Rap Battle!

My daughter has been challenging me to rap battles lately. Is this what all lovely young ladies her age are doing with their mothers?!  Because – and I say this with nothing but the greatest of maternal affection – she’s really, really bad at rap. Her raps usually last for one line and then just turn into rhyming noises, not even actual words.

But I?  Being a time traveler from the 1980’s, I have a serious stockpile of the three rap songs to come out of the decade. And as a result, I’m able to beat her in battle.  Every.  Time.  And yes, yes, I’m counting.

Example A:

Sissy throws it down with, “The car goes rahr…duh, duh, duh, duh, dahr!”

And since it’s on like donkey kong about the car theme, I naturally reply with, “You get in your car and you drive real far and you drive all night and then you see a light and it comes right down and lands on the ground. And out comes a man from Mars. And you try to run but he’s got a gun. And he shoots you dead and he eats your head…”[1]

At which point Sissy says, “Stop, Mom. No. That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” like I didn’t just winner winner chicken dinner all over her with the Man from Mars biz.

Example B:

We’re going somewhere & the car radio’s playing. Sissy looks over at me and starts in with, “I don’t like this song on the rad-i-OH!  It’s badie, daddy, dad-i-OH!  Wucka wucka wucka.”

To which I say, “A hip hop, hippie to the hippie. The hip, hip a hop, and you don’t stop, a rock it. To the bang bang boogie, say, up jump the boogie. To the rhythm of the boogie, the beat!”[2]

Sissy, open-mouthed (I say in awe, she would probably say it was total disgust) says, “No, absolutely not. That’s totally dumb.” Look who’s talkin’…

Example C: 

This past week-end I walk into the family room and Sissy starts in with something awful along the lines of, “The light above your head means that you’ll soon have to go to bed, vuffee, vuffee, vuff!”

To which I reply, “Superman looked up at me; he said you rock so naturally. Jam on it. Jam on it. Ja, ja, jaja, jam on it!”[3]

This particular mother/daughter Rap Throw Down is Hubby’s first witness to the magic. So for a second he sits there stunned.  Then he says, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can’t battle unless it’s your own original stuff!”

Huh?!?  Who knew?!  Who knew there were even RULES for Rap Battles?!?  Not me.

And just like that, Rap Battles in our house?? Done.  Because Home Girl ain’t gonna play if Home Girl can’t win with her professionally written 80’s raps.

Wucka, wucka, wucka.  Vuffee, vuffee, vuff!

[1] “Rapture” by Blondie released January 1981.

[2] Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” peaked at 36 on Billboard 100 in January 1980.

[3] “Jam on it” by Newcleus released on 1984.

Alaska – the final frontier in t.v. shows

My husband is obsessed with two t.v. shows lately, both about Alaska:

  1. Bering Sea Gold – or as I say, “I’m not buying any more gold jewelry now that I know where it comes from. Because that? Is RIDONKULOUS!” There’s endless equipment malfunctions and in-fighting amongst the team.  And if I can’t stop buying gold jewelry, I will begin paying extra for the non-conflict gold from other countries. An alternative title for this show could have been: Ice Road Truckers Go All Miner Forty-Niner on Your Assets.


  1. Alaskan Bush People – or as I call it, “Completely incompetent people who should not be living in the Alaskan wilderness yet are and will most likely pay the ultimate price for it.” The show is about this family – 2 parents, 2 younger tweenish daughters and like 4 or 5 or 12 sons who don’t hold still and look different every time you see them so it’s hard to get an actual count. They all have this Nell, “Taaaay in the weeyund” accent developed from their viewing of Jodi Foster movies on old VHS machines jerry-rigged to run via gas-powered generators. And they are endlessly underplanning for important things like building a dwelling and acquiring food before winter comes. In addition, someone gets a toothache at least once an episode and has to go by boat, olde timey wood paneled station wagon and dirt road (not necessarily in that order) to get to the only dentist in Alaska. When the toothaches happen, the 4 or 5 or 12 brothers stay behind so that they can begin catching plenty of fresh salmon for the tooth-pulling-in-exchange-for-fresh-salmon barter that will ensue. I admire the family’s big dream and all. But their execution is the pits.

Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon?

This morning, Sonny & I were driving a million miles away to attend Sissy’s softball tournament.

[as you know, this is the rule of softball tournaments: they must always be a million miles away so that you can prove your commitment to the sport by going to far off lands]

Halfway there, we spotted two hot air balloons rising into the gorgeous spring morning.

Sonny turned to me and asked if I’d ever be able to do something like go up in a hot air balloon since I’m afraid of heights.

“Hmmmm…I’m not sure,” I replied, not convinced that it would be the same as standing at the top of an icy mountain with no other way down than by engaging my fear-juice squirting mechanism.

So I explained that I wasn’t sure, but maybe; maybe I’d be able to go up in a hot air balloon. It would certainly be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

I looked at Sonny, trying to gain consensus on the “once-in-a-lifetime experience” thing whereupon he shrugs and says matter-of-factly, “Well…unless you OWNED a balloon.”

[as you know, this is the rule of sons: they must always provide you with perspective on the fact that even though you think you know lots…you don’t know EVERYTHING.]

So yes. Yes, good point, Sonny. A balloon ride would be thrilling and only happen once in your life unless you OWNED a balloon & could go up in it every day. Whereupon it would be matter of meh – just another ho hum ride in my balloon. Snoozeville. Remind me again why I wanted to buy this balloon in the first place?!? So tedious…

Celebrating St. Patrick’s Day

What better way to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day than by making a prank phone call?!  Using my remote camera capabilities, I can see that you all agree.  So let’s shout out all our fun perhaps accidental St. Patrick’s Day prank phone call stories.

I’ll go first.

But just a sec!  Before we get there, by way of explanation, I need to tell you that today is my mother’s birthday.  Happy Birthday, Mom – we love you!!!  And when we were kids, we gave her all of the Birthday-on-St-Patrick’s-Day-green-beer-for-breakfast-in-bed one woman should ever be subjected to.  [Did I say beer?!  Beer would’ve been weird.  I actually meant pancakes.  And I believe at one point there were even green eggs.  Mom, please verify the eggs.]

So now that the green pancake (and possibly green eggs; still waiting for verification) portion of the event is over – forever – my siblings and I have moved on to plain ol’ birthday phone calls.

One March 17th a few years back, my kids and I called my mom early in the morning to wish her a happy birthday.  I was also trying to hustle everyone out the door for school and work, so in my rush, I may have mis-dialed my parents’ phone number in Virginia.  I thought an Asian woman answered, but when I said, “Mom?” she said, “Yes,” so we launched in to a hearty cha-cha-cha version of Happy Birthday.

Halfway through, there remained a niggling doubt about whether or not we were actually singing to my mother, so I called a halt to the whole thing and said again into the phone, “Wait…MOM??”

To which the person on the other end – who may have been A mom and was therefore required to listen patiently and without interruption to our singing, but perhaps wasn’t MY mom with a birthday on St. Patrick’s Day, replied politely, “I sorry.  You have wrong number.”

But then, when she said it like that, it almost sounded IRISH!  Ha, ha, ha.  This, naturally, led me to believe that my sister and her daughters were visiting my parents and my sister’s younger daughter had picked up the phone and was goofing around with us before putting my mother on the line.  [And yes, I find it best to come up with the most cockamamie idea of what could possibly be happening and then proceed as if it actually IS happening.]  So, now, convinced that my niece had indeed picked up the phone and was using a fake Irish-bordering-on-Asian accent to screen my mother’s birthday phone calls, I said to the voice on the other end, “Ohhhhh…riiiiight…is this crazy IRISH Niece?!?”

To which the voice replied again (politely, yet a bit more adamantly), “I sorry.  You.  Have.  Wrong.  Number.”

Hmmmm…despite my theory, we must really have the wrong number and just unloaded a HUGE blast of wackiness on this poor woman.

