Long before you could buy movies out of the air and use mind control to have them delivered directly to your t.v., they had these things called video rental stores.  These were store fronts FILLED with black boxy movies-on-video-tapes.  The tapes were the size of three-ring binders which you could rent for two or three days, and when you returned them, you could pay a gazillion dollars for the privilege.  And because there weren’t enough of the new-fangled video tape players to go around, you could rent those at that store too!  The video tape player even came in its own hard-sided, tuba-sized carrying case for convenience.

One Friday night, many eons ago, Hubby (then Fiancé), my oldest sister, and I went to such a place as described above and rented such things, also as described above.

Originally, I think we were looking for something along the lines of “Beetlejuice.”  But my sister insisted that we should instead rent something called “Day of the Dolphins.”  It starred George C. Scott and our dad really, really wanted to see it.

Really?  REALLY??

Have YOU ever seen “Day of the Dolphins” starring George C. Scott?  No??  Shocking, because it had George C. Scott in it.  He was a scientist, and he and his wife gave birth to dolphins which they then taught to TALK!!!  Bet you wish you’d seen it now and I was just kidding about the birthing part, but NOT the teaching to talk part.  I can’t really remember how it ended, though.  I’m thinking it’s highly likely the dolphins went rogue and murtalized an entire beachside town.  Or maybe it was something more along the lines of “the dolphins got kidnapped by communist spies who hoped to use them to take over the world.”

No matter.  What I do actually remember is that the main dolphin (named Pha, pronounced Faw, as in Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly, fa la la la la, la la la PHA) could only say a few words.  Side Note: George C. Scott must have been a really crappy dolphin scientist because, despite this being his life’s work, Pha could only ever say things like: Pha loves Pa; Pa loves Pha; Pha loves Ma; and so forth.  Oy.  You get it.  Very limited vocabulary, mostly rhyming.  Not sure what the spies hoped to do with that.

Two things at this point I wanted to mention: 1) Why, for the love of all that’s holy, would my father want to see this movie?!?  I think it was my sister who really wanted to see it and she made up that ‘Dad wants to see it’ part.  And 2) Why, for the love of all that’s holy, would George C. Scott be IN this movie??!  I’ve seen George on Broadway in a Noel Coward theater-in-the-round thingy, and he seemed smarter than that.

Sigh.

Why all the crazy talk about the crazy dolphin talk?  Because it’s Father’s Day and I wanted to do my own rendition of Pha loves Pa.  ‘Cept mine goes a little something like this…

I love you, Dad.  Happy Father’s Day.

P.S.  Hi, Hubby.  Happy Father’s Day and love you, too.  Remember that awful movie??  Did we ever figure out why my dad would want to see it??!

Q. Did you get your hair cut?

A.  No, I got them all cut.

This is what my geometry teacher in highschool used to say when we asked him if he just had a haircut.  This then necessitated a hardy, har, har followed by an inordinate amount conversation about our own hairstyles until the geometry teacher was forced to whip chalkboard erasers at…those people with the best hairstyles.  Or…at those people who may have been talking too much ABOUT their hairstyles.

I think I may have just discovered why I hate geometric proofs.

Where I was really going with all this is that my sisters and I recently had a conversation about the haircuts our mother used to give us.  All I’ll say here about those haircuts is that they involved a bowl and scotch tape and people thought I was a boy up until last year.

But that conversation got me thinking about them-there bowl cuts and how they must’ve been pretty cheap, what with the cost of bowls and tape being almost nil.  And…hey, I need a cheap haircut!  However, since I live in opposite world, I asked my DAUGHTER to cut my hair (and to please leave out the tape and bowl part).

For about ten minutes leading up to the event, we discussed how much to take off.  Not much!  Just to there!! [Said the pretty lady in the mirror demonstrating the slim inch of hair she wanted off.]  Sissy confirmed time and time again: Yeah, yeah, just about an inch.  An inch.  Only to take off the frazzled ends.  Just an inch.

Trustingly, I leaned back in the kitchen chair so that my long and beautiful locks could flow unencumbered down my back.  When I heard snip, snip I thought Sissy was just warming up the scissors, getting’ the feel of her tools and such.  But then Sonny walked into the room and said, “Oh my GOSH, Sissy! What are you DOING?!  Mom, she just cut off SO MUCH of your hair!!!”

What??  WHAT?!?  I jumped out of the seat and looked down at the floor.  There was a good THREE INCHES of hair pooled there while Sissy just stood by, innocently holding the weapon of mass destruction in her hand.

I thought we agreed: ONE INCH!!!

Her reply?  “Naw, it all had to come off.”

