Just Call Me Bob

My Tuna Pot Pie
Originally uploaded by Kimpossible, HEM, PWTPI.

This picture is of a tuna pot pie that I made with WIC-approved tuna and frozen vegetables. I MADE THE CRUST, PEOPLE, BE IMPRESSED. The tongue of the smiley face is a result of me testing the crust just to be sure it was OK since the recipe actually called for LARD and I substituted shortening. Even my mother was shocked that there was a cookbook still in publication that uses that four-letter word. And just for the record, we are not enrolled in WIC, but we could probably qualify.

I spent the day recovering from some awful disease which struck me yesterday. It was one of those sicknesses where everything hurts, even your hair, and you find yourself wishing you could throw up because during the time that you are throwing up, your stomach stops hurting just for a minute and you get some relief. Husband, who had to come home from work yesterday to take care of The Goose while I writhed in pain and who also is not a doctor, says it was a 24-hour virus. I maintain that it was food poisoning that I contracted at an opening night reception for a play called Kimberly Akimbo (rating: decent) which I attended on Friday night. At the reception they served wine in clear plastic cups, cubed cheese, spinach dip, and those pinwheel thingies that are made with tortillas, deli meat, and sliced swiss cheese (and which were likely from the frozen section of Sam's). I hate Sam's, and so this CERTAINLY the cause of my illness. I am better now, but have mostly spent the day eating saltines and baked potatoes just in case. Next to Husband's carrot cake and homegrown 'mater sandwiches with mayo, salt, and pepper, CRACKERS are my favorite food on earth.

So ... about the title ...

My child has his "Ms" and "Bs" confused. He used to say MAMAMAMAMAMAMA all the time, and now all of a sudden he's calling me Bob. Just last week he said "Mom" on cue for Husband's co-workers, and now when I ask him "What's my name? Who is this?" (while pointing to my chest area), he says, with authority, "Bob." If you point to his dad and ask the same, he always says, "Dah-Dah." If you point to a ball, he says, "Bah." If you pick up the phone, he says, "Bye-Bye." If you try to put a bib or hat on him, he says, "NO NO NO NO NO." So it's clear that this is not just a little mistake. He wants me to be called Bob. And I'm starting to like it ... for one thing, it's one of those words that are spelled the same backwards and forwards ... what are those called? Anagrams? Somebody correct me please. Anyway, it's that. AND it's an acronym for Big Ole Butt, which is quite fitting these days.

Today while we were in Kroger, the checkout guy (who, by the way, forgot to scan my Kroger card and ended up charging me $5.99 for a sippy cup that was on sale for $2.62) gave The Goose a sticker that said, "Great Meals Start at Kroger" and then something about and cost cutting and discounts (HA! -- what a scam). Across the bottom of the sticker is the phrase, "Have You Seen B.O.B.?" I have no idea what that means, but I'm sure it's something they want you to ask about just so they can con you into filling out a form for a Kroger credit card. Who needs that? I do just fine charging $40 minimum to my Mastercard each time I'm in there even when I leave the list in the car and forget everything on it. Here is a picture of The Goose wearing his sticker proudly:

At our Kroger they have an announcement that plays over the P.A. system that says, "Attention Kroger shoppers! A woman in the deli section has just lost something. She's lost INCHES FROM HER WAIST!" Without fail I hear this in the ice cream section. Today I heard it in the ice cream section while unknowingly bending over in front of three cute fire fighters who had just watched me ram the race car shopping cart (with a Goose-sized steering wheel) into a display of carefully layered boxes of waffle cones. Grace just oozes from me.

Now watch, this is a good transition ...

One of the things on my left-in-the-car list was manilla file folders, because I have court tomorrow (Kimpossible vs. NorthWORST Airlines) and I don't have anything in which to put my evidence. It is entirely too much trouble to go back out to the car with a Prize Baby (who has now unfastened the race car seatbelt and is standing up chanting "BobBobBob!") to get your list (or, god forbid, going back into Kroger after reading over your list in the car just before you pull out of the parking lot (while smacking yourself in the head because you are dumber than a rock)), SO, after returning home, I made my way back to the south wing of the house, where there is a TINY Tiny tiny room that was once used to house that kidnapped owl. Yes, I know that's weird. This house used to be the park's education center, so we have lots of weird stuff going on around here. Before the carpet people came back in January, the floor in the Tiny Room was covered in owl poop. Now it's covered in a lovely vanilla-colored, state-approved Berber. We just use the room for storage. So anyway, I was back there looking through my grad school stuff for an empty manilla folder when I discovered that our secondary air conditioning unit (which is housed in the owlery) was leaking profusely. So much so that mushrooms have started growing from our carpet.

