Scared to look away for fear it may reanimate.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Be Afraid...
Came home to this on my dining room floor.
Scared to look away for fear it may reanimate.
Scared to look away for fear it may reanimate.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Quick and Dirty.
I have become more of a guest blogger because my life is in transition. I figure Dana will need me to step up for real while she goes guest someday too. So the scales of the universe will balance themselves. Here are a couple of snippets from my life in flux.
Setting: Subway, yes I am a Sandwich Artist.
Players: Me. Nameless OCD freak I work with. I say this with affection.
NOCDF: Lorie! I asked the Easter Bunny for a mail order bride! I hope he doesn't disappoint me.
Me. NOCDF, I'm sorry but I feel that is more of a leprechaun thing and St. Paddy's day is over so you are out of luck this year.
NOCDF: No Lorie! You are wrong!
I was right no mail order bride for him. But this gives you an idea of the sparkling banter that goes on at Subway. At least when he isn't singing the Barney closing song for me. I work with other people but he is the one that is most likely to be future blog fodder.
I sent this text to my daughter....
The western medicine man has prescribed for me many elixirs. I need to retrieve them. Could you transport me to the castle where they are held? I will pay you in Monster, cookies and any snack foods you may require.
She responds WTF are you talking about? I thought it was obvious that I needed a ride to Walgreens. Clearly Sarah and I need to work on our interpersonal communication skills.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
A Public Apology
A few weeks ago, I publicly mocked my brothers' UFO footage on this blog. In which my bro and I argue who has the best alien footage, and celebrate the baby Jesus. I have to apologize to him. Because last Friday night, I saw the aliens and I am pretty sure they saw me, too.
He kept saying that he saw these yellow ball lights over Lake Erie that had wavy edges like tentacles. They were apparently hovering and didn't appear to be moving at all, but rather shifting. I told him he was "full of horseshit and a drunk." (I think that's a direct quote. It's close enough.)
So last Friday night, I was dead asleep. At 1.23 am, something woke me up. I listened for the usual ghost sounds that live in my house (that's another story, for another day) but there weren't any. I roll over and look at the husband. No movement, he might be dead. Everything normal there. Me, dumpster kitty and Seymour ( poodle #1 ) went to check on the kids. The kids are sleeping soundly, as are the other dogs they use as blankets, Zyk and Mr. Pickles. So I went downstairs. Look around. Nothing. But something feels wrong, so I check all the doors. Everyone of them is locked. So I start back upstairs with my tiny minions trailing behind me.
My house, as I have mentioned, is old. At the landing to the front staircase, there is a giant door to nowhere. All glass, top to bottom. It's probably 7ft tall and totally useless, as it does not open and would only lead to nothingness if it did. We have several doors to nowhere in our house. It's part of the charm. We don't actually have Lake Erie in our backyard, but the view from this door is all sky over the lake. And that's when I see them.
Three glowing yellow balls, each radiating tentacles and hovering over Lake Erie by the cliff. They aren't moving per se, but there is a subtle wiggly hovering movement.
"Holy Shit! It's Dan's aliens! He's not a drunk!"
I stood there, transfixed. I kept rubbing my eyes, trying to unsee what I was seeing. I don't really want to see aliens. I am pretty sure any sort of alien business would end badly. Watch any sci/fi movie! But no matter how I turned my head, or stood on my tip toes, they remained completely stationary, just wiggling. I am pretty sure I was moaning. And that's when the freaky bit happened.
I swear they all wiggled and sort of turned towards me. I can't explain it at all, but I got this sudden goosepimpley feeling that they were looking at me. I know. It sounds insane. But there it is. I felt certain they were suddenly looking at me looking at them.
So I ran back to my bed and hid under the covers, a known alien and monster safety zone. I shivered there, thinking "I know I'm wide awake! I was just looking for a weird noise! Why am I seeing this? Why are the yellow balls wiggling at me?" I hid there for another 10 minutes or so, then decided to get up and look again, but this time out our back bedroom window. I was thinking that maybe it would be either gone (oh please) or maybe a different angle would make what I saw make sense.
So I tiptoed across the floor to the window and used my fingers to push the wooden shutters apart. 3 glowing balls. I dropped the shutters back into place. Broke out into flop sweat. Counted to 100. Slowly pushed the shutters apart again. Yellow wiggly balls with tiny tentacles. Run back to bed. I have seen The Fourth Kind.
I don't want to end up getting my back broken by troll aliens because I looked at them. Briefly consider calling 911. Work that through to its logical conclusion
Me: Send everything you've got! The glowing light balls are looking at me and want to break my spine! They saw me!
Operator: How much crack did you smoke, miss?
and discard idea because the fine is, like $5000. So, I do the next best thing.
Me: (hissing) Winston! Winston! Damn it, wake up!
Winston: uuuuuhhhhhh.
Me: (slapping him) Wake up! Winston! Right now!
Winston: (jumping out of bed) What? Where's the kids? What's wrong?
Me: Look out the window! There's aliens over the lake and I think they know I saw them!
Winston: (silence)
Me: Damn it, I'm serious! Go look! Please!!!
He walked the walk of a man tallying up how much a divorce would cost long-term to the front window and looked out.
Winston: Nothing. I see nothing.
Me: The lake is out back of the house, not the front! Come on! I'm scared!
I made him look out the bedroom window and the landing door to nowhere. He saw nothing. He refused to speak another word to me even though I was obviously terrified of getting my spine broke and he went back to bed. But explain this:
He woke up the next morning with a raging case of pink eye. To quote the nurse at the urgent care center: "His eyes are maroon!" See? You can't explain that, can you? My guess is that the aliens don't want certain people to see them and so they gave him pink eye! Sneaky little bastards.
Yes, I absolutely believe in the existence of aliens. It is too sad to consider that we are the only "intelligent" life in the universe. Because that's not saying too much. But in the calm light of day, I can tell you that I don't think the glowing wiggly light balls mean us any harm. I doubt aliens would want to actually make contact with us. We are idiots. As a race. I think they probably get a laugh out of watching us, but they don't want to hang out with us. I have a friend on a popular social network (a-hem) who may or may not be the voice you hear when you call that certain 3 digit emergency number. The one that starts with 9. And the calls she gets ALONE would be enough to encourage any alien race to make the trip and watch us. Like reality TV. For aliens. I was always under the impression that 911 was for "bleeding out the eyes, someone is stabbing me" emergencies. She gets calls like:
there's a guy running people over with his car at Shooters.."
or
caller: I don't know what I need.. I'm at --- motel and I was just woke by a noise and there's two mice runnin around the floor an I'm scared and no one is answering the phone at the front desk.
operator: ma'am - you're calling 911 because you're afraid of mice??
caller: yes
or
0319 this morning
caller: I need an ambulance. My girl's toenail just came off and she in pain
operator: really? um..ok, I'm transferring you to ....EMS
and
caller: I don't think this is an emergency, but I was driving South on 77 and I saw what appeared to be a hand on the side of the road?
and finally
caller: I'm just calling because there's airplanes flying all over -------every day and I was wondering what you could do about taking them out.
operator: ma'am, are you asking me to call all the airports and request they ground all flights because the planes are scaring you???
caller: well, yes, if you could.
OK, one more...
caller: I'm getting verbal abuse from my son
operator: how old is your son?
Any one of these would be more than enough reason for me to make an intergalactic journey in my glowing space ball, maybe bring some nachos and beer and just sort of park it over Lake Erie and tune in for a while. How are aliens in glowing balls hovering over the lake listening to 911 calls any different from someone in, say Rocky River, OH watching Jersey Shore? Yeah. It's not. Perspective; now you have it! I want to go on the record right here and say to anyone in a squiggly light ball who may be reading this:
~dana
He kept saying that he saw these yellow ball lights over Lake Erie that had wavy edges like tentacles. They were apparently hovering and didn't appear to be moving at all, but rather shifting. I told him he was "full of horseshit and a drunk." (I think that's a direct quote. It's close enough.)
So last Friday night, I was dead asleep. At 1.23 am, something woke me up. I listened for the usual ghost sounds that live in my house (that's another story, for another day) but there weren't any. I roll over and look at the husband. No movement, he might be dead. Everything normal there. Me, dumpster kitty and Seymour ( poodle #1 ) went to check on the kids. The kids are sleeping soundly, as are the other dogs they use as blankets, Zyk and Mr. Pickles. So I went downstairs. Look around. Nothing. But something feels wrong, so I check all the doors. Everyone of them is locked. So I start back upstairs with my tiny minions trailing behind me.
My house, as I have mentioned, is old. At the landing to the front staircase, there is a giant door to nowhere. All glass, top to bottom. It's probably 7ft tall and totally useless, as it does not open and would only lead to nothingness if it did. We have several doors to nowhere in our house. It's part of the charm. We don't actually have Lake Erie in our backyard, but the view from this door is all sky over the lake. And that's when I see them.
Three glowing yellow balls, each radiating tentacles and hovering over Lake Erie by the cliff. They aren't moving per se, but there is a subtle wiggly hovering movement.
"Holy Shit! It's Dan's aliens! He's not a drunk!"
 |
| Like this, but scary as shit. And wiggling. |
I stood there, transfixed. I kept rubbing my eyes, trying to unsee what I was seeing. I don't really want to see aliens. I am pretty sure any sort of alien business would end badly. Watch any sci/fi movie! But no matter how I turned my head, or stood on my tip toes, they remained completely stationary, just wiggling. I am pretty sure I was moaning. And that's when the freaky bit happened.
I swear they all wiggled and sort of turned towards me. I can't explain it at all, but I got this sudden goosepimpley feeling that they were looking at me. I know. It sounds insane. But there it is. I felt certain they were suddenly looking at me looking at them.
So I ran back to my bed and hid under the covers, a known alien and monster safety zone. I shivered there, thinking "I know I'm wide awake! I was just looking for a weird noise! Why am I seeing this? Why are the yellow balls wiggling at me?" I hid there for another 10 minutes or so, then decided to get up and look again, but this time out our back bedroom window. I was thinking that maybe it would be either gone (oh please) or maybe a different angle would make what I saw make sense.
So I tiptoed across the floor to the window and used my fingers to push the wooden shutters apart. 3 glowing balls. I dropped the shutters back into place. Broke out into flop sweat. Counted to 100. Slowly pushed the shutters apart again. Yellow wiggly balls with tiny tentacles. Run back to bed. I have seen The Fourth Kind.
 |
| OK, it'd be cool to have abs like that. But otherwise, no. |
I don't want to end up getting my back broken by troll aliens because I looked at them. Briefly consider calling 911. Work that through to its logical conclusion
Me: Send everything you've got! The glowing light balls are looking at me and want to break my spine! They saw me!
Operator: How much crack did you smoke, miss?
and discard idea because the fine is, like $5000. So, I do the next best thing.
Me: (hissing) Winston! Winston! Damn it, wake up!
Winston: uuuuuhhhhhh.
Me: (slapping him) Wake up! Winston! Right now!
Winston: (jumping out of bed) What? Where's the kids? What's wrong?
Me: Look out the window! There's aliens over the lake and I think they know I saw them!
Winston: (silence)
Me: Damn it, I'm serious! Go look! Please!!!
He walked the walk of a man tallying up how much a divorce would cost long-term to the front window and looked out.
Winston: Nothing. I see nothing.
Me: The lake is out back of the house, not the front! Come on! I'm scared!
I made him look out the bedroom window and the landing door to nowhere. He saw nothing. He refused to speak another word to me even though I was obviously terrified of getting my spine broke and he went back to bed. But explain this:
He woke up the next morning with a raging case of pink eye. To quote the nurse at the urgent care center: "His eyes are maroon!" See? You can't explain that, can you? My guess is that the aliens don't want certain people to see them and so they gave him pink eye! Sneaky little bastards.
Yes, I absolutely believe in the existence of aliens. It is too sad to consider that we are the only "intelligent" life in the universe. Because that's not saying too much. But in the calm light of day, I can tell you that I don't think the glowing wiggly light balls mean us any harm. I doubt aliens would want to actually make contact with us. We are idiots. As a race. I think they probably get a laugh out of watching us, but they don't want to hang out with us. I have a friend on a popular social network (a-hem) who may or may not be the voice you hear when you call that certain 3 digit emergency number. The one that starts with 9. And the calls she gets ALONE would be enough to encourage any alien race to make the trip and watch us. Like reality TV. For aliens. I was always under the impression that 911 was for "bleeding out the eyes, someone is stabbing me" emergencies. She gets calls like:
there's a guy running people over with his car at Shooters.."
or
caller: I don't know what I need.. I'm at --- motel and I was just woke by a noise and there's two mice runnin around the floor an I'm scared and no one is answering the phone at the front desk.
operator: ma'am - you're calling 911 because you're afraid of mice??
caller: yes
or
0319 this morning
caller: I need an ambulance. My girl's toenail just came off and she in pain
operator: really? um..ok, I'm transferring you to ....EMS
and
caller: I don't think this is an emergency, but I was driving South on 77 and I saw what appeared to be a hand on the side of the road?
and finally
caller: I'm just calling because there's airplanes flying all over -------every day and I was wondering what you could do about taking them out.
operator: ma'am, are you asking me to call all the airports and request they ground all flights because the planes are scaring you???
caller: well, yes, if you could.
OK, one more...
caller: I'm getting verbal abuse from my son
operator: how old is your son?
