This is a text message from my 11 year old to his Dad. Spelling, punctuation, and content in the original.
"It would come to your attention that my birthday is on a Thursday and I would like my party on the following Saturday with HELIUM balloons and I would like to invite [my friend]. I wouldn't like to sound greedy, but a chocolate-mint cake with mint-chocolate chip ice cream would be fine. Please refer to my wish list for further details. (*) also means most wanted."
And this is why we save for his college education.
-Bee likes to party on, Garth.
Listening to: Celebration by Kool and The Gang
16 November 2010
11 November 2010
No, I'm Not Really In Nebraska
Bloggage. Bloggy. Bloggy McBloggerton.
I'm woefully absent but I've had good reason. This is where I leave an obnoxious post telling you how busy I am and why I haven't blogged. You can glaze over till the end ~cough, weenie, cough~ where I say I'll be around more often. Or you can suffer like everyone else and find out where all your dryer socks are going.
No, not Nebraska, but close....
I've been contemplating life's complexities and the reason for lost dryer socks. I'm not joking. Missing dryer socks are right up there with long division as a wonder of the world. Do you think that people in China or across the globe miss dryer socks, too? I bet they don't. They probably complain of lost washer socks, being on the other side of the world and all. Naturally, everything is inverted so they get our plethora of dryer socks and we get extra washer socks.
Like they say, it all comes out in the wash.
"They" probably have enough time to babysit the wash and perhaps even iron their sheets. Is there anyone who has that kind of time? No, I sleep on wrinkled sheets and when they are nice and flat then I know I need to change them. Kind of like a sheet version of an indicator toothbrush but with less discoloration. Or not.
"They" are also smart and probably retain all their socks, too. Washer and dryer kind.
I've really lost my writing mojo. Okay, so not true. My blogging mojo. So many of my blogging peeps have disappeared and gone on with their lives. Jeez, it's not like cancer needs to be cured or families going on with their lives and stuff.
There are a few times I'd say, gee, golly, that's a good thing to write about. I've lost some spontaneity in blogging but in return you'll see my book on the shelf one of these years. Better yet, on your shelf.
Kids are getting bigger, I'm taking school one quarter at a time depending on Mr Coffee's schedule. He is one of the few working in construction that is literally working so I have no grounds to stand and whine. He's staying busy and the kids are growing like weeds. I've said it before and I'll say again, I'm sure you don't really wanna hear how farging cute my kids are (even though they really are) but you come to read something to laugh about.
What is funny is how involved my kids are. They are the involved kids, where the carpool mom (that's me) drives all over Nebraska to get them to their activities. I have one in basketball, one is the President of the National Jr Honors Society, one playing violin, one playing clarinet, two playing piano, one in safety patrol, one soon to take up bowling, and later two, in track. Two schools, four kids, a living room remodel, my lifeline aka, my android phone with its assortment of social apps ready and waiting for that carpool lane, aaaaaaand about 50 overdue library books.
Can you see why I didn't quite make it to school this quarter? I'm not complaining just burning up a third world country in gas.
This is the heart of why I haven't blogged in so long. I've been carrying on with life. Book reading, coffee drinking, movie watching, iTunes downloading, date going, phone calling, BFF visiting, carpooling, choring, weight losing (like a whole person), and loving my life. I also have pumpkin pie for 14 to make for Thanksgiving.
You are so jealous of my wrinkled sheets and pie making marathon. I can feel it.
Can my days get any better? Certainly they can but I'm content. Lost dryer socks, notwithstanding.
~time to unglaze, now....~
~Bee is listening to The War by Angels & Airwaves
I'm woefully absent but I've had good reason. This is where I leave an obnoxious post telling you how busy I am and why I haven't blogged. You can glaze over till the end ~cough, weenie, cough~ where I say I'll be around more often. Or you can suffer like everyone else and find out where all your dryer socks are going.
No, not Nebraska, but close....
I've been contemplating life's complexities and the reason for lost dryer socks. I'm not joking. Missing dryer socks are right up there with long division as a wonder of the world. Do you think that people in China or across the globe miss dryer socks, too? I bet they don't. They probably complain of lost washer socks, being on the other side of the world and all. Naturally, everything is inverted so they get our plethora of dryer socks and we get extra washer socks.
Like they say, it all comes out in the wash.
"They" probably have enough time to babysit the wash and perhaps even iron their sheets. Is there anyone who has that kind of time? No, I sleep on wrinkled sheets and when they are nice and flat then I know I need to change them. Kind of like a sheet version of an indicator toothbrush but with less discoloration. Or not.
"They" are also smart and probably retain all their socks, too. Washer and dryer kind.
I've really lost my writing mojo. Okay, so not true. My blogging mojo. So many of my blogging peeps have disappeared and gone on with their lives. Jeez, it's not like cancer needs to be cured or families going on with their lives and stuff.
There are a few times I'd say, gee, golly, that's a good thing to write about. I've lost some spontaneity in blogging but in return you'll see my book on the shelf one of these years. Better yet, on your shelf.
Kids are getting bigger, I'm taking school one quarter at a time depending on Mr Coffee's schedule. He is one of the few working in construction that is literally working so I have no grounds to stand and whine. He's staying busy and the kids are growing like weeds. I've said it before and I'll say again, I'm sure you don't really wanna hear how farging cute my kids are (even though they really are) but you come to read something to laugh about.
What is funny is how involved my kids are. They are the involved kids, where the carpool mom (that's me) drives all over Nebraska to get them to their activities. I have one in basketball, one is the President of the National Jr Honors Society, one playing violin, one playing clarinet, two playing piano, one in safety patrol, one soon to take up bowling, and later two, in track. Two schools, four kids, a living room remodel, my lifeline aka, my android phone with its assortment of social apps ready and waiting for that carpool lane, aaaaaaand about 50 overdue library books.
Can you see why I didn't quite make it to school this quarter? I'm not complaining just burning up a third world country in gas.
This is the heart of why I haven't blogged in so long. I've been carrying on with life. Book reading, coffee drinking, movie watching, iTunes downloading, date going, phone calling, BFF visiting, carpooling, choring, weight losing (like a whole person), and loving my life. I also have pumpkin pie for 14 to make for Thanksgiving.
You are so jealous of my wrinkled sheets and pie making marathon. I can feel it.
Can my days get any better? Certainly they can but I'm content. Lost dryer socks, notwithstanding.
~time to unglaze, now....~
~Bee is listening to The War by Angels & Airwaves
05 September 2010
All Keyed Up
The saying goes: You do not know what you have until you lose it.
...well, unless it's your key ring.
The appositeness of car, house, or work keys are evident in the annoyance of upturning an entire residence in pursuit of tiny, errant objects hidden by the devil himself.
However, key relevance lends more to that hypothetical soul who owns time, begs to be fired, relishes walking inhumanly colossal distances in inclement weather, and has an uncanny knack for shimmying through narrow basement windows.
I am now faithfully utilizing a wall-mounted row of key hooks.
~Bee is listening to You Found Me by The Fray
...well, unless it's your key ring.
The appositeness of car, house, or work keys are evident in the annoyance of upturning an entire residence in pursuit of tiny, errant objects hidden by the devil himself.
However, key relevance lends more to that hypothetical soul who owns time, begs to be fired, relishes walking inhumanly colossal distances in inclement weather, and has an uncanny knack for shimmying through narrow basement windows.
I am now faithfully utilizing a wall-mounted row of key hooks.
~Bee is listening to You Found Me by The Fray
24 August 2010
Change Came In Disguise of Revelation
Change. Changing. Mud pies and skinned knees.
Bugs in a jar. Newspaper routes long forgotten.
Love. Family. Children. 10th reunions. 20th reunions.
Surprise encounters. Didn't I know you?
So good to see you.
Didn't you have that bio class?
I still have that old car. A tape deck that eats tapes.
Running on a perpetual ¼ tank of gas. Loud music.
Good times shape personalities. Create character. Provide foundations. One will need them.
The world revolves on change. People change with new ideas. Morals change with proclaimed maturity or in best case scenarios, one possessing a genuine understanding of self. Time constitutes inevitable change and if one is open, the years are a benevolent force. Time, the pseudo-nemesis gaining a bad rap. It only veils, obscuring the view of the spirit of unteachable.
Old dogs learn many tricks but too many believe the status quo.
