You Better Watch Out...

Remember when you were little and the holidays were on the horizon and that meant that somewhere there was a stash of presents?  A stash you were determined to find.  So, you would rush home from school to snoop around.  You would search the house when your parents were busy.  You would nearly get caught a dozen times.  That is sooo old school!  My friends, the art of present sleuthing has changed. 

How do I know this?  Because nearly every Monday through Friday I spend a portion of my day in my son's 4th grade class.  I'm not paid for this.  Believe it or not, it is by choice and not some court mandated community service.  The kids look forward to me showing up - even if it does mean studying vocabulary.  I'm novel because I am not their teacher.  I'm non-threatening because I don't give out grades.  They love to talk, to brag, to spill their secrets.  They naively view me as a friend instead of the parental spy that I really am.

Today we were talking about the holidays and what gifts they are hoping to receive.  A few kids divulged that they had already found out what they were getting.  Did they go the traditional route of snooping in closets and under beds?  Rummaging through the garage and basement?  Checking the trunk of the car?  Looking in the attic?  Of course not, people!  This is the information age.  You're kids are digging in your computer!  And they know where to look.  They are launching all the browsers.  They are checking out your history to see what sites you have been on.  They are scouring your search engines to see what you have been researching.  They know that you have been comparing electronic readers.  They are even attempting to log on to your UPS account to view tracking notices in hopes of seeing which stores are shipping to you.  Fortunately, they seem to respect that email is off-limits.  And they reported that they do get stymied by those pesky user names and passwords.  But it's only a matter of time.  You have been warned. 

It's all Greek to him

"An owl?" bemoaned the boy infatuated with Greek gods.

"Is there a problem with that?"

"Well, it's just that the owl is the symbol of Athena.  Couldn't you make it a flaming hammer instead?"

"No, I cannot top the tree with a flaming hammer."

"OK.  Well, what about a trident?" 

 

Finally, he was won over by the awesomeness that is the Folkmanis Snowy Owl hand puppet. 

Appropriately enough, he named her Athena. 

Fly, Athena, fly!!!!

No Charlie Brown tree for us

Our tree this year is ginormously fat.  At least for us it is.  It barely fits into our "Christmas tree spot" spot.

This year's weather in the great Christmas Tree Farming state of North Carolina has been ideal for tree growing.  That has led to an abundance of big FAT Fraiser firs.  No skinny happening here.  Get one of these babies and you might have to send your loved ones out on a "not so cold because it is NC" Winter's night to attempt to buy more strands of lights for the tree.  [Sorry. Thank you. At least it wasn't cold or rainy.  Right?]

Our tree is brushing the walls and still comes out 7 feet from the corner.  I measured it.  Then took a picture.  I realize that makes me a dork.

In case you had any doubt that I was talking about a real tree, here's the proof.  Yay!  Pine needles all over the carpet.  




 





We had to move a chair, the rug, and the coffee table.  It officially has its own room.

We get our tree from a small Christmas tree farm about 4 blocks away.  The folks there jack our kids up on hot chocolate, marshmallows and candy canes while we are preoccupied with choosing the perfect tree.  Then we pay 3x as much as we would have if we had gone to some kind of Super-Depot-Mart.  There are plenty of things I end up acquiring at a Super-Depot-Mart, I'd rather not buy my holiday cheer there as well.  Plus, if I had a Christmas tree farm and they didn't, I'd sure love it if they bought their tree from me.  But I don't, and they do, so see how that works out?

They have a sign as you leave telling you to have a TREEmendous holiday.  I think it is perfectly retro/cheesy.  

 

Snorkeling Q & A

After returning from a recent vacation, I was talking with the mom of one of my son's best friends.

"You took your kids snorkeling?"

Snorkeling over a stingray

"yup"

"At the beach?"

"Starting from shore. And off a boat."

"You were out in the ocean?"

"yup"

"But they could touch the bottom?"

"no"

"So they wore life jackets?"

"no"

"How did they float?"

It's not that her 9 year old son doesn't swim.  He has even been on a swim team.  Our boys roughhouse in a swimming pool with a deep end.  His family spends summer vacation at the beach.   [Although during this conversation she revealed to me that she is only comfortable letting him play in the surf.]

I'll admit, the thought never crossed my mind that the kids should wear flotation devices.  For a fleeting moment, I thought I had dropped the parental ball. This other mom seemed shocked and concerned that we would swim with our kids in the ocean, and away from the shore, and with no "floaties."  She had me briefly questioning my behavior.  But my kids are strong swimmers. And we didn't just throw them a snorkel and mask and let them rush to the water [They probably would have preferred this.] It was actually a great opportunity to teach them some skills.  Hopefully in a few years we'll all be scuba diving together.  I don't feel we were irresponsible.  I do, however, believe I unintentionally ensured her child would never be vacationing with us.

"It's much easier to float in salt water.  Anyway, wearing a life jacket would prevent them from diving deeper for a closer look at the barracuda."

