Sorry folks. Life is like the title of this here blog. Chaotic! Sure, I got stories! Be back at you soon!
P.S.- Know what's awesome? When more than one person finds your blog by searching for Bell Biv Devoe lyrics. Whoever you are, wanna make out?
P.P.S- A big hello to the person in Santa Cruz and Missouri who keep coming back to this here nothing of a blog. Thanks! Introduce yourselves if you're feeling frisky!
Monday, June 04, 2007
Friday, May 04, 2007
There has to be a line.
Lord knows I love my husband. We couldn't be more different but God knows I work with it.
I have given my husband the moniker, The Scientist, because well for one, he is a Scientist. It's his profession but for my husband it is more than that: it is his lifestyle.
He was a born analyzer. He was born to look at everything and question, to see things from one hundred million angles. His brain is beyond anything that I can characterize or explain. He is book smart but it is more than that. You have to spend time with him to understand what I mean. I guess having your brain go one hundred billion, gazillion directions at once can be a hard thing to handle. (I wouldn't know. My brain is one tracked.) So, in order to leash in the rapid fire speed of thought his brain puts out, my husband has earned himself the title: Post-it King.
He writes everything down. The to-do's, the to-plan's, the to-think about's, the to-research's. Every bit of his life is managed by a square piece of paper. If you put all of them in order, you would have his auto-biography.
I have always teased him about this because, although I too make use of the post-it's; he uses more in one day than I do in a year. However, I always thought it was cute. I always contributed part of his success to his very strict regime of organization.
But, this week I walked into his office to file and as I was glancing at his pile of post-it's, I saw one that killed me:
(recreated by me for your entertainment)
The Scientist had to have his forehead sewed up after taking a hit to the noggin with a screwdriver. (This is what happens in my house when you say no to me.) Actually, it was work related. But anyway, this post-it note just slayed me because ummmm...hello! Dude! You have thread holding your skin together and from what I have been hearing out of your mouth every five minutes for the last five days is how much they itch, or pull, or burn, or hurt, or irritate you. Was a post-it to have something removed from your head necessary? Really? Doesn't it seem a bit like overkill? What, are you afraid that a month from now, someone is going to look at you and say, "Wow! What happened to your face?" and you will not know what the heck they mean until they mention the stitches and you'll be all "Crap! I totally forgot about those! I was supposed to have them removed like three weeks ago!"
Where is the line? Am I going to be accosted by post-it's all over my home that read: "Take dump at 3:00" or "Brush teeth after shower Mon-Sun"? Little yellow squares that say: "Blink!" or "Yawn when tired"?
Well two can play at this game, buddy. When he passes by my desk and sees the (one!) post-it I have lying there in plain view, this is what he's going to see:
I have given my husband the moniker, The Scientist, because well for one, he is a Scientist. It's his profession but for my husband it is more than that: it is his lifestyle.
He was a born analyzer. He was born to look at everything and question, to see things from one hundred million angles. His brain is beyond anything that I can characterize or explain. He is book smart but it is more than that. You have to spend time with him to understand what I mean. I guess having your brain go one hundred billion, gazillion directions at once can be a hard thing to handle. (I wouldn't know. My brain is one tracked.) So, in order to leash in the rapid fire speed of thought his brain puts out, my husband has earned himself the title: Post-it King.
He writes everything down. The to-do's, the to-plan's, the to-think about's, the to-research's. Every bit of his life is managed by a square piece of paper. If you put all of them in order, you would have his auto-biography.
I have always teased him about this because, although I too make use of the post-it's; he uses more in one day than I do in a year. However, I always thought it was cute. I always contributed part of his success to his very strict regime of organization.
But, this week I walked into his office to file and as I was glancing at his pile of post-it's, I saw one that killed me:
(recreated by me for your entertainment)
The Scientist had to have his forehead sewed up after taking a hit to the noggin with a screwdriver. (This is what happens in my house when you say no to me.) Actually, it was work related. But anyway, this post-it note just slayed me because ummmm...hello! Dude! You have thread holding your skin together and from what I have been hearing out of your mouth every five minutes for the last five days is how much they itch, or pull, or burn, or hurt, or irritate you. Was a post-it to have something removed from your head necessary? Really? Doesn't it seem a bit like overkill? What, are you afraid that a month from now, someone is going to look at you and say, "Wow! What happened to your face?" and you will not know what the heck they mean until they mention the stitches and you'll be all "Crap! I totally forgot about those! I was supposed to have them removed like three weeks ago!"
Where is the line? Am I going to be accosted by post-it's all over my home that read: "Take dump at 3:00" or "Brush teeth after shower Mon-Sun"? Little yellow squares that say: "Blink!" or "Yawn when tired"?
Well two can play at this game, buddy. When he passes by my desk and sees the (one!) post-it I have lying there in plain view, this is what he's going to see:
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
How To Tell If You've Picked The Right Veterinarian
Hello Internet World! I am sorry to call you that but I have spent the last three nights tossing and turning, to the point where even my cat has been looking at me as if to say, "Sister, take that shit to the couch" and I am maybe delirious from lack of sleep. I have had so few hours sleep that I've cycled through all the positive numbers into the negatives and back to the positives, which according to math means that I now owe sleep awake time. I have now taken to injecting coffee straight into my vein to keep awake. This is why you are now The Internet World because I find that hilarious at the moment and am jacked up on caffeine. Just turn the other cheek, Internet World, I am living off of what one calls "Your second wind" only I think I have progressed much further down the numerical scale and am now on my, oh lets say, 600th wind. Yeah, that feels right. The thing about your 600th wind, Internet World, is that it really doesn't do crap. At this point even your wind is tired.
Join the club, 600th wind, join the club. Here, stick out your arm.
So Internet World, do you know how to tell that you have picked the right Veterinarian? I thought you might and I wished you would have maybe mention this a few months ago. Because now I don't need your advice and am in fact, here to give it.
See, this last weekend, Maisey had her first appointment with her new Veterinarian. In the past, I have always had the type of animals that didn't require the need of a Vet (you know the kind that my son refers to as "the boring kind") and so when we decided to adopt Maisey, I had to do the responsible thing and find one. Now, Internet World, I am not one who has an easy time making difficult decisions. Alot of time and thought go into decisions that I deem important and during this time of thinking and debating, I get very what you could call "Drama Class." This is when I start acting like Scartlett O'Hara and I suddenly start talking with a southern accent and lay my hand to my head, all very, "I cain't go on! Won't someone please make this choice for me?" Then I faint. Sometimes I put buns on the side of my head and beg for help, "Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, find a Vet. You're my only hope." My husband thinks I'm awesome during these times. He said so.
Seriously, I think I may have had an easier time choosing a Pediatrician for my kid than I did finding a Vet for Maisey. ("So, you know that he is human, you are responsible to fix him when I break him and that thing between his legs is not left over umbilical cord? Yes? Good. You're hired.") So I started asking every single person I came in contact with if s/he had a recommendation. Which can be a little awkward when one of those people is your Gynecologist and you maybe feel the need to talk during the really hands on (or I guess hands in would be more appropriate. Actually it isn't. I'm sorry) part of the exam to quiet your embarrassment. Usually, my doctor has no problem with this because I've never required her to be a part of this conversation. I just start yammering on about the weather or the pro's and con's of my new blender, so she can easily just shut my jabber out. She is professional that way. But during our last visit, somewhere between the cold KY jelly and the uncomfortable awareness that my ovaries were being fondled, I though it might be a good idea to ask her for a Vet recommendation and she looked at me, all very, "I'm arm deep in your girl bits right now, do you think this is the right time to be having this conversation?" Which oh yeah, good point. Focus your attention on my cervix. Don't want you distracted because I need that cervix, lady.(Actually, do I? I don't think I was paying attention in class that day. Just kidding! I know I need it. What will distribute my blood throughout my body otherwise. Kidding again! I know the cervix is there to produce antibodies to help fight infection and also that if you break it you have to use crutches.)
Like I said, Internet world, awkward. I then started bullying people into asking every person they've ever known, since Kindergarten, on my behalf, threatening to sing "I'm a Little Teapot" again if they did not agree. Which in hindsight, might not have been a good idea, because out of revenge, "Tell her not to go to Dr. Jones, he will molest her cat. He's a mess" could easily end up as "Tell her Dr. Jones must treat her cat. He's the best." And then I would have to get all "Drama Class" about finding her a therapist.
