For awhile now, Uncle R and I have been the best of friends. We can pretty much talk about anything, that is as long as I agree with his beliefs and don't throw in too many big words when we argue - then everything’s butterflies and gumdrops.
When we were kids, we pretty much despised one another. We took great pride in terrorizing each other and then making "official reports" to our parents in order to narc the other one out. One such “report” involved Uncle R getting caught flipping me the bird during an argument and then me cackling as I watched him eat a mouthful of liquid Dawn dish soap as punishment. Yes, Karma did kick my butt later on because I had been the one to teach him how to display the magical finger (I learned from a third grade playground lesson) and in fact, I was just quick enough that day not to get caught.
Uncle R and I really didn’t live around a lot of kids growing up so it was just him and I for the most part. When new kids did move into the area, Uncle R and I indoctrinated them into our familial gang through lots of play/torture sessions. Once they passed our tests, we swore to have summers full of fun memories and lots of scabs, bruises, and an occasional trip to the ER.
One such indoctrinated member was a girl we’ll call “Miss C.” Miss C was a worldly gal and taught me a ton about cursing and boys. She also taught Uncle R a bunch about huggin’ and smoochin’ but that’s a story I’ve been sworn to secrecy about…
During a summer in the late 1980’s, the coolest play toy we had was our little red wagon. We’d push each other around for hours and when we’d get tired of pushing, we’d tie the wagon handle to the back of someone’s bike and then tow the other person around. It was fun but the temptation of Miss C’s house, which was located high on a hill (and would not require any pushing in order to drive the wagon), was overwhelming. We fought the temptation off for several weeks but then decided to give in. After all, we had a willing victim to try the ride out first, Miss C.
The day of the test ride was a beautiful sunny day and we had spent much of the morning successfully passing Miss C through the laundry chute (and going through a tub of the finest Mazola spread). While we were wiping the chute down, Uncle R and I casually explored the idea of hill riding with Miss C. She was reluctant at first, but we swore to her that we’d be right there at the bottom of the hill, waiting for our turn. We told her how special she was and how much we liked her, therefore we were allowing her the very first, most awesome ride in our fancy wagon. With brown nosing like that, how could she not agree? And she did. We were thrilled (with hidden maniacal laughing included).
Uncle R ran home to our house and returned about 10 minutes later with our red wagon in tow. We positioned the wagon at the top of the driveway, where the gravel was the shallowest and the hill was the steepest. After a few silent prayers and pats on the back, we gave the wagon a push and Miss C flew down the hill. The shrill screams didn't stop until the wagon wheels stopped spinning. Uncle R and I shielded our eyes all the way down the hill; as we ran down to see what sort of destruction had occurred to our wagon and to Miss C. When we got to her, she was grinning ear to ear, and thankfully, our wagon was still in one piece.
Uncle R and I then had a quick meeting while Miss C picked the bugs out of her teeth. Surely, this was not the ride we were looking for. We wanted the wagon ride to produce screams and terror, but what we had just witnessed just didn't have the baddah bing we had expected. We decided then and there, we had to move farther down the hill, where there was no gravel to slow our rubber wheels. After more cajoling and a little schmoozing, Miss C agreed to again be our test pilot and we slowly walked down the hill, scoping out the perfect location.
We found the spot, about 200 yards from our previous location. It was a slick, paved road that looked like a giant cement slip-n-slide. It was perfect.
The brown nosing must have worn out a bit because Miss C was starting to wise up to our game. She was beginning to understand that we were using her as our little guinea pig and that her mortality was at stake. Because of his, I had to promise her my best Sandylion sticker book, complete with the newest chocolate scratch-n-sniff stickers. She ran a hard bargain, but Uncle R and I really wanted to know if this ride would work.
We positioned Miss C at the top of the crest, again saying our silent prayers and holding our rosaries close (OK, no rosaries but we did cross our hearts when we promised to follow her down the hill - does that count?). With a gentle push (trust me, she needed no help with the momentum) she started to roll, actually, fly down the hill.
We heard screams, a couple of "I don't think this was a good ideaaaaaa!!!" and a lot of, "I'm gonna crash, aghhh!!!" and then silence followed by a crash and more screams - different screams on a whole 'nother octave.
We ran down the hill and saw that Miss C had driven into the culvert, as an attempt to prevent driving into the 45 mph road she was speeding towards. Rut roh, we hadn't even put the culvert much less the highway, into our scheme of things. Miss C was OK, although she had received scrapes to her knees, elbows, face, and pretty much any other area that was exposed. She also had tore her acid washed Guess? jeans and scuffed up her LA Gears. And even worse, our little red wagon had sustained several dents and scrapes - unable to be fixed enough to hide from our dad.
We begged and pleaded for Miss C to stop crying as we already knew that she was going to tell on us - we didn't want the neighbors ratting us out as well. Uncle R pulled while I pushed a gimp Miss C to our house. We did our best to clean her up with the garden hose so that our parents wouldn't notice any obvious fresh signs of trauma. There wasn't much we could do for the wagon, so we just hid it in the front yard hoping our parents would discover its war wounds on a later date and contribute its injuries to being exposed to the weather.
In the end, Miss C was fine and my mom gave her a ride home. We all ended up getting into trouble but one good thing did come out of it; we at least discovered that we could safely ride the red wagon down a portion of her hill and that's what we did for the entire summer. No Atari or Nintendo for us; we rode bikes and obliterated that red wagon. We made great, painful memories that summer and in case you were wondering, Miss C grew into a lovely young woman and from what I hear, hangs out with much better people now :-).
Showing posts with label Oldies but goodies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Oldies but goodies. Show all posts
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Boobie Bonfire
When my Grandma was alive, every year Dad would take care of her fruit orchard, pruning the trees and giving her huge yard a summer makeover. In the process, he'd create a large pile of drying brush that we'd later turn into a huge bonfire on a Sunday morning. As my brother and I got older, we were allowed to be the bonfire "babysitters." This involved us getting short little willow twigs that we'd light and pretend to smoke when Mom and Dad weren't looking. Many a slug and snail were also cooked on these little twigs, much to the dismay our parents who weren't particuarly fond of crispy critters lying around the outskirts of the pile.
When the Sunday morning arrived and it was time to burn up our pile, my brother and I were ready. Unfortunately, the pile wasn't completely dry and Dad was having some trouble getting it started.
I remember Grandma mentioning that she had been cleaning out the attic and had some items we could use to get the fire going. Dad followed Grandma into the house and came back out carrying a large cardboard box. He growled at my brother and I to leave so that he could get the fire going. We protested, reminding him that we were professional fire starters and slug chefs. Our griping just bought us time in the old Chevy while he, my mom, and Grandma worked hard to get the fire lit.
We could see Dad slowly picking up what appeared to be magazines out of the cardboard box. He'd look briefly at each magazine and then toss it into the growing fire. I could have sworn that I sensed hesitation as he threw each magazine in, but I had no clue why he looked sort of sad as the flames ravaged the magazines.
A short time later, after the cardboard box was empty and the fire was raging, we were released from the captivity of the old Chevy and allowed to take our place back by the fire. My brother, who enjoyed the fire much more than I did, began poking the embers with his willow twig. As he did, large pieces of ash began to fly up exposing us to what had been printed on the magazines Dad had thrown in; vintage Playboy.
We saw boobies, butts, and various other body parts, drifting about in the air. My horndog brother would try and blow out the larger pieces of ash so that he could get a better glimpse of the forbidden fruit. Dad eventually took notice of my brother's excitement over the "fire" and had some quick words about leaving the fire alone to do its business. I think Mom just glared through the process and Grandma grinned, happy that she wasn't having to do any explaining.
On a side note, we did get the entire brushpile burned down that day. My poor Dad on the other hand, probably lost a fortune (and I'm sure several fond memories) in those vintage Playboys.
When the Sunday morning arrived and it was time to burn up our pile, my brother and I were ready. Unfortunately, the pile wasn't completely dry and Dad was having some trouble getting it started.
I remember Grandma mentioning that she had been cleaning out the attic and had some items we could use to get the fire going. Dad followed Grandma into the house and came back out carrying a large cardboard box. He growled at my brother and I to leave so that he could get the fire going. We protested, reminding him that we were professional fire starters and slug chefs. Our griping just bought us time in the old Chevy while he, my mom, and Grandma worked hard to get the fire lit.
We could see Dad slowly picking up what appeared to be magazines out of the cardboard box. He'd look briefly at each magazine and then toss it into the growing fire. I could have sworn that I sensed hesitation as he threw each magazine in, but I had no clue why he looked sort of sad as the flames ravaged the magazines.