Handwriting confessions

I went to a new dentist this week.  (I first wrote "I started seeing a new dentist this week."  But that sounded as if we were dating, which we're not.  So I changed it.)  He was looking over my x-rays and chart, saying things like "This looks really nice" and "Wow.  Fantastic." Then he turned to me and said, 

"I always admire people who have nice handwriting." 

????   

I think he meant smiles.

"You really do have very nice handwriting."

There!  He said it again!  He was supposed to be complementing me on my beautiful pearly whites - not my handwriting.  I was nearly offended.  Not really.

"Did you study architecture or graphic design ?" 

No, no, I'm not an architect or graphic designer.  I'm a lefty.  Chances are, deep down somewhere, I am compensating. For all those years of insanely backward slanting letters.  And smudges on my papers.  Besides, the alternative is not good.   If I had written in cursive everyone would have been gathered around my new patient form trying to decipher what it said.  Myself included. 

I print.  All in caps.  Orderly measured capital letters.  This is for the best.  Because when I don't, my writing tends to look like this:

What the heck are those giant horizontal loops?  Yes, that is English.  I pulled that sample out of an old stack of papers.  I believe the second word is shove or shine or shore or there or possibly shame?  Maybe ahem?   OK, that's reaching.  It gets worse.  Below is a note I wrote to myself in high school.  It was a reminder of some sort.  I cut it out and taped it in a scrapbook back in my "brutally cut things out and tape them randomly into a scrapbook" phase.  I keep thinking that someday it will all become clear:

 I have NO idea what it says. 

To all of you with truly beautiful handwriting, I tip my hat to you.  

Chuck Taylor Syndrome

"Once upon a time there was a girl who loved a boy.  And the boy loved the girl.  Then the boy gave the girl a total complex.  But she loved him anyway.  And they lived happily ever after."

Back in college the aforementioned boy and girl went to a screening on campus of the movie Philadelphia.  For the sake of this story let's just assume that it was special showing of a classic Tom Hanks film, and not the first run of the movie.  Because that film came out a really long time ago.  In my head I'm 23 so the math doesn't work otherwise.

The previous week, the boy had convinced the girl to buy some classic Chuck Taylors.  All Stars.  High-tops.  In black.  Not her normal shoe.  She was the type who gravitated toward Birkenstocks.  Oh, the things we'll do when in love.  Then she made the fateful move.  She wore them to the theater. Dun dun duuuuun! [That would be the ominous foreboding musical cue.] 

As they settled in with their Twizzlers and popcorn, and Tom Hanks was dying, and Denzel was conflicted, and Springsteen was singing, the boy started laughing.  

Laughter during this particular movie is something I'm not thinking the director was going for.  I'm pretty sure the director was going for tears.  But the boy did not cry.  He laughed.  He laughed and he pointed.  He was pointing at the Chucks.  And the girl was mortified.  Although she soon realized that it wasn't about the shoes, the damage was already done.  Those All Stars spent many months sitting in the closet before they ultimately graced the shoe rack at Good Will.  The girl never bought Chuck Taylors for herself again.  [Don't worry, this isn't a tragedy.]

A few years later [or perhaps many] the girl started a blog.  And the boy laughed.  Then he actually blamed it on the Chuck Taylors.  Yes, he actually did.  He then self-diagnosed as having Chuck Taylor Syndrome: the inability to appropriately express emotion or discomfort.  But the girl knew better.  So this time she laughed, too.

Leaves and more leaves

The leaf situation out there is insane!  I really must rake my yard.  Must I?  Really?  That notion is sheer craziness since I live in a forest!  Well, it was once a forest before nearly all the trees were cut down to build houses and plant grass.  Except for the trees on our lot.  Not sure why we are the exception.  We have 53 trees in the front yard alone.  The count could be off.  I might have missed a few.  I do love all the trees.  Neighbors say that they love the yard.  Perhaps they would change their minds if they had to tackle this:

So, why am I going to rake the leaves in my forest?  Because my forest comes complete with a Home Owners Association.  What a lucky forest.

With all those leaves on the ground you would think my trees looked like this:

But, alas, these trees belong to my neighbors.  Mrs. and Mr. Neighbor have a paltry 5 trees in the front yard adjacent to mine.    

Here is what my trees look like:

I'm still trying to figure out where all the leaves on the ground came from.

The first Fall we lived here, Mrs. Neighbor made the comment to me that she likes watching the leaves fall.  She was hoping that I didn't mind if her family allowed the leaves to sit in the yard for a few days before cleaning them up.  She's very funny.



  

One small step

I give my beloved friend oodles of props for not only allowing my daughter to give her an acid green pedicure but to then to wear it proudly instead of calling it good practice and reaching immediately for the polish remover like I would have done.  There I am with my blinged-out sandals and orange nail polish.  Because the combination of those two things just screams "Don't look at me!  I loathe attention."  Right?  What?  

