Monthly Archives: August 2014

Driving Age

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As I was driving Sissy to her softball practice, we were listening to a “That Chick Be CRAZY” segment on the radio.  One caller was talking about that phrase: Don’t step on a crack or you’ll break your mother’s back.  Well it turns out the caller DID break her mother’s back.  By accidentally running her over with the family car!!!!

Whaaaaaaa??  That’s AWFUL.

But the story perked Sissy right up and made her start scrutinizing the car control panel as we’re driving along.  What exactly are you planning, Sweetie?

Her: Why does the speed thing go up to 140 miles per hour if you never GO 140 miles per hour?

Me: Good question.  But how do you know I DON’T go 140 miles per hour?!

Her: Mom!

Me: Ok, ok.  I don’t necessarily go 140 miles per hour.  But it’s there so that I have a good chance of outrunning the mafia if they’re ever after me.

Her: Mom! pause 2…3…4…Really??

Me: No, babe.  Because of the mafia’s actually after me, I’m hosed.

Her: Why?  Is the mafia really fast?!

Me: It’s not that they’re necessarily fast.  It’s more that if I’m trying to outrun the mafia in a 12-year-old minivan, I’ve got WAY more problems than just car speed.

Her: Oh, ok.  But I didn’t think it was fair that girl’s mom didn’t let her drive again until she was eighteen.

Me: The girl who broke her mother’s back?  By running her over with a car??  You think not letting her drive for a while after that was too harsh of a punishment?!?

Her: No.  Of course not.  It’s just that the mom lived.  It’s not like she died or anything.  But how do you even run someone over and they live?

[At this point, both of us are looking at the undercarriages of cars in front of us in traffic.]

Me: I don’t know.  ‘Cause some of that stuff hangs pretty low.  But I guess if the person falls down lengthwise so they’re in the center of all four wheels, so that the wheels don’t run them over but go on either side of them, then maybe they just get a broken back.

Her: You’re right, some of that stuff DOES hang pretty low.  [Sizing me up out of the corner of her eye.]  So you’d probably have to be pretty skinny to live through that.

Me: Yep, probably pretty skinny.  So don’t ever run me over and we’ll be fine and you can drive at the normal age.  Ok?

Her: Ok.

Me: Oh, and don’t ever get involved with the mafia.  That’s bad news.  ‘K?

Her: ‘K.

First Day of School

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Because I’m helpful like that, I spend the final week of summer vacation announcing each ‘last’ day as it arrives until finally, “This is the LAST SUNDAY of summer vacation!”  [said in a voice that sounds very, very similar to the Monster Truck Announcer mixed with the ghost of Ebenezer Scrooge’s dead business partner.]

This is the LAST Sunday, SUuuunnnnDaaaAY of Summer VACAaaaaTIONNNNNN!!!

See?!  Helpful.  I’m a helper.  Doin’ some helping.  Helping those in the house taking a trip to the guillotine going back to school on Monday feel better about the death of their summer the start of an exciting new school year.  It in NO WAY gives ANYONE a sick feeling in their stomach. 

OK, I LIED!!!  I totally, TOTALLY!  LIED!!!  That whole “announcing” thing doesn’t make ANYONE feel better about ANYTHING!  It makes EVERYONE feel bad.  Me included.  The TRUTH is that I’M actually the one with the sick feeling in my stomach.  And since misery loves company, I try to pass that sick feeling on to others so I don’t suffer alone.  You’re welcome.

And why do I even HAVE this sick feeling??  I’M not the one going back to school, afterall. 

Maybe not, but I do vividly remember how really, really hard it was to be in 5th and 7th grades: the academics, the social difficulties, weird hair sprouting from weird places, suddenly smelly bits.  Ugh.  And that “smelly bits” comment made you think of an onion-y sub sandwich at the Italian deli too, didn’t it?  So now YOU also have a sick feeling in your stomach…and this sick feeling might, at this very minute, be moving rapidly into your throat.  FAIR WARNING:  if you start chumming in your mouth, we’re done here.  

I remember those grades in particular being awful.  Really, really awful.

So awful in fact that the last Sunday Sunday! of Summer Vacation resembles for me the eve before a battle.