So I hastily apologized and hung up.  Sissy voiced the concern that perhaps the woman would call the cops on us.  To which I replied, “Yes, she might.  In fact, she probably should.  But she’s in Virginia and we’re in Colorado, so she probably won’t.”  The cops never did show.

Then we called my real mother and sang a real happy birthday to her.  Turns out my sister and the nieces weren’t visiting at all.  What a dumb idea; who thought of that idea, anyway?

But in keeping with today’s theme, next I’d like to hear from anyone who has ever RECEIVED a bizarre singing prank phone call on St. Patrick’s Day.  Anyone?  Anyone??

Spring Break

Not sure why YOU’RE thinking of the Throw Up Slip-n-Slide.  But I’M thinking of the Throw Up Slip-n-Slide because Spring Break just started here and EVERYONE knows that the Throw Up Slip-n-Slide is practically de rigueur if you’re on Spring Break.  In Mexico.  When you’re eight.


Let me explain…

Spring Break three years ago when I had a job, Hubby, the kids and I took a trip to an all-inclusive resort in Mexico.  Our suite was gorgeous; all white leather couches and white marble floors gleaming from one end to the other with a few fluffy white throw rugs thrown in for good measure.  But who spends much time in their suite, especially when there are pressing decisions to be made like whether or not to go to the beach, or to the pool, or back to the beach.  And which drink to have where.

By the end of the second day, for some reason every bartender at every beach and swim up bar knew little eight-year-old Sonny on sight and would shout his Mexican name whenever he showed up, like he was Norm entering Cheers, “El hijo!”

At which point El hijo would order whatever the Spring Break spirit moved him to order: another chocolate milkshake, or perhaps a frozen lemonade this time, maybe even a strawberry smoothie to mix things up.

That night, not feeling super spry, El hijo retired early to the sleek pull out couch he was sharing with Sissy.  Hubby and I were in another part of the suite when we heard some weird gurgling noises and Sissy exclaim, “Oh, no, El hijo!”

When we went to investigate, we saw El hijo on the move.  An unsightly tannish mixture was foaming out of his mouth as he was bustin’ for the bathroom.  I’ll give you exactly one guess on what happens when regurgitated smoothiechocolatemilkshakefrostylemonade meets marble floors and throw rugs.

Yep, good guess!  Throw Up Slip-n-Slide.

El hijo staggered through the first few slick footsteps, seemed to right himself and then went down hard and slid halfway across the floor like he was sliding into home plate, in the process getting one whole side of himself (all the way up and THROUGH his hair) completely SCHMEARED with vomir, n’est-ce pas.  Nummy, num, num.

Ahhhh, Spring Break.  Always so much fun.  And those swim up bars?  Unbefrickinlievable, ESPECIALLY when someone throws down the Throw Up Slip-n-Slide.  So, so fun.   Just remember to bring your fifty big ones to tip the maids while they make all the Throw Up Slip-n-Slide memories go away while you huddle outside on the balcony overlooking the swim up bars.


Last evening we were on our way to the final Kid Book Club meeting at school.  Sonny was sitting in the front seat getting up close and personal with three bouquets of daffodils, one for each group leader, as our thank you to them for putting up with the lunacy.

We pull out of the driveway and start heading out of the ‘hood when Sonny says, “Hey Mom.  These flowers smell like your breath!  Originally I thought it WAS your breath.  But then the smell went on and on and I realized it was the flowers.  Which smell like your breath.”

I’ll just let you sit with that for a sec…





Still sitting….






Yep, still sitting….





You also were stunned into silence, weren’t you?

Because if you’re like me (Twinsies in the HOUSE!) you think that daffodils smell like Spring.  Initially.  But the more you keep smelling them, the more you realize that they ACTUALLY smell like spring flowers a dog pee’d on.

So, in order to find out if my son thought my breath smells more like spring – or more like DOG PEE – I voiced my theory on what daffodils smell like.

Sonny’s response?  “Yeah…I agree.  But in the case of your breath, it’s not as heavy on the Spring as what you were just saying.”

Oh.  My.  LORD!!!!!