Those sandals were a big purchase for me.  Not because of their expense.  Obviously they aren't $500 FancyName sandals. Or are they...  No, no they're not.  I was looking for casual but not flip-floppy; comfy but not Birks.  I love my Birks!  They look terrible.  I still love them.  My daughter spotted these at Target and "Mom, your clothes are so boring"-insisted that I try them on.  My first reaction was "Ack!  That's a lot of bling!"  But then I realized they went  w a y  beyond just the giant sparkles.  Three different types of crystal [that probably deserves to be spelled with a K] plus round beads, oval beads, sunburst patterns and sequins.  The foot bed is a metallic silver but the straps, woohoo!  - we're talking metallic silver snakeskin-embossed man-made fabric.  So, while the idea of sparkle on my sandals isn't appealing because it seems excessive and attention seeking, the fact that they are completely over-the-top is something I can totally embrace.  Picture this:  there I am, walking down the street in my simple black simple outfit with maybe something white and simple and simple makeup and plain-Jane hair and simple jewelery and then you [doesn't have to be you you but you know what I mean] see my sandals and Whamo!  You [again, not necessarily you you]  thought you had me all figured out but you weren't expecting THAT were you!  Obviously your reaction is only happening in the altered reality inside my head.  The sandals are really just grey and glass which is like smoke and mirrors which makes them nearly invisible.  You probably didn't notice them at all.  Which I find quite reassuring.  And they are quite comfy. 

Blame It On The Dog

Fortunately for me, the chaos that inspired this post was not mine but my brother's.  Unfortunately for him, he had an 8 ft tall unframed mirror leaning up against a wall...until it wasn't.  In his words, "I don't know what happened.  It was there and then it was all over the place."  That made me laugh.  

I don't know what happened either but for the sake of closure I say we blame the dog.  It's the perfect plan.  Blaming the dog is a win-win.  We use dogs as our scapegoats ALL the time.  I assume this is because they are easier pets to keep than goats. I say give her some extra attention, and a treat too, because I'm sure that giant crashing mirror scared her.  See, a win-win.  

Now I really shouldn't be proposing this because I have a child who is very good at deflecting blame.  For example, I might walk into the kitchen and find her standing in the midst of broken bag of flour, dust covering her clothing.  When confronted, she would most likely look at me and say that she had no idea what I was talking about.  If I were to point out the disaster she would suddenly notice it and immediately know who else must have done it.  She is very sly thinks she is very sly.  She reminds me of that old Shaggy song "Wasn't Me."  Except that she's 11 and I don't even want her listening to that song.  Back to the mirror disaster...

I'd love to be the recipient of all those broken mirror shards!  They are a mosaic in the making!  If my little brother didn't live halfway across the country I'd be there in an instant to help him clean up.

source

Isn't that dog amazing!   Pam Isner is a local artist.  So talented!

It was a total accident

I needed to patch a hole in the bathroom. 
 
My little guy managed to rip the towel bar off the bathroom wall.  He said it was an accident.  No, not an accident that he was h a n g i n g  from it.  THAT was intentional.   But, the "tearing it off the wall" part was completely an accident.  We're still working on that whole "repercussions of your actions" thing. Such antics left a giant [OK, not so giant, but when you have to patch and spackle and prime and paint it suddenly gets a lot bigger] hole in the wall.  I put off fixing it because I couldn't decide if I should rehang the bar for him to, well, rehang from. There was also the issue of the paint color which I didn't have more of and disliked anyway.  That meant it would be time to paint the whole bathroom.   
 
Yesterday I patched, spackled, sanded, primed and painted.  I even took down the cabinet above the toilet to paint the wall behind it.  It's all in the details, right?  Then I rehung the cabinet.  Almost. 
 
I hung it from two anchors [I thought]. Just as I was reaching for the screwdriver to sink some screws into the cabinet to ensure it didn't fall... it...fell.  Hard.  It managed to break the toilet tank lid and dent the freshly painted wall in the process.  It could have been worse.  It could have broken the toilet tank full of water.   Unfortunately 10 year old toilet tank lids aren't sold at your local big box store.  You need to call the manufacturer so they can tell you they are out of stock until Forever.  Then you have to contact websites like ibrokemytanklid.com and bobstanklidemporium.com [OK, maybe I made these particular names up] before resorting to eBay.  eBay?  You can find everything on eBay!   
 
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to patch a hole in the bathroom.

Update: I only slightly exaggerated those website names. 

So I started a blog...

 

My son thinks I should open a bakery or restaurant.  

My husband wonders if I'm interested in training dogs professionally again.  

My daughter is 11 and has a lot of opinions and questions but they are mostly concerning herself.  

I have been musing over when I should go get another degree - and if it's even worth it.

There is also our impending move to Location Unknown within the year that sort of puts a hold on a few of those things.  So, I came to the most logical conclusion:  I decided to start a blog.