Lives go through spurts of growth. Stagnate and one will die from the inside out, slowly and uncomfortably although as familiar as the nose on one's self-loathing face. Taking the years in stride is no insurance against growing pains, in fact quite the opposite. But when do we ever know what comes down the pike?
What will we encounter that has a potential to heal. What has a potential to hurt?
Pain is not the enemy though. Pain is uncomfortable but also the way the human mind is taught, "Don't do this again, please." Stagnation is a far more nefarious and formidable enemy, and to refuse a lesson learned. To close ones ears. Unteachable and unwavering. Singularity. It is this I fear.
Revelation of life's ability to teach me paves the way for change and ironically, being open to hear it's message...and change brings revelation. The ability to change creates an avenue to make change possible. Life just brings change to our door.
Change. Changing. Stir the soul. Set on fire. Thankful for each day to appreciate. Full of life's loveliness and revelation.
~Bee is listening to A Dustland Fairytale by The Killers
Bugs in a jar. Newspaper routes long forgotten.
Love. Family. Children. 10th reunions. 20th reunions.
Surprise encounters. Didn't I know you?
So good to see you.
Didn't you have that bio class?
I still have that old car. A tape deck that eats tapes.
Running on a perpetual ¼ tank of gas. Loud music.
Good times shape personalities. Create character. Provide foundations. One will need them.
The world revolves on change. People change with new ideas. Morals change with proclaimed maturity or in best case scenarios, one possessing a genuine understanding of self. Time constitutes inevitable change and if one is open, the years are a benevolent force. Time, the pseudo-nemesis gaining a bad rap. It only veils, obscuring the view of the spirit of unteachable.
Old dogs learn many tricks but too many believe the status quo.
Lives go through spurts of growth. Stagnate and one will die from the inside out, slowly and uncomfortably although as familiar as the nose on one's self-loathing face. Taking the years in stride is no insurance against growing pains, in fact quite the opposite. But when do we ever know what comes down the pike?
What will we encounter that has a potential to heal. What has a potential to hurt?
Pain is not the enemy though. Pain is uncomfortable but also the way the human mind is taught, "Don't do this again, please." Stagnation is a far more nefarious and formidable enemy, and to refuse a lesson learned. To close ones ears. Unteachable and unwavering. Singularity. It is this I fear.
Revelation of life's ability to teach me paves the way for change and ironically, being open to hear it's message...and change brings revelation. The ability to change creates an avenue to make change possible. Life just brings change to our door.
Change. Changing. Stir the soul. Set on fire. Thankful for each day to appreciate. Full of life's loveliness and revelation.
~Bee is listening to A Dustland Fairytale by The Killers
21 August 2010
Bill Gates Never Had Barney Wallpaper
Shared files can be hazardous to your health. More importantly, to your desktop. You see, my son, Max is 11 and apparently has an incredible aptitude for computers.
Max is a lot like me: logical, methodical, and curious. I'd love to take credit for his brilliance but it's all him...and no doubt, my pregnancy tuna fish cravings that fueled his brain development.
Seriously, though. All my children are brilliant and emotionally intelligent. I'm not biased. Nooooo.
Max wants to know why, how, and when. He's been reading at high school level since 4th grade. Earlier this year, he impressed his music teacher playing the "Colonial Days" song on his recorder. He instructed her on how he reworked the finger placement for transitioning easier between notes and then successfully played the song to her...simultaneously on two recorders, one in each hand. In 3rd grade he attempted to explain to me about the thinatude of the universe due to it's expanding nature and the lasting effect of gravity with centrifugal force. I half expected him to build me a flux-capacitor by now.
We were blessed with a computer a few months back, aptly named "The Kids Computer". I thought it best with the elevated risk of losing 20,000 itunes songs was inevitable with just one malevolent XBox cheat code download.
Simply thinking about it makes my heart palpitate.
I've never showed Max the ins and outs of the computer or software since he is pretty fearless with technology. Last week I downloaded Gimp (open source photo editing software) to their PC and he's already photo shopping like an OK Magazine art director. Still-frame Lego videos are now in the works.
I set up each one of the kids with their own profile on their computer. Their profiles are password protected but since their passwords are openly shared, it was only a matter of time before the fun started and games of "look what I did to your wallpaper" or newly replaced user names of "boogerhead" started gracing the screen.
This is what happens when you have four cherub-faced kids.
My oldest daughter, Jaina is soon to be 14 and takes great delight in teasing her brothers. She's never deliberately mean but when a chance to poke fun is to be had, it's open season at the sibling range. It's a big sister thing, as I'm sure my younger sisters will also attest.
The only rule I made regarding the kids' shared computer was that they couldn't delete someone elses files or do something irreversibly grevious to a siblings profile. I strongly suggested password-protected user profiles be made after Jaina thought it great fun to change Max's wallpaper from his usual fare of video gaming characters or Star Wars scene.
Preschool appropriate wallpaper was not a hit and passwords were quickly changed and kept private.
Today, Max proudly announced from the computer chair that Jaina should be aware he was still going to get his revenge. My ears picked up immediately.
"Jaina, you DO know that I don't need your password to change your wallpaper." He sounded as smug as he was confident.
Jaina's head popped up from her dining room table doodling. Today it's Manga girl drawings. "Nu-uhh. No you can't!"
"Yep, I ca-an," he taunted her condescendingly, "you have shared files."
Jaina looked confused and quickly referred to me, "He can't...can he? What does shared files mean?"
I stiffled a giggle. "I told you not to start something unless you were willing to wage a computer battle." It would be my 11 year old brainiac to outsmart his sister. Never get involved in a land war in Asia and all that.
Titus, my 10 year old, piped up, no doubt shrinking from the memory of My Little Pony people and rainbows that appeared on his desktop, "No, Maxim, don't! Don't even think..."
Maxim interrupted, "Don't worry, Titus. Ours are protected." Naturally, he anticipated all contingencies. This is war.
Jaina stammered in indignation, "No way. Mom said you couldn't erase files!"
"I didn't erase files. But I can keep the image and switch around the name or..." he grinned at her triumphantly, "...hey, I could change the name to the Chinese food delivery guy and you'll never find those files."
Like the wise Vizzini once said, "You fell victim to one of the classic blunders - The most famous of which is "never get involved in a land war in Asia" - but only slightly less well-known is this: "Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line"!
Vizzini never met our family. If he had he'd undoubtedly would have added, "...and never change your brother's wallpaper to Barney when you have shared files on the line."
~Bee is listening to Kaiser Chiefs, "I Predict A Riot"
Max is a lot like me: logical, methodical, and curious. I'd love to take credit for his brilliance but it's all him...and no doubt, my pregnancy tuna fish cravings that fueled his brain development.
Seriously, though. All my children are brilliant and emotionally intelligent. I'm not biased. Nooooo.
Max wants to know why, how, and when. He's been reading at high school level since 4th grade. Earlier this year, he impressed his music teacher playing the "Colonial Days" song on his recorder. He instructed her on how he reworked the finger placement for transitioning easier between notes and then successfully played the song to her...simultaneously on two recorders, one in each hand. In 3rd grade he attempted to explain to me about the thinatude of the universe due to it's expanding nature and the lasting effect of gravity with centrifugal force. I half expected him to build me a flux-capacitor by now.
We were blessed with a computer a few months back, aptly named "The Kids Computer". I thought it best with the elevated risk of losing 20,000 itunes songs was inevitable with just one malevolent XBox cheat code download.
Simply thinking about it makes my heart palpitate.
I've never showed Max the ins and outs of the computer or software since he is pretty fearless with technology. Last week I downloaded Gimp (open source photo editing software) to their PC and he's already photo shopping like an OK Magazine art director. Still-frame Lego videos are now in the works.
I set up each one of the kids with their own profile on their computer. Their profiles are password protected but since their passwords are openly shared, it was only a matter of time before the fun started and games of "look what I did to your wallpaper" or newly replaced user names of "boogerhead" started gracing the screen.
This is what happens when you have four cherub-faced kids.
My oldest daughter, Jaina is soon to be 14 and takes great delight in teasing her brothers. She's never deliberately mean but when a chance to poke fun is to be had, it's open season at the sibling range. It's a big sister thing, as I'm sure my younger sisters will also attest.
The only rule I made regarding the kids' shared computer was that they couldn't delete someone elses files or do something irreversibly grevious to a siblings profile. I strongly suggested password-protected user profiles be made after Jaina thought it great fun to change Max's wallpaper from his usual fare of video gaming characters or Star Wars scene.