Alrighty then, let that be a life lesson to ya: when you ask the girl who’s all in, full out in everything she does, to cut your hair just an inch?  She cuts them ALL.  THREE inches.

I didn’t tip her.

Prairie Dogs?  What, are those like Jackalopes or something?!  That’s what my cousin thought during her first trip to Colorado, that prairie dogs were some sort of joke animal named so as to confuse visiting Southerners.  But let me assure you, as I assured her: prairie dogs ARE a real thing.  And now that we have that established, here’s a fun fact about prairie dogs for ya…they CLIMB.  THEY CLIMB!  THEY FRICKIN’ CLIMB!!!

RUN!!!  RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!!!!

GOD SAVE US ALL…PRAIRIE DOGS CLIMB!!!!

How do I know this?  Because I saw it with my own two eyes…

It all started with my phone call to the next door neighbor, “Hi.  Our dog just cornered what appears to be a sick-and-dying prairie dog in our back yard.  But I have to run the kids to tennis practice so I can’t deal with it right now.  Would you be able to make it ‘go away’ while I’m gone?  Yeah??  You’ll do that for me?!  As soon as you borrow the air rifle from the other neighbor??  Sounds good.  Thanks!”

As a side note, if you don’t have a neighbor like that, you should totally get one.  And also get one of those ones with the air rifle too.

But when I got back home from tennis practice drop off, Good Neighbor was poking around in all the corners of my back yard, air rifle in hand, no prairie dog in sight.

We’re looking at eachother, totally puzzled, when Air Rifle Lender Neighbor calls from the other side of the fence, “It’s over here!  It just climbed the fence and it’s on Good Neighbor’s back porch!!”

Climbed?!  CLIMBED?!?  Oh, gugguggug.  This isn’t gonna go well.

And sho’ nuff.  It didn’t go well.  By the time Good Neighbor and I got around the fence to his yard, we saw the prairie dog running across the patio and CLIMBING up the side of his house.  When it reached the back porch light, it just perched there looking at us.

CLIMBED?!? 

And then the wild west shoot out commenced.  ‘Ceptin that dadgum varmint wouldn’t quit already.  It kept risin up, doin its best zombie apocalypse rendition.

gugguggugGUG!  NOT.  GOING.  WELL. 

PETA please don’t come get me.  I just stood there shuddering and looking away and most likely getting bubonic plague in my open mouth.

Oh, that reminds me, here’s another fun fact about prairie dogs for ya…they carry bubonic plague.

Thus ends this episode of Fun Fact Friday.  Thanks for stopping by.  Happy Week-end Everyone!

Did I mention that school’s out for summer here in Colorado?  And Sonny wrote himself a Honey Do List for the amazing line-up of things he needs to do on the first Monday of vacation.

I’ve included the list in this blog post for your viewing pleasure. 

I think that any Summer Break Honey Do List, written by any incoming middle-schooler, in any corner of the galaxy, should – from this moment forward – end with “be awesome.”

Hubby thinks that any Summer Break Honey Do List, written by any incoming middle-schooler, in any corner of the galaxy, should – at a minimum – have the word ‘teeth’ spelled properly.

Hmmm, good point.

It’s my birthday today.  Happy Birthday to me.  Which means my driver’s license expires today.  Which means that for the first time in FIFTEEN YEARS, I had to daytrip to the DMV to renew it.

And that 1.5 hours the DMV and I had right there renewing my driver’s license was fun, wasn’t it?

No.  Actually, it wasn’t.  Because while the DMV has gone all high-tech with that nice robot lady announcing everyone’s numbers, she somehow managed to get to number 321 before calling my number, 292.  This waitfest afforded me plenty of opportunity to watch the magic unfold.

As a result, I was able to identify a key opportunity for improvement in the process: GET MORE FRICKIN’ CAMERAS ALREADY, DMV!  Because that ONE camera being shared by Windows A, B, C through-and-including Window S??  That right there is jackin’ up your sci-fi system; Makin’ it all present-day and stuff.  The resultant two-step license renewal process is…amazing.  And by “amazing” I mean “a complete clusterbomb of massive proportions.”  Especially that part where the guy with two hard casts – one on each leg – who assured the DMV employee the FIVE TIMES she asked, that he COULD drive a car with those casts on each leg, I think he lied to her.  Because it took him a good half hour to slide down ONE window to get his picture taken.  I can’t even IMAGINE how he’s gonna drive a car by moving that slowly.  So it’s a good thing they let him have plenty of head start with his new license before they turned the rest of us loose.  Otherwise that parking lot run-in wadn’t gone be purty.

Happy birthday to me. 

