Is It Wrong to Save Pictures of Another Man?

I was cleaning over the weekend and decided to focus most of my energy on the dust bunnies that have taken up residence in my bedroom. Because I had no intention of getting out of the house, I kept my pajamas on, hair pulled up, and left the contacts on the bathroom shelf. This may seem insignificant, but trust me... that last part is what sets up this story. I folded clothes and put up clothes, sorted papers into what's important and what's not important (until I need it later, of course), and made a pile of birthday cards, Christmas cards, and Mother's Day cards.

Yes, it's been a while since I cleaned.

I pulled boxes down from the top shelf to put away keepsakes and was looking at old pictures and graduation tassels and all those things that make up a life. These are the things that I have always pictured my grandchildren sorting through some day as they attempt to "figure the old woman out". There was a particular stash of photos (tied with a ribbon, of course) of the husband as he was when we first met. Young. Military. Hair. I smiled to myself as I thought of those memories and flipped through the pictures one by one and that's when I saw it. Well, that's when I saw him, to be more specific.

Another man.

I took off my glasses to get a better look. You see, a year or so ago I was advised by the eye doctor to get bifocals. I can't see anything far away. Zip. Zilch. Nothing but a blur. That's old news. I've been like that since the fourth grade. What is new, however, is this brutally, cruel inability to see anything close up. I will squint and stretch my arm out to no avail. If I have my contacts in, reading glasses- like the kind you find on the rack at Walmart, are required to make sense of what I'm looking at; if I have my regular glasses on with no contacts, I just take them off so I can see.

It is beyond irritating.

I am fairly certain that when this particular picture was so carefully and painstakingly tucked away into my special box of special memories, I had my contacts in. If you are keeping up with this rambling, then you understand that if I didn't have on reading glasses, my vision would have been fuzzy at best. Because I was now cleaning and reminiscing with my regular glasses on, I instantly knew that something was not right in my special world. I took my glasses off and peered closely at the picture of the fellow who was smiling at me.

Lord have mercy, that was not the husband.

The young man had dark hair and was dressed in an Army uniform, much like my own man would have been in our youth. It looked like him. Kinda. I laughed all the way across the house as I thrust the picture into the face of the husband and asked, "Who is this man and why am I keeping a picture of him?" His eyes flashed recognition in a matter of seconds as he rattled off his name and asked where in the world I had found it. I told him my story and we both came to the conclusion that at some point, it had to have fallen out of an album or something and from there... well, obviously I mistook the fellow for the husband and lovingly placed him in my ribbon-tied stash.

A long story, I know, and probably one of those that just isn't funny if you're not the one in it. Nevertheless, I tend to find meaning in everything and my take from this story was two-fold:

A). Maybe bifocals aren't the devil, and
B). This is how family tales get started.

If, in fact, my future grandchildren were trying to figure me out long after I'm gone, can you imagine the stories that would have unfolded due to the discovery of grandma's mystery man? I suppose it would have spiced up a rather ordinary life.



*Dedicated to my own grandma, no mystery man in her life,
 but two good men who loved her. Gone from this world nine years today.

Define Crazy

I looked in the dictionary. Several of them, different centuries, all Webster. Crazy is one definition that doesn't change much over time.

Deranged.

Decrepit.

Insane.

In none of those definitions did I find the phrase only affects women, and yet women are the ones I hear who most often refer to themselves as crazy.

Crazy Mom.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.

Crazy (Word I Can't Say On A Blog My Mom Reads).

Why is that? 

I've been reading several stories lately about women who have evidently lost their minds over things like kids and husbands, dishes and laundry, co-workers and grocery clerks. All these women share a common theme that can sometimes accompany crazy...

Jail time.

I get it. We get crazy over things we are passionate about, but crazy to the point of the infamous mug shot in an orange jumpsuit? Who has that kind of time (or energy, for that matter)? And yes, I know the phrase "Mess with my kid and you mess with me." Like I said, I do get it, but come on... craziness for the sake of being crazy is just plain

CRAZY.