Preschool appropriate wallpaper was not a hit and passwords were quickly changed and kept private.
Today, Max proudly announced from the computer chair that Jaina should be aware he was still going to get his revenge. My ears picked up immediately.
"Jaina, you DO know that I don't need your password to change your wallpaper." He sounded as smug as he was confident.
Jaina's head popped up from her dining room table doodling. Today it's Manga girl drawings. "Nu-uhh. No you can't!"
"Yep, I ca-an," he taunted her condescendingly, "you have shared files."
Jaina looked confused and quickly referred to me, "He can't...can he? What does shared files mean?"
I stiffled a giggle. "I told you not to start something unless you were willing to wage a computer battle." It would be my 11 year old brainiac to outsmart his sister. Never get involved in a land war in Asia and all that.
Titus, my 10 year old, piped up, no doubt shrinking from the memory of My Little Pony people and rainbows that appeared on his desktop, "No, Maxim, don't! Don't even think..."
Maxim interrupted, "Don't worry, Titus. Ours are protected." Naturally, he anticipated all contingencies. This is war.
Jaina stammered in indignation, "No way. Mom said you couldn't erase files!"
"I didn't erase files. But I can keep the image and switch around the name or..." he grinned at her triumphantly, "...hey, I could change the name to the Chinese food delivery guy and you'll never find those files."
Like the wise Vizzini once said, "You fell victim to one of the classic blunders - The most famous of which is "never get involved in a land war in Asia" - but only slightly less well-known is this: "Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line"!
Vizzini never met our family. If he had he'd undoubtedly would have added, "...and never change your brother's wallpaper to Barney when you have shared files on the line."
~Bee is listening to Kaiser Chiefs, "I Predict A Riot"
08 August 2010
I Didn't Quite Hear Your Head Rattle
"Welcome to See's Candies! Would you like to try our new...."
I don't know why these ladies ask me such frivolities. Free chocolate truffles. Can you imagine turning that down? They might as well be asking if I'd like a guaranteed lottery win or go down in history as the woman to find the answer to world hunger or a cancer cure. Or if I'd prefer to never again pluck errant chin hair.
The answer is yes, yes, and definitely yes.
Today my daughter and I went to See's Candies. That place brings me memories of my Great Aunt taking me to get chocolate suckers when I was just a tot. The heavenly smell brings me to my teen years when I worked in a chocolate factory and bakery. All in all, See's Candies pulls me into some fairly awesome memories while triggering the drool gland. This is win-win all around.
As my daughter and I waited in the roped off line, we drooled, sniffed, drooled some more, and made our best effort to appear like we are not huffing the display cases. We totally were but since this is a common occurrence by all who grace the doors, I'm sure we didn't appear too deranged.
While waiting, two women in sunglasses came up on my left. I immediately noticed that both women were navigating with their hands with seeing eye dogs in tow and further, were feeling their way to find the queue. Their canine companions were also adorned in colorful doggie vests indicating in big white letters that they were service dogs and were currently working.
The two blind women missed the end of the queue entirely, not that I minded. They approached the front of the store and were greeted by a friendly employee by name with assurances from said employee they would be helped shortly. A Mom and daughter duo in front of me were already being helped so I waited patiently. I certainly didn't mind waiting a whole two or three minutes for my much needed chocolate fix, so I let them cut in, thankful that my display case huffing tendencies managed to hold my cravings at bay.
At this point one of the women pulled her dog closer to her and inquired politely toward the mother and daughter, "Excuse me? Is there a line?"
Seriously. I kid you not, the mother looked at the two women, looked down at the dogs, and back up to the woman waiting for someone to answer. I watched as Mom said nothing but nodded her head yes to the question.
She nodded. To a blind woman.
My 13 year old daughter looked over at me with huge eyes and we managed to contain our amusement. Her's directed at her shoes and mine to a very ladylike, chortle-like, nasally snort .
I'm classy like that.
Neither one of us dared look up while secretly hoping to all that is holy that we could pass of our burst of laughter as unrelated banter between us. Or maybe as a reenactment of Babe or Charlotte's Web.
The blind woman asked about the front of the line again and I took mercy on both parties, reassuring the two blind women were indeed at the right place in line.
As I walked back to my van, I couldn't help but giggle at the irony: A place called See's. Blind customers. Nodding in communication. Me snorting like a pig. Eating truffles.
Like I said, I'm just classy like that.
~Bee is listening to Kaiser Chiefs' - "Ruby"
I don't know why these ladies ask me such frivolities. Free chocolate truffles. Can you imagine turning that down? They might as well be asking if I'd like a guaranteed lottery win or go down in history as the woman to find the answer to world hunger or a cancer cure. Or if I'd prefer to never again pluck errant chin hair.
The answer is yes, yes, and definitely yes.
Today my daughter and I went to See's Candies. That place brings me memories of my Great Aunt taking me to get chocolate suckers when I was just a tot. The heavenly smell brings me to my teen years when I worked in a chocolate factory and bakery. All in all, See's Candies pulls me into some fairly awesome memories while triggering the drool gland. This is win-win all around.
As my daughter and I waited in the roped off line, we drooled, sniffed, drooled some more, and made our best effort to appear like we are not huffing the display cases. We totally were but since this is a common occurrence by all who grace the doors, I'm sure we didn't appear too deranged.
While waiting, two women in sunglasses came up on my left. I immediately noticed that both women were navigating with their hands with seeing eye dogs in tow and further, were feeling their way to find the queue. Their canine companions were also adorned in colorful doggie vests indicating in big white letters that they were service dogs and were currently working.
The two blind women missed the end of the queue entirely, not that I minded. They approached the front of the store and were greeted by a friendly employee by name with assurances from said employee they would be helped shortly. A Mom and daughter duo in front of me were already being helped so I waited patiently. I certainly didn't mind waiting a whole two or three minutes for my much needed chocolate fix, so I let them cut in, thankful that my display case huffing tendencies managed to hold my cravings at bay.
At this point one of the women pulled her dog closer to her and inquired politely toward the mother and daughter, "Excuse me? Is there a line?"
Seriously. I kid you not, the mother looked at the two women, looked down at the dogs, and back up to the woman waiting for someone to answer. I watched as Mom said nothing but nodded her head yes to the question.
She nodded. To a blind woman.
My 13 year old daughter looked over at me with huge eyes and we managed to contain our amusement. Her's directed at her shoes and mine to a very ladylike, chortle-like, nasally snort .
I'm classy like that.
Neither one of us dared look up while secretly hoping to all that is holy that we could pass of our burst of laughter as unrelated banter between us. Or maybe as a reenactment of Babe or Charlotte's Web.
The blind woman asked about the front of the line again and I took mercy on both parties, reassuring the two blind women were indeed at the right place in line.
As I walked back to my van, I couldn't help but giggle at the irony: A place called See's. Blind customers. Nodding in communication. Me snorting like a pig. Eating truffles.
Like I said, I'm just classy like that.
~Bee is listening to Kaiser Chiefs' - "Ruby"
29 July 2010
Silliness, Skydiving, and Summer
It's already July. Seriously.
You have a calendar. Look at it.
I know. JULY. When did that happen?
Next week we're having Thanksgiving dinner. Grab your mittens and coat.
Geez, Louise.
Don't you remember growing up how the time would inch by? The older I get, not that I'm old mind you, I get the eerie feeling time has found warp drive. I often wonder when the grown ups are going to show up and tell me to wash behind my ears and quit drinking so much coffee.
Yeah, not happening. The coffee drinking part, that is.
I don't feel like a grown up. Maybe I'll never feel that way. I'll end up one of those wrinkled, bright eyed, sweet-tempered ladies whose purse is stocked with peppermints, smells like cookies, and is constantly attempting to play matchmaker for my "beautiful granddaughter" and my single, hot, skydiving instructor.
Oh, I'd skydive. I would. My bestie and I have already talked about this, blue hair and all. Although, I would wager my social security check she would pinch the instructor's butt. And her purse would be chock full of mini peanut butter cups. Naturally.
I don't act like a grown up, so I've been told. My daughter and her friends call me "fun Mommy" because they are sure that even though I am a mom and drive a lame mini-van, I'm still fun. Go me.
::pats self on her narcissistic back::
How do grow ups act? I ask.
Serious, they say.
My daughter and company also told me I'm hilarious. (hilarious looking, maybe...) I have about 30 kids at my daughter's school that call me "Mommy" now. I wear my badge with honor. Kind of like being cool in high school. And take it from me, I was anything but cool.
