Wednesday, June 30, 2010

This Will Be Almost As Much Fun as Swimsuit Shopping

Hugh and I are planning to attend an upcoming Policeman’s Ball. It’s a black tie affair which means that Hugh will be renting a monkey suit and I will be wearing an evening gown. The only problem with this plan is the fact that I don’t own an evening gown. I own several old bridesmaids dresses, a few sparkly cocktail dresses and one especially low-cut number that was sold to me by a saleswoman who assured me that it was “desperate wives” quality, whatever the hell that means but; there is no evening gown in my wardrobe.
Obviously this means that I have to go shopping.

The last time I shopped for a formal dress, I was eighteen and the prom was just around the corner. I have no earthly idea what to look for in a formal gown now and days and, I fear the process will be ugly. Ok, maybe not quite as ugly as standing under the glaring fluorescent lights of a changing room in a new two-piece but, ugly nonetheless.

On the bright side, a new dress means new shoes and, despite my dislike of dress and swimsuit shopping, I rock the shoe shopping; it’s a pity it couldn’t be a formal shoe ball, clothing optional because, the policemen would make a fortune on that event and, it is for charity, after all.

Think of the children.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

The Shape of Things to Come

This afternoon, The Teenager suggested that we go to the theater downtown to camp out for tickets to the midnight opening of the new Twilight movie, Eclipse. Well, sure, honey! And, while we’re at it, we can shove bamboo shoots under my fingernails and a hot poker in my eye because; those things would be equally fun!

Seriously, after attending the midnight release party for the last DVD, you would think she would be at least a little bit hesitant of placing herself in a situation where die-hard Twiharts would be amassed in force but, apparently not.

For the record, I promised her that she could camp out for tickets to the next Big Thing to come along, once she is sixteen.

As long as it doesn’t involve stoned teenagers screaming in my ear, that is.

Monday, June 28, 2010

How I Spent My Weekend: The Dirty-Minded Old Woman Edition

So, my weekend was less week-endy and more fraught with work and household chores and tending to my broken son whose temporary splint is already beginning to smell like something left in the fridge for two days past its expiration date.

When I wasn’t spraying deodorizer in my son’s general vicinity, manning the cash register at the store or folding yet another load of junior-sized skivvies, socks and tank tops (how many pairs of socks and underwear do kids need to go through a day? Sheesh!), I was watching Friday Night Lights on DVD because, as much as I hate to admit it; my Dad was right about it not being a show all about football. There are actual relationships and interesting story lines and shit.

And, um, Tim Riggins.

So, I admit it, Dad; you were right and I was wrong and now I am enduring marathon-sessions of watching seasons 1-3 on DVD. I am almost caught up enough to understand what is going on in the season 4 episodes on NBC. Happy? Of course you are.

In the interest of full disclosure I should tell you that I am also entertaining rather impure thoughts of Taylor Kitsch, who, Jana delighted in informing me, is young enough to be my son. Technically? That is incorrect as Google lists his date of birth as being in 1981, making him only thirteen years younger than me and; when I was thirteen I was still blushing over hand-holding at The Muppet Movie, not doing the wild thing, therefore, Jana is wrong.

Also, Ashton Kutcher is twelve years younger than Demi Moore and I don’t hear anyone accusing her of pedophilia.

I’m just sayin’.

Friday, June 25, 2010

Friday Flashback: You Can Break My Arm but Please Don’t Break My Heart

Today’s flashback is an entry that I wrote on this blog on June 29, 2007…

Earlier today, the Cub discovered that he is not, in fact, a Superhero and therefore, cannot fly. Well, maybe he can fly but his landings suck. In short, he broke his wrist after falling (jumping with the intention of flying) out of a swing at the daycare.

In typical Man-Cub fashion, he didn’t cry about the pain, instead, choosing to suck it up and soldier on. But, once the wrist swelled to a nice plump ham hock-looking specimen, the director of the daycare could indulge him no longer and called Hugh in for a consult. He agreed with her determination that an x-ray was probably called for, alerted me and; off to the ER we went.