Take a deep breath. Think it over. Come up with a solid game plan that- and I'm just throwing this out there- does not involve social media and your crazy self. 

It's Superbowl Sunday, people. Eat a chicken wing, drink a cold beverage, and leave the crazy to what I anticipate the halftime show being tonight.

Ode To The Silent People*

Silence is often misunderstood,

 but never misquoted.

I saw this quote on a church marquee today as the youngest and I were driving and thought to myself, "Truer words have never been spoken." I feel like I've been misunderstood most of my life. People often don't quite know how to take someone who is...

QUIET.

So, for all you talkative people, let me fill you in on the quiet people and what we are thinking most of the time,

"While you are busy TALKING just to hear yourself TALK, we are the ones stuck LISTENING wishing you would just SHUT UP."

Yeah. I just wanted to see what it would feel like to put those words to print.

Gotta say, it felt pretty darn good.

All joking aside, however, don't be so quick to knock the quiet people. We're not snobbish or stand-offish or whatever-ish you might try to label us with on any given day. Sometimes, and there really are those times, we would LIKE to say something, but feel like it would be rude to interrupt or turn the attention on ourselves. Sometimes, and there are many a time, we actually do TRY to say something and you run us over with your own words like we didn't even say anything at all and, for the record, there's nothing worse for a quiet person than to finally work up the nerve to say something only to not be heard at all.

But anyway. Quiet people listen. You talking people evidently need that. So really, when you look at it that way, together we make the world go 'round. Besides, sooner or later you always end up asking us what we think...

And for those thirty seconds, we shine. =)



*not the true definition of an ode, I know, but I like how it sounds. 

I Put The Hilarious In The Knock-Knock

Mrs. Angela, tell me a joke to make me laugh.

Tough challenge from a kid giving you a dead-serious glare, but a kid-kinda-challenge is my line of work. I'm up for anything to break up the monotony of a work day.

First attempt.

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Isaiah.
Isaiah who?
Isaiah (I say a) prayer every morning.

Nothing. Notta. Smile not found.

Second attempt.

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Banana.
Banana who?

(repeat a gazillion times)

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Orange.
Orange who?
Orange (like aren't ya) glad I didn't say banana?

Score! Success. Huge smile combined with a you-are-kinda-crazy look.

Ahhh. Just the response I was expecting.

Hey, I'm a big hit when the audience is seven and under. =)

Did Somebody Say Lucky Charms?

I am in the mood to eat.
Cereal. Brownies. Pizza. Chips. Crackers. Hot Pockets.
Unfortunately, I am not the least bit hungry, so therefore... I wait.

I wait for bed. I wait for the morning. I wait to be hungry again.

If I had chocolate syrup, I would stir up a glass of chocolate milk. If it were not almost nine o'clock in the evening, I would brew up a cup of coffee. If the elastic in my pants would give just a little bit more, I would eat anyway.

I mentioned the above thought to the husband earlier and he just looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and poured himself a bowl of Lucky Charms. He has lost quite a bit of weight these past few months and is more than pleased with himself. I confess that I have more than once pondered the prospect of secretly feeding him weight-gain powder with his nightly supper.

Not that I'm jealous or anything.

I just want to eat.

Embarrassment

Embarrassment. Noun. A feeling of self-consciousness, shame, or awkwardness.

Often times I will look up definitions of a word to see if that is really the word that I want to use. Years ago I had the privilege of sharing adjoining classrooms with a lady whom I respectfully referred to as my human dictionary (and she knows who she is). Anytime I wasn't sure how to pronounce a word or had a question to the meaning of a word, she was my go-to-girl (first grade teachers are awesome like that). At any rate, in the wee hours of this Wednesday morning, I was in bed staring at a ceiling and thinking about the word embarrassment.