I happened to find the best reference from the strangest of places. I was gazing in the window of a second hand book store and drooling when a lady and her dog walked out. The dog had on a vest that signaled him as an aid dog and I asked the woman what Veterinarian she took her dog to, figuring that man, if you have to depend on your dog to help you out in life, chances are you aren't going to Mary Jo Schmoe in the back alley behind the local porn shop. Even if they are cheaper. You're going to take your companion animal to a place where people know the difference between "I reckon he's nuts been done cut off but maybe he jus' t'aint lucky in that way" and "Yes, this dog has defiantly been altered."
"Hi," I said. "Do you mind telling me what Vet you take your doggie to? And if you have had to sell any of your organs to pay the bill?" (What? It's a valid question. Your organs are important.) She was a very nice lady and gave me all the 411 on her Vet clinic. She seemed very satisfied with them.
I dropped my Blanche Dubois act and made an appointment.
As I waited in the exam room for the Vet to come in, I hoped with all my might that I had made the right choice. Soon, the Vet walked in and said hello and immediately peeped in on Maisey, who was scrunched in the back of her carrier, wanting no part of her, me or anything and pissed off as holy hell. "Hello there Maisers," she purred at my cat, giving Maisey a nickname right off the bat (which in my opinion, scored her major points right away). "I like your nose freckle." I was won over by the loving way she addressed my cat and had noticed just how cute indeed that little nose freckle of hers was. (You love it too, Internet World.) But, I reminded myself. That is only part of it. Does she know what she's doing, you know, with the medical part of it? Turns out she was smart and knowledgeable and willing to spend time with me to educate my ignorant ass.
As she was leaving, I very hesitantly asked her if there was any way she could trim Maisey's back legs.
"I know you aren't a groomer but since Maisey's a Maine Coon and so furry, we've been having this problem where every time she poo..." I was about to say poops, but then stopped myself, because seriously Internet World, you do not say the word "poops" to a professional Veterinarian. This lady went through eleventeen millions years of college and is smart and mainly, in charge of the number my ass will write on the check as I leave the office, a little couth was needed.
(Note: I was born with none.)
So, I stopped myself and began again, only when I scanned my brain for the correct term, the appropriate term, the scientific term, the non-slang term, I COULD NOT THINK OF IT!! I mean, when do I ever use that term in my day to day life? I don't. I only ever use the slang versions. Poop. Number two. Doo. Butt Logs. (but only once and I was drunk). But in a moment that proved to me that Jesus does in fact have the whole world in his hands, the word came to me. It was a miracle.
"...umm, every time she defecates, the poo...I mean the feces sticks to her leg fur. I was wondering if you would be able to shave her back legs a little until I get comfortable doing it myself."
"Sure, that would not be a problem at all. Maine Coons can be hard to groom sometimes. Oh and by the way, you can say poop around here, we don't mind."
And that Internet World is how you know you've found the right Veterinarian.
P.S.-Wanna know another instances of my ignorance? Remember when I was telling you about Maisey's past and I mentioned that she had rabies? Well, when I mentioned this to her Vet, she informed me that if Maisey had rabies she would not be alive. That once an animal has rabies, it kills them. But I swore this is what her Foster Mom told me. So, I e-mailed her and she wrote back that what she had said was the Maisey and her family had been treated for rabies not that they had them. (I'm an awesome translator!) The pet mill that they came from had a large number of rabid animals on their grounds and none of their animals had been vaccinated against it. Maisey and her family didn't have rabies but were treated for it. IE: vaccinated against it. IE: I'm retarded. So, now you know and can resume eating once again.
P.P.S-Am I the only one that thinks "The Love Glove" is a very inappropriate name for a pet grooming product?
Join the club, 600th wind, join the club. Here, stick out your arm.
So Internet World, do you know how to tell that you have picked the right Veterinarian? I thought you might and I wished you would have maybe mention this a few months ago. Because now I don't need your advice and am in fact, here to give it.
See, this last weekend, Maisey had her first appointment with her new Veterinarian. In the past, I have always had the type of animals that didn't require the need of a Vet (you know the kind that my son refers to as "the boring kind") and so when we decided to adopt Maisey, I had to do the responsible thing and find one. Now, Internet World, I am not one who has an easy time making difficult decisions. Alot of time and thought go into decisions that I deem important and during this time of thinking and debating, I get very what you could call "Drama Class." This is when I start acting like Scartlett O'Hara and I suddenly start talking with a southern accent and lay my hand to my head, all very, "I cain't go on! Won't someone please make this choice for me?" Then I faint. Sometimes I put buns on the side of my head and beg for help, "Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, find a Vet. You're my only hope." My husband thinks I'm awesome during these times. He said so.
Seriously, I think I may have had an easier time choosing a Pediatrician for my kid than I did finding a Vet for Maisey. ("So, you know that he is human, you are responsible to fix him when I break him and that thing between his legs is not left over umbilical cord? Yes? Good. You're hired.") So I started asking every single person I came in contact with if s/he had a recommendation. Which can be a little awkward when one of those people is your Gynecologist and you maybe feel the need to talk during the really hands on (or I guess hands in would be more appropriate. Actually it isn't. I'm sorry) part of the exam to quiet your embarrassment. Usually, my doctor has no problem with this because I've never required her to be a part of this conversation. I just start yammering on about the weather or the pro's and con's of my new blender, so she can easily just shut my jabber out. She is professional that way. But during our last visit, somewhere between the cold KY jelly and the uncomfortable awareness that my ovaries were being fondled, I though it might be a good idea to ask her for a Vet recommendation and she looked at me, all very, "I'm arm deep in your girl bits right now, do you think this is the right time to be having this conversation?" Which oh yeah, good point. Focus your attention on my cervix. Don't want you distracted because I need that cervix, lady.(Actually, do I? I don't think I was paying attention in class that day. Just kidding! I know I need it. What will distribute my blood throughout my body otherwise. Kidding again! I know the cervix is there to produce antibodies to help fight infection and also that if you break it you have to use crutches.)
Like I said, Internet world, awkward. I then started bullying people into asking every person they've ever known, since Kindergarten, on my behalf, threatening to sing "I'm a Little Teapot" again if they did not agree. Which in hindsight, might not have been a good idea, because out of revenge, "Tell her not to go to Dr. Jones, he will molest her cat. He's a mess" could easily end up as "Tell her Dr. Jones must treat her cat. He's the best." And then I would have to get all "Drama Class" about finding her a therapist.
I happened to find the best reference from the strangest of places. I was gazing in the window of a second hand book store and drooling when a lady and her dog walked out. The dog had on a vest that signaled him as an aid dog and I asked the woman what Veterinarian she took her dog to, figuring that man, if you have to depend on your dog to help you out in life, chances are you aren't going to Mary Jo Schmoe in the back alley behind the local porn shop. Even if they are cheaper. You're going to take your companion animal to a place where people know the difference between "I reckon he's nuts been done cut off but maybe he jus' t'aint lucky in that way" and "Yes, this dog has defiantly been altered."
"Hi," I said. "Do you mind telling me what Vet you take your doggie to? And if you have had to sell any of your organs to pay the bill?" (What? It's a valid question. Your organs are important.) She was a very nice lady and gave me all the 411 on her Vet clinic. She seemed very satisfied with them.
I dropped my Blanche Dubois act and made an appointment.
As I waited in the exam room for the Vet to come in, I hoped with all my might that I had made the right choice. Soon, the Vet walked in and said hello and immediately peeped in on Maisey, who was scrunched in the back of her carrier, wanting no part of her, me or anything and pissed off as holy hell. "Hello there Maisers," she purred at my cat, giving Maisey a nickname right off the bat (which in my opinion, scored her major points right away). "I like your nose freckle." I was won over by the loving way she addressed my cat and had noticed just how cute indeed that little nose freckle of hers was. (You love it too, Internet World.) But, I reminded myself. That is only part of it. Does she know what she's doing, you know, with the medical part of it? Turns out she was smart and knowledgeable and willing to spend time with me to educate my ignorant ass.
As she was leaving, I very hesitantly asked her if there was any way she could trim Maisey's back legs.
"I know you aren't a groomer but since Maisey's a Maine Coon and so furry, we've been having this problem where every time she poo..." I was about to say poops, but then stopped myself, because seriously Internet World, you do not say the word "poops" to a professional Veterinarian. This lady went through eleventeen millions years of college and is smart and mainly, in charge of the number my ass will write on the check as I leave the office, a little couth was needed.
(Note: I was born with none.)
So, I stopped myself and began again, only when I scanned my brain for the correct term, the appropriate term, the scientific term, the non-slang term, I COULD NOT THINK OF IT!! I mean, when do I ever use that term in my day to day life? I don't. I only ever use the slang versions. Poop. Number two. Doo. Butt Logs. (but only once and I was drunk). But in a moment that proved to me that Jesus does in fact have the whole world in his hands, the word came to me. It was a miracle.