Any one of these would be more than enough reason for me to make an intergalactic journey in my glowing space ball, maybe bring some nachos and beer and just sort of park it over Lake Erie and tune in for a while. How are aliens in glowing balls hovering over the lake listening to 911 calls any different from someone in, say Rocky River, OH watching Jersey Shore? Yeah. It's not. Perspective; now you have it! I want to go on the record right here and say to anyone in a squiggly light ball who may be reading this:
"I for one welcome our new alien overlords! Please do not feel the need to break my spine, probe me or give me a raging case of pink eye! I plan on total cooperation and collaboration!"
~dana
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Get Your Voodoo Off My Sidewalk
So I found part of a jaw bone on the sidewalk yesterday. It's obviously an attempt at a voodoo curse or something. But the joke's on whoever put it there because I checked and you're supposed to use chicken teeth and blood and stuff. And I already live under a curse a gypsy put on me at my mom's garage sale back in 1997, so I laugh at your voodoo. * It's lazy voodoo at best. Nice. Really nice, people.
Yes. I brought it inside. For science.
~dana
* Long story short, I was helping my mom with a garage sale. This, I swear to God, gypsy showed up and wanted to by my mom's old Vegas showgirl dress (that is a long story) for $15 when my mom had marked it $100. My mom wouldn't back down. Next thing I know, the gypsy is pointing her fingers at us in this bizarre fashion and screaming at us in Romani. Nothing has been the same since. We live under a gypsy curse.
PS Any of my clever readers have any clue who this used to reside in?
 |
| figure 1 |
 |
| figure 2 |
~dana
* Long story short, I was helping my mom with a garage sale. This, I swear to God, gypsy showed up and wanted to by my mom's old Vegas showgirl dress (that is a long story) for $15 when my mom had marked it $100. My mom wouldn't back down. Next thing I know, the gypsy is pointing her fingers at us in this bizarre fashion and screaming at us in Romani. Nothing has been the same since. We live under a gypsy curse.
PS Any of my clever readers have any clue who this used to reside in?
Monday, April 23, 2012
Paging Dr. Cooper
Ahhhh. The boy child. I love him but he scares me. Currently, of my two children, he is the one making my right eye twitch. He better get it out of his system fast, because his sister is coming up right behind him and heading into the tweens. It's my understanding that I will need to reroute my all-seeing Eye of Sauron onto her for at least 10 years.
My friends know that I call the boy "little Dr. Cooper." He is overly slender, quirky and serious and has a giant brain. I stopped understanding his school work about 2 years ago. So, if he has trouble with a math problem, I take a picture of the equation (which just looks like feathery bits of squiggles to me) with my IPhone and send it to Winston, if he is out of town. He looks it over, because he went all the way through, like, Calc 21 or something mental like that. Then he sends back another set of feathery squiggles. Little Dr. Cooper looks them over, laughs as if daddy is a charming idiot and says, "Well, that's not helpful at all. Is that what old fashioned math looks like? That's hysterical. Never mind, I'll figure it out while I sleep tonight."
You can imagine this is rather trying to live with. I find myself turning into the mom from Malcolm in the Middle, screaming things like, "If you're so smart, why do I have to tell you to brush your teeth every day, huh?" I always feel like, even if I win an argument with him, I have actually lost but I am too simple to understand why.
Last week, he came home and tossed an enormous packet of papers at me.
Me: What's this? What does Our Lady of the Perpetual Shake-Down need money for now?
Boychild: Some research thing they want me to do. Just sign it, ok? Don't make me talk about it.
Me: Maybe you could research the reason you are unable to get through a day without 2+ hours of Call of Duty. Or why you torment your sister. Holy crap! It's like (flip flip flip) 21 pages! I'm not reading all this!
Henry: Like I said, just sign it, Mommy! And it's 23 pages. That's what those little numbers mean at the bottom of the pages.
Me: Huh. Look at that. Little numbers.
Henry: Sigh.
After skimming the large print bits, I discovered that Our Lady of the Perpetual Shake-Down wants the boychild and his brain to do a brief stint at Case Western in their research lab. It's not like he's going to be creating radioactive superheroes (I wish) but he'll be learning the day to day techniques and record keeping that goes on in a lab. In the experimental biology lab. Being ever vigilant of a zombie apocalypse, some pages stood out to me more that others...
Severe illness and possible death? Unknown consequences? What, like a zombie outbreak? Or like, Rise of the Planet of the Apes? And there were pages after pages of descriptions of all the things I was waiving the right to be upset about. They went on in some detail about possible...
1. Explosions and/or asphyxiation.
2. Tissue damage and hearing loss
3. Teratogens. I had to look that up. It is a chemical that messes with your reproductive bits and makes you have squid children.
4.Neurotoxins! Fun!
Me: And you want to do this? Are you sure, honey? It sounds like a lot of... work. And there's the chance you will grow a third eye.
Henry: Mommy, it'll be awesome. They have mutated mice!!! I will be handling mutated mice!!
Me: Not super excited about this. It sounds gross. Mutated like how? Like having tentacles? Or extra limbs?
Henry: No, like they mutated their BRAINS! So they are crazy smart and stuff. It's gonna be awesome!
Me: I forbid you to drink or eat anything while you are there!!! I won't have those lab nerds mutating your brain! Wait! Are you helping study the mice, or are they studying you studying the mice?!?! I've read Flowers for Algernon! It ends badly! Don't eat anything, do you hear me?!
Henry: Mommy. Calm down. It's fine. Just sign it and stop talking at me, OK?
Now, I am sure you are all thinking the same thing: Listen to her brag about her son. Disgusting. I am so done reading this blog. Everyone thinks their kids are so damn smart! I don't have to listen to this crap!
But listen to what happened later... and you will understand why he scares me and makes my eye twitch.
The kids are into fencing. And honestly, I am sure there are those of you out there who think it's some sort of elitist crap sport, but I would ask you this: Who doesn't want to run around with a sword? Who doesn't secretly want to be a Jedi or a pirate? The first time my kids went to fencing class and were handed a foil, it was like a light went on over their heads and they started getting all three musketeer and stuff.
So, after fencing the other day we were eating my Polish Pad Thai, and Henry looks at me and says, with great drama:
"Mommy, I have decided I am going to the Olympics. Please don't get upset and start crying or anything."
Me: Why would I get upset? That's a great goal, honey!
Henry: Well, I just meant you might be worried or something. You know.
Me: Why would I worry? Well, I mean, maybe you should set a lower first goal. Like, maybe, set a goal for county, then state, then nationals. Jumping right to the Olympics seems a bit much, but I like your enthusiasm! Go for it!
Henry: But aren't you worried about me dying?
Me: (sensing suddenly I have no clue what we are discussing) Why... would... you. .. die? Who dies at the Olympics?
Henry: Don't people die at every Olympics?
Me: Well, sure, I guess. Like the crazies who do skeleton or, like, the luge or half pipe. But you're talking fencing. So... like zero fencers die.
Henry: That's a lie! 50% of all the fencers at the Olympics die!
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
Henry: Well, I mean, you get to use real swords at the Olympics, right? So the loser dies! 50% of all Olympic fencers die!
Me: People don't kill each other at the Olympics!!! And they don't fence with real swords! It's not a duel to the death! It's the freaking Olympics!
Henry: But you use real swords. That's true, right? I mean, that's what I'm training for, right? A sword?
Me: NO!! And the loser in the Olympics doesn't die! What do you think? Usain Bolt wins every track race and then they line up the losers and shoot them with the starting gun?
He looked at me, hopefully.
Me: NO!! They do not! And there is no stabbing with swords either! What is wrong with you? The Olympics is about national pride and competition! It's not the Hunger Games!
He was very quiet for a minute. He sat there, blinking. I swear I could hear a humming coming from his processor. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. And then he said...
"I can't imagine why anyone would want to go to the Olympics if there are no swords. It just sounds stupid now. I don't want to go to the Olympics anymore, Mommy."
The he cleared his plate and went sadly and silently to his room. And I watched as yet another childhood dream, like Santa Claus, evaporated for my little boychild. No stabbing at the Olympics. Do you see what I mean? I feel like I need to throw some hardcore parenting at him, but I am not sure how or what. It's like, "Oh, my sweet honey, I am so proud of you... OMG what the hell is wrong with you!" at the same time. And later this week, he will have access to mutated lab mice.
~dana
 |
| Mommy's watching you, dear. |
My friends know that I call the boy "little Dr. Cooper." He is overly slender, quirky and serious and has a giant brain. I stopped understanding his school work about 2 years ago. So, if he has trouble with a math problem, I take a picture of the equation (which just looks like feathery bits of squiggles to me) with my IPhone and send it to Winston, if he is out of town. He looks it over, because he went all the way through, like, Calc 21 or something mental like that. Then he sends back another set of feathery squiggles. Little Dr. Cooper looks them over, laughs as if daddy is a charming idiot and says, "Well, that's not helpful at all. Is that what old fashioned math looks like? That's hysterical. Never mind, I'll figure it out while I sleep tonight."
You can imagine this is rather trying to live with. I find myself turning into the mom from Malcolm in the Middle, screaming things like, "If you're so smart, why do I have to tell you to brush your teeth every day, huh?" I always feel like, even if I win an argument with him, I have actually lost but I am too simple to understand why.
Last week, he came home and tossed an enormous packet of papers at me.
Me: What's this? What does Our Lady of the Perpetual Shake-Down need money for now?
Boychild: Some research thing they want me to do. Just sign it, ok? Don't make me talk about it.
Me: Maybe you could research the reason you are unable to get through a day without 2+ hours of Call of Duty. Or why you torment your sister. Holy crap! It's like (flip flip flip) 21 pages! I'm not reading all this!
Henry: Like I said, just sign it, Mommy! And it's 23 pages. That's what those little numbers mean at the bottom of the pages.
Me: Huh. Look at that. Little numbers.
Henry: Sigh.
After skimming the large print bits, I discovered that Our Lady of the Perpetual Shake-Down wants the boychild and his brain to do a brief stint at Case Western in their research lab. It's not like he's going to be creating radioactive superheroes (I wish) but he'll be learning the day to day techniques and record keeping that goes on in a lab. In the experimental biology lab. Being ever vigilant of a zombie apocalypse, some pages stood out to me more that others...
 |
| Not your standard field trip permission slip. |
Severe illness and possible death? Unknown consequences? What, like a zombie outbreak? Or like, Rise of the Planet of the Apes? And there were pages after pages of descriptions of all the things I was waiving the right to be upset about. They went on in some detail about possible...
1. Explosions and/or asphyxiation.
2. Tissue damage and hearing loss
3. Teratogens. I had to look that up. It is a chemical that messes with your reproductive bits and makes you have squid children.
4.Neurotoxins! Fun!
Me: And you want to do this? Are you sure, honey? It sounds like a lot of... work. And there's the chance you will grow a third eye.
Henry: Mommy, it'll be awesome. They have mutated mice!!! I will be handling mutated mice!!
Me: Not super excited about this. It sounds gross. Mutated like how? Like having tentacles? Or extra limbs?
Henry: No, like they mutated their BRAINS! So they are crazy smart and stuff. It's gonna be awesome!
Me: I forbid you to drink or eat anything while you are there!!! I won't have those lab nerds mutating your brain! Wait! Are you helping study the mice, or are they studying you studying the mice?!?! I've read Flowers for Algernon! It ends badly! Don't eat anything, do you hear me?!
Henry: Mommy. Calm down. It's fine. Just sign it and stop talking at me, OK?
 |
| Yes. I signed this. God help me. |
Now, I am sure you are all thinking the same thing: Listen to her brag about her son. Disgusting. I am so done reading this blog. Everyone thinks their kids are so damn smart! I don't have to listen to this crap!
But listen to what happened later... and you will understand why he scares me and makes my eye twitch.
The kids are into fencing. And honestly, I am sure there are those of you out there who think it's some sort of elitist crap sport, but I would ask you this: Who doesn't want to run around with a sword? Who doesn't secretly want to be a Jedi or a pirate? The first time my kids went to fencing class and were handed a foil, it was like a light went on over their heads and they started getting all three musketeer and stuff.
So, after fencing the other day we were eating my Polish Pad Thai, and Henry looks at me and says, with great drama:
"Mommy, I have decided I am going to the Olympics. Please don't get upset and start crying or anything."
Me: Why would I get upset? That's a great goal, honey!
Henry: Well, I just meant you might be worried or something. You know.
Me: Why would I worry? Well, I mean, maybe you should set a lower first goal. Like, maybe, set a goal for county, then state, then nationals. Jumping right to the Olympics seems a bit much, but I like your enthusiasm! Go for it!
Henry: But aren't you worried about me dying?
Me: (sensing suddenly I have no clue what we are discussing) Why... would... you. .. die? Who dies at the Olympics?
Henry: Don't people die at every Olympics?
Me: Well, sure, I guess. Like the crazies who do skeleton or, like, the luge or half pipe. But you're talking fencing. So... like zero fencers die.
Henry: That's a lie! 50% of all the fencers at the Olympics die!
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
Henry: Well, I mean, you get to use real swords at the Olympics, right? So the loser dies! 50% of all Olympic fencers die!
Me: People don't kill each other at the Olympics!!! And they don't fence with real swords! It's not a duel to the death! It's the freaking Olympics!