I picture my little babies facing the new school year across an open field.  The new school year is lined up in regimented rows, wearing suits of armor.  Sissy and Sonny, barely visible waaaay across no-man’s land, have their faces painted blue and are wearing kilts.  Sissy’s got some cute braid thing going on in her hair and Sonny just lifted his kilt to show off his assets.  They are not armed with a single, solitary war cudgel; only dry erase markers and a box of colored pencils.  And their hope. 

Their hope that this school year will be the best one yet.  And that?  Right there??  That scrappy, rebel hope thing is the reason I would STILL want to know these two beautiful people even if I lived some other version of my life where I wasn’t lucky enough to be their mother.  That hope is a powerful thing.

Taught ‘em everything they know.  Thank you and good night. 

Chiropractor Survivor

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Here’s the funny thing about school supplies: you can buy your pencils the old-fashioned way, unsharpened.  Or – if you’re a big spender Hey, Big Spender! – you can buy your pencils PRE-sharpened for the low, low price of two dollars MORE than the cost of the old-timey unsharpened pencils.  Ha, ha, ha!  Isn’t that FUNNY??

But I prefer to go cheap or go home and throw some manual labor into the mix for good measure so I bought our pencils UNsharpened, then spent the next two hours sharpening them with a plastic, total crap, “prize box” fish-shaped pencil sharpener. 

Aha!  Two dollars SAVED!  But for some odd reason, my painful ‘tennis elbow’ started actin’ up.  So then I had to go see the chiropractor-who-helps-with-tennis-elbow for the low, low price of FIFTY dollars.  Hmmm.  If I’m being honest here, that DOES smell just a little bass ackwards.  Saving TWO dollars to spend FIFTY??  Maybe, just maybe, I shoulduv PAID the extra two bucks, Chuck, just to have the pencils already SHARPENED! 

But that’s where you come in…ALWAYS with the math.  ENOUGH with the math!  What I really wanted to say is that my trips to the chiropractor seem to turn into some version of Chiropractor Survivor – Outwit, Outplay, Outlast.  Heavy on the “Outlast.”

Every time I’m there, I find myself thinking, “The doctor can only hold my arm in that painful position for so long before I pass out.  And IF I pass out?  Surely he’ll stop.  But until then, I can outlast however long he needs to hold my arm in that painful position by comforting myself with the fact that if I pass out?  Surely he’ll stop.”

While I have never actually tested this theory by passing out, it’s good to have options.  Yes, you have options and stop calling me Shirley!  heh, heh, heh

And in keeping with the painful-to-the-point-of-passing-out chiro appointments, my latest ‘tennis elbow’ visit was no different.  RAT BASTARD PENCIL SHARPENER!!!  Perhaps the kids coulduv sharpened their OWN bleepin’ pencils?!!!  The doctor shot my elbow full of buckshot and sent me out the door. 

Ok, I lied.  It wasn’t buckshot; it was a bunch of BB’s.  And I have the picture to prove it.

When I asked what they REALLY were, he said they were “like medicine.” 

I say they’re “like peppercorns with tape over them.”  But who knows.  So instead, I’m pretending they’re actually radioactive pellets that give me superhuman powers on the tennis court. 

Or at a minimum, they let me live to sharpen another pencil another day.

Stay gold, Ponyboy (Subtitled: Don’t forget about the robots)

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Because Sissy is A-Number-One Citizen, she has already read her two Summer Reading Assignment books and is wrapping up her essay on same.  Need I mention that it’s still actually summer vacation?  And the assignment isn’t due until the Friday AFTER school starts?!  Yes, I need mention that, because then you’ll agree – God bless A-Number-One-Citizens!

But because the assignment was written in a confusing way (Two sets of paragraphs, one for EACH book?  Or one set of paragraphs, to cover BOTH books??  See?!  Confusing.) Sissy called me into the computer room where she was typing her assignment for a clarification discussion.

Once that discussion was over, we moved into a conversation about the setting of one of the books.  She had been going down some path where she was trying to place it in time (mid-1960’s) and actual mid-Western state (implied but unnamed).  But she revised it slightly once I started asking my usual insightful questions, “Was the name where the book took place mentioned?  If not, WHERE did it take place – in the country, or a city?  A big, wealthy city or not??  Were there any clues about the time of year when it happened?  Summer?  Winter??”