The Cub finally cried upon receiving confirmation of the fracture. Not because it hurt but, because he realized that his baseball season was over, two games and a tournament short of the rest of his team.

He recovered his good cheer once I promised that he could be the dugout manager rather than a bench-warmer at tonight's double-header and, once again; all was right with the world.

Even better; his streak of annual visits to the ER remains intact.

On a related note; if I survive his childhood, it will be a miracle.

I chose this entry because the Man-Cub broke his arm again last night and reading it was like déjà vu all over again.

Yep, he broke his arm, again. This time he was riding his bike at the BMX track when the chain suddenly malfunctioned, sending him ass over teakettle. Unlike his mother, he lacks the fat pads necessary to prevent breaks when he falls and, the result was yet another trip to the emergency room for X-rays and a splint.

Next Thursday, after the swelling has gone down, he will get his cast which, I am hoping, will be waterproof.

The cast will have to stay on right up until the day before we leave for our two-week Disney trip and then it is coming off if Hugh has to cut it off himself which, ironically, he did the last time the Cub was broken because, otherwise, the Cub wouldn’t have gotten to ride on the carnival rides at Stampede.

So, the good news is, he will get to enjoy Disney. The bad news is, this time he really is screwed for carnival rides because there is no way in hell I am letting his father cut that sonofabitch off two weeks early.

On a related note, I gave up wine a few weeks back to accommodate that crazy-ass diet that Jana had me on. Currently, I am rethinking that decision.

I shall keep you posted.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

It Isn’t Easy Raising Parents These Days

Yesterday’s heart attack was my Dad’s third; hopefully the third time’s a charm and he will take the steps necessary to improve his health once and for all. And, yes, Dad, that means eating more lettuce and less cheeseburgers, more chicken (oh god, not chicken, again) and less steak and more fresh fruit and fewer candy bars (trust me; I understand the sacrifice involved in that one).

It’s tough, you know? My parents worked hard their whole lives to put food on the table and to clothe their three daughters in the manner to which we were accustomed; they have earned the right to enjoy their golden years, cheeseburgers, steaks, and all, but….we kind of want to have both of them around to harass our children well into their adulthoods and, you know, when the heart gives up the ghost, that’s pretty much all she wrote.

Gah. It’s a fine line between wanting to see your parents happy and wanting what’s best for them, especially when the two don’t exactly line up in harmonious synchronization.

And they say parenting is hard; raising parents is no piece of cake, either.

Oh, yeah, no more cake, either, Dad. Sorry.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Not Funny

My dad had a heart attack this morning, while reading my blog.

He swears the two are in no way connected but, knowing how passionately he feels about his grandchildren’s sports programs; I’m not certain I believe him.

And that is all I have to say about that.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Our Coach is the Best Coach Ever

That is the thesis statement for the paper I am writing for my Masters Program. Once it’s complete, I will earn my Masters of Sarcasm from the Institute for Higher Technology, the college that exists solely in my own head.

In support of my thesis statement, I offer the following evidence:

A) Our coach takes cell phone calls while “coaching” first base. That kind of multi-tasking takes a healthy dose of awesome, something our coach has in spades.

B) Our coach can’t remember the names of half of his players, two months into the season, again; healthy dose of awesome to achieve that milestone.

C) Our coach sits in the bleachers and chats with his wife right up until game-time, even as the team is warming up in the outfield because; if he can produce a team this awesome without practices, he most certainly doesn’t need to help them prepare for the game.

D) Our coach can hawk a loogie three feet from third base while waving in a runner, scratching his ass and yelling words of encouragement to the runner, using the wrong name, naturally.

As you can see, my support statements make a valid argument for my thesis and, clearly; our coach is the best coach ever.

Masters of Sarcasm, in the bag.

Monday, June 21, 2010

It’s Not a Coincidence That I Named This Blog After a Movie

Certain members of my family (hello, brother-in-law) often compare me to Gracie Hart, Sandra Bullock’s character in Miss Congeniality and, while I would like to say that the comparison is made due to my stunning good looks, svelte figure and ability to use my superior intellect to capture dangerous criminals, I would be lying to you and to myself. The comparison is made because, much like Gracie Hart, I fall down... a lot; always for no apparent reason and always in front of an audience.