Henry: But you use real swords. That's true, right? I mean, that's what I'm training for, right? A sword?
Me: NO!! And the loser in the Olympics doesn't die! What do you think? Usain Bolt wins every track race and then they line up the losers and shoot them with the starting gun?
He looked at me, hopefully.
Me: NO!! They do not! And there is no stabbing with swords either! What is wrong with you? The Olympics is about national pride and competition! It's not the Hunger Games!
He was very quiet for a minute. He sat there, blinking. I swear I could hear a humming coming from his processor. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. And then he said...
"I can't imagine why anyone would want to go to the Olympics if there are no swords. It just sounds stupid now. I don't want to go to the Olympics anymore, Mommy."
The he cleared his plate and went sadly and silently to his room. And I watched as yet another childhood dream, like Santa Claus, evaporated for my little boychild. No stabbing at the Olympics. Do you see what I mean? I feel like I need to throw some hardcore parenting at him, but I am not sure how or what. It's like, "Oh, my sweet honey, I am so proud of you... OMG what the hell is wrong with you!" at the same time. And later this week, he will have access to mutated lab mice.
~dana
Thursday, April 19, 2012
I Think I Nailed Gay Fabulous
So a few weeks back, my friend Audrey calls me up and...
Audrey: Hey, Suzette says I have to go be her representative at this gay photography exhibit because she's going to Dominica. So you're coming with me.
Me: Ooooh. Sounds fun! Man gay or woman gay? Both?
Audrey: Oh, no, honey. All men. The photographer, Gabriel, is gay and takes mostly pictures of naked guys. I gave him a facial the other day. He's beautiful!
Me: It's not going to be all that creepy bondage shit, is it? That stuff gives me nightmares.
Audrey: Who cares? It's free wine. Don't be a baby.
So I got off the phone and called Winston and...
Winston: Winston McSwain.
Me: Oooh, honey! Audrey invited me to a nude photography exhibit. Squeee!
Winston: (no doubt shaking off a fog of engineering, says wearily) Great, honey. Have fun. Are you sure you won't be forced to tend bar?
Me: Shut up. It's in Ohio City, home of Cleveland's sexy people. I'll be fabulous!!!
Winston: What's for dinner?
But as the date approached, I started to panic. I am not sexy. I am not fabulous. I Zillowed the address and discovered that not only was it in sexytown, but the exhibit was in a $750,000 4 story townhouse, filled with edgy swank. I scrambled through my closet and felt rising panic as I realized that
1. I haven't bought pantyhose in years. And I probably need Spanx-type coverage. Head to toe.
2. I cannot squeeze into the few borderline awesome dresses I own, due to Ashley Judd-steroid puffiness, that is due to fade in 8 months or so.
3. I don't want to be the boring housewife who showed up at an artsy affair reeking of Anthropologie Wackiness or Banana Republic Dull.
4. My go-to LBD is all awesome Velvet-labeled and covered with drapey mummy wrapping bits that look chic AND forgiving, but I am sick to death of it.
So I called Audrey.
Me: I am freaking out. I hate all my clothes. What are you wearing?
Audrey: Relax! Just wear anything! We won't stay long.
Me: So help me God, I will kill you. What is the dress code? I don't want to look like a schmuck.
Audrey: Oh, fabulous. Gay Fabulous, darling!
Me: What the hell does that even mean?
Audrey: It's all super tight tailoring and high end labels. But it's going to be all gay guys, so what do you care, anyway?
Me: I don't want those bitches trash talking about my clothes as soon as we leave! What are you going to wear?!
Audrey: Oh, my mom bought me a new dress but Tom hated it so he bought me a new dress, too, so I'll probably wear one of those.
Me: Goddamit!
At which point I called Winston...
Winston: Winston McSwain
Me: Audrey says it's gay fabulous and I don't actually own anything that's not sad as fuck so I have to go shopping. I have no choice!
Winston: What are you talking about??
Me: The nude thing. Everybody else is wearing "gay fabulous." I only own "sad housewife." Audrey says it's going to be all tight high end labels and shit. So, I'm sorry, but I have to go shopping. I have no choice in the matter.
Winston: I am not shelling out so you can look gay fabulous! Private school! 3 poodles, a 100 year old wreck and now the cat! No!!!
Me: You had to bring up the cat! I love her! She completes me!
Winston: What's for dinner?
So the day of the event dawns, and by some miracle I discover that I will be home alone for an hour before Audrey picks me up. My daughter is off to a sleepover and the husband and boychild are going to a movie. Which is a bonus, because then I can decide ALONE what I am going to wear and not have to suffer their input. This is the sort of helpful input I receive from my darling family...
Me: My ass is huge. OMG I am falling apart.
Henry: You're not fat, Mommy. Well, except for right here by your...(begins reaching towards me and pointing towards my midsection)
Me: Grounded! If you finish that sentence you are grounded! And if you touch me I will hurt you!!!
Then there's the dressing room advice from my daughter.
"Oh, Mommy. There is no way you are getting those pants up over your thighs. Don't be mad. I love you."
And even the husband. I love him, but I can't count on him for honesty.
(sees me doing my drunken impersonation of Slash at a birthday party)
"Baby, you're hot!!"
(sees me in my jammies covered zit cream )
"You're hot!"
(sees me in Lakewood Hospital in a body brace and my face covered with medical tape)
"You're so hot."
(sees me standing in a marsh cause my feet are hot)
"Hey, hottie."
What I am trying to say is that he is unreliable.
So for once I am able to dress in whatever I can assemble, with no peanut gallery to make me cry. So I dug out a pink lace polyester dressy thing that I got from a resale shop on Etsy for $20. It is just lace, no lining and I had intended to have a matching pink tube dress made for underneath. Yeah, that never happened. But it is so gorgeous. In desperation, I put on a black satin slip and put the lace thingy over it for modesty. (kinda) A little on the weird trampy side, but I figured at least those bitchy gay men could not accuse me of pedestrian dressing. And I felt pretty, which helps a lot.
So Audrey and I show up at the swanky do... me in my trampy pink victorian lace and her in a delicious black and ivory silk fleur de lis dress. I love her too much to hate her for always looking like an elegant Barbie doll. The townhouse is all awesomeness and filled with tightly dressed very manicured men and giant canvases covered with male junk. We made a bee line to the bar. For courage.
Imagine my surprise when we get to the bar and see that the bartender is none other than the bride, Martina, from the gay wedding we went to last fall. I went to a gay wedding and served shitty sangria Apparently her "husband" knew she needed cash and hooked her up with the gay party set to tend bar. As Audrey and I proved, anyone can do it. Poorly. We all air kiss, and then the bride grabs our hands and says, "Your bar tending brought me much happiness and blessings to our marriage. I love you both. You are good to Martina."
I just stared with my mouth open, thinking "Really? Our shitty bar tending brought blessings to your marriage to an openly gay man?" But Audrey jumped in and said instead, "Yeah, well we're not fucking bar tending tonight, honey. 2 red wines! Fill 'em up."
We started making our way from room to room, each room having several easels with black and white images of men, their junk and interesting props. Like pianos, motorcycles, gazebos and violins. We stopped at the buffet and Audrey started scarfing down sushi, while I chugged more wine.
"Oh my God, this sushi is amazing; why aren't you eating any?"
I shuddered, replying, "I cannot put sushi in my mouth surrounded by penises. Let's head to the roof, I need a smoke."
We made our way to the roof and soaked in the splendid views of an abandoned lot, the lake, the Cleveland skyline and an industrial site, all while we smoked our little hearts out and chugged more wine. Not surprisingly, many of the men there joined us in our Absolutely Fabulous binge, and it was big fun. I discovered that better than 50% of them were wearing salmon pink on their bodies somewhere and so was I, so I kept screaming, "Twinsies!" It made sense at the time...
When we went back inside, we decided to nose around a little bit. We are very nosy. So we busted into the owner's suite to check out the bathroom. It totally delivered. A huge beyond all reason tub that could (and probably does) fit 5 grown men. A shower the size of a garage with more jets than an automatic car wash.
Audrey: Holy Shit! It's a rock star shower! Gabriel's gettin' it ON!
Me: Hey, did I ever tell you what Mike (our friend Victoria's husband) said when he saw our 2 person shower at our old house?
Audrey: No! What did Mr. Mike say? This oughta be good.
Me: He was helping Winston move the our mattress over to the new house because I insisted on squatting in it before the movers came and when he saw the huge shower he yelled, "Allllriiiight, Winston! Wife's got a full piece back tattoo and you're got a Tommy Lee shower! My man!!" Winston's still riding that complement.
Then we started screaming "Tommy Lee!" over and over again and then, very mysteriously, Audrey started singing Love Song by Tesla, so I was fumbling for a lighter to give her a proper salute. That's when the high point of my evening occurred.
Suddenly, Audrey stopped singing and I saw her eyes bugging out, staring at something just over my right shoulder. I whipped around, fully expecting to see that Gabriel had caught us petting his fancy towels and bath soaps. Instead, what was creeping through the door was an old man, dressed like a gayish version of an English lord. Shiny nut brown loafers, beautiful tweed suit, crisp monogrammed dress shirt with cufflinks (well, it was salmon pink, but you get the idea) and of all things, a cravat. It was like David Niven was slinking through the door at us. But gay fabulous.
He was sliding across the floor, with his hands stretched out towards me, and all I could think was "Bela Legosi! He wants to eat my soul!" (I was drunk. Under the best of circumstances, I am paranoid.) I tried to back away, but the only place to back to was the sex shower. So I stood there, clutching the tiny dress purse I had stolen from my daughter's toy box, prepared to smack him with it.
"My darling, I followed you all the way up here! I had to tell you, I am in love with your dress. You make me think of Emily Dickinson. Sweetheart, you are a vision."
Me: (WTF?)
(outloud) "What a kind thing to say! My goodness!"
(now, David Niven is petting my cheap lace on my arm) "It's just that you don't see this sort of elegance nowadays. You look like the perfect lady from an age gone by. My dear, you enchant me."
I look down at myself. I am sloppy drunk, reeking of cigarettes, wearing cheap lace over A SLIP from Target. What I wanted to say was, "I look like a whore, but thanks. Hey, tell me. You're as pale as I am, and yet you have managed to find the PERFECT bronzer! Wherever did you find it? I must own it!"
What I actually said was, "You are the sweetest thing. What a charming complement! Have a wonderful evening! Isn't it all marvelous?" Then I slunk around him, followed closely by a choking Audrey. We ran to another bedroom and collapsed in giggles on a giant bed. Where we were soon joined by two Maine Coon cats. So we rolled around for a while, petting them and insisting into their precious ears that we loved them more than anything. Honestly, where was Mr. Gabriel Photographer? Two drunk white chicks, rolling around on navy blue satin with giant cats? Get the camera!!!
No, he was downstairs, air kissing and mingling and, if the line to the paypal terminal was any indication, making money hand over fist. And while we're on the subject, I feel I need to mention my thoughts on his art.
I lead a sheltered life, which is how I like it. Audrey gets me out of my comfort zone. All the male nude photography I have ever seen is fairly limited and I have never liked any of it. It makes me nervous. The men all seem bruised and depressed and filled with shame. And then I feel bad for looking at it. And while there were a few pictures of fragile young men in angel wings laying broken on beaches... there was so much joy in the other pictures. I don't know why they're so happy to be naked, but good for them!
One picture showed two nudie men reaching across a dining room table, toasting each other and laughing. Another showed 3 men in mime paint pressed up against the glass of a green house. (Hello, Dolly!) Another showed a man chained to a motorcycle on a train trestle. (Do you need a permit for that?) There was one featuring a man playing piano and chugging whiskey. My favorite? Two hugely buff nudie men in a gazebo drinking some Coronas. And that was what captured my eye most, except for the weenies. Every man looked outrageously happy! They were all laughing and smiling! They looked like they were getting ready to watch Sports Center or play horseshoes! And I thought, "What a refreshing perspective! There is no way I want to see that much penis over my fireplace, but good for you for removing all that shame crap from gay nudes!"
We did leave early, so we could go over to Victoria's house and get drunker on pear brandy. We spent the rest of the evening hooting and screaming "sausage fest!" I am calling the whole evening a win because I think I nailed gay fabulous. And considering I have been at home covered in children and pets for the last 12 years, that's quite an accomplishment for me.:) Can't wait till Audrey needs a date again. She's the best sort of nuts.
~dana
PS. In all fairness, I should point out that Winston took the backboard/neck brace pic AFTER he knew I still had the use of my limbs. He also shot video because I was high as a kite.
PPS. I keep going around and around about all that joy on their faces and trying to figure out why the hell it impressed me so. And it just clicked, when I remembered this conversation I had with my friend Camille, about George Takei (Star Trek's Mr. Sulu). I said to her, "I used to totally hate Mr. Sulu because he was so bitchy and kept hatin' on Bill Shatner. But now, I don't know why, I sorta love him. He's so cute I want to pinch him!' And wise Camille replied, "That's because he's OUT! The last place you want a gay man is in a closet." And thus, all the joy. I had so much fun, there wasn't a single bitch at that party. Just joy!
Audrey: Hey, Suzette says I have to go be her representative at this gay photography exhibit because she's going to Dominica. So you're coming with me.
Me: Ooooh. Sounds fun! Man gay or woman gay? Both?