"...umm, every time she defecates, the poo...I mean the feces sticks to her leg fur. I was wondering if you would be able to shave her back legs a little until I get comfortable doing it myself."
"Sure, that would not be a problem at all. Maine Coons can be hard to groom sometimes. Oh and by the way, you can say poop around here, we don't mind."
And that Internet World is how you know you've found the right Veterinarian.
P.S.-Wanna know another instances of my ignorance? Remember when I was telling you about Maisey's past and I mentioned that she had rabies? Well, when I mentioned this to her Vet, she informed me that if Maisey had rabies she would not be alive. That once an animal has rabies, it kills them. But I swore this is what her Foster Mom told me. So, I e-mailed her and she wrote back that what she had said was the Maisey and her family had been treated for rabies not that they had them. (I'm an awesome translator!) The pet mill that they came from had a large number of rabid animals on their grounds and none of their animals had been vaccinated against it. Maisey and her family didn't have rabies but were treated for it. IE: vaccinated against it. IE: I'm retarded. So, now you know and can resume eating once again.
P.P.S-Am I the only one that thinks "The Love Glove" is a very inappropriate name for a pet grooming product?
Thursday, April 19, 2007
There is a fine line between creative and lazy.
The other night Sir Hormones informed me that he had finished his homework and in celebration of this event would like to please cash in thirty minutes of his allotted video game time.
"Not so fast, Buddy," I eyeballed him. "I want to see the completed product." See, my son sometimes has this habit of speeding through his homework so that he can spend the rest of his evening partaking in the things he finds more appealing than algebra (can't blame him there) and creative writing. While he gets good grades and always makes the Honor Roll and I guess you could call it henpecking if you really want to, I have a problem with him dishing out "B" caliber work when he is more than capable of dealing out an"A" product with just a little more time and effort on his part. Herein lies the problem. Because extra time and effort should be geared towards fun things like rock music and parent bashing.
Sir Hormone's English class is currently engaging in a Poetry and Creative Writing unit and every night for the last week, Sir Hormones and his classmates have been given a theme and are expected to produce a poem based on that theme.
Sir Hormones hands me his poem, the theme being "The Future". This is the poem that my little Ogden Nash brought forth from the recesses of his imagination:
The Future
Will see this poem written,
this is a step in that direction.
Alas, you must wait.
Um, excuse me? Seriously? ARE YOU FOR REAL? I looked up at my son with one eye closed and my lips twisted to the side.
"You are so going to get a failing grade for this!" I tell him.
"What?" he asks. "It's creative!"
"It's not creative. It's 'I want to play video games so to heck with this writing assignment!' " I bounce back at him.
"You seriously have no poetic blood flowing through your veins." He informs me.
"Now that? That's creative. Nice try but no cigar. Get back to it." I tell him pointing to his room.
"I refuse to be censored by someone who has no sense of humor!" He pounds his balled hand into his flat palm.
"I just think your teacher had something else in mind when he came up with that theme. He was probably thinking more along the lines of 'I want to see the Earth rejuvenate itself' or 'I want world peace' ".
"That's the thing, Mom. Those are completely cliched themes and I refuse to be held to them. Plus, how can he teach us to think for ourselves and then hold us to certain ideas? That is what a hypocrite does."
I stopped here because I really wanted to listen to his point. This is where parenthood travels into murky territory. That fine line between distinguishing between excuses and real beliefs. Was this really how my son felt or was this an excuse to get away with having to redo his paper?
"Okay, you have a great point. But tell me, what exactly is the point of your poem? What are you trying to get across?"
"I wanted to say that our futures are unwritten, just like this poem. That we are responsible for leading ourselves into our futures but we have to wait for it to unfold. There's not only one certain way it can unfold either. Once you write a poem, that poem is there. It's written. But anything unwritten has the possibility of being anything. You can look at it in a funny way too, like, I'm being sarcastic about writing this poem. It's neat that it can have a dual meaning."
I was blown away. When did this kid start thinking such grown up thoughts? How'd he get from Beanie Babies to deep thoughts about the human race? Granted this isn't Quantum Physics, but remember the kid is only thirteen. My deepest thoughts at thirteen were what dress Barbie should wear to catch Ken's interest. That and New Kids on the Block. Be quiet. (Please take one moment to appreciate my son's teen aged, hormonal passionate beliefs. "Will not be censored? Held to those beliefs? Cliched themes?") Want the recipe? Take one part puberty and chemical imbalance, mix it with some "Parents don't understand", throw in some Pink Floyd lyrics and sprinkle with some imagined suppression and angst. Viola! Sir Hormones Stew.
So, of course I let him leave it. I hope his teacher will understand it better than I did or at least give Sir Hormones the chance to explain his work. I don't care if he gets a failing grade on it, either. It's an A+ in my mind.
But, I'm a total Mom. I have to make sure I am not being a sucker.
"You sure this ain't bull cocky?" I ask him.
He looks at me with that little imp smile and eyes gleaming. "Well, the future isn't here yet, so I guess you'll have to wait and see, won't you?"
And isn't that the point?
P.S. Sir Hormones? For your information, there are no Statue of Limitations on infractions against thy Mother's intelligence.
"Not so fast, Buddy," I eyeballed him. "I want to see the completed product." See, my son sometimes has this habit of speeding through his homework so that he can spend the rest of his evening partaking in the things he finds more appealing than algebra (can't blame him there) and creative writing. While he gets good grades and always makes the Honor Roll and I guess you could call it henpecking if you really want to, I have a problem with him dishing out "B" caliber work when he is more than capable of dealing out an"A" product with just a little more time and effort on his part. Herein lies the problem. Because extra time and effort should be geared towards fun things like rock music and parent bashing.
Sir Hormone's English class is currently engaging in a Poetry and Creative Writing unit and every night for the last week, Sir Hormones and his classmates have been given a theme and are expected to produce a poem based on that theme.
Sir Hormones hands me his poem, the theme being "The Future". This is the poem that my little Ogden Nash brought forth from the recesses of his imagination:
The Future
Will see this poem written,
this is a step in that direction.
Alas, you must wait.
Um, excuse me? Seriously? ARE YOU FOR REAL? I looked up at my son with one eye closed and my lips twisted to the side.
"You are so going to get a failing grade for this!" I tell him.
"What?" he asks. "It's creative!"
"It's not creative. It's 'I want to play video games so to heck with this writing assignment!' " I bounce back at him.
"You seriously have no poetic blood flowing through your veins." He informs me.
"Now that? That's creative. Nice try but no cigar. Get back to it." I tell him pointing to his room.
"I refuse to be censored by someone who has no sense of humor!" He pounds his balled hand into his flat palm.
"I just think your teacher had something else in mind when he came up with that theme. He was probably thinking more along the lines of 'I want to see the Earth rejuvenate itself' or 'I want world peace' ".
"That's the thing, Mom. Those are completely cliched themes and I refuse to be held to them. Plus, how can he teach us to think for ourselves and then hold us to certain ideas? That is what a hypocrite does."
I stopped here because I really wanted to listen to his point. This is where parenthood travels into murky territory. That fine line between distinguishing between excuses and real beliefs. Was this really how my son felt or was this an excuse to get away with having to redo his paper?
"Okay, you have a great point. But tell me, what exactly is the point of your poem? What are you trying to get across?"
"I wanted to say that our futures are unwritten, just like this poem. That we are responsible for leading ourselves into our futures but we have to wait for it to unfold. There's not only one certain way it can unfold either. Once you write a poem, that poem is there. It's written. But anything unwritten has the possibility of being anything. You can look at it in a funny way too, like, I'm being sarcastic about writing this poem. It's neat that it can have a dual meaning."
I was blown away. When did this kid start thinking such grown up thoughts? How'd he get from Beanie Babies to deep thoughts about the human race? Granted this isn't Quantum Physics, but remember the kid is only thirteen. My deepest thoughts at thirteen were what dress Barbie should wear to catch Ken's interest. That and New Kids on the Block. Be quiet. (Please take one moment to appreciate my son's teen aged, hormonal passionate beliefs. "Will not be censored? Held to those beliefs? Cliched themes?") Want the recipe? Take one part puberty and chemical imbalance, mix it with some "Parents don't understand", throw in some Pink Floyd lyrics and sprinkle with some imagined suppression and angst. Viola! Sir Hormones Stew.
So, of course I let him leave it. I hope his teacher will understand it better than I did or at least give Sir Hormones the chance to explain his work. I don't care if he gets a failing grade on it, either. It's an A+ in my mind.
But, I'm a total Mom. I have to make sure I am not being a sucker.
"You sure this ain't bull cocky?" I ask him.
