly excited about the prospect of starting the sixth grade although, as one would expect; she has her anxieties. For starters, she is concerned about adjusting to a schedule that no longer includes recess.

Yes, I know; cry me a river, sister.

On the other hand, I have to empathize with both her Fear of Not Being Able to Find Her Assigned Locker and Fear of Not Being Able to Open Said Locker, since I still have that bad dream on occasion.

What? You don’t? Liar.

Anyway, Hugh has done his best to allay those particular fears by providing The Girl with a combination lock on which to practice at home and, in the latest timed test, she opened it in less than seven seconds so; I think she’ll be just fine.

On a totally unrelated note, the senior volunteer on duty today at Place of My Employment just came into my office for the sole purpose of telling me how badly constipated she was this morning. It hurt and everything. But, it’s ok; she took something for it and now she’s all….

Oops! She has to run! That stuff is kicking in!

Ten bucks says that conversation features heavily in my next recurring nightmare.

*The combination to my nightmare gym locker, not my measurements. Although, I wish.

This Entry Has No Point

Friday night was the Man-Cub’s last night of football camp. Hugh and I spent the hour and a half lounging on the grass on the football field while The Girl walked around the track. Once she starts Middle School, she told us; she will be expected to run many, many miles around the track in PE class and she just wanted to be prepared. Which, would make exactly ONE time in the history of her PE experience that she has shown any desire whatsoever to participate; I think I might like Middle School after all.

Ok, not really. But, walk on, daughter! Walk on!

The Cub enjoyed the camp immensely. He might have been the smallest kid on the field but, he has heart.

Like Keanu Reeves in The Replacements. Only, without the line dancing.

Where was I? Oh, yes...so, The Cub practiced throwing passes and showed great talent in receiving and he tackled the practice dummy-thingie-me-bopper (yes, Father; I’m sure it does have an actual name but I don’t know what it is) like a pro. All in all, even though the jersey they gave him to wear during the practice scrimmage looked more like it was wearing him; he kept up with the big boys quite admirably.



I’m still not sold on the whole football thing though.

Hugh: He’s only the smallest kid out there because he is the youngest.
Chelle: Hmmm.
Hugh: We could start working out together; build up his upper-body strength a little.
Chelle: That’s a great idea; I’ve heard that the heads on those mascot costumes weigh a ton.
Hugh: That’s just wrong.

After camp, we went out to dinner. I had been craving lo mein noodles all day, so we went to our favorite Chinese buffet after which we went home to catch up on our Netflix queue. We watched Are We Done Yet which I quickly renamed Is It Over Yet. Luckily, we also had The Shooter, which redeemed the evening. Well, that and the economy-sized box of Milk Duds.

Just going to prove that my life is all excitement and intrigue; I spent the majority of Saturday and Sunday at home where I made a valiant attempt to catch up on the kids’ scrapbooks. I can proudly say that I am only behind on The Girl’s book by six months.

Hold your applause; the Man-Cub’s is still over a year behind and I have yet to start on the thousand and ten photos that we took at Disney World last year.

In short; I suck. Don't you wish you were me?

You know what doesn’t suck? The fact that The Barbies are less than a week away from moving back to Colorado! Soon, my nephew will be close enough for me to corrupt in the manner to which I aspire.

Mwah, ha, ha, ha!

Yeah, like I said; this entry has no point; see above: I suck.

The Great Tomato Heist of 2007

Our dogs are clearly the exception that proves the rule about not being able to teach an old dog new tricks. Of course, it helps somewhat that Jake is um...mentally challenged and that Rowdie is the Spawn of Satan.

Rowdie: You know what would be cool?
Jake: What?
Rowdie: If we stormed the back porch and got ourselves some of those fine looking tomatoes the crazy woman has growing in those pots.
Jake: Heh, yeah….wait….what?
Rowdie: Tomatoes! Tomatoes, man! They’re delicious.
Jake: Yeah, toma…wait….what?
Rowdie: On the porch! The little green things growing in those big pots!
Jake: Right! In the po.…wait….what?
Rowdie: Never mind! Just, follow me.

Some time later….