You think I'm kidding?

Will somebody please just put me out of my misery? Let's stop and think for a minute about the features of my home ...

• Owlery with Mushrooms (and BRs)
• Science Lab/Weight Room with 32 electrical outlets (and BRs)
• Chicken Coop/Room with Ceiling Fan (with BRs)
• Yoga Room/Playroom (with BRs)
• Smokehouse (with BRs)
• Frequent Predators (including, but not limited to BRs, a baby-snatching bobcat, raccoons, snakes, mice, WASPS, and deer)

I should really keep all of that a secret because someone is likely to read this and contact the state ASAP about purchasing this enticing piece of property. But just between you and me ... we get this baby RENT FREE! Sssshhhh. Don't tell anyone.

Well, I gotta go. Husband just came home from work and said, "Pimpin' ain't easy. Now get off the computer and do your yoga so I can live with you." C U L8ter.

Court, Costco, Predators, Nonprofit Scams, & Cicada Onomatopoeias

Monday at 8:45 a.m. I will be appearing in small claims court against NorthWORST Airlines and their hotshot corporate attorney. I am thinking of wearing the Almay hazel eyes intense i-color trio and my six-year-old black suit. But then again, it is from Ann Taylor and I wouldn't want to appear uppity. Maybe I'll opt for one of my banana-stained tank tops and a pair of shorts. Or better yet, one of Husband's Wife Beater undershirts. I hate those damn things but they might look cuter on me than him. It's all for that little guy above.

On Tuesday we will be joining Costco. In general I am against the entire idea of wholesale, but Costco pays their employees 42% more than Sam's Club, and they have great deals on tires. Plus, you can't beat their prices on the other necessary items in my life ... diapers, wipes, Absorbine, Jr., Bondini, foaming wasp and hornet spray, etc.

And here's an update on predators in our vicinity ...

I have failed to mention this previously, but soon after our recovery from the tumble down the the ridge, I hiked it again to see if I could figure out how I tripped. It was during this hike that I came across one of the most heartstopping things I've ever seen: Someone had taken a Sharpie and written, "GROUND HORNETS" on a rock. They even included arrows. There were actually two signs, one above and one below a hole in the ground. That is simply a RECIPE for a Kimpossible swan dive off the edge of the trail with a Prize Baby on her back. No wonder I tripped.

More recently, I hiked it yet again, and noticed that now the HORNETS sign is crossed out and next to it is a note from a ranger (not Husband, mind you) that reads, "Try harmless digger bees."

Is it just me, or is that just a smidgen over the top? I mean, do we really need to show up people who hike with Sharpies and choose to write on rocks in a natural area?

AND, as if Harmless Digger Bees (which in my mind translates to KILLER WASPS) weren't enough, Husband came home last night and announced that a bobcat was indeed spotted just a few feet away from our house and that he thinks the footstep-like noises we've been hearing on our roof may be linked to this recent sighting. Then he mentioned that this house used to have an in-ground swimming pool beside which this predatory animal enjoyed spending lazy summer afternoons. The pool is now gone, but the cat is not.

Last night while I was happily teaching the vocabulary of underwear, Husband was napping on the floor outside The Goose's bedroom, trying to see if he could catch a glimpse of this feline baby snatcher. I'm sure it will be one of the highlights of his life if he does see it, but what he doesn't know is that I've got the .22 cocked and loaded in case I see it first. I don't care if it's the only bobcat in the state of Tennessee, if it's been prowling around on my roof sniffing out Prize Babies then it better be prepared to meet its maker. I don't give a shit if it's endangered or beautiful or harmless. It has no business on my roof.

This is the point in my students' essays where I write "TRANSITION???" out in the margin.

