Are you aware of this concept in airplane travel?  [Yes, it’s a thing.  It’s an actual thing.  I said it’s a thing and therefore….it’s a thing.  Very Good, Grasshopper.] Armrest Airspace is where there’s an invisible line that extends from the center of the passengers’ shared armrest all the way up, up, up.  It also extends forward and down, down, down.  It’s totally like a force field separating the other passengers from you.  But without all that jolting and shocking and such.

And if a fellow passenger’s elbow (foot!, thigh?!) extends OVER the imaginary line, they have now entered your airspace – and are in direct violation of airspace regulations.  And you are authorized to send out MiG fighter planes to take them down.*  

Ok, kidding about the MiGs…but I totally WISH there were MiGs you could sic on these airspace violators.  Or, at a minimum, some alarm you could sound to have a swat team of flight attendants wrassle the violator to the ground.

But there’s not.

And so I have to content myself with an eyeroll at the flight attendant about the guy on my right who is basically sitting in half of my seat.  The flight attendant contents herself with an eyeroll back.  Not helpful. 

Wrasslin’?  Helpful.  Eyerolling??  Not so much.

Eventually the seat-and-a-half guy decides to purchase the t.v. program option.  But first he has to get his credit card, which is in his wallet, which is in his right back pocket, which necessitates him leaning left, further into my airspace.  But it’s not just a slight upper body leaning motion which nudges my shoulder.  Oh no!  Instead, he leans ALLLLL the way OOOOOOVER, until his head is almost resting here [she says as she waves her hand in a circular motion indicating the highly valued area of the lap-to-breastesses continuum].

And this, my friends?  This is much MORE than a mere violation of Armrest Airspace.  I’m not sure WHAT this is a violation of (OSHA?  Hazmat??  EEOC?!?  All of the above??!?), but it’s a violation all the same.  MiGs!  MIIIIIIGS!!!!  WHERE ARE YOU, MIIIIIIIIGSSSSSS?!??!  SEND IN THE MIGS…NOW!!!!

*And it’s baaaaack!  Remember that fun game we were playing where an 80’s song would pop into our heads? Triggered by nothing more than a word, a phrase, a moment in life??  Well, it’s baaaaack!  And now that highly acclaimed Kenny Logins’ song is playing in my head: “Highway to the Danger Zone.”  Do you remember that song?  From the movie Top Gun with Tom Cruise?!?  The song was recorded and released in 1986!  And yay!  I win!  Again!!  What are the odds of that?  That I would continue to win this game that I invented and am the sole participant of?!?  But why am I thinking of this song?  Because there’s a scene in the movie where Maverick and Cougar are being chased by MiG fighter planes over the Indian Ocean.  One of the MiGs gets a lock on Cougar’s plane and…ok.  I could go on and on here.  But I won’t.  Other than to say it was the liiiiiittle tiiiiiiiny mention of MiG fighter planes that got me started down that particular path.  Or should I say highway?  Hey, speaking of HIGHWAYS!  Highway to the Danger Zone…Gonna take you right intoooo the DANGER ZONE!… 

In honor of a recent trip to Cal-i-for-Nigh-Ay, over the course of the next few blogs, I’ll be sharing with you a some witty insights on the airport experience. 

Up first?  United Airlines’ boarding process:

Taking a page out of Southwest’s book, United has started using Zone Signage to corral passengers.  Now, we know they’ve been doing the Zone Thang for a good long while, but they just recently got hip to displaying signage that allows people to line up in an orderly, anti-bar-room-brawl type fashion ALL while keeping the common areas clear for people NOT flying on United. 

Are you in Zone 3?  Then you can begin to line up in the special place marked Zone 3.  Hint: It’s to the right of Zones 1 & 2 (which is where all of the escapees from the Island of Misfit toys line up) – and to the left of Zones 4 & 5 (this is the area reserved for the hoi polloi* although everyone is careful not to actually SAY “Zones 4 & 5” and “red-headed step-children of airplane travel” in the same sentence.  But it’s heavily implied when the ticket agent makes an announcement every 3 minutes about how the folks in Zones 4 and 5 are basically S-O-L when it comes to overhead space and they should just check their chickens and summer sausage coolers now).

And there you are.  All safe and snug in Zone 3.  But, shhhhh!  Shhhhhh!!!  The show is starting.  Quiet, Everyone!  QUIET!!  You don’t want to miss the show!!!

The boarding of Zones 1 & 2 could be considered Performance Art.  And anyone NOT in Zones 1 & 2 watches in amazement as one-by-one the Escapees from Misfit Toy Island shamble on board. 