A short time later, after the cardboard box was empty and the fire was raging, we were released from the captivity of the old Chevy and allowed to take our place back by the fire. My brother, who enjoyed the fire much more than I did, began poking the embers with his willow twig. As he did, large pieces of ash began to fly up exposing us to what had been printed on the magazines Dad had thrown in; vintage Playboy.
We saw boobies, butts, and various other body parts, drifting about in the air. My horndog brother would try and blow out the larger pieces of ash so that he could get a better glimpse of the forbidden fruit. Dad eventually took notice of my brother's excitement over the "fire" and had some quick words about leaving the fire alone to do its business. I think Mom just glared through the process and Grandma grinned, happy that she wasn't having to do any explaining.
On a side note, we did get the entire brushpile burned down that day. My poor Dad on the other hand, probably lost a fortune (and I'm sure several fond memories) in those vintage Playboys.
Texting Nuptials
Once upon a time there was a handsome groom and a beautiful bride who decided to get married and have a gorgeous ceremony. The groom, who loves his cell phone almost as much as he loves life himself, decided to keep his cell phone on and in his pocket during the ceremony. One of the groom's friends, also addicted to technology, decides to text the nervous groom with the words, "RUN!", all the while knowing that the phone would go off. Of course, the unsuspecting groom reaches for his phone but then suddenly realizes the gravity of the moment and silences the phone, later finding the text.
The moral of the story, you ask? Don't invite my brother to your wedding.
The moral of the story, you ask? Don't invite my brother to your wedding.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Redo! A Barnyard Love Story
He saw her as soon as she pulled into the driveway, admiring how the sun played off of her short blond hair and cast a golden hue on her cherubic face. He had first met her a few months back, exchanging nothing but quick sordid glances that appeared to leave both parties in a state of attraction. He knew he loved her from the moment he saw her and he could only imagine that she returned the feelings he held so strongly. Yes, they were from different worlds, opposite ends of the spectrum, but he knew that they could make it work with a little determination and a great deal of passion.
She saw him watching, leering if you will, and she immediately put up her guard. She didn't trust this fellow nor did she return the sentiment she could see oozing from his eyes. As she got out of her car he immediately approached her, keeping his distance all the while, but steadily holding her gaze with his caramel colored eyes. She slowly approached the house, as to not break his searing gaze nor anger him by appearing disinterested. He followed her, closely, and she could feel his hot breath on backs of her bare legs. She turned around to look at him, giving him a silent warning to hold his distance. She was a woman to be reckoned with and he needed to know this.
He saw her glance back at him and this just excited him more. She was only playing hard to get and he was sick of playing these mind games with her. He had always been well loved amongst the females and this time surely was no different. He knew that he needed to make his move and with one swift jump he grabbed her from behind, breathing hotly in her ear. She immediately reached back to push him away, denying the burning lust that he felt so strongly for her.
As she broke into a sprint towards the front door, he chased her, shrieking for her to stop and to give into the feelings she surely had for him. She continued to run, clutching the back of her right thigh and crying out in pain. He could see blood streaming down her leg and he suddenly realized that in his urgent yearning, he had accidentally injured his lover's leg. The site of her blood strangely exited him and urged him on even more in his quest for her favor. The chase continued for another few moments until she breeched the threshold of the house and promptly slammed the door in her suitor's face. He sat there for a moment, completely shocked at the rejection she had presented him with. He knew that she was someone who could be the mother of his children; the woman of his dreams; how could she not realize that?
He sat there for a few moments, silently listening to her screaming and endless profanities that he assumed were directed towards him. He would wait and hope that she would soon calm down and understand how important his longing was for her. Time was on his side and she would learn to love him back in time.
She looked out onto the front porch and saw the rooster still sitting there, perched on the ledge like an evil gargoyle. He was staring in the window piercing her with his beady little eyes, still full of lust. Her thigh was throbbing from where his spurs had barbed her and she calculated that she might need a few stitches if not a tetanus shot. She was beyond angry and swore vengeance against that damn rooster who took great pleasure in chasing her whenever she stopped by to visit her beloved grandchildren. No more could this rooster rule the driveway and residence, causing grief to her and any other person who chose to walk up the driveway. She had a twenty two caliber solution to the horny rooster problem and she just needed nap time in order to enact her plan.
Once the kids were settled snug in their beds, she slowly crept outside clutching the grips of the gun. The rooster, perked up by her presence, immediately began to do a throaty crow, in an attempt to impress his temptress. He began to slowly walk towards her, displaying his regal feathers as he knew that she was surely impressed with his handsome physique. As he approached her, she tightly squeezed the grip of the gun in her sweaty palms. The pressure on the trigger built up and was released in a spray of pure, unfiltered sulfur smelling well water that blasted him in the face and body. He quickly drew back, in an attempt to breathe through the pounding of water. Realizing that a hasty retreat would more than likely be the only way to save his life from a watery grave, he flew across the yard to the safety of the orchard.
It was that moment when their relationship ended. He realized that the love he had for her was one-side and would never to be returned. His heart ached for her but he knew that he had to go on. There were more ladies in the barnyard but none that had the legs that Grandma D had, nor the cougar qualities that he craved in such an attractive hen.
This sad story of impossible love is a true one; lived out in our barnyard. Our heroine was ultimately faced with a tetanus shot, a butterfly bandage of her wound, and a large doctor's office copay. Our hero later met his fate with a dose of lead poisoning as he tried to molest the mail lady, UPS driver and Schwan’s guy. He had so much love to give but just didn't know how to give it. Rest in peace horny rooster.
She saw him watching, leering if you will, and she immediately put up her guard. She didn't trust this fellow nor did she return the sentiment she could see oozing from his eyes. As she got out of her car he immediately approached her, keeping his distance all the while, but steadily holding her gaze with his caramel colored eyes. She slowly approached the house, as to not break his searing gaze nor anger him by appearing disinterested. He followed her, closely, and she could feel his hot breath on backs of her bare legs. She turned around to look at him, giving him a silent warning to hold his distance. She was a woman to be reckoned with and he needed to know this.
He saw her glance back at him and this just excited him more. She was only playing hard to get and he was sick of playing these mind games with her. He had always been well loved amongst the females and this time surely was no different. He knew that he needed to make his move and with one swift jump he grabbed her from behind, breathing hotly in her ear. She immediately reached back to push him away, denying the burning lust that he felt so strongly for her.
As she broke into a sprint towards the front door, he chased her, shrieking for her to stop and to give into the feelings she surely had for him. She continued to run, clutching the back of her right thigh and crying out in pain. He could see blood streaming down her leg and he suddenly realized that in his urgent yearning, he had accidentally injured his lover's leg. The site of her blood strangely exited him and urged him on even more in his quest for her favor. The chase continued for another few moments until she breeched the threshold of the house and promptly slammed the door in her suitor's face. He sat there for a moment, completely shocked at the rejection she had presented him with. He knew that she was someone who could be the mother of his children; the woman of his dreams; how could she not realize that?
He sat there for a few moments, silently listening to her screaming and endless profanities that he assumed were directed towards him. He would wait and hope that she would soon calm down and understand how important his longing was for her. Time was on his side and she would learn to love him back in time.
She looked out onto the front porch and saw the rooster still sitting there, perched on the ledge like an evil gargoyle. He was staring in the window piercing her with his beady little eyes, still full of lust. Her thigh was throbbing from where his spurs had barbed her and she calculated that she might need a few stitches if not a tetanus shot. She was beyond angry and swore vengeance against that damn rooster who took great pleasure in chasing her whenever she stopped by to visit her beloved grandchildren. No more could this rooster rule the driveway and residence, causing grief to her and any other person who chose to walk up the driveway. She had a twenty two caliber solution to the horny rooster problem and she just needed nap time in order to enact her plan.
Once the kids were settled snug in their beds, she slowly crept outside clutching the grips of the gun. The rooster, perked up by her presence, immediately began to do a throaty crow, in an attempt to impress his temptress. He began to slowly walk towards her, displaying his regal feathers as he knew that she was surely impressed with his handsome physique. As he approached her, she tightly squeezed the grip of the gun in her sweaty palms. The pressure on the trigger built up and was released in a spray of pure, unfiltered sulfur smelling well water that blasted him in the face and body. He quickly drew back, in an attempt to breathe through the pounding of water. Realizing that a hasty retreat would more than likely be the only way to save his life from a watery grave, he flew across the yard to the safety of the orchard.
It was that moment when their relationship ended. He realized that the love he had for her was one-side and would never to be returned. His heart ached for her but he knew that he had to go on. There were more ladies in the barnyard but none that had the legs that Grandma D had, nor the cougar qualities that he craved in such an attractive hen.