And now here I am. No sense lying in bed when a person can be up writing.

Yesterday I unwittingly found myself caught up in the midst of something that reminded me of an audition for a high school (no, middle school) drama class. I ended up embarrassed, fighting back tears (which didn't work, by the way), and wanting to fall into the proverbial hole in the ground. Escaping to the place that all grown women know to escape to, I was washing my hands at the bathroom sink and took one backward glance at the mirror on my way out the door.

And there it was. A long, piece of toilet paper stuck to my pants.

Why am I telling you this? To make you laugh, I guess. It certainly made me laugh. All I could think was that on top of everything else that had just happened, that would have topped it all. My mind flashed back to a moment in junior high when that very same thing occurred and, unfortunately, I didn't know about it until some merciful girl caved to pity and pulled me aside in the hallway. As I stood yesterday in the bathroom with just me, the Lord, and my reflection in the mirror revealing that tag-along-paper, I thought about the girl I was all those years ago and the woman I am now.

I was unsure of a lot of things then. I'm unsure of a lot of things now.
But at least I've got the good sense to check the mirror before I walk out the door.

May you have that good sense as well. =)

Are Y'all Trying To Tell Me Something?

Okay.


So my last entry, the one yesterday, the one entitled The Final Post, is well on its way to becoming the most read entry of all my blog posts. Which leaves me wonder...

Is it that popular because people were thinking,

Thank God she is wrapping this madness up.

~or~

Please God, don't let her leave.

In reality, the title itself was just the product of a lack of imagination on my part.
Nonetheless, the stats rolling in on this one have me chuckling to myself...

While making me a wee-bit uncomfortable.


Not that I have insecurity issues or anything. =)

Boys With No Shirts (or more importantly, part two of a girly football game)

This post is dedicated to those of you anxiously awaiting an update on the Championship Powder Puff Football Game last night. Yeah... I'm laughing, too. I will, however, not only give that update, but also share my thoughts on half-naked teenage boys.

And some of you just sat up straighter.


First things first.

The freshmen girls did beat the sophomore team to secure their third place standing in this year's championship tournament. My girl stood her ground on defense with the rest of her team and endured the throat-clenching, hair-pulling, jersey-grabbing antics of an unorganized tenth grade offense. Final score was freshmen 12; sophomores ZERO. Woot Woot. We didn't hang around for the junior/senior game.


And now on to the more interesting stuff.

Last night was cold for our neck of the woods. We sat on a blanket (on the metal bleachers), huddled in a blanket, and watched others spend good money to warm their hands on slices of pizza or cups of hot chocolate. But even the brisk wind blowing could not stop groups of shirtless teenage boys from supporting their female classmates out on the field. On both sides, boys in pajama pants and shorts bravely faced the cold wearing nothing on top but coordinating body paint and letters proudly displaying their loyalty (F-R-E-S-H-M.... you get the idea). Hats on backwards, boomboxes playing, and flags waving, the girls were not lacking a cheerleading squad on either side.

When the freshmen girls scored the FIRST touchdown, their shirtless male counterparts made a victory lap around the track stopping only to wave their flag in the face of the sophomore boys. When the SECOND touchdown was made, the victory lap was repeated only to swap the flag-in-the-face move with all the freshmen boys dropping on the field to exhibit their strength in push-ups (to show their might over the sophomores, the daughter later informed me). While this was taking place, a sophomore boy snatched the flag of the freshmen.

Which led to a minor flag tussle.
Which got a teacher involved.
Which caused enough distraction for a freshman boy to snatch the boombox of the sophomores.
Which he promptly delivered to the group of shirtless senior boys sitting in the bleachers.
Which got another teacher involved.

Oh my goodness.

We laughed and clapped and completely forgot there was an actual game taking place on the field.