He looks at me with that little imp smile and eyes gleaming. "Well, the future isn't here yet, so I guess you'll have to wait and see, won't you?"
And isn't that the point?
P.S. Sir Hormones? For your information, there are no Statue of Limitations on infractions against thy Mother's intelligence.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Song lyrics I'm digging.
Can you guess the artist(s) and song?
No prizes if you do, just you know, my undying love for your awesomeness.
1.)
a.) I got the anti-Christ in the kitchen yellin' at me again,
Yeah I can hear that.
Been saved again by the garbage truck,
I got something to say you know but nothing comes,
Yes I know what you think of me, you never shut-up.
b.) I think it's that girl.
And I think they're pieces of me you've never seen.
Maybe she's just pieces of me you've never seen.
2.)
a.) Come sit next to me
Pour yourself some tea
Just like grandma made
When we couldn't find sleep
b.) You can't avoid her
She's in the air (in the air)
In between molecules of oxygen
and carbon dioxide
3.)
a.) Looking out the door I see the rain fall upon the funeral mourners,
Parading in a wake of sad relations as their shoes fill up with water.
B.) Diamonds from the pavement
Where a broken glass had been.
Just like these troubles that I'm leaving to the wind
Like sapphires, in boxcars speeding towards the end
Like thieves, my bad luck grows.
4.)
a.) I have dreams of orca whales and owls.
b.) If you never say your name out loud to anyone,
They can never ever call you by it.
5.)
a.) Today is the greatest day I've ever known,
Can't live for tomorrow,
Tomorrow's much too long.
b.) Mother weep the years I'm missing,
All our time can't be given back.
6.)
a.) How many train wrecks do we need to see?
Before we lose touch of
We thought this was low.
It's bad gettin' worse
Where'd all the good people go?
b.) From doing what your supposed to like
waking up too early
Maybe we can sleep in
I'll make you banana pancakes
Pretend like its the weekend now.
7.)
a.) Funny thing with blood,
You try to stand but neither leg's awake
b.) I wanna see it when you find out what comets, stars, and moons are all about,
I wanna see their faces turn to backs of heads and slowly get smaller.
Real post sometime soon. *SNORT* So that's what we're calling them around here?
No prizes if you do, just you know, my undying love for your awesomeness.
1.)
a.) I got the anti-Christ in the kitchen yellin' at me again,
Yeah I can hear that.
Been saved again by the garbage truck,
I got something to say you know but nothing comes,
Yes I know what you think of me, you never shut-up.
b.) I think it's that girl.
And I think they're pieces of me you've never seen.
Maybe she's just pieces of me you've never seen.
2.)
a.) Come sit next to me
Pour yourself some tea
Just like grandma made
When we couldn't find sleep
b.) You can't avoid her
She's in the air (in the air)
In between molecules of oxygen
and carbon dioxide
3.)
a.) Looking out the door I see the rain fall upon the funeral mourners,
Parading in a wake of sad relations as their shoes fill up with water.
B.) Diamonds from the pavement
Where a broken glass had been.
Just like these troubles that I'm leaving to the wind
Like sapphires, in boxcars speeding towards the end
Like thieves, my bad luck grows.
4.)
a.) I have dreams of orca whales and owls.
b.) If you never say your name out loud to anyone,
They can never ever call you by it.
5.)
a.) Today is the greatest day I've ever known,
Can't live for tomorrow,
Tomorrow's much too long.
b.) Mother weep the years I'm missing,
All our time can't be given back.
6.)
a.) How many train wrecks do we need to see?
Before we lose touch of
We thought this was low.
It's bad gettin' worse
Where'd all the good people go?
b.) From doing what your supposed to like
waking up too early
Maybe we can sleep in
I'll make you banana pancakes
Pretend like its the weekend now.
7.)
a.) Funny thing with blood,
You try to stand but neither leg's awake
b.) I wanna see it when you find out what comets, stars, and moons are all about,
I wanna see their faces turn to backs of heads and slowly get smaller.
Real post sometime soon. *SNORT* So that's what we're calling them around here?
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Why we should never be allowed to roam childless. Even for one night. Or, getting high on freedom.
Scene One: The Beginning of the End
Self: Hey, honey. Since Sir Hormones is staying the night at his friends, wanna go rent movies? We can rent the most violent, dirty movies with lots of cuss words and sex. Probably with excessive drug use too.
The Scientist: Yes! Or maybe we can rent "G" movies and add "R" rated dialogue ourselves! Also, want to stop at the store and wreck havoc on their Easter candy aisle? We can be high on sugar for weeks!
Self: (giddy) YES! YES! YES! See, this is why I married you!
Scene Two: At the store (one we may not be allowed back in to).
Self: (Standing in the middle of the Easter Candy aisle, arms raised) I don't care what anybody says, this is the real reason for Easter! (Grabs a bag of malted robin's eggs and hugs them to her).
The Scientist: Honey! You know the real reason for Easter is Jesus! (pause) and the fact that he made Marshmallow Peeps! (Grabs a box. Then another. Adds one more).
Self: (has an intense hate for Peeps) Nuh-uh! We celebrate Easter by eating jelly beans and chocolate bunnies as a way to thank Baby Jesus for giving us our friends, the Indians.
The Scientist: No! You don't know anything about Baby Jesus. We celebrate Easter because Baby Jesus sends his friend, The Easter Bunny, as a way to release us from our sins. Also, it is his birthday.
Self: We are heathens. We are going to hell.
The Scientist: I don't care as long as there are Peeps in hell.
Self: Oh there will be! That's where Peeps are made.
We walk to the cashier.
Self: We're going to eat this all tonight. Ourselves. We aren't even going to share it with our son!Then we're going to give "Happy Feet" a porn name!
Cashier: Ummm. That's nice.
Self: (turns to The Scientist) I just figured it out! The real reason for Easter is dentists!
The Scientist: (catching on) Right! Because you know they're giving thanks for Baby Jesus giving us the Easter Bunny! I'm so glad to have the answers to our questions!
Self: (turns back to cashier) Can I get an "Amen" brother!
Cashier: Next! Please!
Scene Three: The End
It ends badly. You don't want to know. And the court papers say I can't talk about it anyway.
Self: Hey, honey. Since Sir Hormones is staying the night at his friends, wanna go rent movies? We can rent the most violent, dirty movies with lots of cuss words and sex. Probably with excessive drug use too.
The Scientist: Yes! Or maybe we can rent "G" movies and add "R" rated dialogue ourselves! Also, want to stop at the store and wreck havoc on their Easter candy aisle? We can be high on sugar for weeks!
Self: (giddy) YES! YES! YES! See, this is why I married you!
Scene Two: At the store (one we may not be allowed back in to).
Self: (Standing in the middle of the Easter Candy aisle, arms raised) I don't care what anybody says, this is the real reason for Easter! (Grabs a bag of malted robin's eggs and hugs them to her).
The Scientist: Honey! You know the real reason for Easter is Jesus! (pause) and the fact that he made Marshmallow Peeps! (Grabs a box. Then another. Adds one more).
Self: (has an intense hate for Peeps) Nuh-uh! We celebrate Easter by eating jelly beans and chocolate bunnies as a way to thank Baby Jesus for giving us our friends, the Indians.
The Scientist: No! You don't know anything about Baby Jesus. We celebrate Easter because Baby Jesus sends his friend, The Easter Bunny, as a way to release us from our sins. Also, it is his birthday.
Self: We are heathens. We are going to hell.
The Scientist: I don't care as long as there are Peeps in hell.
Self: Oh there will be! That's where Peeps are made.
We walk to the cashier.
Self: We're going to eat this all tonight. Ourselves. We aren't even going to share it with our son!Then we're going to give "Happy Feet" a porn name!
Cashier: Ummm. That's nice.
Self: (turns to The Scientist) I just figured it out! The real reason for Easter is dentists!
The Scientist: (catching on) Right! Because you know they're giving thanks for Baby Jesus giving us the Easter Bunny! I'm so glad to have the answers to our questions!
Self: (turns back to cashier) Can I get an "Amen" brother!
Cashier: Next! Please!
Scene Three: The End
It ends badly. You don't want to know. And the court papers say I can't talk about it anyway.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Someone Better Get Themselves A Library Card.
Self: (finishing lecture on responsibility to Sir Hormones)...am I making myself clear? Do you understand what I'm saying? Are we on the same page here?
Sir Hormones: Sister, we aren't even reading the same book.
Self: (giving deadly look of "I put you on this planet and I can take you off" to Sir Hormones.)
Sir Hormones: (realizing Mom is not in the mood, Repeat Mom is not in the mood! Abort mission!) But I totally plan on reading yours.