This sad story of impossible love is a true one; lived out in our barnyard. Our heroine was ultimately faced with a tetanus shot, a butterfly bandage of her wound, and a large doctor's office copay. Our hero later met his fate with a dose of lead poisoning as he tried to molest the mail lady, UPS driver and Schwan’s guy. He had so much love to give but just didn't know how to give it. Rest in peace horny rooster.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Redo! The Truth About Polar Bears
Over the weekend, D-man took both grandpas and the chitlins' out to our hunting cabin in the Mattole Valley. They claim it's a "hunting" trip but in all reality, the only thing they bring back is a load of firewood and a lot of crushed beer cans. I don't mind because it's all about the family time and I truly appreciate the fact that my kids get to enjoy such a great bonding experience with both their grandpas and dad.
D-man shared with me a story that happened over dinnertime. The family had settled into a nice dinner which included a disgusting can of peas that Grandpa Dale tried to convince the kids to eat. Even D-man agreed that the peas resembled baby food more than something delicious and edible. While the kids whined their way through dinner, Papa Tom thought he'd lighten the mood with a little joke.
Papa Tom: Hey kids, do you know how to catch a polar bear?
Kids: Intrigued. No, how?
Papa Tom: You cut a hole in the ice.
Kids: Yeah.
Papa Tom: Then you take these here green peas and sprinkle them around the hole.
Kids: Huh? Clearly confused, they keep listening.
Papa Tom: When the polar bear comes in to take a peak, you kick him in the ice hole.
The kids erupted into tremendous laughter and there wasn't a dry eye in the house. C-dub seemed to enjoy the joke the most as he had big, fat tears rolling down his chubby little cheeks. I don't know that he necessarily understood it, but the whole idea that it sounded like a naughty word and you got to kick a bear in the big 'ole butt was enough to do him in.
Cute joke. I just hope C-dub doesn't repeat it on Friday Share Day.
D-man shared with me a story that happened over dinnertime. The family had settled into a nice dinner which included a disgusting can of peas that Grandpa Dale tried to convince the kids to eat. Even D-man agreed that the peas resembled baby food more than something delicious and edible. While the kids whined their way through dinner, Papa Tom thought he'd lighten the mood with a little joke.
Papa Tom: Hey kids, do you know how to catch a polar bear?
Kids: Intrigued. No, how?
Papa Tom: You cut a hole in the ice.
Kids: Yeah.
Papa Tom: Then you take these here green peas and sprinkle them around the hole.
Kids: Huh? Clearly confused, they keep listening.
Papa Tom: When the polar bear comes in to take a peak, you kick him in the ice hole.
The kids erupted into tremendous laughter and there wasn't a dry eye in the house. C-dub seemed to enjoy the joke the most as he had big, fat tears rolling down his chubby little cheeks. I don't know that he necessarily understood it, but the whole idea that it sounded like a naughty word and you got to kick a bear in the big 'ole butt was enough to do him in.
Cute joke. I just hope C-dub doesn't repeat it on Friday Share Day.
Redo! The Birds And The Bees
As I'm sitting here blogging tonight, I look over to see sweet little Taterbug reading a book to C-dub. They seemed intently focused on the pictures accompanying the story she was ever so lovingly narrating to her little brother. I settled back into my own little world until I began to hear some snickering and the occasional word that perked my mommy radar. But when she uttered the phrase, "It is not uncommon for him to mount various objects, and people, in an effort to satisfy his mature sexual urges," I knew it was time to step in.
Mommazilla: Whatcha readin' there Tater?
Taterbug: Just a book about dogs.
Mommazilla: Show me.
She holds up a book about Golden Retrievers and shows me the picture she and C-dub were studying. It's a diagram of a very well endowed male dog, penis and all. His momma would have been proud.
Mommazilla: Tater, read a different chapter, K?
Taterbug: OK Mom, but why?
Mommazilla: Well, it's not something that C-dub needs to see or hear. He'll get nightmares or something...I start to mumble a rebuttal but she thankfully turns the page.
She continues reading to C-dub and I settle back into my computer world. She starts reading again and life is good until I hear, "If you need to walk your bitch, take her in the car to a nearby park or field for a chance to stretch her legs." Taterbug and C-dub both start laughing hysterically, knowing full well that they had just read an expletive in a real, live book.
Mommazilla: Taterbug! Enough! That word is a naughty word but it's also the name for a female dog. OK?
Taterbug: Giggling... OK Mom.
C-dub: We have bwiches Mom! Taterbug is rolling at this point.
Taterbug: C-dub's right! We do!
Mommazilla: Yes we do and they each have a name, so use it rather than your new word. K?
The conversation ended with me confiscating the book. I know that "the talk" is coming soon but I want to have reinforcements for this one - I may pass out or worse, start giggling uncontrollably. Grandma Tain did buy us a wonderful book, fully explaining "the talk" (with great cartoon lovemaking included - gag!) but I'm just not ready. I'm torn whether or not to let her learn the way I did - 3rd grade, girl's bathroom, the first girl with boobs and her period layed it down for us. I think I'm just going to wait it out just a bit and try to grow a set of cajones big enough to tackle this task because right now, I'm a self-proclaimed virgin at all this stuff.
Mommazilla: Whatcha readin' there Tater?
Taterbug: Just a book about dogs.
Mommazilla: Show me.
She holds up a book about Golden Retrievers and shows me the picture she and C-dub were studying. It's a diagram of a very well endowed male dog, penis and all. His momma would have been proud.
Mommazilla: Tater, read a different chapter, K?
Taterbug: OK Mom, but why?
Mommazilla: Well, it's not something that C-dub needs to see or hear. He'll get nightmares or something...I start to mumble a rebuttal but she thankfully turns the page.
She continues reading to C-dub and I settle back into my computer world. She starts reading again and life is good until I hear, "If you need to walk your bitch, take her in the car to a nearby park or field for a chance to stretch her legs." Taterbug and C-dub both start laughing hysterically, knowing full well that they had just read an expletive in a real, live book.
Mommazilla: Taterbug! Enough! That word is a naughty word but it's also the name for a female dog. OK?
Taterbug: Giggling... OK Mom.
C-dub: We have bwiches Mom! Taterbug is rolling at this point.
Taterbug: C-dub's right! We do!
Mommazilla: Yes we do and they each have a name, so use it rather than your new word. K?
The conversation ended with me confiscating the book. I know that "the talk" is coming soon but I want to have reinforcements for this one - I may pass out or worse, start giggling uncontrollably. Grandma Tain did buy us a wonderful book, fully explaining "the talk" (with great cartoon lovemaking included - gag!) but I'm just not ready. I'm torn whether or not to let her learn the way I did - 3rd grade, girl's bathroom, the first girl with boobs and her period layed it down for us. I think I'm just going to wait it out just a bit and try to grow a set of cajones big enough to tackle this task because right now, I'm a self-proclaimed virgin at all this stuff.
Redo! A Day At The The-ah-tah
I've never been a big fan of the "the-ah-tah" (insert uppity British accent here) but when I had the opportunity to attend a play at the new Arkley Center for the Performing Arts, I jumped at the chance. Plus it was a free. Oh, and I got to go with my kid. Bonus mommy points on the karma counter.
We left Taterbug's school at about 10:15 AM in the hopes of being there and in our seats by 11AM. After a rather painless drive from Fortuna to Eureka, I turned onto G Street and saw something that seriously shook my consciousness, grabbing my spinal cord and violently squeezing it into bloody pulp. Lining the sidewalk was a sea of wild short people. There were at least two million grammar school children with a few parents scattered here and there, pounding at the doors of the Arkley Center, demanding entrance. I looked for a way to quickly turn around and escape the terror promising to envelop me and schat me out, but it was to no avail. The four large orange slugs (school busses) blocked my way and the entire street for that matter.
I carefully parked my car and sat there in the driver’s seat, looking for any friendly faces that might greet me in my plight to insanity. I saw my daughter’s teacher and ran over (yes – I did freakin’ run – the little people scared me) to find shelter, ducking small people cries and cheers. I also found my daughter who was standing with her little classmates. I think she could sense my fear because she grabbed my hand and squeezed it in her sweaty little palm. The line slowly moved towards the doorway of the the-ah-tah and I saw two nicely dressed woman and a suave looking man, attempting to direct the horizontally challenged grammar school traffic. The parents looked at them sympathetically as they franticly spoke to each other via expensive looking radios. Did they not notice they were within earshot of one another? But heck, you don’t look nearly as sophisticated yelling. I’d stick with the high tech walkie-talkies, too.
When we finally herded the vicious cattle through the first door, we were ushered upstairs to our awaiting section. The children and grown-ups for that matter, seemed to really appreciate the beauty of the rehabbed the-ah-tah and I heard many ooh’s and aah’s. I, on the other hand, was more interested in finding out where the bathroom was as my coffee had decided to make an early escape into the golden pipes of the the-ah-tah. I left Taterbug with her buddies and quickly found the bathroom.