Well, well, well.  Who do we have here?  It’s Charlie-in-the-box who is trying to simultaneously conduct a phone conversation while putting his phone (which contains his electronic boarding pass) on to the ticket scanner.  He crouches low like he’s got a busted spring somewhere in the rear compartment.  He’s still saying, “uh-huh…yeah…uh-huh”  And quick! he slams the phone down over the red eye and then pop! he’s right back on the call like nothing ever happened.  But dagnabbit! that didn’t work.  And the boarding agent’s stern, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to disconnect your call and focus on the boarding process,” keeps the line moving.  But that was fun while it lasted.

And then there’s that dude who’s vaguely reminiscent of the cowboy-riding-an-ostrich, complete with hat and neck kerchief.  A buzzing sound goes off and lights start to revolve when he scans his…gasp!…PAPER boarding pass.  “Sir, we’re not boarding that Zone yet.  Can I please ask you to step to the back of that line?”  Ack!  Snagged, Cowboy!  In front of Zone 3 AND the hoi polloi.  That was totes mcgotes awkward. 

Eventually we get the spotted elephant who’s carrying his OWN seatbelt expander and is announcing proudly that he has purchased an upgraded seat so as to not inconvenience others with his “girth.”  Ok, sir.  We weren’t judging you.  Until you mentioned about the stuff we might be judging you on.  And now?  NOW some might be judging you.  Either way, keepitmovin’.  Some of us want to get home this century, so keepitmovin’.

After the bird-who-swims-instead-of-flies and the water-pistol-that-shoots-jelly get through Scan Tron Central, finally…FINALLY…they call Zone 3 and you board.  You’re thoroughly exhausted from watching the Performance Art.  You’re unsure, quite frankly, whether you paid too little for the show – or too much?

*Hoi Polloi?!?  Ooooh, New Stay at Home Mom is bringin’ her A game when it comes to describing her fellow air travelers, isn’t she?!  And no, she won’t tell you what hoi polloi means.  You’ll have to look it up yourself.  And you’ll remember it far longer that way thankyouverymuch and you’re welcome!  Because if she GIVES you the answer, you’ll forget it by the time this is over.  Wait.  What?  What was she talking about?!?  Hottentot?  Hottentot, I think.  Yes, definitely Hottentot, which is any of the Khoisan languages spoken by the pastoral people of Namibia and South Africa.  Phew!  So glad we got that cleared up! 

Hubby and I went to an 80’s party this week-end. 

What did he wear?  A pink polo layered over a turquoise polo (with both collars turned UP), and tan wide-wale corduroys.  He topped the ensemble off with MASSIVE tortoiseshell glasses from the 80’s.  You remember these glasses, don’t you?  They were HUGE and ROUND.  The lenses started in the middle of your forehead and extended all the way down to the corner of your mouth, practically.

The glasses were actually mine.  My original prescription glasses from the 80’s.  I let him borrow them because I’m nice that way.  And it was also as punishment because he didn’t know about the whole layering-pastel-polos-over-each-other-with-both-collars-turned-UP.  The trend was 30 years old, yet totally new to him.  Bad boy!  Bad, bad boy!  How could you not know that?!?  Now wear MASSIVE prepster glasses as penalty.

And me?   

Let’s just say my outfit was a take on Madonna from that era – black capri leggings, tutu-esque skirt, white tank underneath a hot pink shirt that said, “Frankie say RELAX.”  And was mostly comprised of original 80’s items: white triangular earrings, hot pink mesh glove, lace bow for my hair, looooong strands of fake pearls bought on an NYC street corner.  ‘Cause really…why NOT keep that stuff for 30 years?  They’re jam-packed full o’ memories, but they also come in handy at some point in the future.  (See, Mom?  And you wonder why I never throw anything away?!?)

When we arrived at the party, my Swatch watch said 7:30.  On the dot!   (YES!  My SWATCH WATCH!!!  How fun am I?!?  Again, an 80’s original.  It has the one with the royal blue band and the semaphore-flags-in-place-of-numbers on the face.  I know you wanted that watch when you were my age, didn’t you.  Do I ROCK or what?!?)

Hubby & I proceeded to win the 80’s trivia contest, natch.  Lots of questions were focused on stupid sporting events and some political blah-blah-blah.  But since Hub is a baseball/sports aficionado AND a poly sci major, we rocked that category.  We agree that typically his is a deadly combination of interests when it comes to making casual chit-chat with the ladies, but it sure comes in handy when you’re gunnin’ for a do-it-yourself Jello Shot Kit. 