Then, because I’m a fun and pretty mother – and just a teeeensy bit mean (ok, a LOT mean) – as I’m walking away I say, “And don’t forget about the robots.  I think you should definitely mention something about the robots.”

…processing…processing…processing

“WHAT??!!?!  I DON’T REMEMBER ANYTHING ABOUT ROBOTS!!!!  HOW CAN I MENTION ABOUT ROBOTS WHEN I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW THERE WERE ROBOTS?!??!!”

I suppose it would be helpful if you knew which books I was talking about, right?  One was uglies by Scott Westerfeld.  Published in 2011.  Never heard of it.  Never read it.  However, it looks intriguing: “A world where everyone’s ugly.  And then they’re not.”  Hmmmm…

But the other book?  The one with the robots??  The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton.  Now THAT’S what I’m talkin’bout.  Read it.  Lived it.  LOVED it!  It was the book of my generation.  Well…more like the movie of my generation, but still.  Directed by Francis Ford Coppola and released in 1983.  It starred all those hot boys from back in the day – C. Thomas Howell, Rob Lowe, Emilio Estevez, Matt Dillon, Tom Cruise, Patrick Swayze, Ralph Macchio.  Oh my GOSH!  And?  It introduced robots into the mainstream.  It doesn’t GET any more 80’s than that, who’s yer daddy?!  Except when I mention that the movie popularized that song “Gloria” by Them.  G-L-O-R-I-Aaaaa.  Glooo-ria!

Turning book reports into winning strategies for the “80’s Song for Every Moment in Life” game we play. 

And now that I’ve won this round, all I have to say in closing is: Stay Gold, Ponyboy! 

And no, there aren’t any robots in the book OR the movie.  I was just funnin’ ya.

Don’t Hamper the Celebration

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It’s my parents’ Fifty-SECOND wedding anniversary today!  And because I love my parents and I’m the middle child and therefore am endlessly in some sort of competition-in-my-head to attain “favorite child” status which will never happen because I’m the middle child and therefore exempt from the title despite my best efforts, I decided to have a gift delivered to them on their special occasion.

‘Cept they’re in Scotland right now, which adds a unique twist to the gift-giving effort and also shows that I am completely committed to winning this competition, even if it IS only in my head.

Now it just so happens that there are many, many options for giving a gift across the pond.  And something called a “hamper” seems to be a key component to all of this.  But the word alone makes me think that whatever the gift is, it will most likely come nestled in a bunch of dirty laundry.  Which is an awful possibility.  So no.  No on the hampers.

Although there was that one thrilling Hamper Experience where I got all the way to the “Please Deliver To:” phase online.  In the U.S., the “title” options would have been your standard: Mr. and Mrs.  But in the U.K. the title options were actual…TITLES: Baroness, Commander, Lord and Lady, Reverend, DAME!!!  <–While that particular title sounds like a misogynistic Frank Sinatra song, it makes you want to purchase something from the U.K. online just so you can snap your fingers while sing-speaking, “Hooky Dame.  What do I care for a dame?  Every old dame is the same!”

But again, “hampers” were out, so Hubby and I spent yesterday sitting beside the local pool discussing other gift options with squiggly L price tags.  To a bystander, it mustuv sounded like we were discussing the weights of all the swimmers in the pool.  “Yes, but how many POUNDS would THAT be?!?”

To add to the effect, one gift option under discussion was squiggly L 50.12.  Squiqqly L is ‘pounds.’  But what the heck is point 12??  I thought it might be ‘shillings’ but then again, I’ve read too many Regency Romance Novels in my life, so maybe not.  Hubby thought it was pence.  Which I laughed at because it made him sound like he was trying to order a tankard of ale.  Even though he’s probably right about the pence thing, I prefer to laugh at him and never admit he’s right (I’m gunning for my OWN fifty-two years  of wedded bliss with this tactic), so I decided to call the point 12 a ‘partial pound.’  And see?  We’re right back to judging the swimmers based on their weight.

Eventually we decided to have a bottle of champagne delivered to my parents’ hotel room in the late afternoon of their special day.  So this morning at 7 a.m. Rocky Mountain Time, I spoke with the Team Lead at Hotel Reception and placed the order.  And I know!  Team Lead?  Hotel Reception??  I’m talking with a fake English accent in my head now too!  Also?  What IS the time difference between Colorado and Scotland?  I’m hoping it’s seven hours difference?  Or eight??  I wish I could ask my mother.  She’s great with time differences in the Atlantic Ocean.

