Lost _ _ _ and Found

As I was driving Sonny to school this morning, there was a contest on the radio where people were calling in to share the weirdest place they had ever found something they lost.

I asked Sonny if he had ever found something in a weird place.  He hadn’t. Shocking, I know. But he in turn asked me the same question.

So I told him. I told him.  I told him the straight up, no holds barred tale of the Catholic School Girl who desperately wanted her ears pierced.  But her mother was worried that she couldn’t become a nun if she had pierced ears, so didn’t allow her to.

This is a completely true story wherein our plucky young heroine eventually convinced her mother she wasn’t destined for the nunnery and ended up getting her ears pierced in 8th grade.  But this isn’t that story, so we continue on…

Back to that part where our female protagonist desperately wanted pierced ears but being in 6th grade, with a morally opposed mother, could only get ahold of those round gold MAGNETIC earrings (which looked eerily like hearing aid batteries…except gold…and magnetic) from Fashion Bug.

She wore them to Catholic school one day and discovered after the first hour of class, that while the back of the right one was still stuck to her ear, the front had entirely sheared off and was nowhere to be found.

Rats! RATS!!! RAAAAAAAAATSSSSS!!!! <– This is all Catholic School Girls are allowed to say when earrings go missing – magnetic or otherwise.

Confession time. She is I.  I am she, and when I got home at the end of the day and changed out of my school uniform, I found the earring IN MY BELLYBUTTON!!!  Just sitting right THERE.  In my BELLYBUTTON!

Top THAT story! Weirdest place to find something lost – my BELLYBUTTON, I say!  And no, I didn’t call in to the radio. I only shared it with Sonny.  Well, and now you. 

Also? Due to this lucky happenstance and my fervent prayers to St. Anthony which were clearly answered because he had nothing more important to find that day, I now consider myself the original inventor of the belly button earring.  Alright, alright.  It was the one point oh version of the belly button earring, and they’ve come a long way since then.  But then again, who hasn’t?!

Bourbon Street

I just flew in from New Orleans, and boy, are my arms tired! Guck, guck, guck; That never gets old.

Hubby and I took the kids there for spring break. We stayed on Bourbon Street, because that’s the kind of parents we are.  (We also had the Voodoo Daiquiri from Jean Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shoppe.  The Voodoo Daiquiri’s other name is Purple Drank for some vague reason having to do with Everclear.  That’s ALSO the kind of parents we are.)

Anywho…as soon as we dropped off the luggage in our hotel room, we were out ON Bourbon Street, introducing the kids to the magic.

Now let’s pause here and recall how the weirdest stuff happens to me all the time – and how Sissy has been apprenticing with me in recent years so I can teach her how it goes. Yay, Mini Me!  Also, Hubby and Sonny always walk a minimum two blocks ahead of us for some reason.  Go figure.

Given that back story, is it any wonder that within our first sixty seconds on Bourbon Street, a woman on the complete other side of the street begins to beeline for us, holding her beer-in-a-plastic-cup out in front of her like she’s in some sort of relay race.

As she stumbles across the cobblestones towards us, Sissy and I are mesmerized into a standstill, watching her come closer.

Just when she reaches us, she trips on some uneven pavement and her sandaled foot SPLASHES into one of those charming brown Bourbon Street puddles. Even though we’re on the sidewalk awaiting her arrival, the splash is so massive that the nasty water goes ALL OVER Sissy’s flip-flopped feet and ankles. GAACK!

The puddle this woman stepped in apparently contained an even deeper puddle, and we’re all horrified, the strange woman included, heavy on the strange, to see her foot sink to mid-shin. GAAAACK!!!

As she tries to right herself, she GRABS MY ARM, HOLDS ME TO HER and flounders into an even deeper puddle than the first. Because I’m now attached to this woman as an unwilling participant in her three-legged beer run, I get the secret sauce this time around.  Up to my knees. GAAAAAAAACK!!!!

Eventually she’s back up on solid land, whereupon she lets go of me and stumbles on, laughing with her friends, not having spilled a drop of beer. Sissy and I are left clutching each other and making retching noises as brown water drips down our legs and everyone on Bourbon Street gives us a wide berth like WE’RE the ones causing the problem.  Per usual, Hubby and Sonny are nowhere to be found.

By the time I’m finally able to convince Sissy that the water most likely does not contain human feces (although she’s had a Hep C shot, so she’s good either way), we’ve caught up with Sonny and Hubby and relate the horrifying goings-on.  I’m PISSED that Hubby left me with nothing but a teenage girl as a barrier to the lunacy so I give him what for.