Prior to leaving my seat, sweet little Taterbug reminded me that we were “sposed” to use the bathroom before leaving the school. I explained to her that I don’t like midget toilets that forced my knees to touch my ears when I peed and that’s exactly what her school bathrooms contained. You may call me a bathroom snob but I know for a fact that little girls aren’t the cleanest creatures – especially in this area.
As I reached the bathroom, I walked through one elegant door and then another and another, to discover there were only two bathroom stalls in a small room. I wasn’t quite sure of the appropriate bathroom etiquette – do you stay in the little two stall room and await the pee’er or do you wait by the sink and then face the chance that some little biotch will jump your spot in the line professing her need to go first while doing the well know potty dance? Decisions, decisions. I chose the latter and waited patiently outside the stall door, occasionally sighing and ever so often, tapping my foot for the slow going urinators.
After I did my business, I returned to my seat only to find a roaring the-ah-tah. The kids were going ape schat as they screamed, yelled, and otherwise strongly encouraged the actors to begin their play (which was “Cinderella” by the way). I guess they were expecting the worst from these little heathens because they even took the time to hire a uniformed security guard to patrol the second floor. He eyed each little bugger, threatening to take them in if they got too close to the balcony or even showed a sign of having chewing gum. I gulped when I saw his dedication and quickly looked through my purse to ensure that my cell phone was off. I didn’t want to get “hooked up” in front of my kid.
As I turned my cell phone off, Taterbug leaned over to me, whispering and pointing at a mother in the front row of our section. The mother, oblivious to the felony she was creating, was chatting away to some other nimrod on the other end of the phone. My daughter was peeved that this broad had not been following direction nor listening to the rules, so she offered to go over and “punch her in the nose” as a reminder that her phone needed to be off. I quietly suggested to Taterbug that although I did agree with her aggravation, I didn’t think bodily harm would do much for her and my reputation around the school yard.
When the play finally started, the lights dimmed and the kids again went ape schat. You’d think that Hannah Montana had hit the stage or even better yet, those yummy little Jonas brothers (who Mommazilla doesn’t mind watching). Heck, I’d probably even start screaming, throwing my granny panties at the stage and dramatically fainting in my seat until one of those little brothers came up and…well, you get the point. Cute kids. Bet their momma is proud. Yes, that’s so much more motherly sounding.
The play started and for the better part of an hour, the kids were very entertained by the actors and actresses. I was so relieved to see and hear that this was not a musical, except for just two songs. I think I would have completely lost it if there was singing. Again, I repeat myself: I don’t do the whole the-ah-tah experience, unless that is it’s covered with buttery popcorn, a large Pepsi, and a box of Milk Duds. And, the Jonah Brothers perform (the three good things about the Hannah Montana in 3-D movie). But I digress…
I liked the play just fine but was sad to see that they didn’t include any of the little rodents that helped to build Cinderella’s dress. The costumes were so-so and actually reminded me of the prom I went to my freshman year of high school. The kind of prom you want to forget when you look back at the craptacular pic’s . You know, the ones you took with that looser date who kept trying cop a feel the whole night, telling you what really happens on prom night and then looks so forlorn and sad when you tell him to pound sand – oh look, I’m digressing…again.
We then left the the-ah-tah without much hooplah. After I bid my daughter and class adieu, I was pleasantly unsurprised to find that one of the freakin’ busses had parked so closed to my car door that I think my car is now expecting a baby bus – a short bus I guess. The little turds on the bus saw my frustration (and the couple of f-bombs I mumbled loudly didn’t help too much) and laughed out loud watching the “funny wady” climbing across her passenger seat into her driver’s seat. And of course, while I’m trying to leap the gear shift, the bus pulls away from my door clearly exposing my precarious position to the million students on the sidewalk, waiting for their bus ride. Thankfully, the little monsters were too busy picking their noses and slapping each other to notice my vehicle frolicking and I was able to flip them the bird and quickly pull away from the sidewalk. No, I did not flip any innocent children off. It was only to the little schats who gave me a headache from their incessant screaming.
You may not have guessed it, but I did have a good time and I was ever so pleased to have been invited on this class trip. Next time, I'll just bring ear plugs for the more "quiet" portions of the adventure.
We left Taterbug's school at about 10:15 AM in the hopes of being there and in our seats by 11AM. After a rather painless drive from Fortuna to Eureka, I turned onto G Street and saw something that seriously shook my consciousness, grabbing my spinal cord and violently squeezing it into bloody pulp. Lining the sidewalk was a sea of wild short people. There were at least two million grammar school children with a few parents scattered here and there, pounding at the doors of the Arkley Center, demanding entrance. I looked for a way to quickly turn around and escape the terror promising to envelop me and schat me out, but it was to no avail. The four large orange slugs (school busses) blocked my way and the entire street for that matter.
I carefully parked my car and sat there in the driver’s seat, looking for any friendly faces that might greet me in my plight to insanity. I saw my daughter’s teacher and ran over (yes – I did freakin’ run – the little people scared me) to find shelter, ducking small people cries and cheers. I also found my daughter who was standing with her little classmates. I think she could sense my fear because she grabbed my hand and squeezed it in her sweaty little palm. The line slowly moved towards the doorway of the the-ah-tah and I saw two nicely dressed woman and a suave looking man, attempting to direct the horizontally challenged grammar school traffic. The parents looked at them sympathetically as they franticly spoke to each other via expensive looking radios. Did they not notice they were within earshot of one another? But heck, you don’t look nearly as sophisticated yelling. I’d stick with the high tech walkie-talkies, too.
When we finally herded the vicious cattle through the first door, we were ushered upstairs to our awaiting section. The children and grown-ups for that matter, seemed to really appreciate the beauty of the rehabbed the-ah-tah and I heard many ooh’s and aah’s. I, on the other hand, was more interested in finding out where the bathroom was as my coffee had decided to make an early escape into the golden pipes of the the-ah-tah. I left Taterbug with her buddies and quickly found the bathroom.
Prior to leaving my seat, sweet little Taterbug reminded me that we were “sposed” to use the bathroom before leaving the school. I explained to her that I don’t like midget toilets that forced my knees to touch my ears when I peed and that’s exactly what her school bathrooms contained. You may call me a bathroom snob but I know for a fact that little girls aren’t the cleanest creatures – especially in this area.
As I reached the bathroom, I walked through one elegant door and then another and another, to discover there were only two bathroom stalls in a small room. I wasn’t quite sure of the appropriate bathroom etiquette – do you stay in the little two stall room and await the pee’er or do you wait by the sink and then face the chance that some little biotch will jump your spot in the line professing her need to go first while doing the well know potty dance? Decisions, decisions. I chose the latter and waited patiently outside the stall door, occasionally sighing and ever so often, tapping my foot for the slow going urinators.
After I did my business, I returned to my seat only to find a roaring the-ah-tah. The kids were going ape schat as they screamed, yelled, and otherwise strongly encouraged the actors to begin their play (which was “Cinderella” by the way). I guess they were expecting the worst from these little heathens because they even took the time to hire a uniformed security guard to patrol the second floor. He eyed each little bugger, threatening to take them in if they got too close to the balcony or even showed a sign of having chewing gum. I gulped when I saw his dedication and quickly looked through my purse to ensure that my cell phone was off. I didn’t want to get “hooked up” in front of my kid.
As I turned my cell phone off, Taterbug leaned over to me, whispering and pointing at a mother in the front row of our section. The mother, oblivious to the felony she was creating, was chatting away to some other nimrod on the other end of the phone. My daughter was peeved that this broad had not been following direction nor listening to the rules, so she offered to go over and “punch her in the nose” as a reminder that her phone needed to be off. I quietly suggested to Taterbug that although I did agree with her aggravation, I didn’t think bodily harm would do much for her and my reputation around the school yard.
When the play finally started, the lights dimmed and the kids again went ape schat. You’d think that Hannah Montana had hit the stage or even better yet, those yummy little Jonas brothers (who Mommazilla doesn’t mind watching). Heck, I’d probably even start screaming, throwing my granny panties at the stage and dramatically fainting in my seat until one of those little brothers came up and…well, you get the point. Cute kids. Bet their momma is proud. Yes, that’s so much more motherly sounding.
The play started and for the better part of an hour, the kids were very entertained by the actors and actresses. I was so relieved to see and hear that this was not a musical, except for just two songs. I think I would have completely lost it if there was singing. Again, I repeat myself: I don’t do the whole the-ah-tah experience, unless that is it’s covered with buttery popcorn, a large Pepsi, and a box of Milk Duds. And, the Jonah Brothers perform (the three good things about the Hannah Montana in 3-D movie). But I digress…
I liked the play just fine but was sad to see that they didn’t include any of the little rodents that helped to build Cinderella’s dress. The costumes were so-so and actually reminded me of the prom I went to my freshman year of high school. The kind of prom you want to forget when you look back at the craptacular pic’s . You know, the ones you took with that looser date who kept trying cop a feel the whole night, telling you what really happens on prom night and then looks so forlorn and sad when you tell him to pound sand – oh look, I’m digressing…again.