Sir Hormones: Sister, we aren't even reading the same book.
Self: (giving deadly look of "I put you on this planet and I can take you off" to Sir Hormones.)
Sir Hormones: (realizing Mom is not in the mood, Repeat Mom is not in the mood! Abort mission!) But I totally plan on reading yours.
Monday, March 26, 2007
It Might Be Fun To Bounce Off Those Walls.
Self: (petting my cat) Oh Maisey! You're such a pretty girl! Are you a pretty girl? Yes you are! You're my little Purr Bucket! Pretty little Maisey May....
The Scientist: You know, I read somewhere that if you say more than fifty words per hour to your cat, that it's a sign of psychological instability.
Self: (gleefully) Well, than call me crazy!
Sir Hormones: Well, actually we have but at this point I think you're more at the Padded Cell level.
*The Scientist and Sir Hormones high five one another.*
The Scientist: You know, I read somewhere that if you say more than fifty words per hour to your cat, that it's a sign of psychological instability.
Self: (gleefully) Well, than call me crazy!
Sir Hormones: Well, actually we have but at this point I think you're more at the Padded Cell level.
*The Scientist and Sir Hormones high five one another.*
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Another Sickening Post Where All I Do Is Gush Over My Cat
I need to tell the world how much I love my cat, Maisey. She has cemented herself deeply into my heart.
She plays like a champ.
Playtime with Maisey
This is called "Kill the Leopard Spotted Tail Thingy with Feathers"
Which she totally does!
She likes to grab these mice toys in her mouth, sling them across the room and then jump in the air after them.
Like this. Look at that crazy arm!
This is called "Jump In and Out of the Box." She loves this game.
She also likes to play charades. Maisey: Hey guys! Guess what I look like in this picture! What? A cat? Come on, you aren't even trying. Who said a fox? Whoever said fox is right."
This game is called, "Which of These Things is Not Like the Other? Which of These Things is Not the Same?"
This looks like she's sleeping but she wants you to know that she is actually Duck hunting and this is her kill.
This game is called, "Your flash is bugging me!"
Once again it looks like Maisey is lounging but she wants you to know she is only playing "The Staring Game."
Okay, she admits it, she's resting in this picture. Only because all that playing tired her out, ya know?
She plays like a champ.
Playtime with Maisey
This is called "Kill the Leopard Spotted Tail Thingy with Feathers"
Which she totally does!
She likes to grab these mice toys in her mouth, sling them across the room and then jump in the air after them.
Like this. Look at that crazy arm!
This is called "Jump In and Out of the Box." She loves this game.
She also likes to play charades. Maisey: Hey guys! Guess what I look like in this picture! What? A cat? Come on, you aren't even trying. Who said a fox? Whoever said fox is right."
This game is called, "Which of These Things is Not Like the Other? Which of These Things is Not the Same?"
This looks like she's sleeping but she wants you to know that she is actually Duck hunting and this is her kill.
This game is called, "Your flash is bugging me!"
Once again it looks like Maisey is lounging but she wants you to know she is only playing "The Staring Game."
Okay, she admits it, she's resting in this picture. Only because all that playing tired her out, ya know?
Monday, March 19, 2007
May The Lord Have Mercy On My Soul...
....For I am now officially the mother of a teen-ager.
*Reaches for rosary beads, burning sage, 12 step book, Psychiatrist yellow page listings, Buddha's belly, Bible, duct tape, and the tequila*
I'm going to need them all.
*Reaches for rosary beads, burning sage, 12 step book, Psychiatrist yellow page listings, Buddha's belly, Bible, duct tape, and the tequila*
I'm going to need them all.
Friday, March 16, 2007
We Love To Antagonize Each Other. It's Our Favorite Pastime.
Dude Who Works With Us And Is Also A Friend: (Giving me advice about my cat) .......that might work.
Self: That is a really good point.
The Scientist: Hey! I made that exact same point the other night and you didn't even respond to it.
Self: No offense Honey, but you make soooo many points, about everything, with a point point here and a point point there, that sometimes all your points get boggled up in my head and get all mushed together. So, I might have in fact reacted to your point only it was so convoluted with your other points that it just wasn't recognizable as the point you were making about this specific instance.
The Scientist: What's your point?
Self: Why? Are you trying to make a point by asking that?
The Scientist: Yes, and the point is...
Self: I'll listen to your point if you agree to the fact that when you die I can write "He Made A Lot Of Points" on your gravestone.
The Scientist: Excuse me, but.....
Self: (sighs and rolls eyes) Fine, "He Made A Lot Of GOOD Points"!
The Scientist: No, I was just going to point out that I plan to be cremated. *
* This is why I love my husband. No one else would be willing to play with me like this.
Self: That is a really good point.
The Scientist: Hey! I made that exact same point the other night and you didn't even respond to it.
Self: No offense Honey, but you make soooo many points, about everything, with a point point here and a point point there, that sometimes all your points get boggled up in my head and get all mushed together. So, I might have in fact reacted to your point only it was so convoluted with your other points that it just wasn't recognizable as the point you were making about this specific instance.
The Scientist: What's your point?
Self: Why? Are you trying to make a point by asking that?
The Scientist: Yes, and the point is...
Self: I'll listen to your point if you agree to the fact that when you die I can write "He Made A Lot Of Points" on your gravestone.
The Scientist: Excuse me, but.....
Self: (sighs and rolls eyes) Fine, "He Made A Lot Of GOOD Points"!
The Scientist: No, I was just going to point out that I plan to be cremated. *
* This is why I love my husband. No one else would be willing to play with me like this.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
If You Got A Letter To Send, I Got The Guys To Send It
I am pretty much in love with my small town's post office. I am a regular there, for work, see, and so Mike and Larry, the two post men at my branch, have come to know me very well. They always have an easy laugh at the ready and they always look out for me. Like the time our office burned down and I had to take care of all the mail forwarding problems and it was such a nightmare but these two chaps patted my hand and told me that we would get through it. They made sure I had all the correct forms and informed me of my best options. When something comes up missing, they go on manhunts until they bring back what I am looking for.
Larry is grey haired and has startlingly blue, piercing eyes. He owns lots of property and likes to make holes in his fields with his huge, manly tractor on the weekends.
Mike is married and has been with the post office for over twenty years. He always takes extra time with the older crowd and jokes around with the business men.
Larry collects baseball cards and has lived in three different countries. He always has a Hershey's chocolate kiss for me at the end of our business transaction.
Mike is a huge Neil Young fan and he always makes sure to ask how our home remodeling is going.
They both love to tease me because I work for my husband and refer to him as "The Boss", meanwhile they are winking and grinning about knowing who the real boss is.
The other day, I walked in and instead of the big "HELLO SMILEY" (their nick name for me) that accompanies my entrance, only Mike was there with the usual greeting. On the other side of him, where Larry usually is, was another employee.
As I made my way to his window, cursing him for not being one of my regular guys and glaring slightly because he had better not have taken Larry's job, he threw me a big smile.
"What can I do you for today?" he asks. I hand him my packages and he goes about processing them. As we finish our transaction, I hand him my credit card and I am so used to not having to show I.D. that I am a little (irrationally) irked when he asks to see it.
"Maybe if you were a regular you'd know who I was," I grumble in my head and hand over my identification.
He looks it over and says, "There is no way that you are going to be thirty-three on Friday!" He hands me back my I.D. and shakes his head. "I had you figured for a college student. Seriously, I can not believe you are in your thirties."
I beam at him. "Yep, the big three three!" I tell him.
"Well, someone won the Gene Pool Lotto," he laughs.
So, his name is Chris and he will be there while Larry heals his recently broken ankle. I miss Larry but I have a feeling Chris and I are gonna get along just fine.
Larry is grey haired and has startlingly blue, piercing eyes. He owns lots of property and likes to make holes in his fields with his huge, manly tractor on the weekends.
Mike is married and has been with the post office for over twenty years. He always takes extra time with the older crowd and jokes around with the business men.
Larry collects baseball cards and has lived in three different countries. He always has a Hershey's chocolate kiss for me at the end of our business transaction.
Mike is a huge Neil Young fan and he always makes sure to ask how our home remodeling is going.
They both love to tease me because I work for my husband and refer to him as "The Boss", meanwhile they are winking and grinning about knowing who the real boss is.
The other day, I walked in and instead of the big "HELLO SMILEY" (their nick name for me) that accompanies my entrance, only Mike was there with the usual greeting. On the other side of him, where Larry usually is, was another employee.
As I made my way to his window, cursing him for not being one of my regular guys and glaring slightly because he had better not have taken Larry's job, he threw me a big smile.