At which point he turns to Sissy and says, “Look. I’ve seen this movie before.  So it’s best to walk with a purpose.  If you hang back with her – here he hitches his thumb my way – she’s gonna draw you into her vortex.  Every time.”

Oh, so somehow this is MY fault. In which case: You’re welcome, Mini Me.

I taught that girl everything she knows.

The Luck O’ The Irish

In honor of St. Patrick’s Day 2017, let me tell you about our own encounter with…The Luck O’ the Irish.

We recently took a trip to Ireland. On Aer Lingus.  And sat behind literal Irish twins who were about a year old.  We had those four seats in the middle of the plane, with Sonny and Sissy in the middle of the middle and an extra gap between them caused by the doubled up arm rests.

The reason this gap is important will be revealed in a sec.  Hang on to yer everlovin’ hats!

About an hour into the flight, the twins are peeking back at Sissy and Sonny.  So cute.  Playing peek-a-boo.  Rosy cheeked and dimpled.  Golden curls.  When ALLOFASUDDEN!!!  Vomit comes shooting out of the extra wide gap in the seat in front of us.

Gaah!  Gaaaaaaah!!!!  GAAAAAAAH!!!!

It was like that Saturday Night Live skit where someone has a hose in their sleeve and holds it strategically beside their mouth. Stuff was coming out of one of those little Irish pieholes in such quantities it was not humanly possible.

And Sissy and Sonny, leaning in to the adorable game of peek a boo (one for me! one for you!!), get totally sprayed. Until it was ALL over them AND their backpacks (filled with snacks, games and even winter coats) which they had dutifully placed underneath the seats in front of them like good Aer Lingus citizens.

I almost started vomiting my own self it was so awful – and that was only hour one, ONE, of a SEVEN HOUR flight. Guh.  Guh.

B’gosh and begorrah, my friends! That is what’s known as the Luck O’ the Irish.  Except they spelled ‘luck’ wrong.  It should’ve been spelled p-u-k-e instead.  The Puke O’ The Irish.

Yep. That’s about right.


P.S. Happy Birthday, Mom! We called twice.  You must’ve either been on the computer…or in bed.  Hope it was a great day.  Love you.

Lucky Thirteen

Sonny is thirteen years old today. Or as he puts it, “Yippee!  Now I get to become all awkward and weird!” Yep, there’s that to look forward to, assuming of course you’re not already, bah-dum-bump!

So in honor of Sonny’s birthday, I thought I’d share with you my three favorite things he speaks into fellow wrestlers’ ears when he has them down on the mat. Side note: Sonny is from the “Stay down; I said stay down!” school of wrestling.  I’m sure there’s a technical term for it.  Win-by-pin, maybe?  But whatever it’s called, he gets ‘em.  And holds ‘em.  And never lets ‘em go.  All while whispering one of the following:

  1. Shhhh….there’s a bald eagle over there. Don’t move, you might scare it away.
  2. What? What?! What are you doing with your life?!?
  3. Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?

How creative!  How fun and fresh!  Yay thirteen!  Nooooo, not awkward or weird.  Yet.

And no, Grandma.  Of course he doesn’t actually whisper these things into anyone’s ear.  He just jokes about doing it.

Anyway, Happy Birthday, our wonderful wrasslin’ boy. Thanks for being so amazing and for keeping us laughing. We love you more than we could ever say [she said in a whisper].

Astral Float for Two

My L’il sis and Bro’ in law got Hubby and me an Astral Float for Two for Christmas. Yep.  Nope.  Yep.  This is a real thing.

When we called to make the appointment, we inquired as to what we should bring with us. Please say swim suits. Please?  Pleasepleasepleaseplease!  They replied with, “nothing” which naturally meant I had to bring my swimsuit anyway.  Just in case.

What is an Astral Float for Two, you ask? It’s as close as you can get to riding on Space Mountain without actually being on Space Mountain because you are instead floating naked in a sensory deprivation tank filled with body-temperature salt water.  Expect you’re by yourself while your husband is in another room in his own sensory deprivation tank filled with HIS naked body and some salt water.  I know he didn’t have his swimsuit on because I had it in my purse which was in my room with me.

Also? There’s no orange asteroid which periodically flashes across the sky like in the real Space Mountain.  You’re in a sensory deprivation tank after all, so all you can see is a deep, dense black that is the same whether your eyes are open or closed.  Snippets of the movie “A Cure for Wellness” flash through your mind until you become increasingly worried that no one will hear your screams if you start feeling tentacles.