I am thankful to feel this kind of connection with "my kids". Baking cookies at midnight during a girl's night sleepover also helps. So does bribery in the Willy Wonka fashion.
Man, can they devour a bag of caramel apple suckers, or what?
Cool "Mommy" title aside...yes, my inflated head is SO owning that...I've always felt that containing one's self with absolute seriousness is not living when every day is spread out with opportunity for the taking. Sure, I'm fully able to get into scholarly arguments debating Utopian pluralism or engage anyone on the beauties of Neruda's finely honed pen.
For the record, if you haven't read Pablo Neruda, his most famous works are the most amazing lover's poetry. Warm fuzzies and loveliness.
I'd say in contrast, my everyday is more complex. Like quoting silly movies, going Tiger Beat over broody Brit actors/musicians, and dancing around my living room with my seven year old to the likes of Lady Gaga. There is time for both but don't you get the itch to get silly or break loose sometimes?
Try it. You may find yourself. Or find yourself with a killer blog post...or better yet, find yourself with a hot skydiving instructor. rawr.
~Bee wants to know what silly things you do.
You have a calendar. Look at it.
I know. JULY. When did that happen?
Next week we're having Thanksgiving dinner. Grab your mittens and coat.
Geez, Louise.
Don't you remember growing up how the time would inch by? The older I get, not that I'm old mind you, I get the eerie feeling time has found warp drive. I often wonder when the grown ups are going to show up and tell me to wash behind my ears and quit drinking so much coffee.
Yeah, not happening. The coffee drinking part, that is.
I don't feel like a grown up. Maybe I'll never feel that way. I'll end up one of those wrinkled, bright eyed, sweet-tempered ladies whose purse is stocked with peppermints, smells like cookies, and is constantly attempting to play matchmaker for my "beautiful granddaughter" and my single, hot, skydiving instructor.
Oh, I'd skydive. I would. My bestie and I have already talked about this, blue hair and all. Although, I would wager my social security check she would pinch the instructor's butt. And her purse would be chock full of mini peanut butter cups. Naturally.
I don't act like a grown up, so I've been told. My daughter and her friends call me "fun Mommy" because they are sure that even though I am a mom and drive a lame mini-van, I'm still fun. Go me.
::pats self on her narcissistic back::
How do grow ups act? I ask.
Serious, they say.
My daughter and company also told me I'm hilarious. (hilarious looking, maybe...) I have about 30 kids at my daughter's school that call me "Mommy" now. I wear my badge with honor. Kind of like being cool in high school. And take it from me, I was anything but cool.
I am thankful to feel this kind of connection with "my kids". Baking cookies at midnight during a girl's night sleepover also helps. So does bribery in the Willy Wonka fashion.
Man, can they devour a bag of caramel apple suckers, or what?
Cool "Mommy" title aside...yes, my inflated head is SO owning that...I've always felt that containing one's self with absolute seriousness is not living when every day is spread out with opportunity for the taking. Sure, I'm fully able to get into scholarly arguments debating Utopian pluralism or engage anyone on the beauties of Neruda's finely honed pen.
For the record, if you haven't read Pablo Neruda, his most famous works are the most amazing lover's poetry. Warm fuzzies and loveliness.
I'd say in contrast, my everyday is more complex. Like quoting silly movies, going Tiger Beat over broody Brit actors/musicians, and dancing around my living room with my seven year old to the likes of Lady Gaga. There is time for both but don't you get the itch to get silly or break loose sometimes?
Try it. You may find yourself. Or find yourself with a killer blog post...or better yet, find yourself with a hot skydiving instructor. rawr.
~Bee wants to know what silly things you do.
08 June 2010
You Can Google It
I can't wait for the Jr High orchestra to start. It's been a half hour of watching parents and families file in. Some are in business suits. Some are in work duds. The majority are in jeans and tee shirts. Apparel aside, everyone looks mildly bored off their collective noggins and waiting for the program to start.
The kids in attendance are few and far between. They run a muck in the back of the gym while parents talk amongst themselves. School function-imposed banter is not my thing. I'm not a hermit and make every attempt to be polite. Sure, I'll smile and say my hellos like the next guy. Its my distaste for plastic smiles and attempts to one up other parents with their golden child's academic progress.
I would bet my Mozart CD collection that this parking lot has a bumper sticker that reads:
My Orchestra Child Can Outplay Your Orchestra Child.
There are probably stick figures involved, too. And maybe one of those half-smashed into the window baseballs.
I claim seats for the kids and myself. After I'm settled, I look around. I spot Jaina coming in from a side door. She's a blond head in a sea of white shirts and black trousers. She's surrounded by boys, of course, oblivious to the gravity of her smiles and giggles.
I wish she would stay this way forever. Or at least until she's 30. I want grandkids, just not this decade. I'm still happily scoffing at the AARP bulk mail in my postal box.
Jaina carries her violin proudly as she scans the seating section, offering her siblings a shy smile, and blushing only slightly when she sees me across the gym. I'm proud of her for playing the violin, just like my grandfather, and his father, and his father. Stringed instruments are in our blood. Guitars on my dad's side and violins on my mother's side. This reminds me of my sister. I should call her.
Shushing and hovering over the kids is easy when I'm standing across the isle from them. I get comfortable with my back against the wall. The kids are restless. I'm under the distinct impression that Max, Zus, and Lolo have taken bets on who can wiggle most often and create the most amount of noise while everyone is finding seating.
If you want to call caterwauling "noise".
I look to my right and left. Why? Because people are so darn fascinating and it's entertaining. Entertaining as my shallowness in making gross conjectures about their lives and judging them for my assumptions to stave off boredom.
Its fun. You should try it.
I'm checking out the bass section now. Or are they cellos? Or violas? I always forget and make a mental note to google it. Not knowing stuff like that irritates me. Why? I haven't a clue. I'm sure Jaina would know because she's been in the orchestra all year. She's a googler like me.
Now I realize it's time for the parental units along the wall to do the "who has the coolest camera with the biggest, most expensive lens."
I lose. I don't care.
And don't think I'm shallow because I know you're comparing cameras, too. That's what crosses the mind of every parental unit gone pseudo-photog.
I make a mental note to check prices for cameras while I'm googling cello-viola-bass thingies. I'm sure my little 8 MP camera with a 5x lens is child's play and I need an upgrade. It's about two years old.
Two technology and camera years equates to an antique. Kinda like dog years, except technology years boil down to months.
Even Lolo's camera is a technological antique but it was far cheaper than mine but a much better resolution. Her camera we bought for her birthday in February just this year. To add insult to pictorial injury: It's hot pink, can survive a 5000 foot drop into a volcano, and it has prozac-smile Barbies on it.
My camera is so uncool.
The conductor brings me back to the present and I unglaze my eyeballs. The auditorium begins to quiet. I can hear the tap-tap-tap of his wand. I hear giggle snorts and am giving my kids the hairy eyeball. They somehow manage to continue their loud wiggle chair disco. The wiggle chair disco now looks more like a full-on rain dance and howling songs around a campfire.
We haven't even gotten to the whisper yell, "Moooom, he's touching me!" and the ever classic comment from my youngest daughter, "It stinks right now cause I farted."
Do they stay quiet? No, they are too busy kicking their feet into the backside of the poor souls who made the unfortunate decision to sit in the row in front of the Bee children. And apparently farting.
I know I'm gonna win Mother of The Year.
I frown in dissatisfaction at my 8 MP dinosaur that has just sucked the last juice from my only set of batteries. That and my duct tape is still back at the house.
Mr Coffee calls me again. This is the third time today but I don't mind. At all. He doesn't like being 3hrs away but you won't hear him complain about his job. His boss is awesome, he's gainfully employed in the economically volatile field of construction, and our bills are being paid.
Note to self: When praying for a job, always designate a 50 mile radius from home. Amen and pass the lobster.
Mr Coffee wishes again that he were here but I reassure him that Jaina understands the demands of his job. He is lamenting over being out of town and missing Jaina's orchestra thingie tonight.
"Hey, Mattress. Are you at Jaina's orchestra thingie?" He makes himself sound positive but I know he's disappointed.
Before I go further, I am certain you are probably wondering from this pet name that I am a) off my rocker b) trying to be funny, or c) have fat-fingered my keyboard.
None of the above. Or at least not the funny and fat fingered ones. Occasionally, Mr Coffee will call me Mattress. In retort, I will come back with a diddy of my own,
"Heeeey, Lovercorn. I'm here! I think they are going to start soon."