I am capable of tripping over my own feet; stairs are my ultimate undoing and, heels? God, don’t even get me started on wearing high heels, in fact; I once managed to catch the heel of a very cute pair of kitten pumps on a relatively minor snag in a piece of carpeting, sending me ass over tea kettle at a business luncheon.

To further fuel the comparison between myself and Gracie Hart, after such an incident, I generally pop right back up, declaring myself “OK!” and life goes on.

This weekend, I had a Gracie Hart moment that would have made my brother-in-law proud, were he around to witness it; I fell off the front of our boat, onto the dock with all the grace of a Mack truck hitting a squirrel. One moment I was casually leaping from the boat to tie us off and the next, I was somehow airborne, in slow motion, watching the dock come at my face like something out of a really bad horror movie.

Thanks to some awesome slow motion kung-fu moves, I managed to break my fall with my left thigh, shoulder and forearm which, now that I think about it, really didn’t serve any purpose other than to protect my face. Eh, I’ll take it.

As soon as I hit the deck (ha! Literally!), there was a moment of absolute silence as Hugh, the Man-Cub and about a million summer boating enthusiasts looked on; not wanting to worry any of them unduly, I leapt to my feet, declared myself “OK!” and went about the business of tying off the boat, all the while wanting to cry because my thigh was on fire with pain.

The result of my latest Miss Congeniality moment is a trail of very angry bruises from mid-thigh to hip as well as a sprinkling of bruises on my shoulder and arm. Now, I don’t recall Sandra Bullock sporting angry purple bruises in the film so, either the make-up people on that set lacked creativity or, I am even more dangerous to myself than Gracie Hart, the second choice being the most likely.

For the record, Hugh, who is a huge fan of Ms. Bullock’s, made the Miss Congeniality comparison again today and, despite his fondest wish, it had nothing whatsoever to do with me breathily crooning “You think I’m gorgeous, you want to kiiiiss me” in his ear (although, he does think I’m gorgeous and he does want to kiss me); instead, he compared the look on my face as I fell to that of Gracie Hart right before a slip. Of course, then he spotted the angry purple trail-o-bruises marching down my left side and he retracted his statement.

Smart man, because, one other actually very good point of comparison between me and Gracie Hart is that I also know the S.I.N.G Method of self defense.

Sadly for Hugh, I do not own the costume worn by Sandra Bullock in the movie because, despite my earlier statement, that might actually be Hugh's fondest wish, instead.

Friday, June 18, 2010

Friday Flashback: Hugh’s First Father’s Day

One fine Sunday morning in June of 1995, I awoke early and said to myself, “Self, today is Father’s Day; wouldn’t it be cool to find out we are knocked up today, of all days?” and, myself said “Word”.

So, I meandered down the hallway to the bathroom and performed the necessary test and, when two lines showed up in the results window less than thirty seconds later I said to myself, “Oh, shit” to which myself replied “WORD”.

After taking a few minutes to gather my thoughts, thoughts like “How the HELL did this happen? I mean, I know how it happened but, what the hell? It was supposed to take several months to accomplish, it wasn’t supposed to happen on our first try, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod….what have we done?! What the hell are we going to do with a babeeee?!”

You know, the usual.

And, after contemplating-and discounting-a trip down the hall to the kitchen where the brown paper bags were stored; I managed to catch my breath and to calm my racing heartbeat enough to allow myself to stand. Then, I scurried back down the hallway to our bedroom where I quietly got dressed, quickly located a pair of shoes (note: not a matching pair of shoes but, a pair nonetheless because there were two) and I made a mad dash to the nearby grocery store where I managed to snag one of the last available Father’s Day cards from the shelf.

Back at home, I scrawled a sappy missive inside the card which, I would repeat here but, you know, some things are sacred. Ok, fine, I believe it went something like Happy Father’s Day. Yep. You knocked me up.