It seemed like I spent the first thirty minutes fooling myself into thinking I did…and then I didn’t…and then I did have to go to the bathroom. Eventually I talked myself out of the bathroom thing because the bathroom was all the way down the hall, no robes were provided, and my swimsuit was high and dry right next to Hubby’s in my purse.  Why didn’t I put on the swimsuit? It would have been helpful with the bathroom run.

At some point, the voices in my head died down enough for me to begin to relax. Until I slowly started to realize that I could hear OTHER voices, through my ear plugs AND the sealed door of my deprivation tank, two different voices talking somewhere down by my feet.

Ack! ACKKKK!!  Screw the tentacles, THIS is the biggest fear!!  That there are people who accidentally stumbled into MY deprivation tank room and will shortly be throwing open the tank door and exposing me in all my glory!  Why are there two of them? Are they checking on me?  Or do THEY get to float together while Hubby and I had to stay separate but equal?

So I’m straining to hear. Straaaaaaaining to hear.  Trying to pick out a word or two and deciding if I’m going to be all friendly and casual when the tank door opens “Hiya!”  Or all super pissed, ready to go ham and shout “Shut the door!” to whomever is out there.

It dawns on me, but not soon enough, that the low rumblings and alternating higher pitched whining noises are actually coming from stomach. Oopsie. Tee hee hee.  Stupid chili cheese fries for dinner last night.  And for the record, those noises all sound different coming through salt water and ear plugs.

It’s such a relief that no one’s about catch a glimpse that I do actually become quite zen. Until I start wondering whether L’il Sis and Bro in law would ever get something like this as a gift for my parents.

Since it’s stream of consciousness time, I’ve moved on to thinking about when my parents lived in a mineral spring spa town in Germany and my aunt came to visit.  She convinced my mother to “take the waters” with her, have a spa day and get a massage. Except my mother, who hadn’t ever had a massage as far as we knew, ended up wearing her jeans on the massage table.  It’s become something of a family joke.  At which point I picture my mom wearing her jeans to the astral float.  And I start laughing.  And laughing.  And laughing.

Then the ghostly music begins to play which was my cue that my time had come to an end.

And none too soon.

Ahhhh, relaxing!  Astral float for two.  Jeans not recommended.

Stock Show

The Stock Show is in town! I don’t know what it’s all about exactly, not bein’ from these here parts, but it’s a hot field trip ticket for the 2nd grade and under set in the Denver, Colorado area.  Back East, we take field trips to places like Philadelphia or to see a Broadway Play in New York City. Stock Show?  Makes me feel like my kids are deprived.

We were talking about it at dinner tonight, and Sonny – whose favorite field trip WAS the Stock Show – chimed in with, “Yeah, it was the best! At the end, you could even buy a chicken for $20!!”

Oh boy, can you just imagine what Colorado mothers do when their kids show up from the Stock Show field trip with a chicken in tow?!

“But I didn’t have any money with me so I couldn’t get it.”


“But that’s nothing; Bestie was going to get a PEACOCK!!”

Good lord.

“But he didn’t have any money either and then he fell asleep on my lap on the bus home.”

And there you have it. The best field trip of all time.  And also the reason you should never, EVER, send money with kids on a field trip.  Can you imagine what that bus trip home would’ve looked like with Sonny trying to tend a chicken AND a peacock while Bestie snoozed away?!?

The question naturally came around the table to Hubby, who’s a born and bred Coloradoan. His favorite field trip when he was in grade school??

Yep, you guessed it. The Stock Show.

Gosh. The Stock Show is starting to sound like a lot of fun.  I should git’ me there real soon.  I just won’t bring $20.  Or even $50.  Don’t want to be tempted or anything.  Also?  The nap at the end sounds very promising.

Tiger’s Eye

Let me tell you about my new carpet. My new NEW carpet.  We had new wall-to-wall carpet installed in the family room the week before Thanksgiving to replace the old one the dog did irreparable harm to.  Stupid dog.

Hey, Mr. Carpet Installer, this carpet you’re installing the week before Thanksgiving seems a little dark. Are you sure this is Tiger’s Eye and not Black and Tan?!  Oh, it IS Tiger’s Eye and NOT Black and Tan?!?  Ok, because it seems a little dark for Tiger’s Eye since it only has the black and tan in it.

Turns out it WAS Black and Tan and NOT Tiger’s Eye. %^&$#!#&*&^%%&#$!!!