** The story of Mattress and Lovercorn is very long, involves my two boys (naturally), and is funny enough to make you choke on your own spit so I will refrain from the story. In the meantime, you can thank Max and Zus for allowing Mr Coffee and I to use the pet names once reserved between brothers.**
Mr Coffee and I can't hear each other because suddenly, the orchestra is playing. I can feel the vibrations of all five of the bass-cello thingies in my chest. Or is that the war cries from my children? I can't tell.
I don't want to be rude so I duck into the hallway to avoid the eyeball laser beams from Little Future YoYo Ma's parents. It could be worse, at least I'm not yammering on at 130 decibels into a bluetooth about my abscessed tooth. Or embarrassing itch. Or gaseous anomalies emanating from my person.
It's happened. Safeway checkout line. Not the gas..or embarrassing itch. The TMI at 130 decibels. That's the threshold for ear pain. I've googled it.
I'm in the antiseptic smelling cafeteria hall, "I'm in the clear now. Sooooo," I drag on, "wow, is it loud. And really, it would be a miracle if anyone is in the same key...or playing the same song. How bout an A for effort.Or is that an 'E' for effort...or 'E minor'..."
I giggle at my own joke because I think I'm funny. The floor bleach must be affecting my brain cells. I can't even get a solid chord progression on Guitar Hero so who am I to talk?
Mr Coffee snorts, "Yeah, I could hear them. Ouch. I guess it could be worse..."
Princess Bride immediately pops into my head and can't stop my verbal diarrhea, "Do you know what that sound is, Highness? Those are the SHRIEKING EELS!"
When we dry our tears from laughing, Mr Coffee tells me that we are going to music hell for making fun of a Jr. High Orchestra. No Joshua Bell in that place. Hell or the school auditorium. I would assume orchestra hell is just a giant elevator with piped in muzak. Muskrat Love. Or Lady Gaga's Poker Face.
muh, muh, muh, mah....
Mr Coffee and I said our goodbyes and I steal off back into the gym to catch the rest of the program. My daughter does a duet with another violinist. Shrieking eels or not, I couldn't be more proud of her.
And for the record, my orchestra student can so kick your orchestra students cello thingie.
~Bee is listening to One Republic's All The Right Moves
The kids in attendance are few and far between. They run a muck in the back of the gym while parents talk amongst themselves. School function-imposed banter is not my thing. I'm not a hermit and make every attempt to be polite. Sure, I'll smile and say my hellos like the next guy. Its my distaste for plastic smiles and attempts to one up other parents with their golden child's academic progress.
I would bet my Mozart CD collection that this parking lot has a bumper sticker that reads:
My Orchestra Child Can Outplay Your Orchestra Child.
There are probably stick figures involved, too. And maybe one of those half-smashed into the window baseballs.
I claim seats for the kids and myself. After I'm settled, I look around. I spot Jaina coming in from a side door. She's a blond head in a sea of white shirts and black trousers. She's surrounded by boys, of course, oblivious to the gravity of her smiles and giggles.
I wish she would stay this way forever. Or at least until she's 30. I want grandkids, just not this decade. I'm still happily scoffing at the AARP bulk mail in my postal box.
Jaina carries her violin proudly as she scans the seating section, offering her siblings a shy smile, and blushing only slightly when she sees me across the gym. I'm proud of her for playing the violin, just like my grandfather, and his father, and his father. Stringed instruments are in our blood. Guitars on my dad's side and violins on my mother's side. This reminds me of my sister. I should call her.
Shushing and hovering over the kids is easy when I'm standing across the isle from them. I get comfortable with my back against the wall. The kids are restless. I'm under the distinct impression that Max, Zus, and Lolo have taken bets on who can wiggle most often and create the most amount of noise while everyone is finding seating.
If you want to call caterwauling "noise".
I look to my right and left. Why? Because people are so darn fascinating and it's entertaining. Entertaining as my shallowness in making gross conjectures about their lives and judging them for my assumptions to stave off boredom.
Its fun. You should try it.
I'm checking out the bass section now. Or are they cellos? Or violas? I always forget and make a mental note to google it. Not knowing stuff like that irritates me. Why? I haven't a clue. I'm sure Jaina would know because she's been in the orchestra all year. She's a googler like me.
Now I realize it's time for the parental units along the wall to do the "who has the coolest camera with the biggest, most expensive lens."
I lose. I don't care.
And don't think I'm shallow because I know you're comparing cameras, too. That's what crosses the mind of every parental unit gone pseudo-photog.
I make a mental note to check prices for cameras while I'm googling cello-viola-bass thingies. I'm sure my little 8 MP camera with a 5x lens is child's play and I need an upgrade. It's about two years old.
Two technology and camera years equates to an antique. Kinda like dog years, except technology years boil down to months.
Even Lolo's camera is a technological antique but it was far cheaper than mine but a much better resolution. Her camera we bought for her birthday in February just this year. To add insult to pictorial injury: It's hot pink, can survive a 5000 foot drop into a volcano, and it has prozac-smile Barbies on it.
My camera is so uncool.
The conductor brings me back to the present and I unglaze my eyeballs. The auditorium begins to quiet. I can hear the tap-tap-tap of his wand. I hear giggle snorts and am giving my kids the hairy eyeball. They somehow manage to continue their loud wiggle chair disco. The wiggle chair disco now looks more like a full-on rain dance and howling songs around a campfire.
We haven't even gotten to the whisper yell, "Moooom, he's touching me!" and the ever classic comment from my youngest daughter, "It stinks right now cause I farted."
Do they stay quiet? No, they are too busy kicking their feet into the backside of the poor souls who made the unfortunate decision to sit in the row in front of the Bee children. And apparently farting.
I know I'm gonna win Mother of The Year.
I frown in dissatisfaction at my 8 MP dinosaur that has just sucked the last juice from my only set of batteries. That and my duct tape is still back at the house.
Mr Coffee calls me again. This is the third time today but I don't mind. At all. He doesn't like being 3hrs away but you won't hear him complain about his job. His boss is awesome, he's gainfully employed in the economically volatile field of construction, and our bills are being paid.
Note to self: When praying for a job, always designate a 50 mile radius from home. Amen and pass the lobster.
Mr Coffee wishes again that he were here but I reassure him that Jaina understands the demands of his job. He is lamenting over being out of town and missing Jaina's orchestra thingie tonight.
"Hey, Mattress. Are you at Jaina's orchestra thingie?" He makes himself sound positive but I know he's disappointed.
Before I go further, I am certain you are probably wondering from this pet name that I am a) off my rocker b) trying to be funny, or c) have fat-fingered my keyboard.
None of the above. Or at least not the funny and fat fingered ones. Occasionally, Mr Coffee will call me Mattress. In retort, I will come back with a diddy of my own,
"Heeeey, Lovercorn. I'm here! I think they are going to start soon."
** The story of Mattress and Lovercorn is very long, involves my two boys (naturally), and is funny enough to make you choke on your own spit so I will refrain from the story. In the meantime, you can thank Max and Zus for allowing Mr Coffee and I to use the pet names once reserved between brothers.**
Mr Coffee and I can't hear each other because suddenly, the orchestra is playing. I can feel the vibrations of all five of the bass-cello thingies in my chest. Or is that the war cries from my children? I can't tell.
I don't want to be rude so I duck into the hallway to avoid the eyeball laser beams from Little Future YoYo Ma's parents. It could be worse, at least I'm not yammering on at 130 decibels into a bluetooth about my abscessed tooth. Or embarrassing itch. Or gaseous anomalies emanating from my person.
It's happened. Safeway checkout line. Not the gas..or embarrassing itch. The TMI at 130 decibels. That's the threshold for ear pain. I've googled it.
I'm in the antiseptic smelling cafeteria hall, "I'm in the clear now. Sooooo," I drag on, "wow, is it loud. And really, it would be a miracle if anyone is in the same key...or playing the same song. How bout an A for effort.Or is that an 'E' for effort...or 'E minor'..."
I giggle at my own joke because I think I'm funny. The floor bleach must be affecting my brain cells. I can't even get a solid chord progression on Guitar Hero so who am I to talk?
Mr Coffee snorts, "Yeah, I could hear them. Ouch. I guess it could be worse..."
Princess Bride immediately pops into my head and can't stop my verbal diarrhea, "Do you know what that sound is, Highness? Those are the SHRIEKING EELS!"