It wasn’t all doom and gloom though.  I did especially enjoy (finally) getting my number called.  It kindof made me feel like Prim during the Reaping, except Katniss wasn’t there to take my place.  But as I approached my designated DMV plexiglass window with the little talk-y hole in it, the “help me” etched on the inside of the window did seem a bit concerning.  Ha, ha, just kidding about the “help me” thing.  But the window arrangement did make me feel somewhat like a prisoner on visiting day, especially when the DMV man made me pick up the phone to talk to him all quiet-like.  What was really cool about that was how he didn’t invite me to pick up the phone until AFTER I had already shouted out my height and weight to a roomful of strangers.  Yeah, cool.  That was really cool.

Happy BIRTHDAY dear meeee. 

But once we got on the phone, he kept me on the phone even WHILE I was taking the eye test.  That’s gotta be like a circus trick or something – talking quietly on the phone, while placing your face INTO the grody machine that hasn’t been sanitized since it was installed in ’72.  Oh, I place my face right here where the greasy nose marks are?  Got it.  And if the eye test machine hasn’t been cleaned in who knows how long, can you imagine what E.coli I was picking up from the PHONE?!?  Gaaaack!

Once visiting hour was over, I had to get back in line and wait for the One Camera Wonder to take my picture.  And at the end of ALL that?  I didn’t even get a new license.  I just got my old license handed back to me, destroyed, and a half-slip of paper to carry around with the destroyed old license.  They also gave me this parting advice: If the new license doesn’t come in a week, come back to the DMV so they can check to see what happened.

Yep.  That there’s real good advice.

Happy birthday to me…

Hubby and I had a recent conversation wherein he was talking about purchasing a shade canopy to use during Sissy’s softball tournaments, but I could NOT figure out what he was even saying.  Based on the few words I did catch, I thought he was talking about purchasing shelters shelters? Picnic shelters?? either FROM a neighborhood boyscout (bad plan) or FOR a neighborhood boyscout (why would we DO that?!).

Anyway, Hubby eventually figured out I couldn’t hear him and so he ultimately made his master canopy plan known.  There may have even been some pantomime.

The whole thing reminded me of the very earliest days of our marriage when I just stopped being able to hear him.

Back when we were fresh-faced newlyweds (23 years ago today in fact – Happy Anniversary, My Twew Wuv) allofasudden the words coming out of his mouth stopped making sense.  I mean, I could see his lips move and know sentences were being formed, but he would have to repeat himself several times and even resort to some cut-rate mime stuff before I could make out what he was saying.

I never did figure out what THAT was about.  Maybe some psychosomatic backlash?  Like, now that I had him locked to my side for all eternity, having just vowed all that richer-poorer-sickness-health jazz, I could now simply stop listening to him.  No matter what I did – up to and including no longer being able to hear him – he was still mine.  MINE I SAY!!  MWA ha ha!!! [evil laugh]

But that wackiness stopped shortly after we got back from our honeymoon.  And I’ve been able to hear him just fine ever since.  Well…more or less…

By the way, Sweetie, I’m not on board with the boyscout picnic shelter idea.  That seems like a dumb plan. 

For his part, he’s always been able to hear ME just fine.  So he’ll hear me when I say:

Happy Anniversary.  I love you and thank you for twenty-three great years!

I’m not 100% sure, but I think he says he loves me too.  Either that…or he’s really serious about the boyscout picnic shelter and is moving forward with it.

By a show of hands, who’s familiar with Hap Palmer’s musical works?

Anyone?  Anyone?!?

No??  This is incredibly puzzling because Hap Palmer wrote the biggest bunch of crazy-making ear-wormish toddler songs that ever existed.  How could you NOT have heard of him?!

Hap’s “Baby Songs” music video factory was slightly ahead of the Baby Einstein video curve.  Quite possibly even earlier than that, say at the dawn of VHS camcorders (early 80’s or so).  How do I know this?  Because most of the footage was home-movie quality and shot in someone’s backyard.  In addition, the videos starred a bunch of kids dressed in primary colors – a passel of Caillous from up north, if you will – with hearts embroidered into their extremely shapeless Osh K’osh overalls.

Also?  The mom in the music video who’s dropping her anxious kid off at daycare had a headful of dreadful permed hair and a massively shoulder-padded Fashion Bug blazer.  All further evidence of the 80’s timeframe.  (For those in the know, you’ll recall this as being the award-winning “My Mommy Comes Back to Get Me” video.*)

But what I really wanted to talk about here was Hap’s song titled, “It’s Gettin’ Up Time.”