And what was my value add?!*  Well…first off, I looked CUTE!!!  So that’s something.  And in fact another attendee even said I looked so young!!  So that’s something too.  (I decided it was the HUGE white, lace bow on my head.  That always makes a gal look young.  In fact, as I’m sitting here blogging, I’m wearing it, and I do have to say it’s put a pep in my step.  Can you see me?  Through that little camera at the top??  Don’t I look YOUNG?!?  I know, right?  Just wait until I go pick up the kids at school.  EVERYONE’S gonna be talking about the magical power of the white, lace bow on my head!  Yipppeee!)  So in addition to being CUTE, I’m also FUN!  In fact, my theme song is “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun!”  While my theme song started back in the 80’s, I’ve found that if it’s a good, quality theme song, it will hold true for many years.  And yep!  Here I am.  Still fun!  Er…still wanting to have fun, at least.

Sooo….where are we going with this?  I’ll mention “smart” here as well…but…oh yeah!  That’s right.  My value-add in the trivia contest was in answering all of the more “social” questions – anything pertaining to movies, songs, clothes, movies, songs, and songs.  Oh!  And the Fall of the Berlin Wall (November 1989.  I was there!   Perhaps you remember me starring in the role of the girl chipping away at the Eastern Bloc with a butter knife “borrowed” from the youth hostel?? https://newstayathomemom.com/?p=2153 )

Anywhooo…Fuzzy Navels and White Wine Spritzers are just as terrible now as they were then, so once the regulars started showing up at the dive bar where this party was being held, we decided it was time to skidaddle.  Hubby put on his massive-shoulder-padded leather bomber jacket.  And I put on my massive-shoulder-padded full length jean coat.  And we headed out.  But not before some twenty-something-dive-bar-regulars accosted us to tell us that we NAILED it!  NAILED IT!!!  Even down to the jackets.  NAILED.  IT.

Hmmm…thankyou, thankyouverymuch, People-who-weren’t-even-alive-when-I-nailed-it-the-first-time-around.  But I’ll take your compliment.  And for posterity’s sake, I will note the time on my Swatch Watch.  7:30.  On the dot.

* So you can truly understand the difference between me and Hubby – one of the trivia contest questions was: Who was Michael Dukakis’ vice presidential running mate in the 1988 presidential election?  The answer: Senator Lloyd Bentsen out of Texas – said in just that way by polo boy in the corner wearing the MASSIVE glasses.  Now if someone had asked ME what was Dukakis’ theme song?  I coulda told them it was “America” by Neil Diamond.  And then I could have sung the WHOLE FRICKIN’ THING.  We’re comin’ to America.  Today!  My country ‘tis of thee!  TODAY!  Sweet land of liberty.  TODAY!  Of thee I sing.  TODAY!  Of thee I sing…TODAY!!!  See??  Fun, right?!?

Did you spend the whole day with that stupid “What does the fox say” song in your head?  Ring-ding-ding-ding-dingeringerding!…Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-paw!…

You’re welcome!  Don’t mention it.

And yes, it was in my head the whole day too, so we’re even.

I even took it a step further and posed the question to the kids, “If they made a song about you…and about what you say…what would be ‘your saying’ that they would sing about?” 

Sissy replied that they would sing, “Munga, Munga!” about her.  [Ok.  I can see that pretty much this WHOLE blog is going to need an explanation.  So here goes: When she was little, she called all four of her grandparents (and Dick Cheney), Munga, Munga.  Don’t ask any more about it.  I can’t give you further explanation.  Especially that part about Dick Cheney.]

Then – unprompted – she proceeds to say that what they would sing about me is, “Get started on your homework!  Get your homework started!”

Really?  Really??!  This is the ONE thing they would sing about me?  Clearly I’m going to have to step up my nagging game and move into more well-rounded hassling territory to include room cleaning and dog walking.  Challenge on.

About Hubby she said the song would go like this, “Sports, sports, basketball, sports.” 

Uhh…ok.  He clearly has the same challenge I do: Become a little more well-rounded in his annoying conversational topics.

About him, Sonny said that they would sing, “He gives his mother Knife Fists!” and as he’s saying that, he moves in quickly and gives me a series of Knife Fists to my ribs. 

At this point you’re saying to me, “Hmmm… what ARE Knife Fists?!  They sound like loads of fun!  Do explain!” 

Ok.  Will do!

My husband started the whole Knife Fists thing.  I think he did it so that we could be prepared to defend ourselves should Ninjas attack.  And I – thinking that Ninjas only attack under cover of darkness – initially thought they were called Night Fists.  Until it occurred to me that when someone is conducting this technique on your personage, it feels like KNIVES in your ribs.  Light bulb.