Rowdie: Man, I didn’t think she would ever stop yelling. Gah! It was just a couple of tomatoes for Christ’s sake; it isn’t like they were ripe or anything. Damn! Now I'm going to have to make with the puppy-dog eyes and shit. I hate it when I have to grovel for forgiveness!
Jake: Yeah….grovel....wait…what?

How can you possibly be mad? Look at this face! I'm totally Innocent!

Yeah! Innoce.....wait.....what?

Run Forrest, Ruuuun!

A few weeks ago, we signed The Man-Cub up for football camp; tonight is the first practice. My emotions on the topic are mixed, on the one hand, the Cub desperately wants to play football and I want to be the kind of parent who supports her child’s dreams and ambitions. On the other hand, he weighs like forty pounds and is, if past experience is any indication, highly breakable.

To compromise, I will support his wish to play if he supports my wish that he run, very fast and, in the opposite direction, every time the ball comes within two feet of him. What?! He’ll still be playing. Technically.

Besides, isn’t it all about the uniform, anyway?

My Dad just sprained his eyeballs, he rolled them so hard.

We Had a Great Weekend, Thankyouverymuuuuch!

The corn festival this weekend was a huge success for our small community. Early estimates have attendance at 22,000 which, for a town with a population just over 5,000 is pretty incredible.

The day started off with a pancake breakfast in the parking lot of the local bank. The breakfast was provided by the local Kiwanis club and, when we got there, the line stretched the equivalent of six city blocks. I was certain that we would never get through it before the parade started but, those Kiwanis are quick like bunnies and the line moved super-fast; we were sitting on hay-bales enjoying pancakes and ham in no time at all.

The parade was fabulous, in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of way and, in typical small-town fashion; it was more about who you saw than what you saw although, of course; there were clowns because a parade just isn’t a parade without a gaggle of painted-face lunatics to frighten the children. Or, is that just my children?

After the parade, we headed for the fairgrounds. Since I am used to sweating my ass off in the broiling sun during this event, I was prepared; lawn chairs, bottled water, sunscreen, you name it. Surprisingly, the weather actually cooperated for once and we enjoyed an overcast sky and temperatures that somewhat behaved themselves; I’m certain it was due to the presence of my parents, that can be the only possible explanation.

Speaking of my parents, my mother gave each of my children more money than they had any business having and sent them off to enjoy the kids’ section of the festival. Every once in a while they returned to show off a new tattoo and to dump off one of the million-and-ten plastic treasures they won at the game booths. We took advantage of their frequent visits by sending them to fetch soda refills and boiled or roasted ears of corn and, in doing so, never had to leave the comfort of our lawn chairs. It was the best time I have ever had at the festival, hands down.

Obviously, it was good for the local farmers as well since, over 77,000 ears of corn were consumed before the supply was exhausted (much to The Girl’s chagrin). The crowd also went through over 200 lbs of salt and 800 lbs of butter before it, too, ran out and the volunteer firemen made a small fortune on Pepsi products.

(Rumor has it, the toilet paper also ran out and a certain hardware store owner came to the rescue with a pallet of Charmin. Not that I'm bragging or anything.)

The concert later in the evening was awesome. LeAnn Rimes is a tiny little bit of a thing but my god, does she have a set of pipes on her! Hugh worked the security detail and, while he wasn’t able to get The Girl in to meet Ms. Rimes, he did manage to get her an autographed backstage pass; she was thrilled. Hugh didn’t seem too unimpressed, either.

I do have to point out one slightly annoying thing, though. After every song, Ms. Rimes would say "thank you very much!" The lights would go down, she would walk to the back of the stage and take a swig of water, the lights would come back up and she would launch into the next song. Which, isn't terribly annoying in and of itself but...Thankyouverymuuuuch! After. Every. Single. Song. got a tad bit irritating.

The crowd, anticipating it, began to say it along with her and it has now become quite the inside joke in my household:

When I tuck The Girl in at night, thankyouverymuuuuch!
When the Man-Cub holds the door open for me, thankyouverymuuuuch!
When Hugh kisses me goodbye in the morning, thankyouverymuuuuch!

It just never gets old, people!