So the week AFTER Thanksgiving (and my parents visit where they missed seeing what-was-supposed-to-be-amazing-and-perfectly-coordinated-carpet) the carpet installers came BACK to put in the new NEW carpet in the correct color. Or as a friend of mine describes the whole carpet clusterbomb, “Hashtag First World Problems.”

Hi, Mom and Dad! That was a fun visit.  Especially that part about the 1,000 piece puzzle we you were staging on top of the coffee table, but didn’t finish because it was 1,000 tiny annoying pieces with a lot of leaves and apples.  You’ll be pleased to know that the carpet installers managed to move the coffee table off of and back on to the new rug with not a piece out of place.  We eventually finished it, but thanks for the great head start!

I thanked the carpet installers for being so careful with the puzzle. I mean, when you’re only 25 pieces away from success, you don’t want anything to mar the effort.  To which the head installer replied, “I don’t see puzzles much anymore.  I used to see a lot of puzzles in PRISON.  Some guys could do those puzzles really fast.”

Oh. Oh.  Uhm….ok.  I wasn’t expecting that.  FAST you say?  Sounds like you’re being a little judge-y about the puzzle speed in this house.

But the new NEW carpet is in! It’s Tiger’s Eye* NOT Black and Tan.

*And I’m not even gonna go there with the 80’s Song for Every Moment in Life game. Because Tiger’s Eye?  Eye of the Tiger?!?  It’s too easy and you readers are sitting fish – like shootin’ ducks in a barrel.  Because “Eye of the Tiger” is a song by American rock band Survivor which was released on May 29, 1982 as a single from their third album Eye of the Tiger and was also the theme song for the film Rocky III, which was released a day before the single. But like I said, that’s too easy for someone at my skill level, so I won’t go THERE with THAT.  Also?  Who needs to play the Rocky III theme song in their head every time they look at their family room carpet!?!


Something is terribly…terribly…wrong at our house.

Sissy practically skips off to do her geometry homework, her face wreathed in smiles.

See? Wrong. Way wrong.

Sometimes I’ll come across her facetiming her geometry bestie and they’re GIGGLING while working their way through homework.

What the what?!?

Supplements and complements to angles? High-larious!

Congruent polygons? What a gas!!

Direct and indirect proofs??! Nuthin’ better, num, num num!

Is this our brave new world? Is this the new world order?!  Has the earth shifted on its axis and highschool girls in the 21st century really LIKE geometry??  Because back in the 20th century, highschool girls hated the beshizzle out of it.  So much so that we had to spend our entire geometry class ignoring whatever nonsense was going on at the front of the room and instead talk about our perm-on-top-of-already-curly hair.  (This in turn got one of those olde timey chalkdust filled erasers whipped by the geometry teacher at our aforementioned curly hair.  That makes a girl hate geometry for more reasons than one.)  And geometry homework time?  Had to be spent weeping loudly at the kitchen table.  Yeah.  Way, WAY more crying over geometry back in the 20th century.

Sissy’s geometry mystery prompted me to gaze deeply at her textbook (in case each problem was followed by a delicious chocolate treat or something which would explain my puzzlement away).

And this is what I found. (Here, I took a picture so you could see too.  Look close.)


Geometry for Enjoyment and Challenge.

Ah, yes. This DOES explain it all.  Here in the 21st century highschool girls are doing geometry for enjoyment.  And challenge!

Back in the 20th century, highschool girls were doing geometry for tears.  And Hell.

Creepy Clowns

Sonny is an Urban Legend creator’s dream. And the latest Urban Legend he’s in for broke on is the Creepy Clown Craze sweeping the nation!

He suspects creepy clowns will be waiting for him in groups of three on the front porch when he gets home from school. Or perhaps lurking in our backyard, hidden in the shadow of a tree, just one…beckoning him to his death.  And if not in the backyard, then most certainly in his bedroom, probably right around four of the ayyy em.  He’ll most likely find two leaning over him just as he’s jolting himself out of a nightmare about two creepy clowns leaning over him.

So it’s no surprise as I’m driving him home from his flag football game tonight (down a very dark and tree lined street with minimal streetlights) that he says, “I always think I’m going to see clowns on this street.”

Yep. This would be the street where the clowns hang out and cause mayhem.  But ok.  I’m in for broke too because there’s no dissuading the kid from his clown obsession.  Here we go….