Whilst speaking with Hotel Reception Come on!  Give this one to me.  What other time in my LIFE will I EVER be able to say, “Whilst” in casual conversation.  With a fake English accent.  Never, that’s when.  So you GOTTA give this one to me.  I was informed that for one pound extra I could have ten pounds of chocolate delivered WITH the champagne.  Or…maybe it was for ten pounds extra I could have a pound of chocolate delivered with the champagne?  Who knows.  It’s confusing when people with accents call their money by my country’s weight.  It’s almost like math.  Actually…it’s TOTALLY like math.  In other words: Confusing.  Like I just said.

Anyway, that’s done.  Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.  I love you!  And by a quick show of hands, who’s your favorite child??  Still no?  Well at least you’re always glad you had me, right?!  RIGHT?? 

School Supplies

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I never have been school supply shopping with my kids.  Up ‘til now, we’ve always bought The Kit.  You know The Kit.  It’s a school fundraiser that allows you to go online and buy one convenient pre-packaged set of all the school supplies you already HAVE (somewhere), for an exorbitant cost.

But this year, since I lost my exorbitant cost affording mechanism in the office closure, AND since we already have a lifetime supply (somewhere) of 6-inch Fiskar scissors and opaque rulers-with-inches-and-centimeters, I figured I’d save me some of that there money – all by using what we have and/or shopping for just the missing parts – instead of going The Kit route.

First though?  BEFORE shopping, you have to figure out what you already GOT in order to figure out what yew gotta GIT, Varmint.  We got us some drawers and drawers filled with crapped-up writing instruments.  So I started there and then planned to fill in any 5-subject notebook gaps at Walmart.

 Pay no never mind to the fact that the finding and sorting of the fifty THOUSAND Sharpies we have scattered throughout the house subsequently morphed into an organizational effort of Herculean proportions.  We’ll just call that “Spring Cleaning ‘Cept In The Summer,” shall we?  It needed to be done and now all the drawers in the house are clean and organized.  Howdy, Fellers, y’all wanna see my clean drawers?  The upside of that effort is we’ve confirmed we have fifty THOUSAND Sharpies in every color of the rainbow.  The downside??  None of them are ‘2 extra-fine tipped black’ ones like on the 5th grade school supply list, so we have to buy more.  See?!  ALLLLLL worth it.  [When I say that thing about it being worth it, does it seem like my teeth are clenched?  ‘Cause they are.]

And clenched teeth always make my Spidey-senses tingle.  Which means that a clusterbomb is about to go off in the immediate vicinity.  In other words, the fill-in-the-gaps shopping trip is gonna go down HARD.  REEEEEAL HARD. 

So when we arrive at Walmart, I’m not surprised to find that the entrance looks eerily similar to the Mouth of Hell.  Scratch that.  With the boxes AND BOXES of school related minutia stacked up on either side of the entrance, it ACTUALLY looks more like a School Supply Gauntlet.  It’s an inescapable tunnel of school supplies that beat on you until you burst out the other end – dazed and bloody, barely alive.  IF you live, that is. 

But you know me, always trying to avoid a descent into madness, so I put on my fun face and say to the kids as we walk in, “Oh!  They knew we were coming.  Look at all these colorful binders.  Both of you kids need binders.  Grab ’em and go!”

 Sissy replies, “These are all one inch.  Mine need to be one-and-a-half inch.

Crap.

Sonny replies, “MINE can be one inch.  But these are all colored and mine need to be white.”

Crap!!  And what is this, Racist Binder Time?!

And so it goes until it’s an hour later and I’m sixty bucks in the everlovin’ hole and we can’t find a Mead Black and White Composition college-ruled notebook to save our lives.

Red and black?  Check.  GREEN and black?  Check.  Black and white zebra stripes?  CHECK!  Hey, technically it’s black and white and I don’t CARE if they’ll give you a demerit because of it, just GET IT!  But it’s wide-ruled, not college-ruled.

GAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!

Turns out I HATE back to school shopping.  And I don’t think I saved myself any money by NOT buying The Kit.  And it sure as S**T didn’t save me my sanity.  Won’t do that again.  Kits next year for SURE.