But that whole explanation is useless unless I describe for you HOW to make your OWN Knife Fists.  To make up for getting that song stuck in your head (frog goes croak…and the elephant goes toot…ducks say quack…and fish go blub…), here’s a do-it-yourself guide to Knife Fists:

You extend your hand like you would for a handshake.  (Note: For ease of explanation, I will be describing how to conduct Knife Fists with your right hand.  But you would follow the same instructions for your left hand.  And in fact you would want to involve BOTH hands simultaneously for maximum effectiveness.  It is Knife Fists plural, after all.  Although traditional ‘fists’ are not actually involved.)  So your hand is extended, but instead of having some space between each finger, you clamp them together as tightly as possible.  Your fingers should not overlap in any way, but instead should be parallel to each other and pointing forward.  Bring your thumb down so that it’s in a tucked position.  It should now be parallel to your pointer finger, and also pointing forward.  (We don’t want any bent-back or broken thumbs in Knife Fists now, do we?)  Proceed to jab your hands in a rapid, pistoning motion into your opponent’s ribs.  Channel your inner angry robot while shouting, “Knife Fists!  Knife Fists!”  Surprise is key here, so it’s suggested that you approach your opponent from behind when employing this technique.  If that’s not possible, then a rapid frontal or side assault is recommended.  Do not shout “Knife Fists! Knife Fists!” until you are actually striking your opponent’s ribs.  Again, surprise is key.  And if they think you’re coming in for a hug, what-feels-like-knives-in-their-ribs will totally surprise them.  SURPRISE!

And there!  You are a successful student of Knife Fists 101. 

That WAS fun, wasn’t it?!!  Now feel free to carry on with your day.  But beware of Ninjas!  And…FOXES!!!

Hatee-hatee-hatee-ho!… Hatee-hatee-hatee-ho!… What does the fox say?… Joff-tchoff-tchoffo-tchoffo-tchoff!  Joff-tchoff-tchoffo-tchoffo-tchoff!…

Ring-ding-ding-ding-dingeringerding!   Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-paw!

Have you seen this video by Ylvis that I’m quoting from?  It’s hard to describe; It’s too bizarre to be believed.  It starts out with a cocktail party where all the attendees are dressed as animals whose ‘sounds’ can be clearly defined.  (For example, the elephant goes “toot.”  Yes, “toot.”  Why?  How do YOU think an elephant goes?!)

Then we switch to a shot of waitresses-from-high-end-steakhouses dancing in the woods and wearing fox ears while the lead singer (in full fox regalia, natch) asks the eternal question: What does the fox say? 

At some point Santa appears.  It’s dress-down Friday and he’s sitting in a rocking chair with a boy on his lap and they’re reading from a book about what the fox says.  (Joff-tchoff-tchoffo-tchoffo-tchoff!) 

Eventually a query is made as to how the fox would communicate should it ever meet a friendly ho-o-o-o-rse.  (Hint: It would communicate by mo-o-o-o-rse.)    

Oy vey.  Ok, I can’t go on anymore with this.  It makes it sound like there was a bad “trip” somewhere in my recent past.  So suffice to say, you’ve gotta see this video for yourself, if you haven’t already: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jofNR_WkoCE.

Hey!  Speaking of foxes…heh-heh-heh, funny how that works.  Get your own blog if you want a smoother segue…we have two foxes in our backyard that spend their days tormenting my dog.  Especially when they tip-toe along the top of the fence like massive, overgrown squirrels. 

In return, the poor dog spends his whole day gazing out the window.  Or sitting on the back porch.  Waiting…waiting…sniffing…sniffing the air…and waiting…for these creatures to show up and 1) totally ignore him or, 2) drive him bonkers.

[And if you think the dog’s day sounds eerily similar to mine, then you can just shut it!  SHUT IT!  Because – while there may be some “waiting for creatures” and a good deal of “being driven bonkers” by same – there’s NOT actually a lot of “sniffing” in my day.  So there.  Well…except for when I’m cleaning the bathrooms.  But I’d consider that more “gagging” than “sniffing.”  So, SHUT IT ALREADY!]

As a side note, the foxes’ fur is GORGEOUS.  Now I can see why people would wear it wrapped around their neck.  With the little foxy face still attached.  ‘Cause that’s what I’d do if I ever got my hands on a fox.  And its fur.  Or maybe I’d go in more of a muff direction?  So I could have a place to stick my cold hands??  It’s hard to say.  But it’s nice to know I have options.  (Settle down, PETA.  I’m joking.)

But even after all this quality time the dog and I have been spending with the foxes, I still don’t know what they say…but I do know how they smell.

The secret of the fox?  The ancient mystery??  Is that it smells like hell.  Skunk-hell to be exact. 

