promises, promises

It’s tiiiiiIME!  It’s that time of year again to make your Lenten Promise. 

My Lenten Promise – to stop swearing – lasted for a grand total of 17 minutes this morning.

There was a spider in the kitchen sink.  %^&*ing spider!  Just waiting…waiting…WAITING to ruin my Lenten Promise.  Also?  The kitchen sink is ruined for me now too.  I can’t go near it or touch anything in it.  Because I just KNOW, despite the waterboarding and garbage disposal treatment I subjected the silver-dollar sized spider to this morning, it’s waiting on the underside of that black rubbery sink hole protector.  Waiting…waiting…WAITING!  To once again ruin my Lenten Promise.  #^*%ing spider!  #$%^&*^#ING SPIDER!!

To put my Lenten Promise in context, it’s important to mention that I think fish wives have been unfairly maligned through the ages.  These original working mothers were STRESSED!  They had to sell those BLEEPing fish without benefit of daycare!  You kids CUT IT OUT!  I’M TRYING TO SELL THE BLEEPING FISH!!

So cut ‘em some slack already.  I have.  In fact, I’ve made it my own personal mission to retroactively provide equality and justice for them – by swearing like a sailor.  (Now the SAILORS?  The sailors deserve THEIR reputation.  So screw ’em!  And I recognize, as an explanation, the fish-wife theory is lacking a bit.  Just go with it.  Otherwise, screw you too!)

But periodically (ooooh…say….every Lent or so), it occurs to me that I HAVE to clean up my mouth.  I mean, what example am I setting for my children?!  I don’t remember my OWN mother swearing. 


(Hi Mom!  Scared yet?  But at least I’m not telling anyone about that thing, right?  That thing from Tuesday you asked me not to tell anyone about.  So that’s good.) 

Mostly, my mother would vent her anger by doing a Bruce-Banner-turning-into-the-Hulk sort of escalating growl.  gggggggggggGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!  [oftentimes accompanied with clenched fists, raised about ear-level, shaking like a weightlifter who can’t…quite…get the bar over his head]  And in moments of extreme angst, she would tack on a “SHUZBUT!” at the end.  Remember “Shuzbut” from Mork from Ork?  Yeah, that “Shuzbut.”  Embarrassing.

And one time, she even called my brother a “hassle.”  He thought she called him an a$$hole.  WE thought she called him an a$$hole.  If it were up to ME, I woulda called him an a$$hole.  But we’ve been over that already.  I’m cleaning up my act.  And my mouth.  Starting now.  Spiders be damned!! 


Crochet Elbow

I got me a bad case of Crochet Elbow.  Which is very similar to Tennis Elbow.  Except different, because the pain radiates up my arm and into my shoulderblade where it then connects via a thin band of pain all the way THROUGH my body to my collarbone.  Fun, right?    

And where does one go for help when one has Crochet Elbow head, shoulders, knees and toes, kneesandtoes? 

Why to the chiropractor, of course. 

Once I’m lying down on the treatment table, the chiropractor attaches electrodes to my shoulderblade and forearm.  We’re chit-chatting about tennis.  It’s CROCHET elbow, dammit!  Enough with the tennis.  And he asks me to tell him “when.” 

At that point, the arm-with-the-electrodes starts twitching and flopping like I’m Teddy the Dog chasin’ squirrels in my sleep woof, woof!  Uh….howzabout…NOW, Doc?!?

The doctor then does some other stuff, kinda surreptitious-like, at a table right beside my head.  And while I can’t exactly see what he’s doing (since I’m totally prone while my left arm conducts the symphony), I get the impression he’s taking incense sticks out of a wrapper and attaching them to me – one right at the top of my sweater, and the other near the crook of my arm. 

Hmmmmmm.  Incense?  I’m not a huge fan of that new age-y stuff, but if this is somehow gonna draw out the evil spirits* in my arm, then I’m on board.  Unless, of course, he LIT the incense sticks and now my clothes are in danger of catching fire??  I’m not on board for THAT.  I’ve got a busy day ahead and don’t have time to go back home to change my top due to burn holes!  So even though I don’t smell any tale-tell patchouli, when the doctor leaves the room, I glance down to see if there’s el fuego. 