“Really, Buddy? Cuz that seems pretty nutso, donchathink!?  But we’ve had that talk already about the power of suggestion and the clown business.  So let’s have a different talk.  What would you want me to say to you if I DID spot a clown?  Would you want me to yell ‘LOOK OUT, THERE’S A CLOWN!!!!’”  And I shout so loud his arm kinda jerks and his water bottle goes flying.

He turns his head to me all startled, but serious and says, “No! Not like that!! I would want you to say it very calmly, real quiet.”

He’s still looking at me, so I look right back at him and say very quietly, “Don’t look now, but there’s a clown. Shhhhhhh.”

To which he replies, “Oh my gosh, MOM! REALLY??!?!!!”

We’re at a stop sign by this point and I’m still looking at him as he’s looking at me.  He clearly thinks – since we’re stopped right here on the street where the clowns lurk – that there’s a  clown peering into the passenger’s side window right…behind….him. So I smile a totally dumb smile, look into his eyes and say, “Yes.  I’m looking at the clown right now.”  And I keep smiling the dopey smile.

His face falls from fear into total annoyance. Clowns are no joking matter.  HIM as a clown is no joking matter.

Then I start singing:

Where ARE the clownnnnnns…

Send innnn the clownnnnnns….

Don’t botherrrrrrr they’re heeeeeeeere….


I was just in New Orleans, Louisiana. That place is fun.  Pretty wild, in fact.  And also exhausting. Especially that part where you have to walk down Bourbon Street with a plastic cup as tall as a yardstick, filled with piña colada.

So it’s a good thing that the airport in NOLA is an international one and you can fly back to the United States when you’re done with the piña colada.

But first you have to go through security at the airport. It looks and feels (and smells?) just like every other security, but the difference with the NOLA security is that it’s all just a big setup to get in a pretty girl’s pants.


This is the exact truth.

Let me explain.

There I am, standing spread eagle in the security screening thingie that’s reminiscent of a revolving door, I’ve got my arms crossed in surrender above my head – just like in the helpful picture they post for you to stare at.

When I come out of the revolving door, the TSA agent asks me to step to the side. As I’m doing so, I look back over my shoulder to the screen that shows your big, round head, and all your supposed metal bits highlighted in yellow.  There on the screen is a yellow splotch the size of a softball.  At the top of my pants. In the back.

Wait! WHAT?!?  No, no, no!!!  There’s no metal in my pants RIGHT THERE!  Waitwaitwait.  No!  I swear to you, there’s no metal in my pants AT ALL!!  The yellow splotcher mcbob is broken.  Please, PLEASE, who would smuggle metal through airport security in the back of their pants?!? Not me!  NOT ME!!!

But because stuff that happens in New Orleans always seems like it’s one click away from going mediaeval on your a$$, I’m afraid to protest and cause a scene. Also?  It WILL seem like I’m trying to smuggle metal through security in the back of my pants in a “methinks she doth protest too much” sort of way.

…and then I’ll use the backs of my hands to smooth down and over that area. So shall we begin?…

While I’ve been flipping out in my head about my metal filled pants (that aren’t really filled with metal), the TSA agent has been describing how my strip search is gonna go down.

…it’s your right to a security screening in private if you prefer…

Actually? I prefer no screening.  NO SCREENING ATALL!!!  Can we arrange that?!

…if you decline that, I’ll need you to face away from me and open the waistband of your pants…

Ok, now we’ve veered into some weird “poopy diaper check” version of a cavity search and I decide that it’s not gonna happen this way without me piping up, “Listen. I want you to know that there’s no metal in my pants so I’m not sure why it showed up on the screen that way; I really, really think your screen is broken.”

…very good, Ma’am, now your waistband…

Wow. How many times has this TSA agent heard the “I don’t have metal in my pants” shtick?!  Not even a flicker of emotion.  Robot much?!

Resigning myself to the fact that there’s no fighting against automatons who want a sneak peek at the magic, I open my waistband before God and country. While standing in the security line.  At the New Orleans airport.

…Not your underwear, Ma’am. Just your jeans…

Ok. Can I please go away and die now?  Please??

But first, I have to submit to a full bum smoosh …with the backs of my hands, Ma’am… before being given the all clear and sent off to curl up and die/cry in a corner somewhere.

Tried to tell ya there wasn’t anything of YOUR concern in MY pants.  Showed ya too.

My amazing parting shot? “See!  I told you your screen was broken!  I really think you need to check into that.”

As I’m walking away, I hear the TSA agent say to the woman behind me, “Ma’am, please step to the side…”

Thank HEAVEN you can fly back to the United States from New Orleans when you’re done – because that place is exhausting.