All this time my breath has smelled like PEE (heavy on the PEE, apparently) and no one told me?!?  I hate you all!  Why did I have to wait until my son turned 11 and was holding daffodils before I ever heard about my breath from anyone??!?  WHY?!??!!!!!

Stung and wanting to lash out at someone else, and now thinking of dogs, I adult-ly said, “Yeah?  Well…YEAH??  Well, I think the DOG’S mouth smells like FISH CHOWDER when you kiss him.  At least my mouth doesn’t smell like FISH CHOWDER! It smells like FLOWERS!!!”

The kids were silent after that.  I’m not sure if it’s because they wanted me to just stop clouding up the car with my PEE BREATH, already? Or if it’s because MY breath sometimes smells like FISH CHOWDER when you kiss me too!!!!?

Ugh.  Sigh.  Come up close to the screen so I can exhale right at YOU.  A full, deep-throated exhale so you get gassed by the fumes for not telling me already about the way things are with me.

President Snow and I have more in common than I initially realized.  So even though I’m a stay at home mom and he’s the president of Panem, responsible for the Hunger Games and completely FICTIONAL, we both have signature flowers.  His signature flower is a rose, which he pins on his lapel in order to cover up the stench of death coming from the unhealable sores in his mouth.  My signature flower?  A daffodil.  Which I will now begin carrying around so as to cover up the smell of dog pee (or possibly fish chowder) coming from my mouth.  Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh [that’s me breathing on you]

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh [still breathing on you]

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh [yep, still breathing on you]


The Traveler and the Berry

With a title like that, you’d think this blog would be about a man who voyages to a distant land where he eats a magical berry and falls into a deeeep sleeeep.

But you’d be wrong. Dead wrong.

This blog is about how I am the most snakebit person my husband knows. And when he married me, he became the second most snakebit person he knows – due to close physical proximity, he became infected with my snakebittedness. You’re welcome, Sweetie!

[And if you’re like me and thought being “snakebit” is code for “lovely young woman who gives off just the right amount of good-girl-gone-bad vibe,” you’d be wrong.  Dead wrong.  It means you’ve got bizarrely bad luck. Apparently boys from Colorado DO still say the word “snakebit” in this day and age to their lady loves.  So romantic, no?  No.]

Remember all that talk from the other day about how I wished I were wearing LaToya Jackson’s captain’s hat in my driver’s license picture because it would have matched perfectly with my shoulder pad/epaulet combo?!  That all had the unfortunate consequence of reminding me of that time, early in our marriage, when my husband & I had to get new passports…

Apparently, during the lamination process at Passports R’ Us, they accidentally caught some small, roundish piece of lint in between the hard plastic shell and Hubby’s picture.  So his passport came back looking like he had a mole the size of a largish blueberry on his face, right in the crevice between his cheek and the corner of his nose.

Try explaining words like “accidental lint” “during the lamination process” “feel the page, not my face, it even sticks out of the page” “it’s not a REAL mole!” in a foreign language to customs agents who are ready to cavity search you at the drop of a LaToya Jackson captain’s hat.  If you can picture that nonsense, then you’ll realize why it eventually just became easier for my husband to travel internationally pretending he had recently had cosmetic surgery to remove his berry.  This can be accomplished by blinking, nodding and making scissor cutting motions at your cheek.  It helps too if your wife supports the pantomime by doing her own scissor cutting motions at your face while smiling.

And THAT, my friends, is the Snakebit Take Two version of the tale of the Traveler and the Berry.  Sweetie, enough…you’re welcome already!

License to…drive

I recently handed a waitress my driver’s license, to which she replied, “Oh my GAWD!  What are you WEARING in this PICTURE?!?”