We then left the the-ah-tah without much hooplah. After I bid my daughter and class adieu, I was pleasantly unsurprised to find that one of the freakin’ busses had parked so closed to my car door that I think my car is now expecting a baby bus – a short bus I guess. The little turds on the bus saw my frustration (and the couple of f-bombs I mumbled loudly didn’t help too much) and laughed out loud watching the “funny wady” climbing across her passenger seat into her driver’s seat. And of course, while I’m trying to leap the gear shift, the bus pulls away from my door clearly exposing my precarious position to the million students on the sidewalk, waiting for their bus ride. Thankfully, the little monsters were too busy picking their noses and slapping each other to notice my vehicle frolicking and I was able to flip them the bird and quickly pull away from the sidewalk. No, I did not flip any innocent children off. It was only to the little schats who gave me a headache from their incessant screaming.
You may not have guessed it, but I did have a good time and I was ever so pleased to have been invited on this class trip. Next time, I'll just bring ear plugs for the more "quiet" portions of the adventure.
Redo! The Joy Of Leather Couches
I love my leather couches. Affordable, super comfy, and most importantly, easy to clean; they are (and continue to be) a perfect fit in our household. The kids also love these couches for many reasons other than the ones I previously mentioned (i.e.: They make awesome farting sounds when you glide stinky feet across the cushions and you can catch major air jumping from the first to third couch cushion and then back to the middle love seat cushion). They are also a direct representation of adulthood as they were the first "grown up" purchases hubby and I made as adults. They replaced the heavy wood framed couches with the gorgeous black floral satin cushions (think Brady Bunch crossed with John Holmes and you'll get the fashion flavor of these things) given to us by well-meaning in laws. Gotta love hand-me-downs. But I digress, let's get back to the subject of my pride and joy leather couches.
A few months back, I allowed Taterbug and C-Dub to have freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on my prized couches. Our carpeting is also fairly new (and wayyyy too light for the presence of little people) so it's a real treat to eat anything in the living room, especially on mommy's prized furniture. It was a typical night and as usual, both kids were naked after hosting their own karate/kick boxing/slap fighting living room tournament (it was a draw by the way, due to both kids ending up crying at just about the same time and accidentally wiping out their little brother). Besides being all riled up from the tournament, they were both completely covered with chocolate (mixed in with a little cookie and milk for good measure). After a good bath with lots of soap and loofah scrubbing, they were off to bed. Just prior to dream time, I praised them for doing so well eating on the couches.
When I awoke the next morning, I walked into the living room and began to admire my beautiful couches in the beaming morning light. As I conducted my daily inspection, I could clearly see two dried brown streaks on the cushions of the larger couch. I immediately did the mommy thing and licked my pointer finger in an effort to wipe the cushion off. That stubborn "chocolate" stain just wasn't coming off. So, I continued to do the mommy thing and licked my middle finger in an effort to add more mommy-cleaner (spit) to the cushion. This helped a little but I still had more to go. So, I proceeded to add more cleaner (spit) by licking my ring finger and as I did, I caught a whiff of something that certainly didn't smell like chocolate. As I suddenly came to the realization of what I was actually cleaning, my daughter walks out, sees what I'm doing and says, "I told you C-Dub had a dirty butt last night, mom, he doesn't wipe very good." This immediately brought on a session of dry heaving and gagging, only to be soothed by the brushing of my teeth with my very effective Oral B electric toothbrush and a good dosing of Listerine (some swallowed for the medicinal qualities).
The moral of my story is simple. Love your furniture but don't love your furniture. No inanimate object is worth the taste of a five year old's stinky butt on your tongue.
A few months back, I allowed Taterbug and C-Dub to have freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on my prized couches. Our carpeting is also fairly new (and wayyyy too light for the presence of little people) so it's a real treat to eat anything in the living room, especially on mommy's prized furniture. It was a typical night and as usual, both kids were naked after hosting their own karate/kick boxing/slap fighting living room tournament (it was a draw by the way, due to both kids ending up crying at just about the same time and accidentally wiping out their little brother). Besides being all riled up from the tournament, they were both completely covered with chocolate (mixed in with a little cookie and milk for good measure). After a good bath with lots of soap and loofah scrubbing, they were off to bed. Just prior to dream time, I praised them for doing so well eating on the couches.
When I awoke the next morning, I walked into the living room and began to admire my beautiful couches in the beaming morning light. As I conducted my daily inspection, I could clearly see two dried brown streaks on the cushions of the larger couch. I immediately did the mommy thing and licked my pointer finger in an effort to wipe the cushion off. That stubborn "chocolate" stain just wasn't coming off. So, I continued to do the mommy thing and licked my middle finger in an effort to add more mommy-cleaner (spit) to the cushion. This helped a little but I still had more to go. So, I proceeded to add more cleaner (spit) by licking my ring finger and as I did, I caught a whiff of something that certainly didn't smell like chocolate. As I suddenly came to the realization of what I was actually cleaning, my daughter walks out, sees what I'm doing and says, "I told you C-Dub had a dirty butt last night, mom, he doesn't wipe very good." This immediately brought on a session of dry heaving and gagging, only to be soothed by the brushing of my teeth with my very effective Oral B electric toothbrush and a good dosing of Listerine (some swallowed for the medicinal qualities).
The moral of my story is simple. Love your furniture but don't love your furniture. No inanimate object is worth the taste of a five year old's stinky butt on your tongue.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Redo! Cowboy Poetry & High Heels
Back in the days of Aqua Net, pegged pants, and L.A. Gear shoes, I was attending high school. I had great aspirations of being the first person in my family to go to college but in those days, money wasn't sprouting from trees and there wasn't much hope for me to attend unless I did so on my parent's credit cards.
Because of this, I pimped myself out to every scholarship application and committee that crossed my path. I wrote essays to dead people, I drank warm milk and socialized with Humboldt "elite" at a local yocal moo-moo contest (name withheld to protect the innocent), and I worked hard to keep my grade point average as high as I could. I did everything I could possibly think of to pay my way into a higher education.
During my junior year of high school, a quasi beauty and talent pageant was annually held which meant big bucks should I place well. Of course, being the money grubbing teenager, I promptly signed myself up without a second thought to the dance routine, talent portion, and fancy dress wearing required of the contestants. Did I mention that I hated cheerleaders? Or how I avoided dancing at any of the dances and normally wore Wranglers and barn boots to school in the morning? Yeah, smart move on my behalf.
Throughout the next few weeks, I slowly picked up the dance moves and began practicing walking in high heels. It wasn't too bad but I was still at a loss as to what I could do for a talent. Some of the gals did dance routines while others played musicial instruments. I had absolutely no talent having sworn off anything remotely close to ladylike ambitions.
The ladies putting on the show approached me, seeing the quandary I was already facing of having to pretend that I enjoyed being a girl for the entire show. One nice gal mentioned doing a poem and I chewed on it overnight. By morning, I had a solution. My favorite teacher used to play cowboy poetry during class and on field trips. It was one of the few types of poetry (besides Sidney Sheldon) I actually enjoyed listening to. The answer was perfect and none of the women seemed too concerned over my decision; that is until they heard me recite the poem in all it's glory on the night of the performance. I guess when I walked out in Wranglers, boots, leather chaps, a cowboy hat, and a painted on mustache - they knew they were in for it.
Here's what I recited:
Story With a Moral
By: Waddie Mitchell
Now I know there's things worse that make cowpunchers curse,
And I reckon it's happened to us all.
Though it's years since, you bet, when I think of it yet,
It still makes my old innards crawl.
I was makin' a ride to bring in one hide
That hadn't showed up in the gather;
I was riding upstream, daydreamin' a dream,
When I caught there was somethin' the matter.
Near some quakin' asp trees, I had caught in the breeze
A stench that was raunchy and mean,
And I reckoned as how it might be the old cow,
So I rode to a bend in the stream.
Shore 'nuff that cow lied in the crick there and died;
Hard tellin' how long she'd been been there.
She was bloated and tight, twas a horrible sight --
She was oozin' and slippin' her hair.
Her eye sockets were alive with maggots that thrive
On dead flesh, putrid yellow and green,
And the hot sun burnin' down, turnin' pink things to brown,
Spewin' oily gunk in the stream.
Well, I spurred upwind fast to get away from the blast
Of the heavy stench the cow made;
And I felt bad seein's how I'd lost the old cow,
And I pulled up near a tree in the shade.