As the boombox-snatching freshman was escorted away from the scene of the crime, we went back to watching the game and the husband remarked that towards the end of the second half, the boys with only paint on their backs and chests to keep them warm were not as rowdy as they were in the beginning. The cold must have dampened their enthusiasm as hands were shoved into pajama pant pockets and they were more huddled together than chanting any great cheer. The final buzzer buzzed and the game was over. I think the boys disappeared faster than the girls who were, like last night, delivering their farewell hugs as they made their way off the field.

So, all in all, the last two nights have been a lot of fun. The daughter is already looking forward to next year and I gotta admit, I'm anxious to see what those boys come up with next.

And watching my girl play, too.

That's the most important part...

Right?

Powder Puff Dreams

For the first time in all of my kids' middle school/high school careers, we attended a sporting event for the sole purpose of watching one of our own take the field. I've never been envious of the notorious soccer mom running herself ragged to get from one game or event or class to another with all of her Nike-Reebok-Adidas wearing kids in tow, but I have to admit it was rather exciting to descend the concrete steps of those metal bleachers looking for a place to park myself. Equipped with a comfy blanket to sit on, we snatched a spot on the 50-yard line and as luck would have it, a trash-talking grandpa for the opposite team took up space right in front of us. The oldest broke open his motorcycle-riding-backpack that was stuffed with snacks, the husband began a verbal assessment of the opponent, and with the sound of a buzzer, the game was on.

Powder Puff Football.

It's the freshman year of the youngest. In the days leading up to her high school registration, she remarked to her dad that she intended to get the full high school experience. She sent me a text a few weeks ago announcing: I did it, Mom. Signed up for powder puff. What have I gotten myself into? Even as I admonished her for using her phone during school (It's study hall, Mom), I was at the same time cheering her on. You go, girl! 

So for the last week she has been at practice learning about football and taking defensive tactic training from her father. It's all been rather entertaining. She comes home from practice wound up about this sophomore or that senior and the girls who won't do anything because they're afraid of messing up their hair. She insisted we didn't need to be at the game last night because as she put it, We're gonna get killed, Mom.

Which brings me to another point.

Whose bright idea was it to pit the freshmen team against the seniors?

Yep. The senior girls took to the field in a intimidating formation that involved launching diapers and pacifiers and baby bottles at the huddled group of freshmen girls. It was rather sad and funny all at the same time. You don't need the details of the game- the seniors did win, but it was by no means a slaughter as predicted earlier by the daughter. We watched our baby girl take up her defensive stance and slightly prayed, Not the teeth, Lord. Protect the teeth ($5000 worth of orthodontics, you know). She held her own and we cheered them on. Even the trash-talking grandpa became eerily quiet as the clock wound down. When the final buzzer sounded and girls on the field hugged each other (as only girls in football jerseys can do), we gathered up our blanket and snacks and waited for our athlete to make her appearance. The husband leaned over and whispered to me, Well, at least we only had to do this one time.

Nope, I sadly shook my head. We're here tomorrow night, too. Losers play the losers; winners play the winners.

Those sophomores are going down.

Then I'll gladly hang up my soccer mom shoes.

At least till next year.

Happy & Sad (Don't Know What Else To Call It)

Picture this:

The horseshoe drop-off area at your kids' high school.
Your teenage daughter dressed up for professional day to earn extra credit.
Her boyfriend walking by at the exact same time your mini-van drives up.

Keep in mind this is the same girl who typically wears a camouflage jacket and jeans and boots on any given day. She is now in a skirt and heels and looking very professional. As she recognizes the boyfriend walking up in his own camouflage jacket and jeans and boots, her only response is,

Drive, Mom! Drive!

Oh, the things that make me laugh.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

We lost a member of our extended family yesterday whose passing came as such as surprise- I mean, the events leading up to it were so unexpected, my head is still whirling from it all. I suppose it's good for us all to  be reminded from time to time that life certainly is fleeting... we never know when our day may come. I know I have been looking at my own close family in a brand new light. A renewed appreciation. My heart aches for the unexpected tragedy of it all.