Aw, no, Home Slice.  You don’t get to say that to me.  Because what I’m wearing completely rocked the house.  Back in the year 2000.  But still… 

I had just moved to Colorado and I was on my way to a job interview when I had to stop off at the DMV to get my license.  So I’m wearing my very best Banker’s Blue double breasted skirt suit (complete with blue spectator pumps but those don’t show in the picture) and a scarf with cream and blue circles on an alternating blue and cream background.  Awesome Sauce!  And yes, we were very matchy-matchy then.  I know we’re not as matchy-matchy now, in modern times, so it’s something I’m working on, thanks for asking.  I was also just getting used to the weather in the new state, so my hair is a disaster and looks like I have a head full of jacked up dolly hair that was styled with the wrong brush.  In addition, I wasn’t sure where to look during the picture so when the DMV employee told me to look “there,” I asked, “where?” and she caught me with my mouth open.  Again – it bears repeating – Awesome Sauce.  Yes, the more I say it, the more you’ll believe it.

But what you (and the waitress) don’t know is that the State of Colorado, in some license anti-fakery move, put two gold state emblems on either side of my scarf.  Set just…right.  So in low light, at the proper angle, it actually looks like I’m wearing HUGE 80’s shoulder pads (I…AM…Iron Man!) topped off with epaulets dripping gold fringe everywhere.

In fact, I onetime saw LaToya Jackson at the Straw Market in Nassau, Bahamas circa 1989 and she was wearing this EXACT blue-blazer-with-shoulder-pads-and-epaulets combo.  And a cruise liner captain’s hat with insignia and gold braiding. 

So “THAT” is what I am wearing for all of posterity.  Except for the captain’s hat.  That wasn’t me, that was LaToya.  But I see now I SHOULD have been wearing a hat.  It would have covered up my totally ratchet wig.  And?  It also would have “brought out” the gold in my epaulets in just that matchy-matchy way I like.    

Ryan Jensen

From: “Ryan Jensen” <aspen2325@aol.com>
Sent: Tuesday, February 24, 2015 6:47:08 AM
Subject: Terrible Incident!!!

I really hope you get this quickly. I could not inform anyone about our trip, because it was impromptu. we had to be in Manila, Philippines for Tour.. The program was successful, but our journey has turned sour. we misplaced our wallet and cell phone on our way back to the hotel we lodge in after we went for sight seeing. The wallet contained all the valuables we had. Now our passport is in custody of the hotel management pending when we make payment.

I am sorry if i am inconveniencing you, but i have only very few people to run to now. i will be indeed very grateful if i can get a short term loan from you ($2,950 USD). this will enable me sort our hotel bills and get my sorry self back home. I will really appreciate whatever you can afford in assisting me with. I promise to refund it in full as soon as soon as I return. let me know if you can be of any assistance. Please, let me know soonest.

Please let me know if you can help..



Did you get that urgent email from our ol’ pal, Ryan Jensen?  The one titled “Terrible Incident!!!” (complete with three exclamation points)??

Yeah.  Yeah, me too.

In which case, I think we can agree that Ryan is such a tool.  We always did say that about him and this just confirms it.

If he had pretended he was a wealthy foreigner from Nigeria who needed help from L’il Ol’ Us to get his multi-millions out of the impound lot, we would have been more likely to help him, I think.

But no, Ryan’s up to his usual tricks – “we misplaced our wallet and cell phone on our way back to the hotel…”

“Misplaced” my big Aunt FANNY!

I guess you shoulduv kept WAAAAAY better track of that loose $2,950 you needed to get home, RyRy.  And that soft-shoe business about how “the journey went sour” while you were sightseeing?  That’s not helping.  You probably shouldn’t mention that, because that’s not helping.  That’s not gettin’ me on board with giving you $2,950 because A) Quite frankly, you always were a bit of a jerk and you are, in fact, “inconveniencing me” as you so politely put it with your money request and B) I didn’t have the $2,950 to GO sightseeing with you in the Philippines (not that you asked) – and I sure as shoot don’t have the $2,950 to give you now that you lost YOURS while YOU were sightseeing in the Philippines.

So…good luck to yer bad self.  And next time you email, more caps please.  The whole e.e. cummings vibe you’re giving off in your email just adds to the Annoying Factor.

But all of that aside, I am happy to meet you at the corner bar when you finally get your “sorry self back home.”  You’re buying, right?