Then I got sick to the core, rememberin' just minutes before
I'd done something that made me feel worse;
Not thirty yards down I'd stepped off to the ground
And drank 'til my belly near burst.
For months after it, just the thought made me spit,
And I'd live it over like a bad dream.
And the moral, I think, is if you must take a drink,
Never, ever remount and ride upstream.
The crowd was silent during my recital and I gave my best cowboy twang voice, making sure to accentuate the parts about the guts and stench. It was great. I got a polite clapping session at the end but I could care less. I rocked good 'old Waddie and I did the talent portion without entirely giving up my tomboy roots.
Needless to say, I didn't win the talent contest or the whole shebang. But... I did walk out with first-runner up and Miss Congeniality (due to all my dirty jokes during practice). I was shocked and so were my parents - especially when they saw the $700 bucks I made for a night's worth of girliness. It was a great experience but one I'd never repeat - even though I did it my way *insert Frank Sinatra's voice here*.
Because of this, I pimped myself out to every scholarship application and committee that crossed my path. I wrote essays to dead people, I drank warm milk and socialized with Humboldt "elite" at a local yocal moo-moo contest (name withheld to protect the innocent), and I worked hard to keep my grade point average as high as I could. I did everything I could possibly think of to pay my way into a higher education.
During my junior year of high school, a quasi beauty and talent pageant was annually held which meant big bucks should I place well. Of course, being the money grubbing teenager, I promptly signed myself up without a second thought to the dance routine, talent portion, and fancy dress wearing required of the contestants. Did I mention that I hated cheerleaders? Or how I avoided dancing at any of the dances and normally wore Wranglers and barn boots to school in the morning? Yeah, smart move on my behalf.
Throughout the next few weeks, I slowly picked up the dance moves and began practicing walking in high heels. It wasn't too bad but I was still at a loss as to what I could do for a talent. Some of the gals did dance routines while others played musicial instruments. I had absolutely no talent having sworn off anything remotely close to ladylike ambitions.
The ladies putting on the show approached me, seeing the quandary I was already facing of having to pretend that I enjoyed being a girl for the entire show. One nice gal mentioned doing a poem and I chewed on it overnight. By morning, I had a solution. My favorite teacher used to play cowboy poetry during class and on field trips. It was one of the few types of poetry (besides Sidney Sheldon) I actually enjoyed listening to. The answer was perfect and none of the women seemed too concerned over my decision; that is until they heard me recite the poem in all it's glory on the night of the performance. I guess when I walked out in Wranglers, boots, leather chaps, a cowboy hat, and a painted on mustache - they knew they were in for it.
Here's what I recited:
Story With a Moral
By: Waddie Mitchell
Now I know there's things worse that make cowpunchers curse,
And I reckon it's happened to us all.
Though it's years since, you bet, when I think of it yet,
It still makes my old innards crawl.
I was makin' a ride to bring in one hide
That hadn't showed up in the gather;
I was riding upstream, daydreamin' a dream,
When I caught there was somethin' the matter.
Near some quakin' asp trees, I had caught in the breeze
A stench that was raunchy and mean,
And I reckoned as how it might be the old cow,
So I rode to a bend in the stream.
Shore 'nuff that cow lied in the crick there and died;
Hard tellin' how long she'd been been there.
She was bloated and tight, twas a horrible sight --
She was oozin' and slippin' her hair.
Her eye sockets were alive with maggots that thrive
On dead flesh, putrid yellow and green,
And the hot sun burnin' down, turnin' pink things to brown,
Spewin' oily gunk in the stream.
Well, I spurred upwind fast to get away from the blast
Of the heavy stench the cow made;
And I felt bad seein's how I'd lost the old cow,
And I pulled up near a tree in the shade.
Then I got sick to the core, rememberin' just minutes before
I'd done something that made me feel worse;
Not thirty yards down I'd stepped off to the ground
And drank 'til my belly near burst.
For months after it, just the thought made me spit,
And I'd live it over like a bad dream.
And the moral, I think, is if you must take a drink,
Never, ever remount and ride upstream.
The crowd was silent during my recital and I gave my best cowboy twang voice, making sure to accentuate the parts about the guts and stench. It was great. I got a polite clapping session at the end but I could care less. I rocked good 'old Waddie and I did the talent portion without entirely giving up my tomboy roots.
Needless to say, I didn't win the talent contest or the whole shebang. But... I did walk out with first-runner up and Miss Congeniality (due to all my dirty jokes during practice). I was shocked and so were my parents - especially when they saw the $700 bucks I made for a night's worth of girliness. It was a great experience but one I'd never repeat - even though I did it my way *insert Frank Sinatra's voice here*.
Redo! Grandma's Potato Problem
Have you ever had a childhood memory, that when you really thought about it, was just a little weird? It seems like I have quite a few of those but this particular memory is well, disturbing. And, it's guaranteed to probably buy me a space in Hell, especially after Uncle R reads about his involvement and realizes I'm giving up a family secret that should have died ages ago.
When I was a little girl, my paternal grandmother was a breast cancer survivor. She was faced with getting a mastectomy and back then, reconstructive surgery really wasn't an option so women were supplied with prosthetic breasts. My grandmother's big round squishy breast was kept in the top drawer of her vanity. I don't know why she kept it in a drawer rather than in her blouse, but then again, sometimes Grandma liked to drink her dinner rather than eat it.
Uncle R and I both knew where she kept her booby prize and would often peek in the drawer to check it out, occasionally poking it with a curious finger. We each had a thing for its silky, squishy texture and we would prod it for hours (kind of like a kid's stress reliever ball - but weirder). We eventually got braver and on some days, we freed the little critter from its dark abyss, in order to just hold it for a few minutes of guilty pleasure.
One day, while Uncle R and I were visiting Grandma, we found her lone hooter lying on the bathroom counter, looking rather forlorn and lost. Our little brains worked in symphony and mischievous thoughts raced through our heads; a game of hot potato would certainly entertain her little friend while providing us with hours of endless enjoyment. Back and forth, side to side, we flung that cantaloupe size piece of squishy fun into the air, all the while listening for any evidence that Grandma might be stumbling up the creaky steps. Hearing nothing, our quiet chuckles quickly turned into gut busting belly laughter that echoed throughout the second floor bathroom. Over and over, we pelted each other with the voluminous sphere, until we were left with fresh red abrasions wherever our tender skin was exposed.
I don’t know how long Grandma was watching before she finally cleared her throat and made it known that she did not approve of our new sports activity, however, I’m guessing it was for awhile – judging by the sting left on our little butts and the threat of a “report” being made to our dad. All in all, Grandma never did make the dreaded “report” to our dad and we were let off with a warning. It never really stopped us from periodically checking in on our new little buddy, but we certainly never allowed it to become airborne again.
When I was a little girl, my paternal grandmother was a breast cancer survivor. She was faced with getting a mastectomy and back then, reconstructive surgery really wasn't an option so women were supplied with prosthetic breasts. My grandmother's big round squishy breast was kept in the top drawer of her vanity. I don't know why she kept it in a drawer rather than in her blouse, but then again, sometimes Grandma liked to drink her dinner rather than eat it.
Uncle R and I both knew where she kept her booby prize and would often peek in the drawer to check it out, occasionally poking it with a curious finger. We each had a thing for its silky, squishy texture and we would prod it for hours (kind of like a kid's stress reliever ball - but weirder). We eventually got braver and on some days, we freed the little critter from its dark abyss, in order to just hold it for a few minutes of guilty pleasure.
One day, while Uncle R and I were visiting Grandma, we found her lone hooter lying on the bathroom counter, looking rather forlorn and lost. Our little brains worked in symphony and mischievous thoughts raced through our heads; a game of hot potato would certainly entertain her little friend while providing us with hours of endless enjoyment. Back and forth, side to side, we flung that cantaloupe size piece of squishy fun into the air, all the while listening for any evidence that Grandma might be stumbling up the creaky steps. Hearing nothing, our quiet chuckles quickly turned into gut busting belly laughter that echoed throughout the second floor bathroom. Over and over, we pelted each other with the voluminous sphere, until we were left with fresh red abrasions wherever our tender skin was exposed.
I don’t know how long Grandma was watching before she finally cleared her throat and made it known that she did not approve of our new sports activity, however, I’m guessing it was for awhile – judging by the sting left on our little butts and the threat of a “report” being made to our dad. All in all, Grandma never did make the dreaded “report” to our dad and we were let off with a warning. It never really stopped us from periodically checking in on our new little buddy, but we certainly never allowed it to become airborne again.
Redo! As The Skating Rink Turns
When I was in 7th grade, my life revolved around our local skating rink. Every Friday, and sometimes Saturday night, my mom would haul my brother and I down to our local rink to have a few hours of fun times and new relationships. That's right, I said relationships. At the ripe 'ol age of 12, the only way for a boy crazy girl to find new meat was to hit the rink. My friends and I would scout out local boys from other schools and come home with a new boyfriend each week. I "dated" boys from all over the Eel Valley area; sometimes even twice if the pickins' were slim.