Life is a balancing act of the laughter and the tears.

May your laughter side always weigh more.

The Last Thing I Need Is Cake

This is what I keep telling myself as the offer of pound cake lingers in the air. I've never been one to play the weight game. I have no idea when I last stood on a scale. My jeans have always been the determining factor on where I stand as far as to eat the pound cake or not to eat the pound cake. Right now I'm pretty sure the jeans would agree with the mirror that the pound cake can wait. Besides, I'm really not that hungry. I can wait, I think, till lunch.

Maybe.

(And the fact that I was asked how I felt about substituting for a PE class should not be a sign to me at all. Right?)

The things that make me laugh.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I wrote that a few days ago. Something happened before I got around to actually publishing it, though. I was going to ramble on about how I got to see my mid-western nieces via the webcam the night before and how that made me cry when the end button was clicked and how I get so darn homesick for my family far away. The cake incident was only a little humor to mask the tears. Oh, it happened and it made me laugh (if only to myself). Then the PE substitute thing came along which really made me chuckle. I'll tell you, there are times when I would testify that I hear the Lord laughing right along with me. That was one of those times. I have no idea what He is up to, but I'm betting it is the last thing I would have thought of... He's a genius like that.

So anyway, things might be a-changing. I have learned, however, not to count my chickens before they hatch. I'll not count 'em yet, but the sound of crackin' eggs are in the air.

And if that's the best idiom I can come up with, I better quit while I'm ahead.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Oh,

The oldest is riding a motorcycle.
The middle looks like a body builder.
And the youngest has a boyfriend.

Life never stands still, does it?

The Curse of the Opossum

I am thankful for the husband every day, but I'm especially thankful for his presence any time there's an insect problem or a backed-up sewage system or an uncooperative vehicle. As of last night, I have one more interesting item to add to the list.

A renegade opossum.

We had just went to bed when the middle knocked on our door with the unusual announcement of a opossum on the back porch. The back screened-in porch. Where the cats were. Yeah... that got our attention real quick.

He was right. As we looked out our back door, there was the freakish-looking, always-creeps-me-out, blood-red eyes of the uninvited guest looking back at us. His (her?) focus was on the cheap, dry cat food I had just put out for the cats. When the weather is nice, we will sometimes leave the indoor cats on the protected (or so we thought) back porch. Of course, there's that pesky hole that's been in the bottom of the screen door for forever, but that shouldn't have been a problem, right?

Wrong.

You can only appreciate the humor that followed if you have been there before or have a good imagination or know our family. The husband grabbed his .22 while the middle rescued the indifferent cats from whatever tragedy might have been waiting. The opossum took one look at the now-armed man and scurried through the hole by which he (she?) entered. In no time, this stealer-of-the-cat-food was cornered, angered, and was no more (and we'll interrupt this description to excuse those of you who might be horrified at the thought of one less opossum on this earth).

What was funny is the fact that just as the shot was fired, I was headed to the room of the youngest to tell her not to panic. About that time, she met me with big, questioning eyes. All I offered was a simple explanation:  Dad. Opossum. Back porch. She shrugged her shoulders in acknowledgement and headed back to bed. That made me laugh. Evidently nothing is surprising in this family. The middle assisted in the burial, the mystery of the recent trash can scavenger was solved, and we all went to bed.

Where I dreamed I was a friend of Barack Obama and a University of Georgia football fan.
And now you know why I called this little tale The Curse of the Opossum.

Horrible, horrible dreams.

If You're A Faithful Couponer, I'll Apologize In Advance

You know, I think about coupons. I'll browse through them every now and then, cut carefully around the dotted lines, and set 'em aside with the very best of intentions. On the rarest of occasions, I'll even actually redeem the blasted things. For the most part, though, all those coupons are good for are cluttering up my desk and collecting dust.