[now singing from memory] Baby’s cryin’ in the bassinet.  Waking up hungry, cold and wet.  Waah, waah, waahwaahwaah.  It’s gettin up time!  (and yes, you must sing the waah, waah, waahwaahwaah chorus like an open-mouthed, cranky baby.  Who’s hungry.  Cold.  And wet.)

This?  Is how I wake my kids up in the morning before school.  I lovingly sing that song into their sleep-warmed cheeks, while they’re still abed, making sure I pull out all the stops on the waah, waah, waahwaahwaah part.  And when I say things like “open-mouthed” and “into their sleep-warmed cheeks” what I really mean is open-mouthed ON their cheeks.  So their cheeks get all…moist…from the open-mouthed waah, waah, waahing.

Once more.  Altogether!  Nice and loud!!  Waah, waah, waahwaahwaaaaaah.  It’s gettin up time!!!

See?  You’re awake now too.

*I don’t think it ever even OCCURRED to my kids that it was a remote POSSIBILITY that I might not come back to get them after I dropped them off at daycare…until they saw Hap’s big MTV music video on the topic.  Thanks, Hap.  Thanks for so, so many things.

I have a brother.  I have a son.  I know me a little sum’in sum’in about Voltron, Defender of the Universe.  He was a big robot-y guy who was made up of five smaller dog robots.  Sounds bizarre on paper, but is true enough in cartoon-land.

And when my big Mother’s Day outing to go see a movie came up today, I was on board.  Totally on board.  We’re seeing the new Voltron movie?  The Age of Voltron?!  Count me in.

So I’m sitting there watching all of the previews when the lights dim and we slip into one final (and overly long, if you ask me) preview about a new superhero movie pertaining to the Avengers.  You know the Avengers: Iron Man, The Hulk, Hawkeye (Hot Guy heh, heh, heh), Captain America and so forth.

At some point it becomes puzzling to me why this preview is going on so long it almost seems like THIS is the movie, but Voltron has yet to make an appearance.  So I lean to the child on my left and whisper, “Is this actually the movie we’re here to watch?” and receive an eyeroll in response.

Ok, totally not helpful.

So I lean right and whisper to the kid on that side, “I’m confused, is Voltron an AVENGER??”  Another eyeroll.

Ok, still not helpful and why is no one addressing the pressing Voltron issue?!?

Long story short: The name of the movie turned out to actually be “Avengers: The Age of ULTRON.”  (But say it fast.  It sounds like the Age of Voltron, yes?  Yes.  Thank you.)

So now we’re to the part of the blog where I wanted to tell you I felt like my mother.

How so?  Glad you asked…

One time my sisters and I took my mom to see that movie “About a Boy.”   Hugh Grant was in it and the movie was described as being about a boy and a cad.

Except when we were explaining the movie to my mother, she thought we said it was about a boy and a…CAT.  So she waited the whoooooooole movie expecting the cat to show up.  And was extremely puzzled when it didn’t.  A movie about a boy and a cat and then there’s no CAT?!?  That’s stupid.  Completely stupid.

Anyway, that’s why I felt like my mother.  Going to see a movie that was NOTHING it was billed to be.  Naming a movie after Voltron and then not even having Voltron IN the movie??  That’s stupid.  Completely stupid.

Hi Mom!  Happy Mother’s Day.  I love you.  I thought of you today.  I FELT like you today.  And I’m just wondering if you ever found that cat?!

Seated around the dinner table is a charming family-of-four.  Their scruffy but adorable dog is sitting in his bed in the corner of the room.  Chinese takeout containers are scattered across the table.  A scintillating conversation is underway.  Shhhhh!  Let’s listen in…

Son (while glancing at the dog seated silently in his bed awaiting any chicken-y tidbits anyone…anyone…anyone wants to toss his way) says: I wonder what the dog thinks about all day.

Loving-not-to-mention-funny-and-pretty-mother-everyone-says-so (who desperately wanted Sonny to design a study around whether dogs could see colors for his Science Fair Project and is still smarting from the fact that he ended up going with “how quickly a sugar cube dissolves in a variety of sodas” and if we’re being truthful, he chose that particular experiment not to further the scientific body of knowledge, but mostly because he wanted to drink the sodas after the experiment was over) replies with: Hmmm.  That’s an interesting question.  How could you design an experiment to discover that?  I’m thinking something around remote observation…

Hubby interjects: Hey, I know what you could do.  Teach the dog to write.  Then give him a piece of paper and pencil and ask him to write what he thinks about all day.

Sonny (throwing the stink eye his father’s way.  This has been a point of contention all along: that the dog is “lucky” and doesn’t have to go to school, while Sonny does have to suffer this daily torture with the pencils and paper and such) responds:  You know it’s been proven that dogs have souls!!?