 P. Frickin’ S. – why did we have to BUY book covers?!  Why can’t my son just A) USE the hot pink argyle-patterned book covers his sister had leftover from last year…or better yet, B) just MAKE book covers out of paper bags like I did when I was a kid?!  When I posed these questions to him, he looked at me like had just suggested he WEAR hot pink paper bags to school the first day.  So we bought some slinky-fabric book covers in manly colors for $1.98 each.  GAAAAAHHHHH!! Twelve paper shopping bags, a bitten pencil nub, a blue Bic pen and perhaps a few obsessively coordinated folders and notebooks comprised my entire back-to-school-supplies when I was his age.  And I turned out fine!  Just FINE!  F. U….i. n. e.  FINE!!!!!

Team Building Exercise

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After I bounced the kids out of the basement yesterday, they continued their rowdy game of Blind Man’s Bluff in the backyard.

Basically, the game was about who could yell loudest while cheating all without getting caught by a blind person.  And when it wasn’t about that, it was about who could wear their bandana blindfold on their head in the most intimidating Bloods and Crips way.

You know what all that reminded me of?  A team building exercise I was subjected to back when I had a job.  And no, I don’t have another one yet, but thanks for asking!  stink eye, stink eye

We had meetings all morning long.  Then in the afternoon, we were told to change into sneakers and hightail it to a rendezvous place in the woods located somewhere on the “campus” of Company HQ.  [For those who don’t know, “Rendezvous place in the woods” is French for, “Does anyone else hear ‘Dueling Banjos’ playing in their head?!”]

All scary movies aside, thanks for the awesome tip about the sneakers.  How do you think my black pantsuit looks out here amongst the July humidity?  And aaaaaccck!  Was that a spider or a trickle of sweat?!??  Phew!  Just sweat.

Upon arrival in the woods, we were met by a representative of our own company whose JOB it was to conduct team building exercises!  This is an actual JOB?  And you roll up under the Fitness Center hierarchy??  What exactly is this “exercise” going to involve?!  If we have to do a ropes course or fall back into eachother’s arms, I’m out.  Also?  If we have to change into swimsuits for some wicky-wacky canoe races in the company pool, I’ve already done that – and I’m not EVEN joking about that – so I’m out as out can be.  A person should only be required to do that “swimsuit in front of co-workers” thing once in their life…if at all.

But no swimsuits required for this mission.  Instead, we split into two teams and after some verbal warm-ups (ex: “Two Truths and a Lie” where you tell the group two truths about yourself and one lie and they have to guess which is which – ugh) we move into more physical Three Stooges territory with activities like “Which team can pass the rubber chicken through everyone’s hands the fastest.”  And I’m not even joking about that one.  Hint: Have someone hold the rubber chicken at the top of a “tunnel” of hands formed by the rest of the team, then let it go.  As gravity does its work, it passes through everyone’s hands and is caught at the bottom by some poor, crouching co-worker.  Fast, right?  Winner, winner (rubber) chicken dinner!

Finally the adventure culminates with all of us having to move further into the woods and out of sight-distance from each other while one team member is left behind to be blindfolded, given a cigarette and shot by a firing squad.  Kidding.  Totally kidding.  Well, at least about the cigarette and firing squad.  But there is a blindfolded co-worker.  And then we have to regroup at the site of the blindfolded co-worker without using any verbal clues.  Clapping!  CLAPPING!!  Clap, clap, clapclapclap!  But the OTHER team is drawn to OUR team’s clapping.  Oh, ho, ho.  Isn’t that a gas?!??  Soooo fun and team build-ish. 

Eventually we’re all reunited with our assigned blindfolded person who then has to put us in order-of-birth-month I’m not even joking about that.  But since they can’t SEE, and we can’t TALK, we have to press Helen Keller symbols into their hand.  W-A-T-E-R.

Once we’re all lined up like a bunch of sweaty January-through-December schmucks, it’s all over and we’re allowed to go eating and drinking together.  Now THAT?  That eating and drinking thing??  THAT’S my idea of team building.  And I’m not even joking about that.