Please don't tell me about binders and page protectors or even handy little wallet-sized organizers that I can file by the expiration date. Believe me, I'm all about dividing stuff and color coding and artsy little labels. I can organize till Jesus comes back and have fun doing it, but all the little crafty ideas of this world will not motivate me to utilized the penny-pinching power of the coupon. I simply don't have the patience.

I know, I know. The convenience of technology. Coupon sites and coupon printing and coupon clubs. No thank you. I've done the e-coupon thing on my grocery customer tracking loyalty card... that's worked every blue moon or so. It's just that most of the time when I actually get to the store, the generic brand (without the coupon) is still cheaper anyway, thus reinforcing the fact that my computer time could have been better spent on more meaningful tasks like facebook or pinterest or blogging.

Yes, I've moaned and groaned because we're tight on money. That may never change. On the plus side, though, I'm not complaining about paper cuts or the cost of printer ink or the impatient lady behind me in the check-out line who let me know in more ways than one she was not impressed with my four-inch binder of coupon glory.

Yeah... so that's never been me. But I have seen those same ladies taking up space in the aisle while they sort through their couponopedia. Of course, I can't brag about how much I've saved either or stock my would-be garage with enough deodorant to supply the entire western hemisphere for the next thirty years, but hey... we've all got our goals in life, right?

And if you're one of those ladies, you're probably telling yourself that I'm just jealous.
You could be right. I think I'm about out of deodorant. I know I don't have a coupon for that.

My Toilet Seat Has A Crack In It

I mean... technically that's true, but it really has no relevance to what's on my mind. I just think that any entry, or book for that matter, is all about the title. It's what grabs our attention. Some of my blog entries have really great content (says me), but very little indicators that it's been read a lot. Others contain meaningless dribble and have huge readership numbers (again by my standards).

Trust me. I'm bigger in my own head than in the virtual world.

At any rate, I think it all goes back to the title. What grabbed your attention to read this anyway? Maybe your own toilet seat has a crack in it and so you felt empathy for me. Maybe you wondered why I would advertise such personal information and thus your curiosity was peaked. Maybe you think I can't afford a new toilet seat and your response is one of pity. Whatever the reason, it got you here.

And now that you're here, let's think about titles.
If your life had a title, what would it say?

Pity Party Crashers
Heartbreak At The ATM
Only My Earrings Are The Same Size

Kinda makes me think of epitaphs... like how a title might be the opener for your life and the epitaph a closer. The tombstone of my parents (who are still living, by the way) reads "Color Me Gone." Granted, this was my dad's idea and also depicts an engraving of a race car, but it does speak volumes in a way. Now that I think about it, I think her side features the praying hands. Yes, I do see the humor in that.

I've been thinking a lot about my own life lately and if I am really living it to its fullest potential. It's no secret that I don't entirely agree with how things are working out, but does that give me any right to dismiss what the Lord has given me? And if I were to fully embrace what He has given me, would I suddenly find a joy that I didn't think was possible in something that was not my idea?

These are the things I think about...
When I'm not thinking about that toilet seat.

The Year Of Me

Say what you will, but this year brought a strange twist to the traditional passing out of the presents. After Santa, aka the youngest, handed out the last gift, a strange hush fell over the room. Mom! Look at all your presents! I looked down, then looked around. Indeed, I was surrounded by gifts galore (at least by my standards). The others had some, too, but mine outnumbered them all.

I like to call it

The Year Of Mom,

And it's about time.



Random Note: If you look past me to the oldest, you'll see him gazing in wonder at that crazy black cat of ours.





And the fact that most of the presents were from the husband and included such practical things like new glasses for the kitchen, fuzzy socks to keep my feet warm, and a gift box full of silky underwear (seriously) did not diminish the excitement of my bigger-than-the-rest pile.

Besides, he also got me perfume called Rebel Chic and Luv-A-Licious.

To quote a friend of mine, Stand back, girls. He's all mine.