Sissy lending her insight to the conversation:  Oh yeah?  Who proved it??  Yo-yo Boy*?!

Sonny:  No!  Pope FRANCIS!

-Silence ensues.  Everyone knows Pope Francis didn’t “prove” that thing about the dogs.  But all joking aside, the realization dawns on the happy group seated at the table that despite how many times Hubby calls Sonny by the dog’s name and vice versa, and despite how they joke about the boy and the dog being almost one and the same, the son draws WAY more parallels to the dog’s life his own self than the family ever could.  See how he worries what the dog thinks about all day?  See how he’s preoccupied with the question of the dog’s soul?-

The Loving-not-to-mention-funny-and-pretty-mother-everyone-says-so sees the true heart of the matter and in her wise and insightful way closes the conversation with:  It seems to me that the dog probably thinks about the same stuff YOU think about all day, Sonny.  He probably thinks about what’s for dinner and will any friends show up soon.  He also probably thinks about when he’s gonna go outside next, and where he’s gonna pee once he gets there. 

[End Scene]

The camera pans away from the family as they move out of range of the soft glow of the overhead light.  The camera zooms in on the dog’s face.  The dog is still seated in his bed long after the family has cleared away their dinner.  Still there, hoping for some chicken-y tidbits to come his way.  Or any of the breakfast meats would be good too.  Bacon, sausage, ham.  Anyone…anyone…anyone….

*Yo-yo Boy is a pseudonym for Sonny’s bestie.  He got Sonny into yo-yo’ing, and he typically has some developed opinion on things.  Except when we get to hear about his opinion second-hand through Sonny, things always seem a bit…er…lost in translation, shall we say?  And you understand that we don’t actually CALL him Yo-yo Boy when referring to him in casual conversation amongst ourselves or to his face; We call him by his real name.  We’re only calling him Yo-yo Boy today for blog purposes and so as to protect his professional reputation.  Although now that I think about it, Yo-yo Boy has a nice ring to it.  Yo-yo Boy.  Yo-yo Boy.  Yeah.  That’s good.  That has real potential.  It also sounds like a Frozen Yogurt place where boys can go and get frozen yogurt while showing off their yo-yo tricks.  So that’s a plus.

This past week-end was rainy and so all the tennis matches, baseball games, whoseewhatsits were cancelled.  What’s a family of four to do with their found time?  Indoor laser tag, natch.

But first, in order to play, you have to choose an alias.  Hubby was The Dominator (and yes, the 50 Shades of Grey reference was totally accidental), Sonny was Eclipse (Once upon a time I was falling in love, but now I’m only falling apart.  There’s nothing I can do…a total eclipse of the heart.  Hey, Bright Eyes!  Turn around and tell me who yer Daddy is.  That’s right – ME!  Because Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart” was released in 1983 which means there IS an 80’s song for every moment in life.  Including those moments when you’re playing LASER TAG!)

My name?  Was Bright Eyes.  Ha, ha, ha.  Kidding.  Bright Eyes would’ve been weird.  My name was actually Ana Steele.  Ha, ha, ha.  Still kidding because unless you READ the 50 Shades of Grey nonsense, that name makes no sense and is even weirder than Bright Eyes.  No, my name was actually Queen E (as in, replace the ‘B’ in Queen B with an ‘E’ while making a sign language ‘E’ to the woman entering the alias in the computer).  The Alias Enterer just rolled her eyes at me because I guess she must see a lot of 40-something-year-old moms who flash pseudo gang signs at her.

And Sissy?  Was Floppy Dolphin.  Which made it sound like she left her endoskeleton at the beach.  But, quite frankly, that name was an improvement because originally, she was going to be POOPY Dolphin.  And THAT made it sound like there was going to be an explosive diarrhea throw-down.

We didn’t realize until the first round of laser tag was over that they PUBLISH your aliases, scores and rankings on the monitors stationed throughout the place.  Nor did we realize that they were going to be shouting OUT your alias name when they handed you your score sheet.

But once we realized that, Sissy changed her name to something way less floppy, but still from the ocean.  Something that implied danger from the depths had arrived: The CRACKEN!  Release The CRACKEN!!!

Except when we got back out of Round 2, it turns out the woman entering the new alias had made a spelling error.  And instead of ‘The Cracken’ on the monitors, Sissy was listed as ‘The Cracker’.

“Cracker?  The Cracker??  You got fourth place this round.  Here’s your score sheet.”

Oopsie.  That’s awkward.

Let’s try again: I am the CRACKER!  Release the CRACKER!!!  Ew, nope.  Still no.