I guess I should explain to you the concept of my "dating" so as you do not think my behavior resembles that of a garden tool. Back in the days, dating meant you took the obligatory spin around the skating rink during the couple's dance. The new lovebirds would skate in endless circles, holding sweaty hands to the beat of "Purple Rain" or "Without You." The lights would be down and the strobe lighting a strobin'; It was amazing.
Throughout the school week, numerous phone calls would be exchanged, perhaps even a couple of pieces of snail mail with some pictures enclosed, and then by Friday, drama would ensue and the young love would be terminated....all in time for a new relationship to blossom. This was my form of "dating."
At this particular skating rink, there used to be a couple older boys, actually "men," who had the skills. They were the king of rink and all the girls would do their best to get their attention. Whether it be to feigning poor skating skills to wearing the tightest Bongo jeans your prepubescent body could fit into; it was all done for their benefit - even if they didn't really seem to notice. I remember lathering on as much "Tranquil Moments" as physically possible and then making my hair stand at an amazing height with a can of Aqua Net only to attract a pimply 12 year old's attention rather than the "men" of the skating rink. Rejection seemed to be a bit easier to swallow with the help of a boy who told you how "rad" he thought you were.
It seems like just yesterday, standing awkwardly with my girlfriends and plotting evil against the girls who managed to get a couples skate with these handsome rico suaves. We'd cross our fingers the skanky broads would wipe out or even better, chip a tooth on a railing, because in all fairness these hotties were our property and eye candy, not to be had by these two bit floozies. Clicking our retainers and braced marked teeth in disgust, we'd always go home promising each other to come back the following week and finally get the well deserved attention of our men. *sigh*
Flash forward to current date and time...One of the best things about a small town is that the people you knew as a child will sometimes stick around to remind you of your fun and albeit, embarrassing times. One such example can be found at my daughter's school where they hired several new teachers at the beginning of last school year. As karma would have it, one of the new teachers happened to be one of the "men" I used to fawn over at the skating rink. In fact, he was the one my little girl group was absolutely in love with and probably made the biggest fuss about. The first time I was in a room with him, I was instantly embarrassed - hoping to GAWD that marriage, three kids, and a hair color change would hide the rosy red cheeks of adolescence.
I recently told Taters about my lost "love" and my skating rink adventures. Her reply?
"Wow Mom. I can't even imagine Mr. Hottie skating around with a huge afro and those funny looking bell bottom pants. That woulda been hilarious!"
Yikes. After a quick reminder that dear old mom was only 34 she still looked at me in shock.
"Really? I was thinkin' for sure it was like 1970 or something. It's still really funny Mom. And weird. You were crushin' on a teacher!"
It's kinda funny how fate and past actions can suddenly appear to bitch slap you in the face with a dose of embarrassing reality. We all have these moments so what are yours'? Has history caught up with you yet to provide any uncomfortable, "yes that was me," moments?
I guess I should explain to you the concept of my "dating" so as you do not think my behavior resembles that of a garden tool. Back in the days, dating meant you took the obligatory spin around the skating rink during the couple's dance. The new lovebirds would skate in endless circles, holding sweaty hands to the beat of "Purple Rain" or "Without You." The lights would be down and the strobe lighting a strobin'; It was amazing.
Throughout the school week, numerous phone calls would be exchanged, perhaps even a couple of pieces of snail mail with some pictures enclosed, and then by Friday, drama would ensue and the young love would be terminated....all in time for a new relationship to blossom. This was my form of "dating."
At this particular skating rink, there used to be a couple older boys, actually "men," who had the skills. They were the king of rink and all the girls would do their best to get their attention. Whether it be to feigning poor skating skills to wearing the tightest Bongo jeans your prepubescent body could fit into; it was all done for their benefit - even if they didn't really seem to notice. I remember lathering on as much "Tranquil Moments" as physically possible and then making my hair stand at an amazing height with a can of Aqua Net only to attract a pimply 12 year old's attention rather than the "men" of the skating rink. Rejection seemed to be a bit easier to swallow with the help of a boy who told you how "rad" he thought you were.
It seems like just yesterday, standing awkwardly with my girlfriends and plotting evil against the girls who managed to get a couples skate with these handsome rico suaves. We'd cross our fingers the skanky broads would wipe out or even better, chip a tooth on a railing, because in all fairness these hotties were our property and eye candy, not to be had by these two bit floozies. Clicking our retainers and braced marked teeth in disgust, we'd always go home promising each other to come back the following week and finally get the well deserved attention of our men. *sigh*
Flash forward to current date and time...One of the best things about a small town is that the people you knew as a child will sometimes stick around to remind you of your fun and albeit, embarrassing times. One such example can be found at my daughter's school where they hired several new teachers at the beginning of last school year. As karma would have it, one of the new teachers happened to be one of the "men" I used to fawn over at the skating rink. In fact, he was the one my little girl group was absolutely in love with and probably made the biggest fuss about. The first time I was in a room with him, I was instantly embarrassed - hoping to GAWD that marriage, three kids, and a hair color change would hide the rosy red cheeks of adolescence.
I recently told Taters about my lost "love" and my skating rink adventures. Her reply?
"Wow Mom. I can't even imagine Mr. Hottie skating around with a huge afro and those funny looking bell bottom pants. That woulda been hilarious!"
Yikes. After a quick reminder that dear old mom was only 34 she still looked at me in shock.
"Really? I was thinkin' for sure it was like 1970 or something. It's still really funny Mom. And weird. You were crushin' on a teacher!"
It's kinda funny how fate and past actions can suddenly appear to bitch slap you in the face with a dose of embarrassing reality. We all have these moments so what are yours'? Has history caught up with you yet to provide any uncomfortable, "yes that was me," moments?
Friday, August 27, 2010
Gas Attack - Another Fav
My fish tank has recently taken on a beautiful shade of green due to an anorexic plecostomus and a bunch of snails that decided to croak. Although the green is quite pretty, it's not so appetizing sitting on my kitchen counter looking like it might harbor the creature from the Black Lagoon. After receiving many complaints, I finally loaded the kids up and we drove to Eureka today to buy our fish a girlfriend, or boyfriend - because I'm not quite sure how to sex a fish.
When we got to the store, Taters and I walked to the fish section while C-dub and his little buddy, J-dub, walked over to look for tarantulas. I refuse to look at spiders and reminded C-dub that the only spiders in my house were the ones I couldn't reach with my Dyson. I know they do a good job of eating bugs and such, but they still creep me out and their Halloween reprieve is over.
While Taters and I were looking, a very nice clerk walked up and offered to help us find the perfect fish. She showed us a tank where a friendly little plecostomus was quietly sucking on a plastic leaf, slowly eyeballing us with his little fishy eye. He looked a little irked that we were potentially considering removing him from his watery domain and I swear I saw him try to sequester himself deeper into the tank.
As the clerk fished around with her net in the tank, the following conversation ensued:
Clerk: Oops! I think I may have subjected you ladies to a little gas attack. She continues to try and catch the fish while Taters and I give each other "the look." We thought the tank was going to explode. Are gas attacks a normal occurrence in freshwater tanks?
Taters: What do you mean? I'm glad she was brave enough to ask.
Clerk: Oh hon, you know! When you eat too many re fried beans? That funny feeling? I just passed a little stinky, that's all. The clerk kept her perky gaze at the fish tank, not even batting an eye as she finally captured the fish and took it out of the tank. Taters begins starting at me; half a smile on her shocked face.
Mommazilla: Taking the high road, I whispered to Taters, She just floated an air biscuit? Is that what she said? I couldn't quite believe that an adult had announced such a thing. My kids, yes, but someone I don't know? Not so much.
Taters: Shrugging and whispering back, I think so?
The clerk continues her quest in containing our perfect specimen. She then adds some icing onto the putrid sulfur cake she's baked.
Clerk: My friend had a dog once and blamed the smell on him. But it wasn't the dog! She begins chuckling at her funny story and I see Taters slowly back up, trying to avoid any smell that might have emanated from her odoriferous rump.
As she hands me the bag I notice that the fish is no longer moving, in fact, it's belly up. I point this out to the clerk and she's beside herself. She quickly replaces the fish with another little fellow and tells us that the victim fish probably died from the shock of getting caught. I dunno, but I think her gas attack and the dying fish are strangely coincidental.
It was a strange, surreal moment, as I paid for the fish and left the store with the kiddos (sans Tarantula, thank you very much). We had quite a few laughs about our "gas attack" experience on the return drive. I'm also happy to report that the little fellow did make it home in one piece and is now happily sucking the green goo from the midst of my tank. By morning, I hope to be able to see his other finned cohorts through the gaps in the algae.