The Year Of Mom. The Year of The Wife.

It's all good in my book.

My Husband Has Purpose...

and I'm a little scared.

He's decorating for Christmas. You have to understand the severity of this situation. He's never done this before. Now don't get me wrong; he's all for the holiday season. He loves the cookies and fudge and chocolate-covered cherries that typically accompany this time of year. He loves shopping for me and the kids and will even take us for the mandatory drive-around-the-neighborhood-tour of Christmas lights.

The thing is he usually never gets involved with the decorating of the home. That job usually falls to me and the kids and the be brutally honest... just me (and in my lovely daughter's defense before she protests loudly, she decorates her own room, thank you very much). I'm always the one to want to put lights outside and even though I have often asked the man of the house for help, it ends up being just me and the oldest. Decorating is just not the husband's thing. He's got better things to do than to hang tinsel and fight with lights.

Not this year. He is a man on a mission and our house may end up being the next Griswold (think National Lampoon's Christmas movie). We've got blue icicle lights, white icicle lights, blue single strand lights, green garland, a full size tree complete with lights and decorations, a radio playing Christmas music, stockings that are hung, and plans for Mr. and Mrs. Claus chilling in a couple of rocking chairs. AND THIS IS JUST THE FRONT PORCH.

Lord have mercy.
He's not stopping there.

Plans are in the works for a Baby Jesus in a manger with a cross behind Him sitting by the driveway. Next to this he plans to install a sign that reads something like "Dear Mr. President, We Are Still A Christian Nation." He wants a star hanging high in a tree and a river of blinking lights in our (now dry) fountain. He asked me today if I thought I could find pink lights, and I'm not sure why. I asked him (while we hanging lights, of course) why this year was different. He looked at me and simply said, "Nothing else is going right. I might as well go all out."

Bless his heart.
Go all out, Babe.

Just please leave the inside to me. ;)

Can I Bedazzle A Broomstick?

So apparently I am going to be a witch on Halloween... kinda funny considering I have never really been one to do anything on this particular day, much less let my kids wear masks and terrorize the neighborhood. It's either this southern air or old age, I can't decide which. Last year I startled my three young-uns by actually carving a pumpkin. Re-reading that entry from almost a year ago made me laugh to myself. It's funny how things can change. It looks like this year everyone is getting involved with the exception of the husband.

Just tonight the oldest purchased himself some kind of freaky mask (and no, I didn't even ask to see it... the boy is old enough to drive, old enough to work, old enough to buy his own Halloween goodies... he doesn't need his mom shaking her head in disgust which is something I would most likely do). Anyway, he did his thing at a local trunk-or-treat event. On Monday night the middle will be doing his thing as well, although I think he's playing it safe and holy as a disciple of Jesus. The youngest and I will be joining some friends to participate in another trunk-or-treat event and then... (are you ready for this, Mom?)... we are taking her trick-or-treating.

That girl is certain I have lost my mind.
But she's willing to risk my sanity for the sake of a plastic pumpkin full of candy.
Ahhh... the devotion and love of a thirteen-year old.

So a witch I will be. I can't decide if I want to bedazzle my hat with gemstones or cover it with flowers and feathers. I mean, come on... this is a pretty big deal around the old homestead. Such a thing might not happen again. If I'm gonna dress up like a witch, I want to be a memorable one. No green faces or funky warts for me. We want to make this one count.

Better Than A Pin-Up Girl

Sometimes it doesn't take much to make me laugh. While watching tv this evening (a whole hour of The Rifleman) I looked over at my husband stretched out in his recliner. He was holding a book sideways with an intense look on his face that was a mixture of both joy and anticipation. It reminded me of what a man might look like if he was checking out the latest centerfold or something... only what he was holding was no bunny-of-the-month club issue. It was a Ford manual with detailed schematics and other fun stuff for his old truck.