Thankyouverymuuuuuch!

In the Interest of Full Disclosure

After reading my last few posts, Hugh felt compelled to remind me that the Man-Cub’s visits to the emergency room for his first broken arm, last two episodes of stitches and the incident wherein he knocked out all four of his top front teeth all occurred on my watch, meaning that my safety record isn’t nearly as stellar as I would have you all believe. Also, I owe Older Sister an apology.

It totally sucks when he is right. Thank God it doesn’t happen that often.

Kidding, darling.

So, have I mentioned that my kids are coming home today? No? Well, they are! They and my parents are making the trip later this afternoon. We are planning to attend our local corn festival tomorrow; a day of fun activities that start with a parade down Main Street and culminate in a concert at which LeAnn Rimes will be performing.

The Girl has been looking forward to this festival for several months; Hugh is working the security detail and she is practically a shoe-in to meet Ms. Rimes. The Man-Cub is looking forward to the plethora of large bounce-houses and face-painting booths that will be provided as well as to eating all the local sweet corn that his little heart desires while waiting in line to scale the climbing wall. Then, of course, there is the delight that he takes in watching the people competing in the ice-block sitting and pie-eating contests.

I’m totally excited about standing under the broiling sun watching him do all these things while sipping a small cup of lemonade that I had to pay $4 for.

Not that I’ll complain, of course.

In fact, I’m sure we’ll have a good time and, if we get bored, we can always head into town for some shopping; there is that new Sephora to explore, after all.

The Village People Would Be So Proud

Earlier this morning, I had some items to drop off at a business located in one of our nicer strip-malls. I accidentally entered the wrong door and was greeted by two handsome young men seated behind official looking desks wearing blank stares.

The young men were wearing the blank stares, not the official looking desks, in case you were confused.

It took me a mere second or two to realize that, not only was I in the wrong business but; I was in the Navy recruiting office. Because I’m quick like that.

It didn’t take the two geniuses behind the official looking desks very long to figure it out, either.

Handsome Young Man #1: You appear to be in the wrong place, Ma'am.
Chelle: You think?
Handsome Young Man #2: Welllll….
Chelle: So, it’s obvious that I’m a screamer, huh?
Handsome Young Man#1 (blushing a furious shade of magenta): I wouldn’t presume to think such a thing, Ma’am.
Chelle (realization dawning, because, again; I’m quick like that): Oh god! I didn’t mean a screamer like that! I meant like an Oh my god, please don’t shoot at me! screamer. I swear!

I should add that I was using the most suggestive body language imaginable throughout the entire exchange, including the part where I denied being a screamer like that.

Handsome Young Man # 2: Yes, well, um….have a nice day?

I jetted out the door faster than any torpedo either of those boys has seen in their entire- all-be-it short-Naval careers. On the bright side, judging by the decline in enlistments since the war; it was probably the most human interaction they had-outside of each other-all day. They have me to thank for it.

I am patriotic. Spastic and semi-mentally challenged but, patriotic.

Anxiously Awaiting the Return of My Children

One can only do so much running around the house naked and watching inappropriate television while eating Little Debbie snack cakes on the furniture after all.

Plus, my offspring are currently in the care of Older Sister who, lets face it, does not have the best safety track record, as evidenced by the numerous injuries suffered by The Princess and The Rebel Without a Pause. I’m crossing my fingers and praying, is what I’m saying.

When (if) the children do make it home safely (not that I'm paranoid or anything except, ok, fine; I am! Are you happy now?), there are only eighteen days of freedom remaining before school starts again. I cannot speak for the children but, I’m certainly not ready to adhere to a school schedule again; I rather enjoy the nights we stay up late watching movies as well as the mornings minus the got-to-get-to-school-on-time rush.

Plus, the start of school means shopping for school supplies and for new school-clothes and, frankly; I’m not in a shopping mood, lately.

Pick your jaw up off the floor Hugh.

Although, we did have a brand new department store open here this past weekend and I heard that it includes a Sephora which, come to think of it, would make school-clothes shopping totally worth doing. In fact, I might have to start before the children even get home.

Which, have I mentioned; cannot happen soon enough?