Or, words very close to that effect and then, I gathered the card and the positive pregnancy test and I awoke Hugh from a sound sleep because, there is no finer way to mark one’s first unofficial Father’s Day than by rousing one from a deep slumber by waving a urine-soaked stick under one's nose like some sort of realllly fucked-up smelling salts.

Of course, once he was awake enough to comprehend the message that I was giving him, the celebration started in earnest. There may have been tears.

So, this Sunday we will mark Hugh’s fourteenth official Father’s Day with a BBQ, his favorite dessert and a trip to the movies to see Toy Story 3 because, all these years later; we totally know how to party.

No pee-stick required.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Chapter Two in the Unending Saga of Our Former Cable Provider

A month or so ago Hugh got a bill from the company that took over our bankrupt cable company; a bill! For services not rendered since we switched to Dish, what, two months ago? A bill for $41 which was more than we were paying back when we had the crappy cable service.

Needless to say, the bill amused Hugh greatly and, he took great pleasure in calling the new company to inform them that we are, under no circumstances, paying for a service that we are neither receiving nor which we wish to receive, like, ever.

The receptionist at the company apologized for the error and explained that the company had merely taken over the now-defunct company’s client list and had billed based on its latest information which, seriously? They couldn’t be bothered to check into the names on the list to confirm that the people were still, I don’t know, receiving their services?

Of course, based on the number of Direct TV and Dish Network trucks I have seen parked at homes throughout town the past month or two, I’m guessing that, had that happened; they would have been greatly dismayed by the response.

Anyway, the receptionist promised to remove our name from the billing list and life went on, albeit with 280+ more channels than ever before.

So, guess what came in yesterday’s mail?

I’m not a psychic but, I think there may very well be flying monkeys in the new cable company’s immediate future.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Sometimes a Mole is Just a Mole

I took the Man-Cub to the dermatologist today to have a mole on his back checked. The mole had gotten bigger lately and had changed color; two things that had me more than a bit concerned. The dermatologist was thorough in his examination of the mole and, after peering at it through his super-powered magnifying goggles, declared it benign if not a bit ugly. His explanation for the recent change in size was simple; the Man-Cub is likewise growing, like, duh, crazy-paranoid mom person. The color change didn’t bother him in the least, either; although, as I said, he did comment on its unattractiveness as well as suggesting that we go ahead and have it removed once the Cub is thirteen or so.

So. No melanoma; life is good.

After the appointment, the Cub and I ran by Sam’s Club where I stocked up on bulk condiments for the numerous picnics, BBQs, cook-outs and boating lunches that we will be having in the next few months. The Cub also managed to throw a commercial-sized bottle of chocolate syrup into the cart so; it looks like he can count on having his chocolate milk well into the foreseeable future.

Then, we drove the forty-five miles home.

Tomorrow, I get to make the drive back to Neighboring City to drop The Teenager and one of her teammates off at volleyball camp. Although she is looking forward to attending the camp, she admits to being a bit nervous about the sleep-away aspect of the camp and, not just because the only twin-sized sheets that I could dig up for her to take feature either Buzz Lightyear or Sully and Mike from Monsters, Inc.

Hey, at least she has a choice and, she'll do just fine at camp. Hell, she might enjoy the cafeteria well enough to move the school to the top of her college wish-list, you know, since the tastiness and volume of the cafeteria food is the criteria upon which she is basing her college selection, currently.

In other news, and, speaking of food; my garden is growing quite well. I harvested all my radishes and, believe me when I say that I could feed a small nation with them. If radishes were all they needed to survive, that is.

The rest of the plants are doing well, too. In fact, it looks like I should have a bumper crop of beets, lettuce, spinach and arugula within the next week or so. The various squashes, cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes and peppers will be a while yet but, I am a patient woman.

You know, except when I’m not.

In other other news, I recently started a new fad diet. Jana lost thirty-some pounds on the plan and could not say good enough things about it. The best thing I can say about it is that I lasted a week. So, Summer of 2010 Epic Diet Failure, check.

On the bright side, at least I am consistent in my failure as evidenced by Epic Diet Failure, circa 1999-2009.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

I Often Say That I Would Rather Be Busy Than Bored

Well, this is certainly my lucky week.