Yep, we might be kinda boring around here, but at least we keep it clean. =)

At Least My Hair's Not In Curlers

It's almost 1:30 in the afternoon and I'm still in my pajamas. Why? Because I can, I guess. Days like this don't happen that often, but my bed is not made, the dishes are not washed, and if I don't get ready soon, my kids will be subjected to the sight of their mother in her robe maneuvering the mini-van in after-school traffic. Yeah... we probably want to avoid that kind of trauma.

The culprit for the state of mind I am in would be a very good book and very boring schoolwork. The book demanded to be finished and the schoolwork had to be done. Then there's my back porch with the comfy lounge chair and the sound of trickling water and two lazy cats enjoying the breeze. It's hard to be motivated when you're surrounded by so much laziness.

I mean, come on... it's not like I sleep late and watch soap operas (much) and indulge in bon-bons on a daily basis. I write and read and write some more. I drink coffee and sip root beer and eat left-over pizza. I pull weeds and play with the dog and stare at the neighbors. If you saw me now, though, you would definitely be thinking to yourself, "What a bum." Okay, okay. Today I might have to agree with that.

But don't we all need an occasional day like this?
And for the sake of my sanity, just nod your head and agree for once.
I promise to lose my flowery pj's before I leave the house.

Smartphone Karaoke

Last night my husband took me out for a little impromptu alone time (alone being defined as lack of kids). We had already ate a sloppy-joe supper at home, so he whipped the car into a Mexican place where you can sit outside and watch a little karaoke action six nights a week. We got something to drink, a free basket of chips, and settled in for an hour or two of cheap entertainment. We were not disappointed.

A looooong table of at least twenty-five people were celebrating a birthday or graduation or something. The more they drank, the louder they got. My husband and I, being the kind of wild couple that we are, were calculating how much (in dollars) of tequila they were drinking and how many bills that might pay. We watched as a young girl got up and did a Miley Cyrus impersonation (not my daughter, my husband stated) and when the DJ put on a little Vanilla Ice, the whole place exploded. Suddenly about twenty people of probably three nationalities were up on their feet. Even my husband got a little excited. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. My response? You're on your own there, buddy. At any rate, it was a lot of fun, we spent a total of $5.19, and were home to the kiddos by ten.

But this is what caught my eye about the whole evening. I think you'll recognize it if you pay any attention at all to the twenty-first century. In the midst of the Miley Cyrus and Vanilla Ice and Wannabe Cowboys was the ever-present, never-fading smartphone glow. People sitting together, sometimes not even talking, but constantly zipping through screen after screen of whatever it was they were looking at on their phones. Now don't get me wrong, sometimes my husband and I have smartphone envy. Our phones know only how to make calls and send and receive occasional texts. Our budget is tight enough without adding all the bells and whistles, but as I sat there watching, I couldn't help but wonder how much life these people were missing out on.

Are you a smartphone user? Or maybe the proper term I'm going for here is smartphone addict. Can you do everything you can do on those and still interact with the people around you? I'm sincerely curious here. Not just at this restaurant, but practically everywhere you go you see this phenomenon taking place. I see kids standing in groups outside at school with every head looking down at a screen. I've witnessed kids at the playground sitting (still) on a swing or perched at the top (not moving) on a slide with that twisted neck-look. Heck, I've complained before about adults that block the grocery store aisle or hold up a green light because their attention is all focused down instead of around. Even while the whole Vanilla Ice dance was going on, there were some who could not, would not surrender their phone.

And let me tell you, trying to keep a beat while simultaneously facebooking or tweeting or whatever it was they were doing makes for some serious entertainment. I can honestly say that was the best five bucks we've spent in a long time. I may not understand it all, but a good laugh certainly can drown out the worries. I guess until I get my own smartphone to entertain myself, this is as good as it gets.

But that's all right with me.
I really enjoy people too much.
Even if I wouldn't dance to Vanilla Ice.