Besides spending all of our money on eye makeup, I have recently become the victim of a non-profit organizational scam. It's the one where they send you cute address labels and simply ask for $6. And because you're not sure if glossy adhesive is recyclable, and because you can't possibly bring yourself to use them without giving the March of Dimes six measly bucks, you send in a little cash. And then you get a personalized notepad and a request for $10. So, using the same principle mentioned above, you send in a ten spot and lo and behold the Nature Conservancy sends you set of address labels with the Karner Blue Butterfly on them. And because you once taught a fourth grade science lesson on this endangered species, you feel nostalgic, and you send out more money. And then you receive a Gardner's Tote Bag with the same butterfly embroidered on it and a subscription to a tree hugger magazine with lots of pictures of the Wild West, which makes Husband nostalgic (as if National Geographic weren't bad enough), and then he starts dreaming about quitting his fantastic job here in the park with the predators and the missing owl and the BRs to move back out west where neither of you have jobs but it sure is breathtakingly beautiful with no humidity.

Transition???

And finally, I have to ask, why is there no onomatopoeia for the sound that cicadas make? One of the hotties has gotten me thinking about soundwords with her recent line, "Blog is an onomatopoeia for barf." I am the queen of onomatopoeias and I can't figure out how to even make the cicada sound, much less a word that represents it. As a child, I used to instinctively make up words for sounds. For example ...

• An '88 Oldsmobile: tronnitee-shudden-wudden-wudden-wudden
• A toilet flushing: flon-shou-wow-wow-wow ... tut-tut-tut-tut.
• A trans-am: wohmmmmmm-wohmmmm (this led to the term, wom-wom wheels)

While I was in Mississippi, I found my 3rd grade diary and these words were listed, along with a note that said, "My best friend is Emily Rives. She weighs 80 pounds and we are only in the third grade." Even though I was weird, at least I was loving.

Conclusion?

Buh-dee-buh-dee-buh-dee ... That's all folks!

White (& Black) Trash

Ebony & Ivory
Originally uploaded by Kimpossible, HEM, PWTPI.

Tuesdays are our Saturdays ... Husband and I are both off. Yesterday was an especially fun day because we scheduled a playdate with The Goose's best bud, Little Ricky. It was unbearably hot, so we blew up the pool and popped a top. They both drank a whole lot of hose water, ate some grass, and attempted to pull each other's hair. The picture above is what husband calls "Charlie's Angels: The Ebony & Ivory."

Here is what we were doing while they played (note: we are in the pool with them in the backyard -- the chickens were pecking the ground all around us -- in other words, the only thing missing from this picture is a dishwasher out in the yard with us):



You know that Garth Brook’s song, “Shameless”? Well if that was about trashiness rather than some love interest of his, then he could’ve made the video in our backyard yesterday.

In other news, I am still teaching on Monday & Wednesday nights and loving it. Last Monday night was a Peer Editing Session (where they all brought essay drafts and we devoted the entire class to workshopping with the essays). One of my students had written an essay about school uniforms and had used the word “panties” for “pants” in every single instance of that word in her essay (which was a lot, given the topic). I know you’re not supposed to laugh at your students, but I just couldn’t help this one. We all just had to stop the editing session and talk about vocabulary for a while. All the words for underwear were discussed, including, but not limited to the following: briefs, boxers, tighty whities, bras, thongs, granny panties, skivvies (sp?), step-ins (that’s Pappaw’s word for underwear), long johns, weenie bikinis, and wife-beaters. Then I left the classroom and realized that, after writing all of this on the board, I had forgotten to erase it before I left. Lovely way to impress your supervisor. Tonight’s Lesson: Genitalia.

The Final Chapter

Glen, P.I. & The Apprentice
Originally uploaded by Kimpossible, HEM, PWTPI.

Well we made it home unscathed. The party went off without a hitch. The Apprentice was apparently playing the quiet game with himself (he should've been playing it with his kids, but that's another post altogether). Here he is with my dad (aka Glen, P.I.) watching a ballgame on TV while the women bustled around preparing the cake, ice cream, and gifts. If you click on the picture, you can see some other photos from the trip and also a really bitchy comment about that shirt that The Apprentice is wearing.

Pappaw didn't quite understand what it meant to blow out the candles, so instead he carved out a big piece of icing and licked it right off the knife. My kinda guy. The kids blew out the candles for him.

Believe it or not, the story of The Apprentice and His Bad Karma continues ...