When we dry our tears from laughing, Mr Coffee tells me that we are going to music hell for making fun of a Jr. High Orchestra. No Joshua Bell in that place. Hell or the school auditorium. I would assume orchestra hell is just a giant elevator with piped in muzak. Muskrat Love. Or Lady Gaga's Poker Face.
muh, muh, muh, mah....
Mr Coffee and I said our goodbyes and I steal off back into the gym to catch the rest of the program. My daughter does a duet with another violinist. Shrieking eels or not, I couldn't be more proud of her.
And for the record, my orchestra student can so kick your orchestra students cello thingie.
~Bee is listening to One Republic's All The Right Moves
29 May 2010
They Grade You For This?
I dedicate this to all the parents who have up and coming drivers.
Jan. 2006
I routinely clean out my purse when I've a) thrown out my back or b) when there is no room to fit smuggled candy into a movie theater.
Don't judge me. I'm not smuggling in my kids. Although...
Last night was Clean My Purse night. During the process, my 9 year old daughter sauntered into my bedroom and plopped down next to me on the bed.
I was separating the contents and mentally noting,
"...receipts...tissue, hot wheel car...more garbage...barbie shoe, old bank sucker...ewww."
Jaina eyed my pile-of-purse contents and asked curiously, "What's that? What are you doing?"
I took out my sixth tube of lipstick and put on my cheesiest fake grin feigning enthusiasm, "I'm cleaning out my purse."
I really don't like doing it, evident by the sheer weight that was recently threatening to sheer my arm clean off my shoulder.
Jaina snorted and immediately piped up, "Can I help?"
"Um, sure..." I know that her idea of helping and my idea of helping are vastly different but she likes doing projects together. I won't dissuade her enthusiasm.
I continued sorting out the growing mess and she popped open my wallet. Undoubtedly doing her version of "helping". She was ooh's and ahhh's over the shiny cards. She asked me about the mass of business cards. She laughed at my picture as she took out my driver's license.
Yeah, hardy har har. Laugh it up. Your turn is coming.
Jaina stared intently at all the information on the front of my license, "How do you get a driver's license?"
I gulped at the subtle reminder that it'll only be a couple more years until she is driving. Lord, help us.
"I had to take a test at the DMV. When I passed the test they took my picture and gave me a license." I ribbed her with a grin, "Even when you're grown up, you still have to take tests."
Jaina continued studying the front of my license. Suddenly, her eyes got bigger and she asked me incredulously, "WHY does it say S.....E......X. on your driver's license?"
She looked a little embarrassed and refused to look up from my license. Of course, she would. She's 9 and according to the word on the school playground, kissing boys gives you babies and/or cooties. And then you get married.
I smiled knowingly at the thought because Jaina and I have already had a modified version of 'the talk'. She is still quite content not knowing all the details. She sees hubby and I kiss and snuggle on the couch at times. Tame enough PDA but she also knows we love each other. The whole issue is normal, in her understanding, but not a huge deal to her at the tender age of 9. I happen to agree.
I'm a little curious, "What do you think that means?" I never know how she will process these tidbits but she never fails to pleasantly surprise me. Or make me snort with laughter.
Jaina was deep in thought with her brows furrowed in concentration for a few seconds. Her eyes swiftly shot up to mine, her's growing huge as she asked in a disgusted whisper,
"You got an 'F' in sex?!!!!"
She didn't quite understand what kind of testing they actually give you at the DMV. Needless to say, she was relieved to hear my explanation, "'F' is for FEMALE."
Yeah, certainly not that kind of test.
Jan. 2006
I routinely clean out my purse when I've a) thrown out my back or b) when there is no room to fit smuggled candy into a movie theater.
Don't judge me. I'm not smuggling in my kids. Although...
Last night was Clean My Purse night. During the process, my 9 year old daughter sauntered into my bedroom and plopped down next to me on the bed.
I was separating the contents and mentally noting,
"...receipts...tissue, hot wheel car...more garbage...barbie shoe, old bank sucker...ewww."
Jaina eyed my pile-of-purse contents and asked curiously, "What's that? What are you doing?"
I took out my sixth tube of lipstick and put on my cheesiest fake grin feigning enthusiasm, "I'm cleaning out my purse."
I really don't like doing it, evident by the sheer weight that was recently threatening to sheer my arm clean off my shoulder.
Jaina snorted and immediately piped up, "Can I help?"
"Um, sure..." I know that her idea of helping and my idea of helping are vastly different but she likes doing projects together. I won't dissuade her enthusiasm.
I continued sorting out the growing mess and she popped open my wallet. Undoubtedly doing her version of "helping". She was ooh's and ahhh's over the shiny cards. She asked me about the mass of business cards. She laughed at my picture as she took out my driver's license.
Yeah, hardy har har. Laugh it up. Your turn is coming.
Jaina stared intently at all the information on the front of my license, "How do you get a driver's license?"
I gulped at the subtle reminder that it'll only be a couple more years until she is driving. Lord, help us.
"I had to take a test at the DMV. When I passed the test they took my picture and gave me a license." I ribbed her with a grin, "Even when you're grown up, you still have to take tests."
Jaina continued studying the front of my license. Suddenly, her eyes got bigger and she asked me incredulously, "WHY does it say S.....E......X. on your driver's license?"
She looked a little embarrassed and refused to look up from my license. Of course, she would. She's 9 and according to the word on the school playground, kissing boys gives you babies and/or cooties. And then you get married.
I smiled knowingly at the thought because Jaina and I have already had a modified version of 'the talk'. She is still quite content not knowing all the details. She sees hubby and I kiss and snuggle on the couch at times. Tame enough PDA but she also knows we love each other. The whole issue is normal, in her understanding, but not a huge deal to her at the tender age of 9. I happen to agree.
I'm a little curious, "What do you think that means?" I never know how she will process these tidbits but she never fails to pleasantly surprise me. Or make me snort with laughter.
Jaina was deep in thought with her brows furrowed in concentration for a few seconds. Her eyes swiftly shot up to mine, her's growing huge as she asked in a disgusted whisper,
"You got an 'F' in sex?!!!!"
She didn't quite understand what kind of testing they actually give you at the DMV. Needless to say, she was relieved to hear my explanation, "'F' is for FEMALE."
Yeah, certainly not that kind of test.
21 May 2010
How Do You Feel?
Feeling Bookish
I'm starting on a few books. One I haven't read, always wanted to. East of Eden by John Steinbeck. I loved his Of Mice and Men so I've added another book to my ever-growing read list. I'd say summer-read list, but it should take me a long while to get through it all. I should be done by 2075.
Feeling Safe
My upstairs neighbor regularly comes to my door to chat. She decided not to come home on Monday essentially scaring the life out of her roommates and me, of course. Today she appeared upstairs, safe and healthy after I'd given my statement to the detective/officer dealing with her missing person case. Giving a statement to the police has always made me nervous. I'm sure it's a kickback to my childhood...maybe something deep-seated in my mind from foster homes. Or something even more traumatic like my distaste of polyester after a possible incident with blue polyester pants blown out in the crotchal region during school recess...or lima beans.Seriously, lima beans are gross.
Feeling Musical
I have three whole songs now that I want and can't find on iTunes or in the big music warehouse down in P-town. They said to try Amazon. In Love With A Friend by Deep Dish
Heima (acoustic) by Sigur Ros
and Progress by MuteMath
Let's make that four songs: Whatcher Problem Apple I Wanna Buy These by Bee Repartee.
The only upside is my project playlist to listen to my hearts content. If you are interested... my playlists.
Feeling Kinda Dumb
I found out today my college instructor is my age, older by only two months. This makes me feel a bit underachieved and frankly, dumb as a post because well, he is also a doctor. I am not.Eleanor Roosevelt said, "No one can make you feel inferior without your permission." Obviously, she never went back to school after an 18 year sabbatical to learn about ciliated pseudo-stratified columnar epithelial tissue after cramming her brain with 10+ years of Blues Clues and potty-training.
Smart lady, that Eleanor, but no matter how innocuous BC's Steven and Joe may appear they are SO giving me permission on feeling inferior...without my permission. Know why? It's because Blues Clues is merely a cleverly disguised weapon of brain destruction. I could have been a doctor, remember? Of course you do. You probably haven't had 10 years of brain destruction either.
Regardless, I wouldn't trade my kids for the world. I'd take an "A" in my bio class but trading the world? Still no dice. I have my standards.