Audrey: Oh, no, honey. All men. The photographer, Gabriel, is gay and takes mostly pictures of naked guys. I gave him a facial the other day. He's beautiful!
Me: It's not going to be all that creepy bondage shit, is it? That stuff gives me nightmares.
Audrey: Who cares? It's free wine. Don't be a baby.
So I got off the phone and called Winston and...
Winston: Winston McSwain.
Me: Oooh, honey! Audrey invited me to a nude photography exhibit. Squeee!
Winston: (no doubt shaking off a fog of engineering, says wearily) Great, honey. Have fun. Are you sure you won't be forced to tend bar?
Me: Shut up. It's in Ohio City, home of Cleveland's sexy people. I'll be fabulous!!!
Winston: What's for dinner?
But as the date approached, I started to panic. I am not sexy. I am not fabulous. I Zillowed the address and discovered that not only was it in sexytown, but the exhibit was in a $750,000 4 story townhouse, filled with edgy swank. I scrambled through my closet and felt rising panic as I realized that
1. I haven't bought pantyhose in years. And I probably need Spanx-type coverage. Head to toe.
2. I cannot squeeze into the few borderline awesome dresses I own, due to Ashley Judd-steroid puffiness, that is due to fade in 8 months or so.
3. I don't want to be the boring housewife who showed up at an artsy affair reeking of Anthropologie Wackiness or Banana Republic Dull.
4. My go-to LBD is all awesome Velvet-labeled and covered with drapey mummy wrapping bits that look chic AND forgiving, but I am sick to death of it.
So I called Audrey.
Me: I am freaking out. I hate all my clothes. What are you wearing?
Audrey: Relax! Just wear anything! We won't stay long.
Me: So help me God, I will kill you. What is the dress code? I don't want to look like a schmuck.
Audrey: Oh, fabulous. Gay Fabulous, darling!
Me: What the hell does that even mean?
Audrey: It's all super tight tailoring and high end labels. But it's going to be all gay guys, so what do you care, anyway?
Me: I don't want those bitches trash talking about my clothes as soon as we leave! What are you going to wear?!
Audrey: Oh, my mom bought me a new dress but Tom hated it so he bought me a new dress, too, so I'll probably wear one of those.
Me: Goddamit!
At which point I called Winston...
Winston: Winston McSwain
Me: Audrey says it's gay fabulous and I don't actually own anything that's not sad as fuck so I have to go shopping. I have no choice!
Winston: What are you talking about??
Me: The nude thing. Everybody else is wearing "gay fabulous." I only own "sad housewife." Audrey says it's going to be all tight high end labels and shit. So, I'm sorry, but I have to go shopping. I have no choice in the matter.
Winston: I am not shelling out so you can look gay fabulous! Private school! 3 poodles, a 100 year old wreck and now the cat! No!!!
Me: You had to bring up the cat! I love her! She completes me!
Winston: What's for dinner?
So the day of the event dawns, and by some miracle I discover that I will be home alone for an hour before Audrey picks me up. My daughter is off to a sleepover and the husband and boychild are going to a movie. Which is a bonus, because then I can decide ALONE what I am going to wear and not have to suffer their input. This is the sort of helpful input I receive from my darling family...
Me: My ass is huge. OMG I am falling apart.
Henry: You're not fat, Mommy. Well, except for right here by your...(begins reaching towards me and pointing towards my midsection)
Me: Grounded! If you finish that sentence you are grounded! And if you touch me I will hurt you!!!
Then there's the dressing room advice from my daughter.
"Oh, Mommy. There is no way you are getting those pants up over your thighs. Don't be mad. I love you."
And even the husband. I love him, but I can't count on him for honesty.
(sees me doing my drunken impersonation of Slash at a birthday party)
 |
| sad. not hot. |
"Baby, you're hot!!"
(sees me in my jammies covered zit cream )
 |
| tired, not hot. |
"You're hot!"
(sees me in Lakewood Hospital in a body brace and my face covered with medical tape)
 |
| yeah, he took that picture. |
(sees me standing in a marsh cause my feet are hot)
 |
| "Let me out of the car, I am sticking my feet in that water." |
What I am trying to say is that he is unreliable.
So for once I am able to dress in whatever I can assemble, with no peanut gallery to make me cry. So I dug out a pink lace polyester dressy thing that I got from a resale shop on Etsy for $20. It is just lace, no lining and I had intended to have a matching pink tube dress made for underneath. Yeah, that never happened. But it is so gorgeous. In desperation, I put on a black satin slip and put the lace thingy over it for modesty. (kinda) A little on the weird trampy side, but I figured at least those bitchy gay men could not accuse me of pedestrian dressing. And I felt pretty, which helps a lot.
So Audrey and I show up at the swanky do... me in my trampy pink victorian lace and her in a delicious black and ivory silk fleur de lis dress. I love her too much to hate her for always looking like an elegant Barbie doll. The townhouse is all awesomeness and filled with tightly dressed very manicured men and giant canvases covered with male junk. We made a bee line to the bar. For courage.
Imagine my surprise when we get to the bar and see that the bartender is none other than the bride, Martina, from the gay wedding we went to last fall. I went to a gay wedding and served shitty sangria Apparently her "husband" knew she needed cash and hooked her up with the gay party set to tend bar. As Audrey and I proved, anyone can do it. Poorly. We all air kiss, and then the bride grabs our hands and says, "Your bar tending brought me much happiness and blessings to our marriage. I love you both. You are good to Martina."
I just stared with my mouth open, thinking "Really? Our shitty bar tending brought blessings to your marriage to an openly gay man?" But Audrey jumped in and said instead, "Yeah, well we're not fucking bar tending tonight, honey. 2 red wines! Fill 'em up."
We started making our way from room to room, each room having several easels with black and white images of men, their junk and interesting props. Like pianos, motorcycles, gazebos and violins. We stopped at the buffet and Audrey started scarfing down sushi, while I chugged more wine.
"Oh my God, this sushi is amazing; why aren't you eating any?"
I shuddered, replying, "I cannot put sushi in my mouth surrounded by penises. Let's head to the roof, I need a smoke."
We made our way to the roof and soaked in the splendid views of an abandoned lot, the lake, the Cleveland skyline and an industrial site, all while we smoked our little hearts out and chugged more wine. Not surprisingly, many of the men there joined us in our Absolutely Fabulous binge, and it was big fun. I discovered that better than 50% of them were wearing salmon pink on their bodies somewhere and so was I, so I kept screaming, "Twinsies!" It made sense at the time...
When we went back inside, we decided to nose around a little bit. We are very nosy. So we busted into the owner's suite to check out the bathroom. It totally delivered. A huge beyond all reason tub that could (and probably does) fit 5 grown men. A shower the size of a garage with more jets than an automatic car wash.
Audrey: Holy Shit! It's a rock star shower! Gabriel's gettin' it ON!
Me: Hey, did I ever tell you what Mike (our friend Victoria's husband) said when he saw our 2 person shower at our old house?
Audrey: No! What did Mr. Mike say? This oughta be good.
Me: He was helping Winston move the our mattress over to the new house because I insisted on squatting in it before the movers came and when he saw the huge shower he yelled, "Allllriiiight, Winston! Wife's got a full piece back tattoo and you're got a Tommy Lee shower! My man!!" Winston's still riding that complement.
Then we started screaming "Tommy Lee!" over and over again and then, very mysteriously, Audrey started singing Love Song by Tesla, so I was fumbling for a lighter to give her a proper salute. That's when the high point of my evening occurred.
Suddenly, Audrey stopped singing and I saw her eyes bugging out, staring at something just over my right shoulder. I whipped around, fully expecting to see that Gabriel had caught us petting his fancy towels and bath soaps. Instead, what was creeping through the door was an old man, dressed like a gayish version of an English lord. Shiny nut brown loafers, beautiful tweed suit, crisp monogrammed dress shirt with cufflinks (well, it was salmon pink, but you get the idea) and of all things, a cravat. It was like David Niven was slinking through the door at us. But gay fabulous.
He was sliding across the floor, with his hands stretched out towards me, and all I could think was "Bela Legosi! He wants to eat my soul!" (I was drunk. Under the best of circumstances, I am paranoid.) I tried to back away, but the only place to back to was the sex shower. So I stood there, clutching the tiny dress purse I had stolen from my daughter's toy box, prepared to smack him with it.
"My darling, I followed you all the way up here! I had to tell you, I am in love with your dress. You make me think of Emily Dickinson. Sweetheart, you are a vision."
Me: (WTF?)
(outloud) "What a kind thing to say! My goodness!"
(now, David Niven is petting my cheap lace on my arm) "It's just that you don't see this sort of elegance nowadays. You look like the perfect lady from an age gone by. My dear, you enchant me."
I look down at myself. I am sloppy drunk, reeking of cigarettes, wearing cheap lace over A SLIP from Target. What I wanted to say was, "I look like a whore, but thanks. Hey, tell me. You're as pale as I am, and yet you have managed to find the PERFECT bronzer! Wherever did you find it? I must own it!"
What I actually said was, "You are the sweetest thing. What a charming complement! Have a wonderful evening! Isn't it all marvelous?" Then I slunk around him, followed closely by a choking Audrey. We ran to another bedroom and collapsed in giggles on a giant bed. Where we were soon joined by two Maine Coon cats. So we rolled around for a while, petting them and insisting into their precious ears that we loved them more than anything. Honestly, where was Mr. Gabriel Photographer? Two drunk white chicks, rolling around on navy blue satin with giant cats? Get the camera!!!
No, he was downstairs, air kissing and mingling and, if the line to the paypal terminal was any indication, making money hand over fist. And while we're on the subject, I feel I need to mention my thoughts on his art.
I lead a sheltered life, which is how I like it. Audrey gets me out of my comfort zone. All the male nude photography I have ever seen is fairly limited and I have never liked any of it. It makes me nervous. The men all seem bruised and depressed and filled with shame. And then I feel bad for looking at it. And while there were a few pictures of fragile young men in angel wings laying broken on beaches... there was so much joy in the other pictures. I don't know why they're so happy to be naked, but good for them!
One picture showed two nudie men reaching across a dining room table, toasting each other and laughing. Another showed 3 men in mime paint pressed up against the glass of a green house. (Hello, Dolly!) Another showed a man chained to a motorcycle on a train trestle. (Do you need a permit for that?) There was one featuring a man playing piano and chugging whiskey. My favorite? Two hugely buff nudie men in a gazebo drinking some Coronas. And that was what captured my eye most, except for the weenies. Every man looked outrageously happy! They were all laughing and smiling! They looked like they were getting ready to watch Sports Center or play horseshoes! And I thought, "What a refreshing perspective! There is no way I want to see that much penis over my fireplace, but good for you for removing all that shame crap from gay nudes!"
We did leave early, so we could go over to Victoria's house and get drunker on pear brandy. We spent the rest of the evening hooting and screaming "sausage fest!" I am calling the whole evening a win because I think I nailed gay fabulous. And considering I have been at home covered in children and pets for the last 12 years, that's quite an accomplishment for me.:) Can't wait till Audrey needs a date again. She's the best sort of nuts.
~dana
 |
| blurry, out-of-focus iphone pic, but you get the idea. |
PS. In all fairness, I should point out that Winston took the backboard/neck brace pic AFTER he knew I still had the use of my limbs. He also shot video because I was high as a kite.
PPS. I keep going around and around about all that joy on their faces and trying to figure out why the hell it impressed me so. And it just clicked, when I remembered this conversation I had with my friend Camille, about George Takei (Star Trek's Mr. Sulu). I said to her, "I used to totally hate Mr. Sulu because he was so bitchy and kept hatin' on Bill Shatner. But now, I don't know why, I sorta love him. He's so cute I want to pinch him!' And wise Camille replied, "That's because he's OUT! The last place you want a gay man is in a closet." And thus, all the joy. I had so much fun, there wasn't a single bitch at that party. Just joy!
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Why NOT Use Craig's List to Find Your Baby Daddy?
I have a confession to make. Although I was very much in love with James Hetfield at the time, I made out with Winston throughout the one and only Metallica concert I went to. I was very certain throughout high school that I was meant to marry a James Hetfield sort or at the very least Sebastian Bach. But Winston and I had just started dating. Actually, this was one of our first dates; not a bad way to start off a relationship. We went with a bunch of our friends, some of whom follow this re-dunk-u-lous blog and can attest to the fact that not only did we just sit on the grass at Blossom Music Center and make out, but that one of them had to thump us and point out that someone had not only set fire to the grass but that there was also a smallish fire on the roof and that something of an evacuation was taking place. So I don't remember how awesome that concert was. And I pray to God that they tour again soon, even though it's likely that we'd do it again just for nostalgia.
And karma being what it is, we sat as far apart as we could on a trash bag the following year at Blossom when we saw the Moody Blues, not even speaking. Due to some argument of significant importance that I can't remember.
And the tickets? 20 bucks each. I swear. If we wanted to see Metallica today, you know the tickets would be at least $150. And we'd be forced to listen to some political rant from Lars. I know the tickets were $20 because I sold one of my extra tickets to ED THOMPSON and that motherfucker has yet to pay me back for it. And then, he had the nerve to drive past me on Center Ridge Rd. in Westlake in 1995 and yell out the window in his slacker holler, "Heeeeeeeeeey Daaaaaaana! Whaaaaaaat's uuuuuup?"