Ok, I lied.  Are you happy?  Turns out there IS sniffing in my day.  Especially  when I kiss the dog’s face after a long day of mutual bonkerific waiting, only to find that it smells like…SKUNK!  What?  WHAAAT?!?  What has been going ON??!??   

GAAAAAACKKKKKKKK!!!  Ok, and now gagging…sniffing AND gagging…gaaaack!…yep, definitely gagging.  At least I told you the truth about the gagging…gaaaaackkkkk! 

The foxes are cute, but they REEK!  Who cares what they say – they have to go!  

And we’ve reached our final decision: Barkeep, I’ll have a muff for me and one for all my friends!*

*PETA, I am still totally kidding.  Who would give fox-fur muffs to their friends anyway?  That’s a terrible gift since they smell like SKUNK.  (the fox-fur muffs, NOT the friends hopefully)

When I was in my early teens, my friend Carrie would come for a visit during the summer.  We would go to the library and get enough Harlequin Romances to last us the whole week.  (We would also do hairstyles and make prank phone calls – back when you COULD make prank phone calls – so that tells you what we considered a perfect storm of fun!)

And one summer, having read every Harlequin-there-was-in-the-library-that-had-a-cheesy-70’s-cover-on-it (and some even twice) we decided to branch out and WRITE our OWN Harlequin Romance.  But really more of a parody of one – because even at that tender age we knew that love doesn’t actually happen the way it did in those books.

The hero of the story was the state governor.  (Hey, if they’re not some English Lord, they have to be a high-ranking government official.  It’s the law of 70’s Harlequin Romances.)  His name was Dirk or Lance (we never quite settled on which one).  And being kind-hearted under his brusque, manly exterior, when he assumed office, he wanted to “see how the common man lived” by trying out a variety of public servant jobs.  He was in the midst of a stint as a firefighter, when he met the heroine during a house fire.  It was the middle of the night.  She was in her nightie (gasp!) watching her low-rent apartment go down in flames.  (Naturally there has to be an exciting “rescue” scene right up front in order to get this true-love couple together.  It’s the law.) 

And that’s as far as we got.  The story never got written (beyond that first paragraph) because we spent so much time agonizing over the heroine’s name.  So that by the time we decided on a name, our visit was over and Carrie had to go home. 

Don’t keep you in suspense, you say?  What WAS the heroine’s name, you ask??

Purity Perfect.  That was the heroine’s name in our Harlequin Romance Parody.  And if you know anything about Harlequin Romances from the 70’s, then you would agree with me that this was the most perfectly named heroine of all time.

Until…Grace Gold.

Cut.  It.  Out! 

Grace Gold?!?  You HAVE to be kidding me with a name like this!  Have you heard of her?  What if I told you she’s tall and slender and has a goldenish bun on her noggin’ that only Cinderella has been able to pull off until now.  She wears a flirty little dress and dances to music.  On ice.  And just made the American Women’s Ice-skating Team. 

Yes, Grace Gold is going to the Sochi Winter Olympics.

Grace Gold?  Case closed.

And if we could all be so aptly named as to completely reflect our destiny, my name would be “Fun stay at home mom megabucks craftykins queen-with-green-eyes.”

What?  What’s that look for?!  Don’t give me that look.  Why, what would YOUR name be?

I was running on the treadmill, reading a book for book club on my Nook (font size HUGE helps with the reading while your noggin’ is a-bob, bob, bobbin’ along) and watching the Today Show.  The Jersey Girl who went to grad school full-time while working full-time brings the same amount of dedication to her Home Mom exercise routine.  Whoop, whoop! 

Now, I typically don’t watch the Today Show due to all of the nonsensical nattering (preferring instead to catch up on what all the Housewives-across-the-land are doing), but for some reason I had the t.v. tuned to the Today Show Monday…when Maria Shriver, complete with glorious hair and aggressive jawbone, pops up.  She’s got a thing going about the state of women today called “Doing It All.” (#doingitall)

Come on!  Seriously?!?  Are we STILL discussing this?  After all this time???

She’s playing a video clip of women giving their opinion about how hard it is to “do it all.”  Some truly annoying woman is going on and on about how hard it is, “Getting ready for school, school conferences, grocery shopping…” (Yeah.  Yeah.  Super hard ‘cause the rest of us don’t do that too??)  And then she goes on to say, “When you work full-time as a mother, you don’t get to give away your motherhood responsibilities to anyone else.”

Ok.  And now?  Now I’m PISSED OFF!!! 