I have a lot of work to finish before tackling one of the million and ten projects, errands, chores, jobs, etc. that I need to accomplish before the weekend so; thank goodness for last weekend’s getaway with The Girls or I would be completely insane as opposed to only semi-mentally scattered.

So, yes, the Girls’ weekend, what a blast. It is always a good time when we get together but, this time was especially fun because, not only did we all get to hang out together but, we got to see an old friend from college, someone we were pretty tight with back in the day and whom I personally hadn’t seen since before graduation. We’ve managed to keep in touch through the occasional Christmas card and, more recently, through Facebook and, in a wacky turn of events, Phoebe recently found herself in need of some solid legal representation, coincidentally; this friend has become a pretty hotshot attorney. Kismet. Serendipity, all that jazz (also, two of my favorite words in the English language, in case you ever need a bit of completely banal trivia about me).

So, this friend, I’ll call him Keith, for that is his name, and his wife were in town last weekend, which was also a nice coincidence (or, serendipity, or kismet) and we were able to meet up with them and their two (absolutely gorgeous) children for lunch. While we were eating, one of Keith’s old college roommates, whom we also hung out with and knew quite well back then, joined us and it was like a college reunion right there in the restaurant.

Keith’s friend was not expecting to see all of us and we obviously made quite an impression although, as he admitted later, he shouldn’t have been surprised; we were all joined at the hip back then so, really, why should now be any different? In fact, had two or three of the other Girls been able to make the trip, it would have been a typical college Saturday lunch all over again. Well, minus the ten small children in attendance, obviously.

After lunch, The Girls headed to the home of Jules and her family where we enjoyed an evening of wine, hard lemonade, grilled burgers and toasted marshmallows. We broke out the old photo albums and bemoaned the fact that we can’t remember last names well enough to be able to facebook-stalk old acquaintances, conquests and enemies and then gossiped and told old stories until bedtime.

The following morning I made my college breakfast specialty-Mickey Mouse pancakes and we enjoyed what was left of our time together. Of course, when it was time to go, there was the usual sadness but, this time, we know that only a month will pass before we are reunited once again, at stampede, in Mayberry.

So, I journeyed home where a million loads of laundry and five billion dust bunnies greeted me at the door along with my husband and offspring. Yesterday was a long day at work and, today will be the same only with the added joy of a baseball game and a trip to the dentist where, with any luck, I will finally have a small chip in my bottom front tooth sanded down so as to keep my tongue from constantly rubbing up against it. Fingers crossed. Also, take my advice and be very careful when munching on popcorn kernels.

Tomorrow, I am headed to Neighboring City for a dermatologist appointment for the Cub. Thursday I get to drive there again to drop The Teenager off at volleyball camp. Friday I have a full workday plus a baseball game and, Saturday, if the Gods of Good Weather smile upon us, I am collapsing on the boat with a bottle of sunscreen, a good book and my iPod.

Please, please, please let the Gods smile upon us; if the weather is nasty I will find myself cleaning my house and weeding the garden and, despite what I said about being busy rather than bored, I could realllly use a good dose of boredom for the weekend.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Friday Flashback: Friday Afternoon Club

Most college towns have bars, am I right? And, most college-town bars offer something referred to as The Friday Afternoon Club, right? Ok, maybe not in your college town but, in my neck of the woods, it is a common custom.

Attending Friday Afternoon Club, or, FAC, as it was more commonly known, was a huge part of my college weekend experience. It was a time to enjoy the company of my friends, to scout out the cute boys (and the competition for said cute boys) and to revel in the college experience without busting the bank for, you see; most FAC parties featured drink specials and, if you happened to be female, the specials were especially good for you.

Poor boys, I don’t know how they survived. Oh wait, yes I do; Ramen Noodles, mac’n’cheese and girlfriends who bought their drinks at FAC utilizing the “special” price, and, I digress.

My roommates and I favored a bar called The Solid Muldoon for our FAC jaunts. It was just down the hill from campus and was quite popular with most students. Right next door was Shooters, another popular bar and favorite spot for dancing and acting like a typical teenager following the specials at Solids.