When we got to the store, Taters and I walked to the fish section while C-dub and his little buddy, J-dub, walked over to look for tarantulas. I refuse to look at spiders and reminded C-dub that the only spiders in my house were the ones I couldn't reach with my Dyson. I know they do a good job of eating bugs and such, but they still creep me out and their Halloween reprieve is over.
While Taters and I were looking, a very nice clerk walked up and offered to help us find the perfect fish. She showed us a tank where a friendly little plecostomus was quietly sucking on a plastic leaf, slowly eyeballing us with his little fishy eye. He looked a little irked that we were potentially considering removing him from his watery domain and I swear I saw him try to sequester himself deeper into the tank.
As the clerk fished around with her net in the tank, the following conversation ensued:
Clerk: Oops! I think I may have subjected you ladies to a little gas attack. She continues to try and catch the fish while Taters and I give each other "the look." We thought the tank was going to explode. Are gas attacks a normal occurrence in freshwater tanks?
Taters: What do you mean? I'm glad she was brave enough to ask.
Clerk: Oh hon, you know! When you eat too many re fried beans? That funny feeling? I just passed a little stinky, that's all. The clerk kept her perky gaze at the fish tank, not even batting an eye as she finally captured the fish and took it out of the tank. Taters begins starting at me; half a smile on her shocked face.
Mommazilla: Taking the high road, I whispered to Taters, She just floated an air biscuit? Is that what she said? I couldn't quite believe that an adult had announced such a thing. My kids, yes, but someone I don't know? Not so much.
Taters: Shrugging and whispering back, I think so?
The clerk continues her quest in containing our perfect specimen. She then adds some icing onto the putrid sulfur cake she's baked.
Clerk: My friend had a dog once and blamed the smell on him. But it wasn't the dog! She begins chuckling at her funny story and I see Taters slowly back up, trying to avoid any smell that might have emanated from her odoriferous rump.
As she hands me the bag I notice that the fish is no longer moving, in fact, it's belly up. I point this out to the clerk and she's beside herself. She quickly replaces the fish with another little fellow and tells us that the victim fish probably died from the shock of getting caught. I dunno, but I think her gas attack and the dying fish are strangely coincidental.
It was a strange, surreal moment, as I paid for the fish and left the store with the kiddos (sans Tarantula, thank you very much). We had quite a few laughs about our "gas attack" experience on the return drive. I'm also happy to report that the little fellow did make it home in one piece and is now happily sucking the green goo from the midst of my tank. By morning, I hope to be able to see his other finned cohorts through the gaps in the algae.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Chesticular Fortitude - #1 Fav
If there is one thing that I've learned as a parent it's that each child is different and should come with their own parenting manual. Since no such Baby Bible exists, Hubby and I typically flew by the seat of our pants, with a little help from very knowledgeable grandparents and a stiff shot of whiskey here and there. However, recently there was a situation that neither experienced grandparents nor hard liquor could help; it was how to cope with our five year old son and his infatuation with lovely lady lumps.
Yes, my son discovered the beauty of a woman's breasts and for the past several weeks, we've been fighting the battle of the booby. I'm not sure that I can put my finger on when his infatuation began, but it's sure been a nipply situation to deal with. In hindsight, I remember C-dub being abnormally interested in whether or not I would be changing into my pajamas at night and if it would be necessary for me to remove my shirt. Thinking that this sweet little man-child was concerned with his momma's need for my warmth, I would give him a big hug and he would always squeeze me back. All the while, he’d be pressing his little cherubic face firmly against my chesticles, looking like the Cheshire cat. The saga continued and every now and then I'd find a stray Victoria's Secret catalog curled up under his Fisher Price racetrack, strangely dog-eared and marked up with crayon.
Even with those circumstances, I still wasn't convinced that my sweet little angel was becoming interested in the female anatomy... Sure, he would stop dead in his tracks when a Playtex Cross Your Heart commercial came on and yeah, I did think it was a little strange that he'd always offer to fold my laundry, but then again, maybe he was just earning brownie points for Santa? It wasn't until I had a conversation with his preschool teacher did I learn of the significance of his desire to be closer to the pillow buddies.
After weighing the facts of the case, I asked Miss K if C-dub had ever made any off the wall ta-tas comments while in class. She looked at me with a little surprise and her facial expressions quickly turned to shock.
"You know, last week while we were doing our exercises, C-dub just stopped and stared while I was doing jumping jacks. I thought he was just trying to see how I was doing it, but his eyes were focused on... Oh my!"
That was it. I knew then and there that my man-child had been macking on his preschool teacher. It was time for hubby to intervene before things got even more out of hand and other women were victimized by C-dub’s wandering peepers. I knew this certainly wasn’t my area so I instructed hubby on some of the areas to cover…privacy, implications of being a Peeping Tom, etc., etc... I did my own internet research and spoke with other moms of boys and discovered that his current obsession with lactoids was rather innocent in nature. In other words, he knew what he liked; he just didn't know why he liked them. He was finally noticing that girls and boys had differences, and boy did he like what he was seeing!
Hubby called C-dub into our bedroom one night while I stayed in the living room with Gun-Gun and Taterbug. Taterbug noticed C-dub's absence and asked why the boys were having a talk that she was not included in on. I didn't know what to say but being the brainiac that she is, she quickly asked, "Is it because of that boob thing? I don't know what his problem is but he'd better stop staring at yours Mom. It’s weird."
The conversation was brief yet effective as I am once again safe to dress and undress in the comfort of my own room, and without the offering assistance of C-dub. I still have to deal with Gun-Gun and his hooter infatuation but at least he's a little less vocal and certainly not as obvious with his affections. C-dub seems no worse for wear and he’s back to playing monster trucks and racing his cars with never a mention of his previous bigguns’ affliction. I truly look forward to the day when I can give a copy of this blog to his first girlfriend ;o).
Yes, my son discovered the beauty of a woman's breasts and for the past several weeks, we've been fighting the battle of the booby. I'm not sure that I can put my finger on when his infatuation began, but it's sure been a nipply situation to deal with. In hindsight, I remember C-dub being abnormally interested in whether or not I would be changing into my pajamas at night and if it would be necessary for me to remove my shirt. Thinking that this sweet little man-child was concerned with his momma's need for my warmth, I would give him a big hug and he would always squeeze me back. All the while, he’d be pressing his little cherubic face firmly against my chesticles, looking like the Cheshire cat. The saga continued and every now and then I'd find a stray Victoria's Secret catalog curled up under his Fisher Price racetrack, strangely dog-eared and marked up with crayon.
Even with those circumstances, I still wasn't convinced that my sweet little angel was becoming interested in the female anatomy... Sure, he would stop dead in his tracks when a Playtex Cross Your Heart commercial came on and yeah, I did think it was a little strange that he'd always offer to fold my laundry, but then again, maybe he was just earning brownie points for Santa? It wasn't until I had a conversation with his preschool teacher did I learn of the significance of his desire to be closer to the pillow buddies.
After weighing the facts of the case, I asked Miss K if C-dub had ever made any off the wall ta-tas comments while in class. She looked at me with a little surprise and her facial expressions quickly turned to shock.
"You know, last week while we were doing our exercises, C-dub just stopped and stared while I was doing jumping jacks. I thought he was just trying to see how I was doing it, but his eyes were focused on... Oh my!"
That was it. I knew then and there that my man-child had been macking on his preschool teacher. It was time for hubby to intervene before things got even more out of hand and other women were victimized by C-dub’s wandering peepers. I knew this certainly wasn’t my area so I instructed hubby on some of the areas to cover…privacy, implications of being a Peeping Tom, etc., etc... I did my own internet research and spoke with other moms of boys and discovered that his current obsession with lactoids was rather innocent in nature. In other words, he knew what he liked; he just didn't know why he liked them. He was finally noticing that girls and boys had differences, and boy did he like what he was seeing!
Hubby called C-dub into our bedroom one night while I stayed in the living room with Gun-Gun and Taterbug. Taterbug noticed C-dub's absence and asked why the boys were having a talk that she was not included in on. I didn't know what to say but being the brainiac that she is, she quickly asked, "Is it because of that boob thing? I don't know what his problem is but he'd better stop staring at yours Mom. It’s weird."
The conversation was brief yet effective as I am once again safe to dress and undress in the comfort of my own room, and without the offering assistance of C-dub. I still have to deal with Gun-Gun and his hooter infatuation but at least he's a little less vocal and certainly not as obvious with his affections. C-dub seems no worse for wear and he’s back to playing monster trucks and racing his cars with never a mention of his previous bigguns’ affliction. I truly look forward to the day when I can give a copy of this blog to his first girlfriend ;o).
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