This is EXACTLY why I can’t stand these women.  They think THEY have it so hard, and are so self-righteous in their stay-at-home-momness.  And so derogatory to anyone not on that same path.  And while I may SEEM like a stay-at-home-mom right now due to a trick of the light, in my heart I suppose I’m a working mother.  Well…AND a full-time mother.  And that’s why this nonsense gets me so p.o.’d.

“Don’t get to give away your motherhood responsibilities to anyone else.”  Take it back, Girlfriend.  ‘Cause if you don’t, I will meet you in the parking lot.  There’s no “getting” to “give away” your motherhood responsibilities when you work full-time!  I don’t know why you think there is. 

Because until you’ve pumped breast milk for your 3 month old during a lay-over in your business trip (in the dingy bathroom of a nondescript airport with or without the benefit of a stall door knowing full well there will shortly be a fight with the TSA agent about changing his gloves before he touches…and then SNIFFS!…your bodily fluids), then you do NOT need to be telling me about “getting” to “give away” my “motherhood responsibilities,” Homegirl !!!!!”

It is NOT easy-breezy beautiful Covergirl over here.  Trust me; the grass is NOT greener on this side.  I mean that side.  I mean whichever side.  ‘Cause I’ve been on both sides – and I can even see them now from where I’m sitting.  Nope.  Not greener.

And the ONE thing missing in all of this back-and-forth??  Is tennis team drills.  It’s puzzling to me why no one has mentioned tennis team drills.  How is everyone fitting THOSE in? 

Speaking of which, I’m off!  Can you guess where I’m going?  After all, I’ve got things to do, places to go, (tennis) balls to juggle!  Instead of meeting me in the parking lot, meet me on the court.  In your cutest skirt.  And we’ll see who’s doing it all.

I don’t get the nation’s obsession with the Broncos.  I mean, I get it (in a marketers dream-come-true sort of way), but I don’t.

Case in point: since the Bronco’s football game on Sunday against the Chargers, the radio stations have been full of conversation over Peyton Manning’s miked calls on the field.  His “Omaha, Omaha!” play has prompted the mayor of Omaha, NE to see if he can get Manning to do some sort of plug for his city.  Really, Omaha Mayor?  Have at it and best of luck with that effort.  I personally wouldn’t take advice from football dudes about where to visit with my tourism dollars.  And if I did, then the calls would have to start out, “Paris!  Paris!”

And Manning’s comments after the game about having a Bud Light have prompted a variety of artisan beer companies to send him their wares in the hopes of supplanting Budweiser in his heart and mind and subsequently getting a positive word out of him about his beer-of-choice at the NEXT press conference.    

[As a side note, the one thing about football I am on board with is the beer drinking afterwards.  And before.  And during.  Especially during.  Lots and lots during has the surprisingly positive effect of making football bearable.]

Broncos-fever has gotten to the point where even the PRIEST is announcing God’s football team preference from the pulpit on Sundays.  Knowing the rules about the separation of Church and Football, he wouldn’t come right out and say as much, but he did tell the following joke which I will repeat to you now.  Because it was kinda funny…

After living a long and full life, the coach of the Chargers (I can’t remember his name – why would you think that I could?) dies and goes to Heaven.  He meets God at the Pearly Gates and God shows him to a little cottage with a faded Chargers lightning bolt flag hanging off the mailbox.  [Hi.  It’s me talking now.  Anyone else think the Chargers lightning bolt looks like a banana from far away?  They should NEVER have formed it into that semi-circle.  Because lightning-in-the-wild is more jagged and not as tidy as that tame-half-moon-shaped lightning they got goin’ on.  Which has the unintended consequence of making it look like everyone on the Chargers sidelines has bananas on their ski hats.  Or are supporting some Middle Eastern country.  That one with the crescent moon and star on their flag.  Or maybe it’s just me??  Naw!  Couldn’t be–not possible.]    God talks very highly of the cottage the coach will be in because the cottage is special.  Not many people get their own cottage.  But from the front window, the coach can see a huge mansion.  The sidewalks and driveway are blue and orange and there’s a horse-head shaped pool in the back yard.  A huge Broncos flag is flying from the flagpole out in front of the house and there’s a big Peyton Manning jersey on the front door.  The Chargers’ coach (nope, still don’t remember his name) turns to God and says, “Well, I’m a Hall of Famer and have gone to Superbowls and have led a winning football team blah blah blah [Me again.  The deets get a little fuzzy here because I don’t even remember the guy’s name, much less his football accomplishments].  So why do I only get this little cottage and Peyton Manning gets a house like that?!?”

God turns to the coach and says, “Oh, ho-ho, Chargers’ Coach.  That’s not Peyton Manning’s house.  That’s MY house!”

See?  Funny.  Because we all know God doesn’t really live in a house.