The only problem with our favorite bars of choice were that they didn’t serve discounted food during FAC, for that we visited bars in the local hotels, specifically The Holiday Inn where one could eat their fill of mini tacquittos and nachos while fending off the advances of the creepy older men staying at the hotel on “business”.

The Holiday Inn was also a favorite spot of ours for after-hours hot-tubbing but, that is a story for another day.

So, after filling our stomachs with as much free and inexpensive food as possible at the Holiday, we would caravan to Solids for drink specials followed by frenetic dancing and carousing at Shooters. Sometimes, after a particularly wild FAC, we would cruise the main drag in town, hooting at the cute boys and singing at the tops of our lungs. Sometimes, we stopped at the public library and stole roses from it's fabulous gardens. Hey, don't judge me; at least we didn't steal props from the bar.

Remember Bartles & Jaymes? We loved these guys.

Memories from those nights are a staple in stories I tell about my college roommates. And, if you are asking what brought the subject up, today, I will tell you; tomorrow morning I am heading to the town of my college alma mater to reconnect with three of the women with whom I share these memories.

Hugh is doing me a solid by staying home with the kids while I revisit my younger years and, as always when I am with The Girls, I am going to have a blast despite the fact that we won't drink as much as we used to and, I'm relatively certain that none of us will abscond with any roses or property from the local bar.

You know, This time.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

It’s Always a Good Day When I don’t Have to Cut a Bitch

The organizer of the volleyball camp emailed me today with sincere apologies; seems his original email to me was typed incorrectly yet did not bounce back to him and he was unaware that we had not recieved the necessary information. He assured me that The Teenager is indeed registered for the camp so that is a go. In typical teenaged fashion, her reaction to this announcement was a combination of relief and utter hubris; “Well I better be.”

Yes, for this child I threatened to break out the flying monkeys; you’re welcome, sweetheart.

In the same vein, Hugh recently broke his glasses and I was charged with the task of taking them to the optometrist for repair or replacement. The receptionist at the optometrist’s office was….less than helpful. In fact, she barely looked at the glasses before informing me that they no longer carry those frames and that I would be better off going to a local jeweler to have them soldered (they broke in half, on the nose piece and, try as hard as I might, Hugh refuses to tape them up and wear them, nerd-style. Have I mentioned that Hugh is a buzz kill?).

I thanked the less-than-interested receptionist and ventured to the jewelry store where I was informed that the frames were made of a metal that cannot be soldered and, had the receptionist bothered to look at them, she would have known that.

When I reported back to Hugh he was….less than impressed. He in turn called the optometrist’s office and was met with the same apathy that I was; the receptionist told him that he would have to make an appointment for new glasses because they didn’t have his frames and she didn’t “think” they could get them. So, basically, bummer for you and your super-special favorite frames.

Needless to say, we are in the market for a new optometrist and Hugh and I are both deserving of a medal for showing such a degree of restraint in not, well…cutting a bitch.

Wednesday, June 09, 2010

Don’t Make Me Get My Flying Monkeys

Many, many weeks ago, I sent a deposit check to the college in Neighboring City. The deposit was for The Teenager to attend a skills camp sponsored by the college’s volleyball team next week. The check was cashed and we have been waiting for follow-up information ever since.

Today, The Teenager heard from a friend of hers' who is also planning to attend the camp; she received additional information and a bill for the camp a couple of weeks ago. The Teenager, as one would expect, freaked the fuck right out with the classic, Why does this always happen to meeee?! Do something!!! AAAAARRRGGG!

So, I called both numbers listed on the registration form and left messages. Then, for good measure, I sent emails to both email addresses listed on the form. I'm kind of irritated and, If I don’t have a call or email back by tomorrow; I am going to call in my flying monkeys.

Ok, not really, but, I may be forced to sic Hugh on them; he lives for righting the injustices heaped upon his daughter’s head.

He also lives for new experiences and, yesterday, he experienced his first tasering and, I don’t mean that in a figural sense, I mean; he actually got tasered. By a taser gun.