Feeling Full
Dinner was sesame chicken teriyaki w/rice. Sauce from scratch turned out really good, too. My seven year old, Lolo, helped with most of dinner preparations only threatening once to destroy dinner with her contribution to the spicing: hovering over dinner with an entire jar of yellow curry. More importantly, an entire open jar of yellow curry. It was rescued and I swiftly replaced the jar with utensils du jour to allow Lolo's creative mind to engage in piracy...or teach Padawan manners...or perhaps direct the kitchen orchestra. As she sat on the counter in her red and white checkered apron and wielding double-fisted utensils, I couldn't stop the grins and quickly committed the scene to memory. After bellies were soon sated with dinner, homework was done, and I felt nothing but thankful for many things.
Music that played and filled the house.
A book next to my bed, just waiting to be explored.
My family is safe and healthy.
I will get my degree, barring apocalyptic events.
Full of thanks to have cooked something yummy with my seven year old jedi/pirate/conductor.
Yes, Eleanor. I feel content and give myself permission to remember with my heart and my head.
It doesn't get much better than this...
~Listening to: The Heart of Life by John Mayer
25 April 2010
I "Like" My Readers
I'm on Facebook and love to look at the fan pages. If there is something you like, despise, ship, admire? Facebook gives us the ability to set up a Facebook page for it.
You like eating cheese? There is a fan page. There is even a fan page for people who hate fan pages. Some of these (real FB pages, mind you) are front page worthy.
"'We just started dating yesterday, but we're in love.' No, you're an idiot."
"Dude, I'm not getting in your car. It smells like feet."
"Spandex Is The Only Reason Why Guys Go To Volleyball Games."
(4993 people "LIKE" this)
Now, if you like a comment, picture, or fangirl ship, facebook has provided a "LIKE" button. It's not enough to comment or rave over, you have to click the button. For lurkers this concept is ideal to accomplish a drive by "LIKE"-ing.
At any given time my bloggy partner in crime, the one that hails to "Doozie", will run down my entire facebook page and like everything she gets her clicker on. She is so thoughtful that way.
Once you've clicked a little "LIKE" button, the item will show up on your main facebook page aptly named the "WALL".
Today I was admiring a Twitter-er who set up his facebook page called...and no, I'm not making this up:
Obviously, there's language but I had some serious laughs. I also found a Robert Pattinson page.
Naturally.
I tend to have movie crushes on tall, dark, brooding musicians. This should not be news to you.
I'm not online as much as I used to be, but FB does seem to be a decent form of entertainment when this notice to my FB friends showed up on my facebook wall:
You see my recent activity? And for the record, my Dad does not say sh*t.
~Bee is listening to "Down" by Jason Walker
You like eating cheese? There is a fan page. There is even a fan page for people who hate fan pages. Some of these (real FB pages, mind you) are front page worthy.
"'We just started dating yesterday, but we're in love.' No, you're an idiot."
"Dude, I'm not getting in your car. It smells like feet."
"Spandex Is The Only Reason Why Guys Go To Volleyball Games."
(4993 people "LIKE" this)
Now, if you like a comment, picture, or fangirl ship, facebook has provided a "LIKE" button. It's not enough to comment or rave over, you have to click the button. For lurkers this concept is ideal to accomplish a drive by "LIKE"-ing.
At any given time my bloggy partner in crime, the one that hails to "Doozie", will run down my entire facebook page and like everything she gets her clicker on. She is so thoughtful that way.
Once you've clicked a little "LIKE" button, the item will show up on your main facebook page aptly named the "WALL".
Today I was admiring a Twitter-er who set up his facebook page called...and no, I'm not making this up:
Shit My Dad Says
Description:
I'm 29. I live with my 74-year-old dad. He is awesome. I just write down shit that he says. Fed straight from Twitter: http://twitter.com/shitmydadsays
I'm 29. I live with my 74-year-old dad. He is awesome. I just write down shit that he says. Fed straight from Twitter: http://twitter.com/shitmydadsays
Obviously, there's language but I had some serious laughs. I also found a Robert Pattinson page.
Naturally.
I tend to have movie crushes on tall, dark, brooding musicians. This should not be news to you.
I'm not online as much as I used to be, but FB does seem to be a decent form of entertainment when this notice to my FB friends showed up on my facebook wall:
You see my recent activity? And for the record, my Dad does not say sh*t.
~Bee is listening to "Down" by Jason Walker
06 April 2010
Guts, Windstars, and Soul
This week I started school again. I am my own master of smarticles.
This weekend, Mr Coffee was home from his usual Monday-Friday stint up in Middle Of Nowhere, WA. We went to the music store down in Portland and bought some new strings for my acoustic guitar. I like the Silk and Steel Martin strings. Not so hard on the fingers. I also bought a pair of drum sticks. You may think that is funny, seeing I neither play drums nor do I own a drum set. I do listen to my ipod and pound away on pillows or beat-on surfaces while practicing proper holding techniques. I want to take drum lessons after I feel confident on the guitar. The faux drumming also helps tone/prep my arms so it should be no surprise to you that my deltoids are freaking killing me. I can thank All-American Rejects and Weezer for that...
The kids went back to school after a week of spring break. Spring break always feels longer than it is when it's rainy. We stayed indoors avoiding the inclement weather, watched movies, played video games, and compared belly button lint. We also drove over to Dapoppins house for an afternoon of loud craziness. There are eight children between us. It was expected. She also had homemade cookies...and coffee. Double win.
After being without my van for three weeks, it was lovely to get out of the house. Last month, my van...long story short (and really, you should be thanking me for this brevity) was broken down, towed, and further rifled through.
The van sat at the mechanics for a week or two with the back trunk not locked. I had the foresight to remove my valuables including the registration (with my signature on it) prior to towage. Nothing of value was stolen but I still feel violated, you know? I've always felt if you break and enter a vehicle or steal one for that matter, that you should at least have the decency to total it and launch it off a cliff. Instead, the owner has to deal with the whey-faced codpiece who would rather blow their beer-tainted groceries on the back seat upholstery, trash the inside, and ditch the thing two counties away.
Thieves are so amateurish and inconsiderate these days. What happened to a good old-fashioned bonfire and vehicular cliff dive?
Sans fires or cliffs, my van was graced with the fallout of some sheep-biting moron who dumped the garbage bag out all over the carpet. Who does that? And then, just to irk me more, they stole most of the clothes and books that were going to Goodwill. I was giving them away, sure...but I didn't want them to have it all.
No one will take responsibility for the theft at the tow place, naaaaturally. I only know that when I handed over the keys to my locked car the tow company didn't keep the back hatch locked....when they went through it and took they wanted.
I hope the perps suffer a miserable existence. How about the fleas of 1000 camels lodging in their crotchal region? I'm not picky.
This weekend, the family also ventured out for free fun at the Home Depot Workshop. When finished, we trekked across the parking lot to the van with newly-made, wooden butterfly houses (x4) in hand and I noticed this car, more importantly, the name of the car: Kia Soul. The shape didn't escape me either, wondering what it was like to drive the kids around in a white box.
Do you know that people look and stare when you are bent over, hysterically laughing at apparently nothing in a parking lot?
I probably looked certifiable but I didn't care. I couldn't stop laughing at the possibilities of how you could brag about this new Kia Soul. We headed out but Mr Coffee had to pull over to make sure I was okay. And to see if I needed a hospital. Or a new lung. Or at least a new pair of jeans.
Who decided this was a good name for a car? I've heard of odd car model names like a Mitsubishi Guts (don't crash your Guts!) but holy crap, this tops the list of funny. You could go to town with this, literally and metaphorically:
I have a black Soul.
My dog popped in my Soul.
My wife wrecked my Soul.
Everyone piled into my Soul.
I've got a dirty Soul.
My Soul was repo'd.
My grandparents went to Florida and all they brought me was this dumb Soul.
My Mother In Law sat in my Soul.
I rocked out in my Soul.
I lived in my Soul down by the river.
The fun is endless, really.
Now, if you also had a Mitsubishi Cantor Guts...
and got in an accident with a Dodge Demon....
...you could say that a Demon hit your Guts and they plowed into your Soul.
How about a Ford Escort, Chevrolet Luv, and a Dodge Swinger?
-Bee has soul but not a Soul.
Listening to: Joshua Radin's album: We Were Here.
02 March 2010
Socially Laughable Me
Sometimes in social situations I end up laughing inappropriately. I'm such a sad sack.