You ever have those people in your life?  The ones who are CONVINCED they know what they’re talking about?  But maybe don’t…quite?

Yeah – me too.  Case in point: One time I was at a dinner party, and a man there was talking about how he had read a book about the secret to the longevity of the Centurions.

Me:  Uhhh…Centurions?  Like dudes in skirts who worked for Caesar?

Him:  No, no.  CenTURions.  Scientists had studied them and compiled a book on their findings of why they lived so long.

Me:  Sooo…CENTURIONS??  [It’s at this point that I’m pretty sure he’s talking about people who are 100 years old.  But I can’t remember what they’re called.  All I can think of is that Colorado became a state when America was 100 years old and that’s why it’s called the Centennial State.  But are PEOPLE called CENTENNIALS?  That doesn’t seem quite right either.  But I KNOW they’re not called Centurions.  And unless Pythagoras took a break from his tedious theorems, there wasn’t a scientist alive in 32 A.D. who studied the secret to the longevity of the Centurions.  ‘Cause if they had, they would have found that the secret was: 1) stay cool in your cute dress, 2) drive a swift chariot and 3) stick together in groups of 100.  There’s just not enough there to make an entire BOOK for people to talk about at dinner parties.]  So I say, “Actually, I’m pretty sure Centurions were Roman Soldiers.  Speaking of which…” 

And I’m off!  Telling everyone about this sweeping epic movie I’d seen one time about the life of Jesus.  And at the crucifixion scene, JOHN WAYNE was playing the role of the Centurion who stood by and watched Jesus take his final breath.  All is quiet after darkness falls over the land and the shroud in the temple has ripped, and it’s time for Mr. Wayne’s voiceover, “Truly this was the Son of God, Pilgrim.”

When we’re all laughing at my rendition of John Wayne as a Roman CENTURION (he doesn’t really say “Pilgrim” in the movie – I added that part), the man friend pipes up again with, “Ok, maybe they’re not called Centurions.  But they lived to be over 100.”  It’s at this point my husband strolls over and says, “Oh, you mean like Centenarians?”

-End Scene-

So where does this leave us when we’re faced with those people?  Whether it’s an innocuous dinner party conversation, or something more important?  I find it best to stick to my guns.  All the while using a little positive self-talk.  But in a cartoon voice, “I knows what I knows.  And that’s all that I knows…guck, guck, guck!” 

And if that fails?  Call my husband.  He’ll know.

UPDATE:  After I posted this blog, Hubby sent me an email “clarifying” (in an exasperated sort of way) that it’s Red SHIRT and not Red LETTER. Not that I care. But you might. So FYI in case you think he’s a total football moron. He’s not. I am. And I’m proud of it!  Now read on…

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People who find out I have a blog fall into three distinct categories: Category A, those who want to be IN the blog; Category B, those who DON’T want to be in the blog; and Category C, those who are in the blog all the time, and don’t even know it.  This category mostly pertains to my kids.  (I have named my daughter, Sissy and my son, Sonny.  No, of course those aren’t their real names, ‘cause I’m wack, but not THAT wack.  I just named them that for blog purposes so as to protect the guilty.)  And sometimes my husband falls into Category C as well.  His name is Hubby.  Hey – don’t blame me on that one!  His PARENTS named him Hubby, which is a weird coincidence, don’t you think?

Category A people always think that the conversation we’re having – right now – should be in the blog.  Hey, here’s an idea….I could be in your blog!  In fact, this conversation we’re having right now is pretty funny.  This conversation should totally go in your blog, right?   Yes.  Totally.

Category B people always think that their deepest, darkest secrets might appear in the blog and therefore avoid me at all costs in case I can see into their souls and pull out said secrets for blog-fodder.  While I can’t actually do this, I give the appearance that I can.  This “appearance” mostly consists of me giving them the stink-eye from across the room at parties. 

And as previously stated, Category C people include my kids and hubby.  And finally, here’s where we get to the jumping-off point for today’s blog. 

[The Editorial Calendar is a bit slow this week, so I gotta make do.  If you have better ideas for blog topics, please submit.  Until then, look right into my eyes.  Look DIRECTLY into my eyes so that I can SEEEEE to your VERRRRY SOULLLLLLL….] 