It happened during a certification  training that he was attending and, he did it voluntarily because, according to him; he wouldn’t want to do something to someone without knowing how it felt, himself. According to me, that is just ridiculous because, last time I checked, he was also certified in the use of firearms and, in case of dire emergency, might have to actually shoot someone with a bullet. By his reasoning, he should also want to know what that feels like, right? Right. So, yeah, ridiculous.

But, hella entertaining; I saw the video, so I know. Unfortunately, Hugh is a giant sour-puss who won’t let me show the video on this blog so; you’ll have to take me at my word for it when I say that he lit up like Benjamin Franklin in a thunderstorm before dropping like a lead balloon and twitching worse than an epileptic during a grand mal.

On purpose, remember.

So, yeah, my husband voluntarily submits to electrocution just because he can. Do you really think a college volleyball camp organizer has a chance against him? I don't think so.

 Here’s hoping I get a call tomorrow and it doesn’t have to come to that.

Tuesday, June 08, 2010


Yankee Doodle went to town
riding on a heater,
accidentally turned it on
and burned off his wiener….

Yankee Doodle went to town
riding on a donkey,
stuck his finger up his butt
and called it Hershey’s chocolate!

This offending little ditty was being sung by the Man-Cub when I got home from work today which, in and of itself is horrifying; add the fact that he was singing it to the neighbor’s six year old son whom The Teenager was babysitting at the time, while making suggestive hand motions toward both his wiener and his butt and you have the Trifecta of Horrifying.

Also, my older sister just read this and declared Karmic victory for all the times I encouraged her son to sing The Diarrhea Song in mixed company.

Monday, June 07, 2010

Doesn’t Look Like We’ll Be Needing That Shovel After All

The Teenager and her boyfriend broke up and, it was a lot less dramatic than I remember break-ups being. For one thing, it was conducted by text message and MySpace traffic and didn’t feature even one instance of tear-filled conversation. Actually, there were no tears at all, that I am aware of. Instead, The Teenager casually informed me that they were done and, that while it had to do with him deciding that he liked one of her friends better; she knows a lot of boys who like her and, fish in the sea, yada, yada.

Here’s hoping the next catch will also encourage her to study and to go out for sports, otherwise; we might need a shovel after all.

On a totally unrelated subject, last night, Jana and I went to see Sex and the City 2. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the critics had led us to believe it was going to be and, when it comes out on DVD, I am totally buying it. Not because it was a great movie but, because; it has inspired in me the idea for a new drinking game.

Every time someone watching it says “What the hell is she wearing?” Drink!

“What the hell is that on her head?” Drink!

“Oh my god, Carrie’s become a nag.” Drink!

I think it has a future on college campuses, right up there with Beer Pong, Quarters and Thumper.

Friday, June 04, 2010

Friday Flashback: How You Doin’?

The first time I laid eyes on Hugh, he was straddling another woman, fondling her chest, with his lips locked to hers and, the kicker is; my employers had paid actual cash money for the privilege of me seeing it.

Granted, the woman in question was made of plastic and less than likely to be enjoying Hugh’s tender ministrations but, still; awkward image.

The day was June 3, 1992, which, if you are math-challenged like I am, was eighteen years ago yesterday. I was attending a CPR course in order to renew my certification which, I need to point out, had neither lapsed nor was in imminent danger of doing so; my supervisor at the aquatics center at which I was employed had simply and inexplicably decreed that the budget required that I take the class well in advance of my expiration date. I didn’t understand it then and, truth be told, I don’t understand it now but; despite the major fit I threw over having to give up a night out with my friends to attend a class that I technically did not need, I would not have met Hugh if not for that class and, my children should thank their lucky stars that my supervisor was such a dick. Like, seriously.

Anyway, back to the story.

As I said, at my first glimpse of Hugh, he was straddling a pasty woman with a gaping mouth, rubber limbs and a really bad wig, commonly known as Resusci-Anne and; it wasn’t Anne‘s crazy wig that caught my attention no, my friends, it was the sight of Hugh’s fiiiiine ass as he straddled that dummy that drew me in.