I’m brought up short by the KNIFE sticking out of my CHEST!!!  What the WHAT!  Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat is THAT?!??!!!!

My eyes SNAP back to the ceiling and I’m thinking, “Ok, that can’t really be a KNIFE in my chest!  And if there’s a knife in my CHEST…then what’s in my ARM?!??” 

Sho’ nuf.  When I glance again, there’s a knife in my ARM too!  WHATwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatisTHAT?!??!

Ok, settle down.  Settle it.  The doctor would NOT put knives in your chest and arm without making you sign a Knife Waiver of some sort.  And since you didn’t sign a waiver like that, those can’t be knives.  Just relax.  Now look again.

Oh.  Phew!  Not knives.  Nope on the knives.  Just HUGE sewing machine needles.  MASSIVE, really.  The kind you might use in…acupuncture.  D’oh!  That gave me a scare for a second.  Knives.  Huh.  That was stupid. 

After electrodes and acupuncture schmacupuncture – the verdict is??  A big, fat, NO.  New age my A$$!  My arm still hurts like a sumbitch and motrin and modern medicine call my name.  In the meantime, fair warning: if you thought you were going to be getting gender-specific crocheted leprechaun hats for St. Patrick’s Day.  You’re not.   Please see “Crochet Elbow” and/or “evil spirits* in my arm” description above.

*Hi.  Now, before you get all up in arms (hee hee – see what I did there?  Up in ARMS…about my ARM?!?  hee hee) I will state outright that I’m just joking about the evil spirits.  Totally joking.  Clearly there are no evil spirits in my arm – this is actually a punishment from God for tacky crochet.  Joking.  Still joking.  We all know that I don’t make tacky crochet.

The Birthday Boy

Wait!  What?! 

What just happened??

I remember so vividly the day my son was born.  And TODAY?  He’s TEN!  (Actually, if you want to get all technical, today we are celebrating the END of his tenth year, which means that he’s going INTO his eleventh year, even though he just turned ten.  I know!  My head just exploded too!!  So let’s stop with the math-y talk, already.)

What happened?  Where did the time go??  From the day of his birth to today, I can remember exactly ONE thing…the time he was learning to walk and pulled himself up INSIDE the bar stool at the kitchen island.  Abbondanza, prison-for-one!!  And just like that?  Sonny could walk.  Albeit only inside his tiny little cell.  Which really had no room for walking or sitting; only standing.  But whatever.  It’s a cute story, so don’t bring me down.

Also?  I lied.  I remember other stuff too.  I’m not THAT bad of a mother.  Puh-lease!  Remembering only ONE thing from my son’s life?!  Tell me what you REALLY think about my mothering skills. 

For example, I remember yesterday.  Yesterday was Birthday Celebration Number 1.  (We have a tradition in my family where you make your birthday last as long as possible.  So we’re living up to tradition here.)  During BC#1, Sonny got to open his gifts from aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents.  There wouldn’t have been time to do all of that this morning since it’s a school day, so we are also being practical with this multi-celebration approach.

Anyway, one gift he got yesterday was a slime making kit.  But on the cover, it shows two girls standing beside a waist-high cup, stirring something inside with a popsicle stick as tall as they are.  Scattered around the experiment site are huge bottles as high as their heads.  (Can you say “truth in advertising?”)

At a quick glance, all you could really see of the kit description was the wording above the girls’ heads that said, “100% kid approved science experiment kit.”

This visual extravaganza prompted Sonny to say,” Oooh!  What does it do?  Shrink you down??!”

And there you have it.  Why I love my son so much.  And why I remember yesterday so well.  Yesterday was a stunning example of my son’s lifelong philosophy:  All things are possible.  Nothing is too far-fetched.  And the fun never ends.

He lives in a world where it could happen – where you could finally get that “shrink you down to tiny size” kit you’ve been waiting for your whole life.  And imagine the things you could do with a kit like that?!? 

While John Lennon went a bit over long with the “beautifuls,” he had the right idea when he sang that song about his son, “Beautiful Boy.”  

Happy Birthday, Beautiful Boy!  I love you.