Weddings, graduations, or social gatherings are not immune to my nervousness turned giggles. I even manage to put the "fun" back in "funeral" squelching nearly-uncontrollable, pant-peeing laughter. Not cool.
Once Mr Coffee and I nearly got booted from a birthing class we took years and years ago. While everyone meditated and went "to their happy place", I got the giggles and couldn't stop. I'm sure the instructor was upset, but she said happy place, right?
Just look at it from my point of view. It's logical that said "happy place" sounds not unlike "Play Place". You know? The Play Place: a questionably sterile area of McDonalds filled with squealing children, some freaky statue, and a tower of tube slides to get stuck in.
This is not tranquil or serene for delivery. Suddenly, my mind's eye was thrust into an alternate universe where Ronald McDonald was my OB/GYN assisted by the Quaker Oats Guy and Burger King Dude. This is not tranquil or serene either. One look at Burger King Dude and that baby would be crawling back in. Just the thought of any one of those creepy smilers delivering my baby in say, a ball pit/diaper pail or tube slide/wrong side of the tracks...well, it made me laugh. A lot. Call me demented but really, have you met me?
Fourteen years and four "happy places" later, the family and I attended a party over the weekend. It was a large house and full of merry guests. I routinely keep to myself in social situations such as this, observing and listen into others conversations like the good blogger I am. I'm certain it's considered rude, however if I pretend not to listen in, what is said in a room full of people is fair game. Fair blog-foddery game.
The majority of people in attendance I had never met. My ears were at full perk and as expected, I excitedly hit paydirt half way through the night with this gem. And with Mr Coffee by my side:
A tall man, who I shall call The Mr., begins to introduce his wife to an acquaintance, "Honey, I don't believe you met Barbara."
Barbara crams a chip in her mouth and speaks curiously, "Oh, this is your wife?" she points between them with another chip in hand. Barbara appears puzzled perhaps from appetizer overload but regardless turns to The Mrs., offers an outstretched hand, and states loudly, "Oh, Hi. Wait, didn't you used to be blonde?"
Clearly the Mrs. is dark-haired and could never pull off blonde. However, the big elephant in the room is that The Mr. has married again recently. The dark-haired Mrs is now wife no. 2 or 3. Even hubby and I know this. Sadly, BarbaraVerbalVomit knows this but clearly she was unable put two and two together because too much food was blocking blood flow to her brain.
Can you see how fun this conversation will be?
Social situations dictate that when someone introduces you to their wife, it's a pretty sure bet that the couple would be just that: husband and wife. This fact is not lost on me nor most of the world's populace. This social tradition of introductions is apparently not a factor for BarbaraChipFaced.
BarbaraSocialTard smiles half-heartedly in a frail move to somehow save face. Graciously, The Mrs takes BarbaraBrainDamage by the hand, shakes politely, and smiles, "No, I've never gone blonde..."
BarbaraEggOnFace realizes her gaucherie and further digs her social grave, "Oh, then you must be the newest wife."
The newest wife? Seriously?
The Mrs. looks at her husband with a forced smile that says simply "What. The. Hell" and turns back to BarbaraBlunderWonder, "It's okay, it happens to me all the time."
Everyone is aware of the awkward silence that permeates every inch of the room. Mr Coffee and I, in our infinite wisdom, covertly look at each other to gain some sort of composure. He and I both know what's coming.
Have I mentioned that Mr Coffee and I are both kindred, socially retarded souls?
By glancing at Mr Coffee, I have effectively tried to put out the proverbial social house fire with a crap load of laughing napalm. I ended up stuffing down the laugh which resulted in a loud snort/guffaw. My eyes go wide and I jerked around to face the counter to avoid any sort of eye contact. Mr Coffee cleared his throat in true wing man style giving me a way out of the room without being tarred and feathered. I spied the coffee pot on the counter and made a feeble attempt to look like I was going for another refill. I'd been on my fifth styrofoam (dixie) cup so it's feasible I would have been getting more coffee.
Keeping my head down, the room began to busy with a queue for the buffet. I stole out of there like my bladder depended on it. I just hope no one heard the peals of laughter coming from the upstairs bathroom.
And don't you dare judge me. I had to escape to the bathroom. I had six cups of coffee.
~Bee says, "hahhahaaha....."
Weddings, graduations, or social gatherings are not immune to my nervousness turned giggles. I even manage to put the "fun" back in "funeral" squelching nearly-uncontrollable, pant-peeing laughter. Not cool.
Once Mr Coffee and I nearly got booted from a birthing class we took years and years ago. While everyone meditated and went "to their happy place", I got the giggles and couldn't stop. I'm sure the instructor was upset, but she said happy place, right?
Just look at it from my point of view. It's logical that said "happy place" sounds not unlike "Play Place". You know? The Play Place: a questionably sterile area of McDonalds filled with squealing children, some freaky statue, and a tower of tube slides to get stuck in.
This is not tranquil or serene for delivery. Suddenly, my mind's eye was thrust into an alternate universe where Ronald McDonald was my OB/GYN assisted by the Quaker Oats Guy and Burger King Dude. This is not tranquil or serene either. One look at Burger King Dude and that baby would be crawling back in. Just the thought of any one of those creepy smilers delivering my baby in say, a ball pit/diaper pail or tube slide/wrong side of the tracks...well, it made me laugh. A lot. Call me demented but really, have you met me?
Fourteen years and four "happy places" later, the family and I attended a party over the weekend. It was a large house and full of merry guests. I routinely keep to myself in social situations such as this, observing and listen into others conversations like the good blogger I am. I'm certain it's considered rude, however if I pretend not to listen in, what is said in a room full of people is fair game. Fair blog-foddery game.
The majority of people in attendance I had never met. My ears were at full perk and as expected, I excitedly hit paydirt half way through the night with this gem. And with Mr Coffee by my side:
A tall man, who I shall call The Mr., begins to introduce his wife to an acquaintance, "Honey, I don't believe you met Barbara."
Barbara crams a chip in her mouth and speaks curiously, "Oh, this is your wife?" she points between them with another chip in hand. Barbara appears puzzled perhaps from appetizer overload but regardless turns to The Mrs., offers an outstretched hand, and states loudly, "Oh, Hi. Wait, didn't you used to be blonde?"
Clearly the Mrs. is dark-haired and could never pull off blonde. However, the big elephant in the room is that The Mr. has married again recently. The dark-haired Mrs is now wife no. 2 or 3. Even hubby and I know this. Sadly, BarbaraVerbalVomit knows this but clearly she was unable put two and two together because too much food was blocking blood flow to her brain.
Can you see how fun this conversation will be?
Social situations dictate that when someone introduces you to their wife, it's a pretty sure bet that the couple would be just that: husband and wife. This fact is not lost on me nor most of the world's populace. This social tradition of introductions is apparently not a factor for BarbaraChipFaced.
BarbaraSocialTard smiles half-heartedly in a frail move to somehow save face. Graciously, The Mrs takes BarbaraBrainDamage by the hand, shakes politely, and smiles, "No, I've never gone blonde..."
BarbaraEggOnFace realizes her gaucherie and further digs her social grave, "Oh, then you must be the newest wife."
The newest wife? Seriously?
The Mrs. looks at her husband with a forced smile that says simply "What. The. Hell" and turns back to BarbaraBlunderWonder, "It's okay, it happens to me all the time."
Everyone is aware of the awkward silence that permeates every inch of the room. Mr Coffee and I, in our infinite wisdom, covertly look at each other to gain some sort of composure. He and I both know what's coming.
Have I mentioned that Mr Coffee and I are both kindred, socially retarded souls?
By glancing at Mr Coffee, I have effectively tried to put out the proverbial social house fire with a crap load of laughing napalm. I ended up stuffing down the laugh which resulted in a loud snort/guffaw. My eyes go wide and I jerked around to face the counter to avoid any sort of eye contact. Mr Coffee cleared his throat in true wing man style giving me a way out of the room without being tarred and feathered. I spied the coffee pot on the counter and made a feeble attempt to look like I was going for another refill. I'd been on my fifth styrofoam (dixie) cup so it's feasible I would have been getting more coffee.
Keeping my head down, the room began to busy with a queue for the buffet. I stole out of there like my bladder depended on it. I just hope no one heard the peals of laughter coming from the upstairs bathroom.
And don't you dare judge me. I had to escape to the bathroom. I had six cups of coffee.
~Bee says, "hahhahaaha....."
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