"What can I do you for today?" he asks. I hand him my packages and he goes about processing them. As we finish our transaction, I hand him my credit card and I am so used to not having to show I.D. that I am a little (irrationally) irked when he asks to see it.
"Maybe if you were a regular you'd know who I was," I grumble in my head and hand over my identification.
He looks it over and says, "There is no way that you are going to be thirty-three on Friday!" He hands me back my I.D. and shakes his head. "I had you figured for a college student. Seriously, I can not believe you are in your thirties."
I beam at him. "Yep, the big three three!" I tell him.
"Well, someone won the Gene Pool Lotto," he laughs.
So, his name is Chris and he will be there while Larry heals his recently broken ankle. I miss Larry but I have a feeling Chris and I are gonna get along just fine.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
A Disappointing Lack of The Paranormal
One of the things I most looked forward to when we moved our office into the Queen Anne Victorian, built in 1895, was the chance that we might have a resident ghost. I was convinced that the ripe history of this home would be the perfect setting for a little poltergeist.
On our first day in the office, I kept my eyes and ears open to the possibility of paranormal activity. A strange shadow in the room, doors being tossed open with no one else around, desk items being mysteriously rearranged. I thought long and hard about how I would take a caring but stern approach with these ghosts, letting them know that we would just have to find a way to live compatibly with one another.
During the first week, nothing slapped me in the face as unusual, until one day as I was sitting at my desk, I heard this very peculiar scratching sound emanating from the ceiling above me. It stopped and minutes later, started again. My heart soared! I've read stories where this very scratching sound was the first sign that a family might have ghosts living with them. I ran upstairs to The Scientist's office to inform him of the sound and that I wasn't "delusional" as he put it when I told him I hoped our office was haunted. As I walked into his office, he was stooped over a box, dragging it into the closet, the bottom of the box making a very strange albeit familiar scratching sound against the thin carpet.
I am so disappointed. Because there is nada. Zilch. Zero. This house might as well have been built last week. I find it hard to believe that not one Tobias or Wilhelmina is fighting tooth and nail to keep from going over to the other side.
In order to make up for the absolute absence of any kind of ghostly presence in this office, I've decided to make up my own ghosts. And while they might not actually exist, in any type of life form, past or present, I have a blast imagining that they indeed did.
Let me introduce you to the first ghost;
Little Elijah Wallace- Eli, as his family was wont to call him, fondly, was only seven when he met his untimely death. The youngest of three children, he was born to Frances and Dr. D.H. Wallace. Though the family originally laid roots in the mid-west, Dr. D.H. Wallace was presented the opportunity, via his brother-in-law, a self-described capitalist, to bring his medical practice to a Lumber Boom Town in California, where he would be available for any mishaps the workers of the local lumber mill might befall. His brother-in-law, Carson McFarland, arranged for the family to move into a newly built Queen Anne, located in the center of town and close to the lumber mill. The family of five settled in nicely and Dr. Wallace's practice boomed. Not only was he the practicing physician for the rough and tumble burly crowd of the lumber mill but was able to extend his practice to other locals, where he gained a fine reputation for a gentle bedside manner and a very extensive knowledge in all matters of Science. As the years passed, the Wallaces' enjoyed the prosperity that came along with being the respected town doctors' family. Frances Wallace was central in starting the town's first documented "Ladies Club" and her middle child, a daughter named Rose, whose beauty and grace contributed in making her the towns most promising marriage prospect, was courted by many of the sons of her fathers acquaintances. The oldest son, William, was admired for his intelligence and being much like his father, was set to follow in his father's footsteps. Little Eli was known for his good- natured, mischievous personality and how he could elicit free candy sticks from the local candy shop owner just because of his smile and the sparkle in his eye.
Rose, after approval from both her parents, decided to accept the marriage proposal of a one James Robert Mendenhawl, the son of the town's Chemist and very dear friend of the Wallace family.
On the night of James and Rose's engagement party, the well-to-do friends of the Wallace family turned up at the Wallaces' home to partake in a celebratory feast and cocktail hour. As the servants welcomed the guests and relieved them of their outer wear, hanging the outer wear in the front hall closet and escorting them to the receiving room, Little Eli, the scamp he was, slyly hid himself in the front hall closet and started to place a frog in one of the pockets of a hanging jacket. As his hand slipped into the pocket, he felt something rub against his finger and after extracting it, was delighted to find what looked to him a piece of candy. Little did Eli know as he started to chew the "sweet", that what he had actually found in the pocket of the groom-to-be's father, the towns chemist, was a specially prepared tablet of poison, designed to register an extraordinarily sweet taste so as not to garner suspicion of whomever happen to be digesting it, and that he had planned to slip it in his wife's drink later that night. For you see, Dr. Mendenhawl had caught on to the fact that his wife was having an affair with the local dandy, the very brother-in-law of Dr. D.H. Wallace!
Sadly, as Dr. Mendenhawl found his way to the coat closet to retrieve the poison, what he found instead was little Elijah Wallace, dead under the hems of the hanging outer wear and with a bull frog clutched in his hand.
Now, Elijah needs company and I totally need more ghosts for this office so I'll need your help. Write me a ghost story, of any length and kind and maybe your ghost will become part of the office too.
On our first day in the office, I kept my eyes and ears open to the possibility of paranormal activity. A strange shadow in the room, doors being tossed open with no one else around, desk items being mysteriously rearranged. I thought long and hard about how I would take a caring but stern approach with these ghosts, letting them know that we would just have to find a way to live compatibly with one another.
During the first week, nothing slapped me in the face as unusual, until one day as I was sitting at my desk, I heard this very peculiar scratching sound emanating from the ceiling above me. It stopped and minutes later, started again. My heart soared! I've read stories where this very scratching sound was the first sign that a family might have ghosts living with them. I ran upstairs to The Scientist's office to inform him of the sound and that I wasn't "delusional" as he put it when I told him I hoped our office was haunted. As I walked into his office, he was stooped over a box, dragging it into the closet, the bottom of the box making a very strange albeit familiar scratching sound against the thin carpet.
I am so disappointed. Because there is nada. Zilch. Zero. This house might as well have been built last week. I find it hard to believe that not one Tobias or Wilhelmina is fighting tooth and nail to keep from going over to the other side.
In order to make up for the absolute absence of any kind of ghostly presence in this office, I've decided to make up my own ghosts. And while they might not actually exist, in any type of life form, past or present, I have a blast imagining that they indeed did.
Let me introduce you to the first ghost;
Little Elijah Wallace- Eli, as his family was wont to call him, fondly, was only seven when he met his untimely death. The youngest of three children, he was born to Frances and Dr. D.H. Wallace. Though the family originally laid roots in the mid-west, Dr. D.H. Wallace was presented the opportunity, via his brother-in-law, a self-described capitalist, to bring his medical practice to a Lumber Boom Town in California, where he would be available for any mishaps the workers of the local lumber mill might befall. His brother-in-law, Carson McFarland, arranged for the family to move into a newly built Queen Anne, located in the center of town and close to the lumber mill. The family of five settled in nicely and Dr. Wallace's practice boomed. Not only was he the practicing physician for the rough and tumble burly crowd of the lumber mill but was able to extend his practice to other locals, where he gained a fine reputation for a gentle bedside manner and a very extensive knowledge in all matters of Science. As the years passed, the Wallaces' enjoyed the prosperity that came along with being the respected town doctors' family. Frances Wallace was central in starting the town's first documented "Ladies Club" and her middle child, a daughter named Rose, whose beauty and grace contributed in making her the towns most promising marriage prospect, was courted by many of the sons of her fathers acquaintances. The oldest son, William, was admired for his intelligence and being much like his father, was set to follow in his father's footsteps. Little Eli was known for his good- natured, mischievous personality and how he could elicit free candy sticks from the local candy shop owner just because of his smile and the sparkle in his eye.
Rose, after approval from both her parents, decided to accept the marriage proposal of a one James Robert Mendenhawl, the son of the town's Chemist and very dear friend of the Wallace family.
On the night of James and Rose's engagement party, the well-to-do friends of the Wallace family turned up at the Wallaces' home to partake in a celebratory feast and cocktail hour. As the servants welcomed the guests and relieved them of their outer wear, hanging the outer wear in the front hall closet and escorting them to the receiving room, Little Eli, the scamp he was, slyly hid himself in the front hall closet and started to place a frog in one of the pockets of a hanging jacket. As his hand slipped into the pocket, he felt something rub against his finger and after extracting it, was delighted to find what looked to him a piece of candy. Little did Eli know as he started to chew the "sweet", that what he had actually found in the pocket of the groom-to-be's father, the towns chemist, was a specially prepared tablet of poison, designed to register an extraordinarily sweet taste so as not to garner suspicion of whomever happen to be digesting it, and that he had planned to slip it in his wife's drink later that night. For you see, Dr. Mendenhawl had caught on to the fact that his wife was having an affair with the local dandy, the very brother-in-law of Dr. D.H. Wallace!