Somewhere in Westlake there is a family of 4 in a Ford SHO Taurus who saw a 20-something me scream, "I want my $20, you dick!" at a crappy Chevy sedan.
Anyway, my point is that we all do weird or short sighted things when we are young, and usually at a rock concert. Or a reggae concert. And if you've seen Pink Floyd in concert, you definitely did something you don't remember because, I swear, just walking into the old Municipal Stadium when Pink Floyd came to town would have caused you to fail a piss test.
I wanted to create this seamless link here to show you this article I read at Fuse online yesterday. But two things prevented that.
1. When I Googled "how to insert article into blogger," what initially scrolled up in Google was "how to insert a tampon." Obviously, I nearly choked to death laughing, picturing someone saying, "What the hell do I do with this tampon? Wait a minute! Eureka! I'll Google it!"
2. I think just reading the URL is enough. Enjoy.
http://www.fuse.tv/2012/04/help-find-the-man-who-impregnated-woman-in-megadeth/motorhead-concert-bathroom
~dana
So much awesome. My favorite line is "raw dog." Being a bookish housewife, I was unfamiliar with that term. It is succinct and elegant. I'd love to hear yours in the comment section. :)
And karma being what it is, we sat as far apart as we could on a trash bag the following year at Blossom when we saw the Moody Blues, not even speaking. Due to some argument of significant importance that I can't remember.
And the tickets? 20 bucks each. I swear. If we wanted to see Metallica today, you know the tickets would be at least $150. And we'd be forced to listen to some political rant from Lars. I know the tickets were $20 because I sold one of my extra tickets to ED THOMPSON and that motherfucker has yet to pay me back for it. And then, he had the nerve to drive past me on Center Ridge Rd. in Westlake in 1995 and yell out the window in his slacker holler, "Heeeeeeeeeey Daaaaaaana! Whaaaaaaat's uuuuuup?"
Somewhere in Westlake there is a family of 4 in a Ford SHO Taurus who saw a 20-something me scream, "I want my $20, you dick!" at a crappy Chevy sedan.
Anyway, my point is that we all do weird or short sighted things when we are young, and usually at a rock concert. Or a reggae concert. And if you've seen Pink Floyd in concert, you definitely did something you don't remember because, I swear, just walking into the old Municipal Stadium when Pink Floyd came to town would have caused you to fail a piss test.
I wanted to create this seamless link here to show you this article I read at Fuse online yesterday. But two things prevented that.
1. When I Googled "how to insert article into blogger," what initially scrolled up in Google was "how to insert a tampon." Obviously, I nearly choked to death laughing, picturing someone saying, "What the hell do I do with this tampon? Wait a minute! Eureka! I'll Google it!"
2. I think just reading the URL is enough. Enjoy.
http://www.fuse.tv/2012/04/help-find-the-man-who-impregnated-woman-in-megadeth/motorhead-concert-bathroom
~dana
So much awesome. My favorite line is "raw dog." Being a bookish housewife, I was unfamiliar with that term. It is succinct and elegant. I'd love to hear yours in the comment section. :)
Thursday, April 12, 2012
I'm Gonna Start a Riot at the Bakery
I don't think it's actually in the deck anymore, but when I was in high school there was a card in the Trivial Pursuit deck that asked the question: What city in the USA has the highest per capita population of homosexuals? Answer? Lakewood, Ohio. And I don't want to hear "urban legend" because I owned it. That card existed, people. I have no idea if that is still true and I couldn't care less. But I think Trivial Pursuit should start tallying up how many hipsters live in Lakewood. We may now have more than say, Portland. They are everywhere! Spreading hate and tragic layers of vintage clothing. And I swear these goddamn hipsters are going to incite me to riot.
We have two bakeries in the west end of Lakewood. For the sake of anonymity, let's call them Organic Hate Machine and Lovebirds House of Joy and Carbs. I usually go to the Lovebirds House of Joy and Carbs. I run in maybe once a week and buy some apricot croissants, maybe an apple galette and always grab a loaf of their French batard, sliced. The owners are ADORABLE. Husband and wife with cool birdie tattoos, precious little children, warm cozy environment that begs you to grab a cappuccino and a stool and watch the foot traffic go by. And their product is all crusty airy Frenchy good. The workers are all charmingly ditzy. They are like Etsy Hippies. They seem, at times, to have wandered in off the street from some crafting convention. If, when you are getting rung up, you were to ask one of them "How are you today?" you'll probably get something like:
"Well, I've got this really delicate fern at home, and I am sorta freaking out because I can't remember if I watered it this morning? Do you think it'll be OK? I mean until I get home?
or
"I'm just so tired and energized because I started a new quilt last night and it's just such a great feeling to create something beautiful and useful. Did you want that sliced?"
Charming. The whole damn place is reeking of quirky charm. And then there's the other bakery...
Organic Hate Machine. I never go there. (I'm lying. I do go there and I hate myself for it every time.) The bread is huge and doorstop-y and requires a great deal of chewing. If I ate all that organic grain on a regular basis I would grind my teeth flat. The store is all antique apothecary charm and ENTIRELY staffed by aggressive hipsters. But they have these cookies...
Me and the kids are obsessed with a well made ginger cookie. It must have the correct ratio of crunch and chew and a tiny hit of peppery bite. Organic Hate Machine makes the greatest ginger cookie on the planet. The problem is that you have to deal with the evil that lurks inside of the Organic Hate Machine in order to score one.
The angry hipsters that work there do not believe in the concept of a "line." So, being next in line means less than nothing. The first time I went in there, I was behind one person in line. Then some dude walked in and got in line behind me. When the ironically dressed girl behind the counter finished up with the person ahead of me, she looked RIGHT PAST ME and said to the dude behind me, " Hey, what can I get you?"
Because I am an uppity bitch, I slammed my hand on the counter and said, "HELLO?! I was next!" And Ms. Hipster looks at me, makes a disgusted sound and replies, "Whatever. He was like, here BEFORE." And then the two of them exchanged smug glances. Hipster solidarity, mo-fo!
Right. So I avoid the place until the siren call of the ginger cookie is too sweet, and then I find myself in a senseless line like I did yesterday with my kids. Trying not to look bitchy or pedestrian or whatever it is that pisses a hipster off. Behind the counter were two of the angriest little white girls ever. I can't imagine what hipsters are so goddamn angry about. Probably angry that people eat bread, that they have jobs, that they can't sit around all day making lists about how everyone else is so lame. One of the girls was wearing:
an African head wrap
giant tortoise horn-rim glasses
bowling shirt (mandatory for the hipster uniform)
skirt featuring animal crackers
orthopedic sneakers
And she purposely kept skipping us. And we just kept standing there, as she randomly chose whoever in line she seemed to think deserved service according to the hipster pecking order. I figured, "Fuck her. I will stand here until NO ONE is left and I'd like to see her ignore me then. And you act like you don't care what clothes you wear cause you're so "over it," but you and I both know, honey, that mommy and daddy bankrolled that dashiki on your head."
The other girl looked EXACTLY like Laverne. From Laverne and Shirley. She was wearing approximately every item of clothing you ever saw Laverne wear on the show, in many tragic layers. The only difference was the ear plugs. She wasn't so much ignoring us, as she was just standing there playing with her gloves and talking to some dude who WASN'T BUYING ANYTHING. And I'm not trying to say that these girls are the only girls that I ever see there. But they are all "make-your-own hipster" interchangeable.
(And it begs the question: Do all hipsters watch a great deal of Laverne and Shirley, American Graffiti and Carlito's Way? Are they style guides?)
And that's when I noticed it. Nearly everyone else in line was a hipster too. Guys wearing too small ancient suits, guys wearing polyester sweatpants in lime and yellow with western shirts. Girls dressed up like Rosie the Riveter, but with horn rims and and crocheted earrings and necklaces. "Holy shit," I realized, "we're surrounded! We are in a sea of the tragically hip! Lakewood has an infestation!"
And that's when it occurred to me. Suddenly, I saw the path before me and I knew what I must do.
"Riot. It's the only way. I have to start a hipster riot. I'm going to throw my arms in the air and yell, I am so over all this suburban organic shit! Organic is so 3 minutes ago! I'm leaving! Who's coming with me? I'm keeping it real! Let's go totally OLD SCHOOL and head down to the grocery store and buy all the Wonder Bread! Wonder Bread! Wonder Bread! Wonder Bread! "
But I had the kids with me so I just stood there smiling at the wall dreaming of the revolution to come... Then I noticed Dashiki Hipster staring at me with disgust. Apparently, it was my turn. And I could see every one of her hateful hipster thoughts pass across her face as she stared at me and pulled her disposable gloves on...
"Look at you, you sellout. Standing there expecting me to wait on you in your beige ruffle collared Ann Taylor rain coat. Gag. And your totally predictable ballet flats. And OMG you're a breeder. Breeding is so predictable. I mean, breeding once maybe, but twice? You people make me sick. You don't deserve bread. I bet you listen to smooth jazz. I bet you can't even grasp the genius of Steve Winwood."
But instead of screaming, "Wonder Bread!" in her face, I calmly asked for 3 ginger cookies. She sighed dramatically, as if it was beneath her to even bother. Then I said, "We really like them; they are so good!" She replied with a bitchy, "Whatever."
I paid her in nickles, dimes and pennies. And I made sure to count it out slowly. :) I really need a good ginger cookie recipe. I don't think it's mentally healthy for me to go back. Viva la Revolucion!! We must rout out the hipster infestation! We must fight them in the streets! Viva la Wonder Bread!
~dana
We have two bakeries in the west end of Lakewood. For the sake of anonymity, let's call them Organic Hate Machine and Lovebirds House of Joy and Carbs. I usually go to the Lovebirds House of Joy and Carbs. I run in maybe once a week and buy some apricot croissants, maybe an apple galette and always grab a loaf of their French batard, sliced. The owners are ADORABLE. Husband and wife with cool birdie tattoos, precious little children, warm cozy environment that begs you to grab a cappuccino and a stool and watch the foot traffic go by. And their product is all crusty airy Frenchy good. The workers are all charmingly ditzy. They are like Etsy Hippies. They seem, at times, to have wandered in off the street from some crafting convention. If, when you are getting rung up, you were to ask one of them "How are you today?" you'll probably get something like:
"Well, I've got this really delicate fern at home, and I am sorta freaking out because I can't remember if I watered it this morning? Do you think it'll be OK? I mean until I get home?
or
"I'm just so tired and energized because I started a new quilt last night and it's just such a great feeling to create something beautiful and useful. Did you want that sliced?"
Charming. The whole damn place is reeking of quirky charm. And then there's the other bakery...
Organic Hate Machine. I never go there. (I'm lying. I do go there and I hate myself for it every time.) The bread is huge and doorstop-y and requires a great deal of chewing. If I ate all that organic grain on a regular basis I would grind my teeth flat. The store is all antique apothecary charm and ENTIRELY staffed by aggressive hipsters. But they have these cookies...
Me and the kids are obsessed with a well made ginger cookie. It must have the correct ratio of crunch and chew and a tiny hit of peppery bite. Organic Hate Machine makes the greatest ginger cookie on the planet. The problem is that you have to deal with the evil that lurks inside of the Organic Hate Machine in order to score one.
The angry hipsters that work there do not believe in the concept of a "line." So, being next in line means less than nothing. The first time I went in there, I was behind one person in line. Then some dude walked in and got in line behind me. When the ironically dressed girl behind the counter finished up with the person ahead of me, she looked RIGHT PAST ME and said to the dude behind me, " Hey, what can I get you?"
Because I am an uppity bitch, I slammed my hand on the counter and said, "HELLO?! I was next!" And Ms. Hipster looks at me, makes a disgusted sound and replies, "Whatever. He was like, here BEFORE." And then the two of them exchanged smug glances. Hipster solidarity, mo-fo!
Right. So I avoid the place until the siren call of the ginger cookie is too sweet, and then I find myself in a senseless line like I did yesterday with my kids. Trying not to look bitchy or pedestrian or whatever it is that pisses a hipster off. Behind the counter were two of the angriest little white girls ever. I can't imagine what hipsters are so goddamn angry about. Probably angry that people eat bread, that they have jobs, that they can't sit around all day making lists about how everyone else is so lame. One of the girls was wearing:
an African head wrap
giant tortoise horn-rim glasses
bowling shirt (mandatory for the hipster uniform)
skirt featuring animal crackers
orthopedic sneakers
And she purposely kept skipping us. And we just kept standing there, as she randomly chose whoever in line she seemed to think deserved service according to the hipster pecking order. I figured, "Fuck her. I will stand here until NO ONE is left and I'd like to see her ignore me then. And you act like you don't care what clothes you wear cause you're so "over it," but you and I both know, honey, that mommy and daddy bankrolled that dashiki on your head."
The other girl looked EXACTLY like Laverne. From Laverne and Shirley. She was wearing approximately every item of clothing you ever saw Laverne wear on the show, in many tragic layers. The only difference was the ear plugs. She wasn't so much ignoring us, as she was just standing there playing with her gloves and talking to some dude who WASN'T BUYING ANYTHING. And I'm not trying to say that these girls are the only girls that I ever see there. But they are all "make-your-own hipster" interchangeable.
(And it begs the question: Do all hipsters watch a great deal of Laverne and Shirley, American Graffiti and Carlito's Way? Are they style guides?)