In no particular order (ok, I lied.  It’s actually age order – youngest to oldest – but I wasn’t sure if that was considered “chronological” or counter-chronological? so I didn’t mention it), here are the conversations I have had in the last day with three of these main characters in my lifestory:

Sonny: As he’s going to sleep last night, he asks (apropos nothing, always apropos nothing), “Do the babies hold their breaths in their moms’ tummies the whole time they’re in there before they’re born?”  Sigh.  This is always how he gets me to go down some confusing (to him AND me) path where I speak in euphemisms and code words that even I don’t understand.  Resolving to speak plainly in specific words this time around, I reply, “well, actually…the babies, while they’re alive, aren’t air-breathing yet.  They get everything they need from the umbilical cord that connects them to their mother.  Even oxygen.”  Judging by the puzzled expression, I can tell that Sonny is now picturing the umbilical cord snaking down the baby’s throat to feed oxygen directly into its lungs.  So I clarify, “I mean, the umbilical cord gives the babies everything they need in addition to oxygen, but directly INTO their bloodstream.  Like Vitamin C, Vitamin B12…” ok, where did THIS come from?  Why am I DOING this?!?  WAAAY too much weird, granular detail.  B-12??  Pull back!  Pull BACK!!   This sound-the-retreat voice in my head tells me this is clearly making NO sense, so I wrap up with, “The umbilical cord is how they get their nutrients to grow big enough to be born.  They don’t breathe air until they’re born.  So it’s not like they’re holding their breath the whole time.  ‘Cause they’re not.  They don’t breathe air.  Until they’re born.”  Hmmm…that was VERY good.  Very good, indeed.  People should put me in charge of telling this to other people.  It’s so clear and insightful.  Sonny replies with, “Soooo, is that why babies are blue when they’re born?  Because they aren’t breathing yet?”  Oh, geez.  This kid is BRILLIANT!!  Despite my best efforts to complicate the simplest things, he sees through it.  To which I say, “Yes!  That’s exactly right.  But then they pink-up.  Pink-up?  Who says: pink-up?  I’VE never said pink-up!  Yet now I’m using it in a conversation?!  This isn’t gonna go well.   Meaning: they get all pink when they’re born because then they’re breathing and oxygen causes them to pink-up.”  Sonny then says (in a horrified tone of voice), “Like pink up…like ALL the way pink?  Like HOT pink??”  Sigh.

Sissy: Told us ALL about her dream this morning over breakfast:  “So then, we met a girl from the state of Miladelphia at the pool while we were on a family field trip to Disneyland.  And I said, do you mean PHILadelphia?  And she said, no, MILadelphia.  But then we kicked her out of the car on the way to see the movie because she answered Dad’s question wrong about the honeybees.  And also we know there’s no state of MILadelphia.”  Uhhh…ok.  There’s also no state of PHILadelphia either, but this is your dream.  So what happened then?  “But then it turns out she’s IN the movie, like one of the actors.  And Jennifer Lawrence is also in the movie.  She’s the main character.  It’s about these people who live in Antarctica.  But now they’re on a cruise ship, and Jennifer dives down to the front of a cruise ship.  It’s like a room, but underneath the water.  And we can see the room’s window-porthole thing from outside.  And in the window is a pencil drawing of a guy.  I mean it’s just a pencil drawing but then we hear Jennifer off-screen say, ‘Hello brother’ and a bunch of fleas come out of nowhere and swarm over her.  We left and when we were back in the car I asked why we left and Dad said, ‘Because the movie was too scary.’  And then I screamed at you because I was mad that we left.”  Ooooooh kaaaaaay.  Less conversation, more one-sided rant than anything.  But that was interesting, right?   

Hubby:  With that freshman who just won the Heisman Trophy, the topic of our conversation last night was the whole ‘Red Letter Freshman’ concept.  I don’t know where I’ve been, but apparently this nonsense has been going on for a long time.  I was not aware of it until this conversation and so was asking perceptive and insightful questions that resulted in Hubby yelling that I should look it up and stop bugging him.  I will give you just one example of a perceptive question and then let you go about your business because I’ve taken up too much of your time already.  This question was, “Ok, let me get this straight…in Football Land they’re called a Red Letter Freshman, but in Real World they’re called a Sophomore?  But this guy who just won the Heisman is a REAL Freshman in the REAL World AND in the Football World??  But then what happens if you were a Red Letter Freshman but now you’re a Football Senior?  Does that mean you actually GRADUATED from college but have no life and you’re coming back to college just to play football?  You don’t have a job??  How many people are like this??!?”  This is when the yelling came in and the strong suggestions to “look it up, educate yourself, leave me alone!” may have started.  Whatevs.  It’s dumb.  And I actually don’t really care.  I thought the whole thing was going to be a Scarlet Letter/ostracizing sort of concept.  Which would have been intriguing.  But it wasn’t.  Instead it was just one more way football makes itself so confusing as to be completely uninteresting to me.

Now Folks, the captain has turned off the “blogging on and on about the family” signal.  You are free to go about your day.  Thank you for your attention.