Serve It Up On A Platter

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I had the weirdest dream last night.  I was having a dinner party at my house and had invited the entire cast of the Real Housewives of New Jersey.  In an alternate universe I could actually BE one of them and/or be FRIENDS with all of them.  Maybe that’s why I invited them to dinner?  Either way we all knew eachother and they gave me air kisses when they came in so it was fine and absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

But when each of them arrived at the door, I discovered that they all brought along a husband or sister or mother or friend.  And my anxiety level escalated because I had committed the fatal error of only making eight mini quiches for dinner.  Gaaah!  What a stupid thing to do!  Mini quiches??  There’s no way to stretch those!  Why would I DO that?!  Why would I do THAT?!? 

Also, at one point in the proceedings I found one of the mini quiches carefully set to the side because it had a LONG, BLACK HAIR sitting on it!  I put my money on Teresa Giudice as the hair-er then the setter-asider, but when I went to pull the hair off and put the quiche back out to eat, I realized the hair wasn’t resting on top, but was BAKED INTO the quiche.  GAAAAAH!  Make that SEVEN quiches now for about twenty people!!!

To make matters worse, we had just moved into the house and all of my serving dishes and platters were still packed in the basement.  The former owners had left a bunch of platters behind as well.  Their platters were all dusty which had, in turn, gotten MY platters all dusty.  And which made me think that their platters had been in the basement so long that they had completely forgotten that they even HAD these platters.  The platters were REALLY NICE by the way.  So as I was wiping off EVERY SINGLE platter with a dishcloth, I found myself wondering if I should TELL the former owners that they had forgotten a bunch of platters…or if I should just keep them as their price for being stupid and forgetful.  Enter moral dilemma.  Also?  Where’s the sink in here?  Is there a sink in here??  Why would I put a bunch of kitchen stuff in the basement with no sink?!?  And why am I doing dishes with a houseful of people upstairs that I’m supposed to be serving dinner to?!??  This is really…POOR…PLANNING!  I NEVER do this!  I ALWAYS have everything ready to go when I have a dinner party.  Why would I lose my marbles at THIS dinner party and be so half-a$$ed about it??  But more importantly, I realize that I stupidly put the drinks table down here where I’m wiping off platters and no one has disturbed my platter-process for the last half hour which means: A) Hubby is just standing in the foyer chatting with people and not offering them drinks and B) people are not getting DRUNK and getting people drunk was going to be my saving grace since I only had SEVEN quiches for them to eat.

So I hustle upstairs and tug on Hubby’s sleeve, “Hi.  Hi.  Yep, I’m super glad you’re having fun at my lame dinner party.  But could you please OFFER PEOPLE DRINKS!  NOW!!!  LOTS OF THEM??!!!”  And as I’m going back downstairs to further sort out the platters, I say hi to Joe Giudice, compliment his shoes and then notice that he’s standing on a green indoor/outdoor rug runner on the basement stairs – and that the runner is total crap.  Why wouldn’t I have ripped that UP before I had this party.  But now I know what they mean when they refer to “threadbare carpet” in books.  Good Lord this thing is WORN and SHABBY as all get out!  [Enter real life stair project.  It’s even in my DREAMS!]

Then suddenly it’s dessert time and I’m still wiping down platters – this time to put the cannoli and wedding cookies on that everyone brought.  All of the sweets are still in their deli containers.  Why don’t I just LEAVE them in their containers, set them out, and be DONE with the platters already?!?  Someone’s mother has wandered downstairs looking for the drinks table and I’m kinda p.o.’d about it because now she’s gonna see all the dirty platters.  Also?  I haven’t even STARTED cutting up the strawberries for the strawberry shortcake that I had planned for dessert.  Worst.  Dinner.  EVER!  Mini quiches and strawberry shortcake for a bunch of Italian people??      

She tells me people are starting to leave upstairs so I go running back up yep, threadbare alright and find that there is so much food EVERYWHERE!!  Half-eaten antipasto platters.  Caprese salad with wilted basil leaves on top.  Pasta. 

Hubby is seeing the last person out the door.  I catch a glimpse of a fur coat.  Fur??  It’s August in Colorado.  Why would I EVER be friends with you whoever you are leaving my dinner party??

I ask, “Who brought all this FOOD?”  Hubby thumbs at the closed door indicating that all of the departed guests did.  Like I said, worst dinner ever.  Mini quiches, pasta, cannoli and strawberry shortcake.  Where was the THEME?!?  I always have a THEME.  What is going ON?!? 