Sadly, as Dr. Mendenhawl found his way to the coat closet to retrieve the poison, what he found instead was little Elijah Wallace, dead under the hems of the hanging outer wear and with a bull frog clutched in his hand.
Now, Elijah needs company and I totally need more ghosts for this office so I'll need your help. Write me a ghost story, of any length and kind and maybe your ghost will become part of the office too.
Monday, March 12, 2007
If I Could Turn Back Time, The Eyerolling Would Stop
Self: Hey, Sir Hormones? Knock it off, I don't appreciate the back talk.
Sir Hormones: (rolls eyes) *Back talk, back talk, back talk.....*
Self: (Lifts tee shirt to belly button and shows Sir Hormones stretch marks) I did not endure hours upon hours of painful labor and the side effect of stretch marks to bring a smart alec into the world.
Sir Hormones: (opens eyes wide at the sight of stretch marks) I am really sorry, Mom.
Self: Don't be sorry, just don't talk back and there would be nothing for you to be sorry about.
Sir Hormones: No, not about that. I'm sorry about (points to my stomach area) your deformity. Really, really sorry. Like, you have my deepest sympathies kind of sorry.*
*This is one reason I love my son. He has a very dry, sarcastic sense of humor for someone his age. I totally dig it and he knows it. He brings out the funny to distract me from the point at hand, which usually works, because all I can do is laugh. For some reason, when we bring humor into the day to day mix (this does not include major infractions, which seem to be rare), we forgo the whole power struggle thing and land on neutral territory where he understands where I am coming from and he also feels like I am making an effort to do the same for him. It works for us and we seem to skip over a lot of the battles. We play off each other very well. It makes life much more pleasant and brings us closer together.
Sir Hormones: (rolls eyes) *Back talk, back talk, back talk.....*
Self: (Lifts tee shirt to belly button and shows Sir Hormones stretch marks) I did not endure hours upon hours of painful labor and the side effect of stretch marks to bring a smart alec into the world.
Sir Hormones: (opens eyes wide at the sight of stretch marks) I am really sorry, Mom.
Self: Don't be sorry, just don't talk back and there would be nothing for you to be sorry about.
Sir Hormones: No, not about that. I'm sorry about (points to my stomach area) your deformity. Really, really sorry. Like, you have my deepest sympathies kind of sorry.*
*This is one reason I love my son. He has a very dry, sarcastic sense of humor for someone his age. I totally dig it and he knows it. He brings out the funny to distract me from the point at hand, which usually works, because all I can do is laugh. For some reason, when we bring humor into the day to day mix (this does not include major infractions, which seem to be rare), we forgo the whole power struggle thing and land on neutral territory where he understands where I am coming from and he also feels like I am making an effort to do the same for him. It works for us and we seem to skip over a lot of the battles. We play off each other very well. It makes life much more pleasant and brings us closer together.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
That's It! Get This Kid a Stage and a Microphone!
The past weekend Sir Hormones and I were down at the animal shelter doing volunteer work with the animals. As we were signing out to leave, we noticed that the library that is next to the front desk was looking like it needed a little organizing. The library at the shelter is two huge bookcases full of books on animal care, animal behavior, animal health and animal everything under the sun. They have it there for people to check out and take home for free. Sir Hormones and I got to pulling out the books and arranging them. At the front desk there was an employee working with two ladies. One of the ladies was turning in an adoption application and the other lady was her friend, tagging along.
"It looks like everything is in place," the employee tells the adopter-to-be. "I've processed your application and you already have your appointment with the Adoption Specialist set up and once you complete the interview, you should be bringing Toby home." (Toby is a cute little mutt that lives at the shelter.)
"Great! Thanks for your help," The Adopter-to-be tells the employee. The employee then turns to her friend and asks, "What about you? Have you ever considered adopting a pet from our shelter?"
The friend laughs a very amused laugh and says, "I wish but I have two sets of twins at home, all under the age of five!"
Sir Hormones, who can hear this whole conversation as well as I can, leans over to me and whispers, "So, she'd probably be more interested in their surrender services."
"It looks like everything is in place," the employee tells the adopter-to-be. "I've processed your application and you already have your appointment with the Adoption Specialist set up and once you complete the interview, you should be bringing Toby home." (Toby is a cute little mutt that lives at the shelter.)
"Great! Thanks for your help," The Adopter-to-be tells the employee. The employee then turns to her friend and asks, "What about you? Have you ever considered adopting a pet from our shelter?"
The friend laughs a very amused laugh and says, "I wish but I have two sets of twins at home, all under the age of five!"
Sir Hormones, who can hear this whole conversation as well as I can, leans over to me and whispers, "So, she'd probably be more interested in their surrender services."
Monday, March 05, 2007
Well, You're The One Who Married Me, So What Does That Say About You?
Self: Am I crazy or are the hot and cold knobs on this sink on the wrong sides?
The Scientist: You are correct, they are on the wrong sides. But you're still crazy.
The Scientist: You are correct, they are on the wrong sides. But you're still crazy.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Hey, Anytime! Glad To Be of Service!
The Scientist: (completley serious) Honey? I have a problem and I need your advice. Remember yesterday when I had that meeting with [name of client]? Well, we got to talking about fishing and he told me that I should use this lure called a "Sweet Beaver"; said it was fool proof. So, I want to look into it but ummm, how do I look up "Sweet Beaver" without Google thinking I'm searching for porn?"
Self: (GRABS SIDES WHILE CRYING IN HYSTERICAL LAUGHTER*)
The Scientist: (dryly) Thanks for your help.
*You totally know that's why he married me.
Self: (GRABS SIDES WHILE CRYING IN HYSTERICAL LAUGHTER*)
The Scientist: (dryly) Thanks for your help.
*You totally know that's why he married me.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
A Little Overkill on the Cuteness for You
Miss Maisey!
Maisey to Brother: Ummm, no, I do not think so!
From what we have come to learn, Maisey loves dogs!
She also likes to climb trees. (Her foster mom takes the kitties on supervised outdoor hikes!)
As you can tell, Maisey and her brother Smokey were partners in crime!
Maisey, my little Diva!
Maisey with her summer buzz!
Maisey's mom, Bella.
So, here is a bit of background on our newest family member: Maisey, her mother and her brother were all confiscated from a breeder who kept them in cages and neglected their care. When they were rescued, they all had rabies. Maisey's foster mother took them in and gave them a wonderful home and helped them get well. They were not socialized well and were borderline wild cats.
With love and a new stable home, the trio came out of their shell a bit. Bella and Smokey were adopted and after they left, the foster mommy realized that she had made a mistake and should not have separated Maisey and her brother, who were cage mates at the breeders hell and Maisey was very attached. She became withdrawn and depressed. Her foster mommy did everything she could to help her. She knew that Maisey needed a home where she would be the only cat (the foster home she lived at always had many cats living there-nineteen when we adopted Maisey!) and she really needed someone to give her a lot of love and one on one time to help her adjust to her new life. Maisey's foster mom felt guilty because she could not give her exactly what she needed nor could she find a foster parent who was willing to make her the only cat in the home until she was adopted. Maisey's foster mommy worked extra hard at finding her a great home but no one wanted Maisey because she was withdrawn and timid and would not let strangers near her.
I came across Maisey and her foster mommy's organization through petfinders.com when we decided that we would like to adopt a cat. We missed having a cat around the house after Kitty Lou disappeared. After speaking to her foster mom about her and discussing it with The Scientist, he thought that we should keep looking because Maisey sounded like she had too many "issues." While he was not trying to be hard hearted, because let's face it, you have to be prepared to take on a lot when you bring home any pet, he really wanted a pet that would be more personable. I talked him into at least going to meet Maisey. For some reason, I really felt a pull towards her although I really wanted an "easy" pet myself. (I think this may have something to do with why my mom calls me "her bleeding heart child.")
The three of us go to meet Maisey and she meets all the criteria that pet experts warn you against when picking a pet; she is scared of us, won't come near us and hides. She won't interact with the other cats and she has this look in her eyes that is hard to describe but it made her look like she had brain damage. Very sad and vacant and not all there. The Scientist thought we shouldn't adopt her but for some reason I KNEW that we would be the answer to this cats prayers. Call it wishful thinking or what have you but I was willing to chance it. Sure, we could end up with an anti-social cat who has many behavioral problems but maybe just maybe the real Maisey was in there ready to be brought out. When her foster mom said that she had been there for more than a year and that every person who had come to look at her has decided against adopting her, my heart broke. No one wanted this cat. She was considered a reject. Not good enough. I am a huge sucker for the underdog, so my response to this was, "Give me that cat! I want her!" The Scientist relented but he was sure we made a mistake. For the last two weeks, I was pretty convinced that maybe he was right. Maisey hid and hissed and wanted nothing to do with us. She had the same look in her eyes and I even thought that it was a possibility that she had some kind of brain damage. Her foster mom's boyfriend even said that she "had no personality."