And that's when I noticed it. Nearly everyone else in line was a hipster too. Guys wearing too small ancient suits, guys wearing polyester sweatpants in lime and yellow with western shirts. Girls dressed up like Rosie the Riveter, but with horn rims and and crocheted earrings and necklaces. "Holy shit," I realized, "we're surrounded! We are in a sea of the tragically hip! Lakewood has an infestation!"
And that's when it occurred to me. Suddenly, I saw the path before me and I knew what I must do.
"Riot. It's the only way. I have to start a hipster riot. I'm going to throw my arms in the air and yell, I am so over all this suburban organic shit! Organic is so 3 minutes ago! I'm leaving! Who's coming with me? I'm keeping it real! Let's go totally OLD SCHOOL and head down to the grocery store and buy all the Wonder Bread! Wonder Bread! Wonder Bread! Wonder Bread! "
But I had the kids with me so I just stood there smiling at the wall dreaming of the revolution to come... Then I noticed Dashiki Hipster staring at me with disgust. Apparently, it was my turn. And I could see every one of her hateful hipster thoughts pass across her face as she stared at me and pulled her disposable gloves on...
"Look at you, you sellout. Standing there expecting me to wait on you in your beige ruffle collared Ann Taylor rain coat. Gag. And your totally predictable ballet flats. And OMG you're a breeder. Breeding is so predictable. I mean, breeding once maybe, but twice? You people make me sick. You don't deserve bread. I bet you listen to smooth jazz. I bet you can't even grasp the genius of Steve Winwood."
But instead of screaming, "Wonder Bread!" in her face, I calmly asked for 3 ginger cookies. She sighed dramatically, as if it was beneath her to even bother. Then I said, "We really like them; they are so good!" She replied with a bitchy, "Whatever."
I paid her in nickles, dimes and pennies. And I made sure to count it out slowly. :) I really need a good ginger cookie recipe. I don't think it's mentally healthy for me to go back. Viva la Revolucion!! We must rout out the hipster infestation! We must fight them in the streets! Viva la Wonder Bread!
~dana
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Random Unexplained Conversation Snipit
Winston: You know, Dana, EVERYONE likes to just lie around in bed with you.
Me: I know. That's the problem.
Me: I know. That's the problem.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Austin 3:16
So, Easter morning my brother Dan walks in my back door and says...
Dan: Dude. Dude. I have footage of that UFO I saw last night. It's flawless. I was up until 4am googling UFO's and Lake Erie until I found more footage like mine. So it's legit. It's for real. Other people have seen it.
Me: Leave me alone. I'm making your brunch. It was an airplane.
Winston's Internal Monologue: (should have married orphan)
Dan: Dude! I have proof! I mean, its all dark and it's on my Iphone, but it's a UFO.
Winston: Good Morning, Dan. When are you heading back to New York?
Me: Nobody cared about my UFO encounter 2 weeks ago! I sent everyone the video and not one word!! And mine was in the DAYLIGHT! Yours is some shitty night video!
Dan: Dude. Watch it. It'll freak you out. There is something messed up over Lake Erie.
I am sure you all just wet your pants. Try to remain calm. Now I will show you my AMAHHHZING UFO footage and you can compare the two and decide for yourself who is mental. I sent mine to newsnet5.com and I am pretty sure they are still trying to figure out if the public is able to handle what I saw. I am certain I will hear back from them soon.
We continued arguing about who had the best UFO footage until his girlfriend, Caitlin, showed up and we sat down to eat brunch. At which point Winston got totally sick of the conversation (probably because he has no footage to brag about) and demanded a change of conversation in honor of the baby Jesus. My darling daughter said, "Ooooh! Let's ask Uncle Dan Bible questions! It's so funny!"
My brother and I are separated by 12 years in age and were raised by the same parents. I received enough religious education to take holy orders and yet my youngest brother received practically none at all. I think my parents, after procreating for 17 years, ran out of steam. So, if you ask him any questions about religion or the Bible you get answers based upon the religious view he has pieced together for himself. From movies.
All his religious views come from the following:
1. Vampire movies
2. Apocalypse movies/ demonic possession movies
3. The WWE
4. In particular, the movies End of Days, The Chronicles of Riddick, Dracula 2000 (Gerard Butler) and the The Devil's Advocate (Al Pacino) This is the conversation that followed, as far as I was able to recreate it...
Dan: Ask me anything. Yo. Did you guys, like go to church this morning?
Me: Yes, Dan.
Dan: It's awesome when the priest dude totally drops the bass and shit. My bad. And stuff. You know.
Winston: What are you talking about? You don't even know what you're talking about. (Subtext: Get out. Now.)
Dan: You know when he gets all serious and starts chanting and stuff. He DROPS THE BASS.
"Blessusohlordandthesethygifts...BOOM." They must teach those dudes sweet bass and shit.
Me: That's a dinner prayer. We don't do that in Mass, you idiot.
Dan: I don't know the words. I just hear the sweet bass.
Anne: OK, Uncle Dan. Who was Elijah?
Winston: Get your Iphone out and ask Siri. Don't embarrass yourself.
Dan: No, I got that. Elijah was that dude with that bag of gold. And he, like, could stick his finger in those holy water bowls and make it boil. Awesome.
Me: No. No. And you're thinking Al Pacino in The Devil's Advocate.
Dan: It would be sweet if I slipped into your church and dropped Alka-Seltzer in all your guys holy water. Everybody would be like, "Satan!" Where's your church?
Winston: I'll give you a hint: The only man who never died.
Dan: Oh. Elijah was Jesus. Boom.
Henry: No, Uncle Dan! Jesus died!
Dan: But he rose again, right?
Winston: But he actually died. Who never died?
Dan: Dracula.
Me: Elijah rode a fiery chariot to heaven and never died! How are we related???
Dan: Whatever. But Jesus was the first to come back and be undead. Zombie! Cut me, bro!
Winston: No, Dan, he wasn't. Have you ever heard of Lazarus? He died and Jesus brought him back from the dead? Any of this ring a bell?
Dan: Oh my GOD, SWEET! Like the Lazarus Pool in Batman?
Me: What?
Dan: Bane breaks Batman's spine and he's all crippled and shit and Batman goes into the Lazarus Pool and and gets healed and kicks Bane's ass. They totally ripped that off from Batman.
Winston: The Catholic Church ripped the story of Lazarus off from Batman? What is wrong with you???
Me: Caitlin, would you like some more pineapple?
Caitlin: Oh, yes. Thanks!
Dan: OK, fine. I have a question for you. Who are the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse? You don't know.
Winston: Uh, let's see.... War.... Famine... Death...
Dan: Boom. See? You don't know. It's Rick Flair, Curt Hennig, Arn and Ole Anderson...
Me: That's wrestling! That's the WWF!!!
Dan: No, Dana, that's the NWA and the WCW. Or the WWE in today's terms. See? You didn't know!
Winston: When are you leaving for New York, Dan?
Me: How can you base all your religious views on the WWE? You are a GROWN MAN! You're an ACCOUNTANT for God's sake!
Dan: I'm a controller. But whatever.
Winston: Dana, your grandmother went to Mass every day. How did she let this happen?
Dan: The WWE is totally like the Bible. Austin 3:16? Hello? He's like Jesus. And he's totally going to make a comeback. Like a RESURRECTION.
Me: Austin has too many braces on his body to make a comeback. He's a mess. Never gonna happen.
Dan: And Chris Benoit is like the devil, cause like, Austin broke his neck. Austin 3:16!
Me: I guess, if I really thought about it, I think the Undertaker is more of a Christ-figure. For me, personally.
Winston Internal Monologue: Because I married this woman, I get to spend all major religious holidays having insane or blasphemous conversations for the rest of my life. Or Dan's life. Is it too early to start drinking? When is he leaving?
Henry: I think Yokozuna is like Jesus.
Dan: No, dude! Andre the Giant. He's like Jesus. All huge and powerful and nice. He's gonna make a comeback and it's gonna be sweet.
Henry: But Andre the Giant is dead, Uncle Dan!
Dan: Exactly. RESURRECTION! And obviously, Vince McMahon is God. You know it.
Anne: You just made up a fact, Uncle Dan!
Winston: Thanks for coming over, Dan. It's always a pleasure. I guess you have to get going. And we have things to do.
Dan: What time will you guys be back tonight? I might bounce over.
Winston: No, you won't.
Dan's Internal Monologue: I am totally coming over tonight.
~dana
Dan: Dude. Dude. I have footage of that UFO I saw last night. It's flawless. I was up until 4am googling UFO's and Lake Erie until I found more footage like mine. So it's legit. It's for real. Other people have seen it.
Me: Leave me alone. I'm making your brunch. It was an airplane.
Winston's Internal Monologue: (should have married orphan)
Dan: Dude! I have proof! I mean, its all dark and it's on my Iphone, but it's a UFO.
Winston: Good Morning, Dan. When are you heading back to New York?
Me: Nobody cared about my UFO encounter 2 weeks ago! I sent everyone the video and not one word!! And mine was in the DAYLIGHT! Yours is some shitty night video!
Dan: Dude. Watch it. It'll freak you out. There is something messed up over Lake Erie.
I am sure you all just wet your pants. Try to remain calm. Now I will show you my AMAHHHZING UFO footage and you can compare the two and decide for yourself who is mental. I sent mine to newsnet5.com and I am pretty sure they are still trying to figure out if the public is able to handle what I saw. I am certain I will hear back from them soon.
We continued arguing about who had the best UFO footage until his girlfriend, Caitlin, showed up and we sat down to eat brunch. At which point Winston got totally sick of the conversation (probably because he has no footage to brag about) and demanded a change of conversation in honor of the baby Jesus. My darling daughter said, "Ooooh! Let's ask Uncle Dan Bible questions! It's so funny!"
My brother and I are separated by 12 years in age and were raised by the same parents. I received enough religious education to take holy orders and yet my youngest brother received practically none at all. I think my parents, after procreating for 17 years, ran out of steam. So, if you ask him any questions about religion or the Bible you get answers based upon the religious view he has pieced together for himself. From movies.
All his religious views come from the following:
1. Vampire movies
2. Apocalypse movies/ demonic possession movies
3. The WWE
4. In particular, the movies End of Days, The Chronicles of Riddick, Dracula 2000 (Gerard Butler) and the The Devil's Advocate (Al Pacino) This is the conversation that followed, as far as I was able to recreate it...
Dan: Ask me anything. Yo. Did you guys, like go to church this morning?
Me: Yes, Dan.
Dan: It's awesome when the priest dude totally drops the bass and shit. My bad. And stuff. You know.
Winston: What are you talking about? You don't even know what you're talking about. (Subtext: Get out. Now.)
Dan: You know when he gets all serious and starts chanting and stuff. He DROPS THE BASS.
"Blessusohlordandthesethygifts...BOOM." They must teach those dudes sweet bass and shit.
Me: That's a dinner prayer. We don't do that in Mass, you idiot.
Dan: I don't know the words. I just hear the sweet bass.
Anne: OK, Uncle Dan. Who was Elijah?
Winston: Get your Iphone out and ask Siri. Don't embarrass yourself.
Dan: No, I got that. Elijah was that dude with that bag of gold. And he, like, could stick his finger in those holy water bowls and make it boil. Awesome.
Me: No. No. And you're thinking Al Pacino in The Devil's Advocate.
Dan: It would be sweet if I slipped into your church and dropped Alka-Seltzer in all your guys holy water. Everybody would be like, "Satan!" Where's your church?
Winston: I'll give you a hint: The only man who never died.
Dan: Oh. Elijah was Jesus. Boom.
Henry: No, Uncle Dan! Jesus died!
Dan: But he rose again, right?
Winston: But he actually died. Who never died?
Dan: Dracula.
Me: Elijah rode a fiery chariot to heaven and never died! How are we related???
Dan: Whatever. But Jesus was the first to come back and be undead. Zombie! Cut me, bro!
Winston: No, Dan, he wasn't. Have you ever heard of Lazarus? He died and Jesus brought him back from the dead? Any of this ring a bell?
Dan: Oh my GOD, SWEET! Like the Lazarus Pool in Batman?
Me: What?
Dan: Bane breaks Batman's spine and he's all crippled and shit and Batman goes into the Lazarus Pool and and gets healed and kicks Bane's ass. They totally ripped that off from Batman.
Winston: The Catholic Church ripped the story of Lazarus off from Batman? What is wrong with you???
Me: Caitlin, would you like some more pineapple?
Caitlin: Oh, yes. Thanks!
Dan: OK, fine. I have a question for you. Who are the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse? You don't know.
Winston: Uh, let's see.... War.... Famine... Death...
Dan: Boom. See? You don't know. It's Rick Flair, Curt Hennig, Arn and Ole Anderson...
Me: That's wrestling! That's the WWF!!!
Dan: No, Dana, that's the NWA and the WCW. Or the WWE in today's terms. See? You didn't know!
Winston: When are you leaving for New York, Dan?
Me: How can you base all your religious views on the WWE? You are a GROWN MAN! You're an ACCOUNTANT for God's sake!
Dan: I'm a controller. But whatever.
Winston: Dana, your grandmother went to Mass every day. How did she let this happen?
Dan: The WWE is totally like the Bible. Austin 3:16? Hello? He's like Jesus. And he's totally going to make a comeback. Like a RESURRECTION.