Then the t.v. downstairs starts blaring and I wake up. 

Dream interpreters around the world, unite!  And please tell me what PLATTERS represent in Dream Land.  Because that dream with all the platters?  That was AWFUL!  And does anyone else think that the word “platter” sounds weird if you say it too many times??  Platter.  Platter.  Platter…

All Sewn Up

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Matthew 13:3 – Jesus told them many things in parables, saying: “A sower went out to sow.”

I’ve decided to turn this into a religious blog.  Thank you for stopping by.  I’m wishing you a warm welcome in Christ!

HAHAHAHAhahahahahaha!!!

You are a total knucklehead if you believed that I would become a religious blogger.  In addition to all of the ^%$#!* swearwords I sprinkle throughout my posts, there’s also the mockery [please refer to “you are a total knucklehead” above] and the anger.

In other words: Me?  As a religious blogger?!  Bless yer pea-pickin’ heart, but no.  Thank you though.

What I ACTUALLY meant to say at the beginning of the blog was: A sewer went out to SEW. 

And take a gander at what the poor thing had to sew ON!

Yes, this is an antique I just received.  It came to me by way of a cross-country trip from Southern Virginia after spending a four-year stint in my sister’s basement preceded by sixty years or so in my grandmother’s unheated New Hampshire barn (baaahn). 

It was manufactured in 1909 and are you out of yer ever lovin’ MIND?!?  [Anger now.]  Of course I’M not the one sewing on it!  It’s just for look-sees.  Display purposes only.  Because this thing is astonishingly gorgeous.  Like the Chrysler Building and a Model T Ford all rolled into one.  It’s completely amazing with its intricate-yet-surprisingly-simple machinery, golden scrollwork and woodwork cabinetry.

But trust me when I say that sewing on one of these things is hard work.  Imagine having to pat your head and rub your belly WHILE sewing AND riding a bike AND DOING MATH and you’ll get a better picture of what I’m talking about.  In other words, it’s completely impossible. 

In which case screw you and yer pea-pickin’ heart – instead God bless the women in the early 1900’s who had to sew on these things.  [Reminder: Electricity wasn’t invented yet.  And neither was Target.  So there was no place to get trendy, ready-made clothes at reasonable prices.  Instead, they had to be made in a sweat shop for one.]

Can you just picture these poor gals?  With their hair poofed just so and tucked up under their broad-brimmed hats topped with fruit and tulle.  Sitting their plump partridge bosoms and corseted wasp waists down at this “modern marvel” gettin’ busy making a pair of skinny jeans?!?

No wonder why they ended up going all Suffragette City on us. 

I, for one, don’t blame ’em.  Sew there!  Heh, heh, heh – you knew THAT was comin’ didntcha?

IKEA Catalogue

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I got the new IKEA catalogue today.  And even though the unfinished stair project has been calling my name, I’ve been pouring over this thing like nobody’s bizzzz.

This thing is GREAT!  And it makes me want to move on to my NEXT project which has yet to be determined.  I love all of the gadgety, streamlined, organized-to-within-an-inch-of-their-life items they offer for sale in this book.

But mostly, page after page, it makes me start to wonder how Swedes live.  Do they all have tiny apartments with twenty other people living in them?  The whole “Get some privacy – and a bedroom – just by using curtains” thing is a little concerning. 

And there’s even this one picture of four people in a bathroom with the quote, “Sometimes the bathroom is just for you.  Sometimes it’s for everyone.” 

Uhhhhh…no, in my country, the bathroom is always just for me.

So – on second thought – you can keep your cramped rooms and I’ll just look at the nice pictures and dream of traveling briefly to Sweden during a trip.  Maybe at Christmas-time.  When “cramped” would be less cramped and more cozy.  And everything I’ve ever crocheted would fit right in.  Also, I might get to wear a wreath in my hair with live candles on it.  While I serve gingersnaps to everyone.  And then me and the twenty other people in my room will eat meatballs and drink glogg*.

Yep…that’s a waaaaay better idea.  Thanks, IKEA!

*Does anyone else think the word “glogg” sounds like if you drink enough of it, glogging noises will start coming out of your mouth along with already-chewed Swedish meatballs??  Yeah, me too.  It’s a bad name.  They should change it.