But guess what? It has been almost three weeks and Maisey has become a new cat. I am not lying! We are all amazed at the transformation. She follows me around and meows for attention and she has the cutest little meow! It sounds like a two year old impersonating a cat meowing! She makes a bunch of chirping and twittering sounds and plays like a champ. I know that there is more to come too.
The best thing is that look in her eyes is gone. In her eyes now, I see hope and acknowledgement and curiosity. Her personality is coming out strong.
Maisey is a sweetie.
She has given me faith.
Maisey to Brother: Ummm, no, I do not think so!
From what we have come to learn, Maisey loves dogs!
She also likes to climb trees. (Her foster mom takes the kitties on supervised outdoor hikes!)
As you can tell, Maisey and her brother Smokey were partners in crime!
Maisey, my little Diva!
Maisey with her summer buzz!
Maisey's mom, Bella.
So, here is a bit of background on our newest family member: Maisey, her mother and her brother were all confiscated from a breeder who kept them in cages and neglected their care. When they were rescued, they all had rabies. Maisey's foster mother took them in and gave them a wonderful home and helped them get well. They were not socialized well and were borderline wild cats.
With love and a new stable home, the trio came out of their shell a bit. Bella and Smokey were adopted and after they left, the foster mommy realized that she had made a mistake and should not have separated Maisey and her brother, who were cage mates at the breeders hell and Maisey was very attached. She became withdrawn and depressed. Her foster mommy did everything she could to help her. She knew that Maisey needed a home where she would be the only cat (the foster home she lived at always had many cats living there-nineteen when we adopted Maisey!) and she really needed someone to give her a lot of love and one on one time to help her adjust to her new life. Maisey's foster mom felt guilty because she could not give her exactly what she needed nor could she find a foster parent who was willing to make her the only cat in the home until she was adopted. Maisey's foster mommy worked extra hard at finding her a great home but no one wanted Maisey because she was withdrawn and timid and would not let strangers near her.
I came across Maisey and her foster mommy's organization through petfinders.com when we decided that we would like to adopt a cat. We missed having a cat around the house after Kitty Lou disappeared. After speaking to her foster mom about her and discussing it with The Scientist, he thought that we should keep looking because Maisey sounded like she had too many "issues." While he was not trying to be hard hearted, because let's face it, you have to be prepared to take on a lot when you bring home any pet, he really wanted a pet that would be more personable. I talked him into at least going to meet Maisey. For some reason, I really felt a pull towards her although I really wanted an "easy" pet myself. (I think this may have something to do with why my mom calls me "her bleeding heart child.")
The three of us go to meet Maisey and she meets all the criteria that pet experts warn you against when picking a pet; she is scared of us, won't come near us and hides. She won't interact with the other cats and she has this look in her eyes that is hard to describe but it made her look like she had brain damage. Very sad and vacant and not all there. The Scientist thought we shouldn't adopt her but for some reason I KNEW that we would be the answer to this cats prayers. Call it wishful thinking or what have you but I was willing to chance it. Sure, we could end up with an anti-social cat who has many behavioral problems but maybe just maybe the real Maisey was in there ready to be brought out. When her foster mom said that she had been there for more than a year and that every person who had come to look at her has decided against adopting her, my heart broke. No one wanted this cat. She was considered a reject. Not good enough. I am a huge sucker for the underdog, so my response to this was, "Give me that cat! I want her!" The Scientist relented but he was sure we made a mistake. For the last two weeks, I was pretty convinced that maybe he was right. Maisey hid and hissed and wanted nothing to do with us. She had the same look in her eyes and I even thought that it was a possibility that she had some kind of brain damage. Her foster mom's boyfriend even said that she "had no personality."
But guess what? It has been almost three weeks and Maisey has become a new cat. I am not lying! We are all amazed at the transformation. She follows me around and meows for attention and she has the cutest little meow! It sounds like a two year old impersonating a cat meowing! She makes a bunch of chirping and twittering sounds and plays like a champ. I know that there is more to come too.
The best thing is that look in her eyes is gone. In her eyes now, I see hope and acknowledgement and curiosity. Her personality is coming out strong.
Maisey is a sweetie.
She has given me faith.
Meryl Streep Has Nothing on This Niece of Mine
My youngest sisters middle daughter is very dramatic and imaginative. I call her The Niece of Divahood.
She made this creation for me.
Really, is there anything better?
Monday, February 26, 2007
Welcome to the Family, Maisey!
We have ourselves a new family member! Introducing, Maisey Lou! Maisey has been with us for two weeks and is slowly settling in. She had a hard start in life and we are hoping to make up for it. Here are some pictures that her wonderful foster mommy took! Maisey is the white cat. The black cat is her brother, Smokey. More news about Maisey later! (Maisey is the name her foster mom gave her and she responds to it, so we kept it. We gave her the middle name Lou in honor of Kitty Lou!) She is a Maine Coon.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
It's Moments Like This That I Know There Truly Is A God
The other night, Sir Hormones and I were driving home from his guitar lesson at the local University. We were passing a well known Fraternity house when he started laughing and snorting.
"Look!" he said to me, pointing at a telephone pole wire in front of the frat house.
I looked and saw what he found so hysterical. On the wire there were six pairs of shoes, tied together by their laces and thrown over the wire. They dangled from their place on the telephone pole wire and swayed in the wind.
"Why would anyone throw their shoes on a wire? How are they going to get them down?" The curiosity was apparent on his face.
So I took some time to explain to him about Fraternities and pledge week (which I'm assuming it was but who knows) and how the Frat boys have a good ol' time playing pranks on one another.
"So, more than likely the Frat boys stole the shoes of the pledgers and threw them over the telephone pole wire as a joke. More than likely they are going to make them get them down too." I told my son.
"And if they're anything like you make them sound, they will probably make the pledgers wear another pledger's shoes!" He said this with a rush of excitement, really getting with the program.
"Ewwww!" I said. "Wearing other people's shoes is like wearing someone else's underwear. It's unhygienic. Especially if you don't know the others person foot history."
"That's probably why they'll make them do it!" Tyler laughed.
"It's unsanitary. I mean most people sweat in their shoes. I would be worried about fungus problems like Athlete's feet."
"What's Athlete's feet," Sir Hormones wanted to know.
"It's a fungus condition that causes the skin on your feet to peel, become red and irritated and itch."
Sir Hormones was quiet for a moment. I could tell by the look on his face that he was soaking this all in.
"Mom, do you think the name of the Fraternity is Robin Hood?"
"Most of the time Fraternity's have Latin or Greek names. Why?"
"Because talk about stealing from the itch to give to the pole!"
"Look!" he said to me, pointing at a telephone pole wire in front of the frat house.
I looked and saw what he found so hysterical. On the wire there were six pairs of shoes, tied together by their laces and thrown over the wire. They dangled from their place on the telephone pole wire and swayed in the wind.
"Why would anyone throw their shoes on a wire? How are they going to get them down?" The curiosity was apparent on his face.
So I took some time to explain to him about Fraternities and pledge week (which I'm assuming it was but who knows) and how the Frat boys have a good ol' time playing pranks on one another.
"So, more than likely the Frat boys stole the shoes of the pledgers and threw them over the telephone pole wire as a joke. More than likely they are going to make them get them down too." I told my son.
"And if they're anything like you make them sound, they will probably make the pledgers wear another pledger's shoes!" He said this with a rush of excitement, really getting with the program.
"Ewwww!" I said. "Wearing other people's shoes is like wearing someone else's underwear. It's unhygienic. Especially if you don't know the others person foot history."
"That's probably why they'll make them do it!" Tyler laughed.
"It's unsanitary. I mean most people sweat in their shoes. I would be worried about fungus problems like Athlete's feet."
"What's Athlete's feet," Sir Hormones wanted to know.
"It's a fungus condition that causes the skin on your feet to peel, become red and irritated and itch."
Sir Hormones was quiet for a moment. I could tell by the look on his face that he was soaking this all in.
"Mom, do you think the name of the Fraternity is Robin Hood?"
"Most of the time Fraternity's have Latin or Greek names. Why?"
"Because talk about stealing from the itch to give to the pole!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