We are talking, grade-A fiiiine ass on that one.

And, to my delight, that fine ass was connected to a very nice pair of (let’s be honest, here, somewhat skinny) legs, a trim waist, a muscled chest and the best-looking face that the San Loser Valley had ever seen and, I knew immediately that he wasn’t from around those parts.

Later that evening, Hugh and I went on our first unofficial date; I invited him out for a burger and he accepted (I paid because I was a thoroughly modern woman. And, he had left his wallet at home). Following dinner, we went to a local park and played catch and, no, that is not a euphemism for something dirty; I simply had softball gear in my car due to a recent bout with insanity, AKA: Joining a woman’s softball team.

That night went well enough for Hugh to ask me out again and, thus was born a whirlwind romance, resulting in a proposal of marriage six months later.

What can I say? Hugh took me to all the best places.

He cooked

and he did dishes which, while clearly just a trick to get me into the sack considering that dishes have not featured in his repertoire since we said I Do (let this be a warning to you single girls out there who are gushing over how your new man cooks and cleans and rubs your feet when they are sore); can be easily forgiven since he continued to look fiiiine in a pair of Levi’s.

So fine that, eighteen years later, I still sometimes envision him straddling Anne when bends over to pick something up from the floor.

So, yeah… how you doin’?

Thursday, June 03, 2010

Something in the Air is Kicking My Ass

My head hurts, I am toting dark circles under my eyes and my nose is stuffy and runny, simultaneously. I’m a natural freak-show is what I am and, I’m not alone; lots of people in town are complaining about their allergies this year, apparently it is a very good year to be a pollen molecule if annoying the general human populace is what you are striving for.

On a totally unrelated subject, The Teenager has been camping in Utah with Kaz since Monday. She is due back tomorrow and, while I’m glad she has had a good time, I’ve missed her and will be happy to have her home again.

I think the Man-Cub has missed her as well, despite his insistence that he really, really likes being an only child on occasion.

Now, my head is killing me and typing isn’t helping at all, which, shocking, huh? Yeah, you might want to file that gem of information away for future reference.

Wednesday, June 02, 2010

You Know I’d Rather Walk on My Lips than Criticize Anybody… But…

This should come as no surprise; we lost another baseball game last night. We didn’t get smoked, exactly and, there were a few really good plays during the game, including a double play courtesy of the Man-Cub but, you know, it would be nice to see the boys win one once in a while.

And, while I made Hugh agree not to criticize or complain (since it was his decision to sit out on the coaching this year); I don’t hold myself to quite the same standards.

Thus begineth the bitching.

For starters, the team has not practiced since the first game. You cannot improve on your skills without practice and, game-time is not practice-time. When you make the commitment to coach a team, you should take into consideration the fact that you will have to spend a certain amount of time on the endeavor. Practices, team-building activities and post-game pep-talks are a must if you want to have a team that plays well together.

Not surprisingly, the kids have no respect for their “coaches” (a term I am using quite loosely, here). While they are not disrespectful by any means, they simply have no real regard for the opinion of the men who show up at the games to occasionally throw out a word of encouragement while sitting in the dugout discussing last weekend’s rodeo.

Despite the lack of effort at team-building, the boys like each other. They are nice to each other, encourage each other and, to their credit; not one unkind word has passed between them all season. This is obviously not a tribute to the coaching they have been given, it is a reflection of the parenting they have received.

And, on the bright side, they haven’t been terribly upset with all the losses. They have the classic “we’ll get ‘em next time” attitude, an attitude I hope proves prophetic.

Also on the bright side, the head coach has not once yelled an abusive remark at one of the boys; something he was well-known for during his time as an assistant coach in years past and, the major reason that he hadn’t been allowed a head coaching position until this year. I suppose that shows personal growth, that or; he is terrified of Hugh and at least one of the other boy’s fathers.

So, where does this leave us? Well, with a losing season, inexplicably happy boys and, my husband, who now thinks it might just be a good idea to get back into the coaching thing next season.

So other parents can criticize him.

As it should be.