Me: Austin has too many braces on his body to make a comeback. He's a mess. Never gonna happen.
Dan: And Chris Benoit is like the devil, cause like, Austin broke his neck. Austin 3:16!
Me: I guess, if I really thought about it, I think the Undertaker is more of a Christ-figure. For me, personally.
Winston Internal Monologue: Because I married this woman, I get to spend all major religious holidays having insane or blasphemous conversations for the rest of my life. Or Dan's life. Is it too early to start drinking? When is he leaving?
Henry: I think Yokozuna is like Jesus.
Dan: No, dude! Andre the Giant. He's like Jesus. All huge and powerful and nice. He's gonna make a comeback and it's gonna be sweet.
Henry: But Andre the Giant is dead, Uncle Dan!
Dan: Exactly. RESURRECTION! And obviously, Vince McMahon is God. You know it.
Anne: You just made up a fact, Uncle Dan!
Winston: Thanks for coming over, Dan. It's always a pleasure. I guess you have to get going. And we have things to do.
Dan: What time will you guys be back tonight? I might bounce over.
Winston: No, you won't.
Dan's Internal Monologue: I am totally coming over tonight.
~dana
Friday, April 6, 2012
Marc's Was Awesome/Scary Today
It's Friday, so how about a Marc's update?
I got up early today and tried to get all my shopping for the week done because I hate holidays and shopping. Everyone turns into apocalyptic hoarders and you can't move a damn cart through any store. I got to Marc's early and made my way slowly through the store, which was only slightly more mental than usual. (It's already a 7 out of 10 on the crazy scale; there's not a whole lot of room for more crazy.)
I found the advanced crazy in the cereal aisle or rather, she found me. There was a woman, about my age, slightly dumpy, mousy ponytail. Easter egg pastel lavender sweatpants and a navy blue and yellow hoodie. She was just leaning there on a cereal display. Cause who doesn't just hang out at Marc's in the cereal aisle? She smiled at me and I couldn't help but notice the absence of front teeth. As I walked by she nodded at me and said:
Toothless Sweatpants: What's going on?
Me: (smiling) Not too much! Have a nice day!
Toothless Sweatpants: Can I ask you a question?
Me: (oh hell yeah. this is going to be great. this is what being open to the universe delivers.) Sure! What's up?
Toothless Sweatpants: What do you think about texting?
Me: Uhhh... I think the children of the future will have grossly huge and dexterous thumbs, but I text constantly. I'll probably be texting in 2 or three minutes. (depending on how long this conversation takes)
Toothless Sweatpants: My nephew is texting and sexting and I told my pa, I said "Pa, you take that cell phone from that damn boy or I guarantee the next face you see at the door will be the Sheriiff's. "
Me: Huh. That's rough. How old is he?
Toothless Sweatpants: My pa is like, 50 or something.
Me: No, your nephew. (omg you're my age EASY, and your dad is 50? I'm 38!)
Toothless Sweatpants: He's not really my nephew. My pa just took him on off the street. We don't know who he is. I think he's like 15. But street kids are trouble. And my pa loves him too much to put the smack down on his ass. (WTF?)
Me: Honey, I'm right there with you. Texting and kids and the internet is all trouble. I used to work in the library, and you wouldn't believe the trouble you see kids getting into on the internet. My kids have IPods and every other damn gadget there is but we either disable the internet or heavily restrict it. You can't be too careful with kids.
Toothless Sweatpants: How old is your daughter?
Me: I didn't say I have a daughter. Did I?
Toothless Sweatpants: Fancy lady like you has a sweet little girl, I know it.
Me: Uhhhh...( totally creeped out)
Toothless Sweatpants: (pointing in my cart) How much are those sweatshorts? Them are nice.
Me: Uhh, they were $2.00 over in closeouts. I gotta go, trying to do all the Easter shopping and, well, you know...
Toothless Sweatpants: No, madam, I do not. I do not hold with them pagan holidays. I will never celebrate a pagan holiday again. It's too much damn trouble. Satan, you know. Satan!
Me: How is Easter pagan?
Toothless Sweatpants: Oh, you know the whole thing with Eostre, great mother goddess and all that. You Jesus people call it what you want, it's pagan, baby.
Me: (totally intrigued) Well, yeah, but I'm Catholic. I understand what you're saying historically but I am celebrating the resurrection of the Baby Jesus. And eating chocolate.
Toothless Sweatpants: Nope, my kids don't get Easter baskets. They get coupons and a ten dollar bill. I lay them on the breakfast table and they shuffle through, pick out what they want.
Me: Sure... why not?
Toothless Sweatpants: My computer is 10 years old. How much longer do you think it will last? I got 2 gig.
Me: Dial-up?
Toothless Sweatpants: Duh! And you know what, honey, you're wrong. The children of the future won't have giant thumbs. They'll have tiny, skinny toothpick thumbs for texting. Freaky little thumbs.
Me: I really gotta go. I hope you have a nice day.
Toothless Sweatpants: Wait a minute, honey. (slides away from wall of cereal and creeps towards me. Way inside my personal space zone. Panic! Panic!)
She wrapped me in a big hug and held the hug to the count of 11. I know this because I was counting slowly and waiting to get knifed or bit or something equally weird. I kept repeating that part of the Desiderata about how even the dull and crazy have an important story. But instead, Miss Toothless Anti- Pagan Easter Sweatpants whispered in my ear, "God Bless you, honey. God Bless your family."
Then she went back to leaning on cereal. I bet she's still there right now. I dare you to go look. No, I did not get a picture because I think she wanted to steal my soul.
~dana
I got up early today and tried to get all my shopping for the week done because I hate holidays and shopping. Everyone turns into apocalyptic hoarders and you can't move a damn cart through any store. I got to Marc's early and made my way slowly through the store, which was only slightly more mental than usual. (It's already a 7 out of 10 on the crazy scale; there's not a whole lot of room for more crazy.)
I found the advanced crazy in the cereal aisle or rather, she found me. There was a woman, about my age, slightly dumpy, mousy ponytail. Easter egg pastel lavender sweatpants and a navy blue and yellow hoodie. She was just leaning there on a cereal display. Cause who doesn't just hang out at Marc's in the cereal aisle? She smiled at me and I couldn't help but notice the absence of front teeth. As I walked by she nodded at me and said:
Toothless Sweatpants: What's going on?
Me: (smiling) Not too much! Have a nice day!
Toothless Sweatpants: Can I ask you a question?
Me: (oh hell yeah. this is going to be great. this is what being open to the universe delivers.) Sure! What's up?
Toothless Sweatpants: What do you think about texting?
Me: Uhhh... I think the children of the future will have grossly huge and dexterous thumbs, but I text constantly. I'll probably be texting in 2 or three minutes. (depending on how long this conversation takes)
Toothless Sweatpants: My nephew is texting and sexting and I told my pa, I said "Pa, you take that cell phone from that damn boy or I guarantee the next face you see at the door will be the Sheriiff's. "
Me: Huh. That's rough. How old is he?
Toothless Sweatpants: My pa is like, 50 or something.
Me: No, your nephew. (omg you're my age EASY, and your dad is 50? I'm 38!)
Toothless Sweatpants: He's not really my nephew. My pa just took him on off the street. We don't know who he is. I think he's like 15. But street kids are trouble. And my pa loves him too much to put the smack down on his ass. (WTF?)
Me: Honey, I'm right there with you. Texting and kids and the internet is all trouble. I used to work in the library, and you wouldn't believe the trouble you see kids getting into on the internet. My kids have IPods and every other damn gadget there is but we either disable the internet or heavily restrict it. You can't be too careful with kids.
Toothless Sweatpants: How old is your daughter?
Me: I didn't say I have a daughter. Did I?
Toothless Sweatpants: Fancy lady like you has a sweet little girl, I know it.
Me: Uhhhh...( totally creeped out)
Toothless Sweatpants: (pointing in my cart) How much are those sweatshorts? Them are nice.
Me: Uhh, they were $2.00 over in closeouts. I gotta go, trying to do all the Easter shopping and, well, you know...
Toothless Sweatpants: No, madam, I do not. I do not hold with them pagan holidays. I will never celebrate a pagan holiday again. It's too much damn trouble. Satan, you know. Satan!
Me: How is Easter pagan?
Toothless Sweatpants: Oh, you know the whole thing with Eostre, great mother goddess and all that. You Jesus people call it what you want, it's pagan, baby.
Me: (totally intrigued) Well, yeah, but I'm Catholic. I understand what you're saying historically but I am celebrating the resurrection of the Baby Jesus. And eating chocolate.
Toothless Sweatpants: Nope, my kids don't get Easter baskets. They get coupons and a ten dollar bill. I lay them on the breakfast table and they shuffle through, pick out what they want.
Me: Sure... why not?
Toothless Sweatpants: My computer is 10 years old. How much longer do you think it will last? I got 2 gig.
Me: Dial-up?
Toothless Sweatpants: Duh! And you know what, honey, you're wrong. The children of the future won't have giant thumbs. They'll have tiny, skinny toothpick thumbs for texting. Freaky little thumbs.
Me: I really gotta go. I hope you have a nice day.
Toothless Sweatpants: Wait a minute, honey. (slides away from wall of cereal and creeps towards me. Way inside my personal space zone. Panic! Panic!)
She wrapped me in a big hug and held the hug to the count of 11. I know this because I was counting slowly and waiting to get knifed or bit or something equally weird. I kept repeating that part of the Desiderata about how even the dull and crazy have an important story. But instead, Miss Toothless Anti- Pagan Easter Sweatpants whispered in my ear, "God Bless you, honey. God Bless your family."
Then she went back to leaning on cereal. I bet she's still there right now. I dare you to go look. No, I did not get a picture because I think she wanted to steal my soul.
~dana
Thursday, April 5, 2012
I Want to be in Kindergarten Again
I do get sick to death of being a grown up. It's not so much the work, as it is the responsibility. My family is the most beautiful thing in creation, but the problem is that it all pivots on me. I am the big greasy gear that our little universe grinds about. I read once that fathers are the wild ocean and mothers are the safe harbor. Which makes my children screaming seagulls, streaking back to me with beaks bared after the thrills of the open ocean, demanding safety and comfort and rest. * So there's precious little of it left for me.
Take this morning, for example.
Wake up 1 hour before everyone else.
Clean up hair ball on back staircase.
Clean up dog vomit from trying to eat part of hair ball.
Clean off slippers from stepping in hair ball and dog vomit.
Let dogs out. Run around yard in pajamas trying to pry dogs off of hillbilly neighbors attempt at composting their leftover food stuffs by tossing it over the fence into my yard. Say prayer to the Baby Jesus neighbors die/ get arrested/ get evicted/ get replaced by charming gay couple with fetish for landscaping and home improvements.
Feed dogs. Feed cat. Scoop cat poo.
Start load of laundry.
Make lunches.
Make breakfast.
Wake children.
Listen halfheartedly to various complaints involving quality of breakfast, temperature of breakfast, location of hairbrush, shoes, refusals to brush teeth, unnatural start time of school and coldness of car.
Deliver kids to school.
Drink coffee. Sit in fog.
So, pick a point anywhere on that list, and all I pretty much want to do is fling myself at some warm, calming person and let them take over so I can get an extended hug and some kind words. Like a kindergarten teacher!
This morning we went to see the 6th grade at my son's school perform the Stations of the Cross for Easter. For those of you who aren't Catholic, the Stations is a dramatic portrayal of the last day of Christ on Earth. The children arrange themselves, statue-like and depict each scene in eerie silence, while a narrator very quietly explains the scene. It is very moving and haunting. We happened to be sitting by the kindergarteners and their teacher.
They were so cute and tiny and for the bulk of the program, sat there only wiggling slightly. Until the Station where Christ is nailed to the cross. One by one, they burst into tears. You could see some of them were trying to choke it back, but suddenly one little girl jumped up and ran to her teacher, who was right next to us.
"Why are they hurting Jesus?" she sobbed.
Her teacher gathered her into her arms and rubbed her back and said, "It's all right, honey. Don't cry." But by then the other children were jumping up one at a time, all of them sobbing...
"Make them stop, Mrs. Baker!"
"I want to go home. Is this almost over?"
"I want my mommy, Mrs. Baker!"
"Is Jesus going to be ok? My tummy hurts."
"I have to pee. I'm going to pee."
"I have to sing Hallelujah really loud, Mrs. Baker. Right now." (I about died.)
She gathered each one of them and hugged them and shushed them and let them cluster around her on the floor like little chickens, wiping tears and rubbing backs. And all I wanted to do was crawl over and say, "Mrs. Baker, if someone accuses me of hiding their hairbrush one more time, I am going to cry. And the thought of going to the grocery store this afternoon makes my tummy hurt. And someone needs to abduct my neighbors and replace them with, like Elton and David or Ellen and Portia."
That would be so great. Just every once in while. To get a hug and a smile and a little back rub and have someone just take over and make it all better until you can get a grip. I had totally forgotten what hero's and saints kindergarten teachers are until I saw her dealing with all that 5 year old insanity. Admit it! You have never once heard of a mean, heartless kindergarten teacher. I have a dear friend who teaches kindergarten, and she assures me that they are able to be that sweet and kind because they drink a great deal. But bet each one of you gets a warm, fuzzy feeling when you think of yours.
Anyway, Happy Easter! I am considering filling my darling daughter's basket with 3 dozen hairbrushes just so we never have that particular soul sucking argument again. And if anyone wants to give me an Easter present, how about some tips on how to get a large chocolate milkshake out of an expensive oriental rug? That's gonna smell great come June...
~dana
*with apologies to Allison Pearson
Take this morning, for example.
Wake up 1 hour before everyone else.
Clean up hair ball on back staircase.
Clean up dog vomit from trying to eat part of hair ball.
Clean off slippers from stepping in hair ball and dog vomit.
Let dogs out. Run around yard in pajamas trying to pry dogs off of hillbilly neighbors attempt at composting their leftover food stuffs by tossing it over the fence into my yard. Say prayer to the Baby Jesus neighbors die/ get arrested/ get evicted/ get replaced by charming gay couple with fetish for landscaping and home improvements.
Feed dogs. Feed cat. Scoop cat poo.
Start load of laundry.
Make lunches.
Make breakfast.
Wake children.
Listen halfheartedly to various complaints involving quality of breakfast, temperature of breakfast, location of hairbrush, shoes, refusals to brush teeth, unnatural start time of school and coldness of car.
Deliver kids to school.
Drink coffee. Sit in fog.
So, pick a point anywhere on that list, and all I pretty much want to do is fling myself at some warm, calming person and let them take over so I can get an extended hug and some kind words. Like a kindergarten teacher!
This morning we went to see the 6th grade at my son's school perform the Stations of the Cross for Easter. For those of you who aren't Catholic, the Stations is a dramatic portrayal of the last day of Christ on Earth. The children arrange themselves, statue-like and depict each scene in eerie silence, while a narrator very quietly explains the scene. It is very moving and haunting. We happened to be sitting by the kindergarteners and their teacher.
They were so cute and tiny and for the bulk of the program, sat there only wiggling slightly. Until the Station where Christ is nailed to the cross. One by one, they burst into tears. You could see some of them were trying to choke it back, but suddenly one little girl jumped up and ran to her teacher, who was right next to us.
"Why are they hurting Jesus?" she sobbed.
Her teacher gathered her into her arms and rubbed her back and said, "It's all right, honey. Don't cry." But by then the other children were jumping up one at a time, all of them sobbing...
"Make them stop, Mrs. Baker!"
"I want to go home. Is this almost over?"
"I want my mommy, Mrs. Baker!"
"Is Jesus going to be ok? My tummy hurts."
"I have to pee. I'm going to pee."
"I have to sing Hallelujah really loud, Mrs. Baker. Right now." (I about died.)
She gathered each one of them and hugged them and shushed them and let them cluster around her on the floor like little chickens, wiping tears and rubbing backs. And all I wanted to do was crawl over and say, "Mrs. Baker, if someone accuses me of hiding their hairbrush one more time, I am going to cry. And the thought of going to the grocery store this afternoon makes my tummy hurt. And someone needs to abduct my neighbors and replace them with, like Elton and David or Ellen and Portia."
That would be so great. Just every once in while. To get a hug and a smile and a little back rub and have someone just take over and make it all better until you can get a grip. I had totally forgotten what hero's and saints kindergarten teachers are until I saw her dealing with all that 5 year old insanity. Admit it! You have never once heard of a mean, heartless kindergarten teacher. I have a dear friend who teaches kindergarten, and she assures me that they are able to be that sweet and kind because they drink a great deal. But bet each one of you gets a warm, fuzzy feeling when you think of yours.
Anyway, Happy Easter! I am considering filling my darling daughter's basket with 3 dozen hairbrushes just so we never have that particular soul sucking argument again. And if anyone wants to give me an Easter present, how about some tips on how to get a large chocolate milkshake out of an expensive oriental rug? That's gonna smell great come June...
~dana
*with apologies to Allison Pearson
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
My Poppet: Entrepreneur/ Goddess of War
My daughter and I like to lay on the couch and have a prolonged snuggle when she gets home from school. It starts off with catching up about the day's events and usually degenerates into a pinching tickle fest. This past week, she told me that she had started up her shop again at recess. I was surprised, because she hadn't reopened her shop since she closed it last spring in a fit of defiance.
My poppet likes to create micro-economies on the playground. Sure she plays and runs around, but then... she gets dangerously bored (wonder where she gets that one from), creates a need, develops a business and suddenly there's a whole economy maturing during recess. A year and a half ago in the fall, she collected sticks and found a few bricks behind the carriage house. She set up her shop on a stone bench and began sharpening them by rubbing them on the corners of the bricks. The other children gathered around fascinated, asking if they could have one. She replied, " Sure! But you have to give me one new stick and help me sharpen 2 sticks and then I will give you one. They lined up in droves and before you knew it she had an organized group of employees.
Sharp sticks were all the rage amongst her classmates. The boys threw them at each other and the girls drew in the dirt with them or used them to create what Anne dubbed "flower sticks," which was basically flowers and leaves impaled upon the pointy end. I was a little worried about all the sharp stick business, but she assured me that although they took a great deal of effort to sharpen, the tip snapped off almost immediately. With a wicked gleam in her eye, no less...
Then, abruptly one day, she reorganized her work area and announced they were switching over to rocks wrapped with leaves and tied with long grass. Her work force had been drifting off to play football or tag, but now they were re-energized! Again, the cost of a wrapped rock was either a pile of lovely leaves or a well shaped rock. The boys threw them at each other and the girls traded them or made decorative piles. I know what you're thinking: is anyone watching these kids? Good question.
Then trouble struck, in the form of a little girl named Lizzie. My poppet came home one day, and when I asked her how the shop was doing, she announced, "I closed the shop today! It's all over! I'm done!"
"But, honey, why? You were having so much fun!"
She replied, " It's because of Lizzie and her stupid face."
"What happened?" I asked.
"Lizzie came over and said she wanted to own the shop with us ("us" being her and her 3 foremen/girlfriends) and I said no, but she could work for us. Then she threw a fit and went to the teacher and the teacher said it would be nice if we included Lizzie and her stupid face."
"I don't understand. Then what happened? Did she not play nicely with you? Why is the shop closed?"
"Mommy, Lizzie is mean and boring and there is no way I am sharing one inch of my shop with her and her stupid face. She's not the boss of me!"
"Could you please stop saying that about her face? It's mean," I said firmly.
"You haven't seen her face."
"ANYWAY, back to the shop. What happened?"
"I smiled at Mrs. O'Brien and told her the shop was boring and I wanted to play kickball and not do the shop anymore. So she told us to run along. I played kickball. And too bad for Lizzie and her face!"
I tried to reason with her, but she did have a point. I remember kids like that; kids who tend to pee in the pool and spoil your fun. The other kids tried to get her to reorganize her shop but she refused. And now I am beginning to think it was strategy all along...
Back to the couch.
"That's wonderful, baby! I am so happy you reopened your shop! What are you making this time?"
"Well, this time we are making wooden flower bowls. It's a lot more work. I pried some of the long nails out of the gutters on the carriage house...
(Me: blink. blink. OMG)
"... and what we do is get a curvy piece of bark and use the sharp end of the gutter nails to dig out a long flat dent. Then we take the bark dust we dug out, wet it with spit, refill the hole and stick a flower to it. Everyone wants one."
"So your girlfriends are helping you? Like Maggie, Elizabeth and Caroline?"
"Yep. But we are all bosses now, and it rotates. So, like, today I was a boss and the other girls played tag, and then tomorrow Caroline is boss and then Elizabeth and Maggie. It's too much to be boss every day," she replied wearily.
"But who's working? I mean, who's making the flower bowls?" I asked.
"Oh, everybody. Pretty much the whole third grade. But that's way too many workers to watch, so I told them they can all only work one day a week. So that rotates too. "
"And what about Lizzie? Is she bothering you girls?"
"No. We play tag with her so she doesn't want to mess with my shop. This way I can keep an eye on her. So I get to do both. And Lizzie isn't so bad as long as I don't have to talk to her."
"Hmmm... interesting. What do you charge for a flower bowl?"
"One sharp stick." She smiled. "The flowers will all be gone soon, and then we will be selling sharp sticks again. And I'll have PLENTY."
"Please tell me there isn't a huge pile of sharp sticks in your locker. I will kill you. You could get in big trouble for that, young lady!"
"Oh, no. I found some sand bags that they use to hold down the basketball hoop. I sorta emptied one out and put my sticks in it. Then I had some of the boys dig me a hole and I put the bag in it and put a big rock on top of it. It's totally safe."
Then she ran off to make herself a snack and color. And I sat there on the couch, with my head in my hands...contemplating third grade and sharp sticks and Lizzies's face and my poppet's need for domination and organization. And my mind settled eventually on The Lord of the Flies, which she mercifully won't read until the fifth grade. God help me.
~dana
My poppet likes to create micro-economies on the playground. Sure she plays and runs around, but then... she gets dangerously bored (wonder where she gets that one from), creates a need, develops a business and suddenly there's a whole economy maturing during recess. A year and a half ago in the fall, she collected sticks and found a few bricks behind the carriage house. She set up her shop on a stone bench and began sharpening them by rubbing them on the corners of the bricks. The other children gathered around fascinated, asking if they could have one. She replied, " Sure! But you have to give me one new stick and help me sharpen 2 sticks and then I will give you one. They lined up in droves and before you knew it she had an organized group of employees.
Sharp sticks were all the rage amongst her classmates. The boys threw them at each other and the girls drew in the dirt with them or used them to create what Anne dubbed "flower sticks," which was basically flowers and leaves impaled upon the pointy end. I was a little worried about all the sharp stick business, but she assured me that although they took a great deal of effort to sharpen, the tip snapped off almost immediately. With a wicked gleam in her eye, no less...
Then, abruptly one day, she reorganized her work area and announced they were switching over to rocks wrapped with leaves and tied with long grass. Her work force had been drifting off to play football or tag, but now they were re-energized! Again, the cost of a wrapped rock was either a pile of lovely leaves or a well shaped rock. The boys threw them at each other and the girls traded them or made decorative piles. I know what you're thinking: is anyone watching these kids? Good question.
Then trouble struck, in the form of a little girl named Lizzie. My poppet came home one day, and when I asked her how the shop was doing, she announced, "I closed the shop today! It's all over! I'm done!"
"But, honey, why? You were having so much fun!"
She replied, " It's because of Lizzie and her stupid face."
"What happened?" I asked.
"Lizzie came over and said she wanted to own the shop with us ("us" being her and her 3 foremen/girlfriends) and I said no, but she could work for us. Then she threw a fit and went to the teacher and the teacher said it would be nice if we included Lizzie and her stupid face."
"I don't understand. Then what happened? Did she not play nicely with you? Why is the shop closed?"
"Mommy, Lizzie is mean and boring and there is no way I am sharing one inch of my shop with her and her stupid face. She's not the boss of me!"
"Could you please stop saying that about her face? It's mean," I said firmly.
"You haven't seen her face."
"ANYWAY, back to the shop. What happened?"
"I smiled at Mrs. O'Brien and told her the shop was boring and I wanted to play kickball and not do the shop anymore. So she told us to run along. I played kickball. And too bad for Lizzie and her face!"
I tried to reason with her, but she did have a point. I remember kids like that; kids who tend to pee in the pool and spoil your fun. The other kids tried to get her to reorganize her shop but she refused. And now I am beginning to think it was strategy all along...
Back to the couch.
"That's wonderful, baby! I am so happy you reopened your shop! What are you making this time?"
"Well, this time we are making wooden flower bowls. It's a lot more work. I pried some of the long nails out of the gutters on the carriage house...
(Me: blink. blink. OMG)
"... and what we do is get a curvy piece of bark and use the sharp end of the gutter nails to dig out a long flat dent. Then we take the bark dust we dug out, wet it with spit, refill the hole and stick a flower to it. Everyone wants one."
"So your girlfriends are helping you? Like Maggie, Elizabeth and Caroline?"
"Yep. But we are all bosses now, and it rotates. So, like, today I was a boss and the other girls played tag, and then tomorrow Caroline is boss and then Elizabeth and Maggie. It's too much to be boss every day," she replied wearily.
"But who's working? I mean, who's making the flower bowls?" I asked.
"Oh, everybody. Pretty much the whole third grade. But that's way too many workers to watch, so I told them they can all only work one day a week. So that rotates too. "
"And what about Lizzie? Is she bothering you girls?"
"No. We play tag with her so she doesn't want to mess with my shop. This way I can keep an eye on her. So I get to do both. And Lizzie isn't so bad as long as I don't have to talk to her."
"Hmmm... interesting. What do you charge for a flower bowl?"
"One sharp stick." She smiled. "The flowers will all be gone soon, and then we will be selling sharp sticks again. And I'll have PLENTY."
"Please tell me there isn't a huge pile of sharp sticks in your locker. I will kill you. You could get in big trouble for that, young lady!"
"Oh, no. I found some sand bags that they use to hold down the basketball hoop. I sorta emptied one out and put my sticks in it. Then I had some of the boys dig me a hole and I put the bag in it and put a big rock on top of it. It's totally safe."
Then she ran off to make herself a snack and color. And I sat there on the couch, with my head in my hands...contemplating third grade and sharp sticks and Lizzies's face and my poppet's need for domination and organization. And my mind settled eventually on The Lord of the Flies, which she mercifully won't read until the fifth grade. God help me.
~dana
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)