As you know, on the way down south, they had a blowout in their Large Vehicle, and had to get four new tires in Kentucky. Apparently The Apprentice was driving his Ilovemywifemobile, which he deposited at his office in Nashville (who knew that chandelier companies need branch offices?). From there, he got into the Large Vehicle with my cousin and the kids and they continued southward. While in Mississippi, the kids fished a lot and The Apprentice took lots of “naps” in my aunt’s basement and went “running” several times a day (translation: AVOIDANCE OF YOUR INLAWS). Sunday morning they left Mississippi heading back north to Nashville where they will be spending the week (he’s working here and she and the kids are playing at the hotel pool — they’re not sure whether they’ll have time to see us again but took down our number just in case). Once they arrived in Nashville on Sunday, they went to pick up the Ilovemywifemobile, and lo and behold, his car keys were not in his pants pocket. I swear I did not steal them, but they called me at my parents’ house to find out if I had seen them. I really did not take them, although in retrospect, that would’ve been a fabulous idea.

Otherwise, the trip was uneventful. I only had one breakdown and it was shortlived. The other funny picture I wanted to share was of The Goose’s dining area at my mom’s house. I asked her to please set up a place where he could fling food onto cleanable surfaces, and this is what she came up with:



I got to meet lots of interesting people at Pappaw’s home. Pappaw’s roommate is quite a character. He is a retired chemistry professor with a physical disability that prevents him from living alone. He dutifully reads his Bible and cleans their room everyday and on Sundays he attends FBC Newton, which is where my parents are members. At FBC Newton, no one claps ever. Even if the choir sings in tune and the pianist plays “Bring Back the Glory” like Vladimir Horowitz, no one claps. Except for Pappaw’s roommate. He sits alone in the front row and roars his applause after every impressive choral arrangement, organ accompaniment, or, god forbid, solo by the preacher’s wife. I want some faith like that.

This past Sunday, the preacher’s sermon was on “My Three Wishes for the FBC Newton.” (He is their interim minister … they have “run off” the last two or three for various reasons.) These were his three wishes:

1. That everybody there would find a good Christian husband or wife. This prompted a story about his courtship with his own wife and how he just “swang by her house on the way to seminary in New Orleans and took her without even asking.”

2. That everybody there would have some good Christian children. This wish (and he clarified the word “wish” by saying that he was using it as if it were a synonym of the word “prayer”) of course necessitated a story about his own kids, which included some discussion of their births. Somehow, the following story was also deemed important to tell the congregation: When his daughter was born, she didn’t look anything like him and so he made sure to ask the hospital staff if they were positive that she was their baby. While he was in the nursery discussing this with the nurses, a black man walked in and pointed to his new baby girl and said, “Well, you may not be sure of yourn, but that one over there is mine for sho – my wife burns everything.”

3. That everybody there would have some good Christian grandchildren. I don’t remember any particular story that went with this wish/prayer.

4. That the church would find a new preacher so that he could finally retire.

Quite a character.

The Goose stayed in the nursery with my aunt (The Apprentice’s mother-in-law) and did relatively well. Right after church we hit the road headed east then north and finally made it home last night around 7 p.m. Whew.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this series of ramblings as much as I have. I’ll be returning home to Mississippi in September for my class reunion and that is sure to inspire another round of people watching, stories and pictures, and more bitchiness.

Thanks for all your comments!

The End.

This Post Coming to You Live

It's one hour and 17 minutes until the party and I'm sitting here eating Peter Pan Creamy Peanut Butter directly from the jar. My mother squashed Pappaw's cake en route from
Elaine Sessum's house, so now it reads, "Hap Birthda Pappa." Oh well. It is girly and has yellow roses all over it. I guess Elaine doesn't have that many options. His gifts include lots of clothing and a ride through the newly installed GALE FORCE carwash out by the Superwalmart. He loves the automatic carwash.

Yesterday I went to my aunt's house and said hello to Satan & Company. Husband informed me that "Satan" was going a little too far and that maybe we should use Satan's Apprentice. All the Apprentice said to me yesterday was, "Where's Glen (my dad)? I've got a bone to pick with him about Eli Manning." My dad and Satan have had several altercations in the past ... mostly related to the Ole Miss vs. Mississippi State argument, which for those of you not from around here is about 49% of my dad's life. The other 51% involves mowing yards, counting the money at the church, and "restin' his eyes, which is differnt [sic] from sleepin'."

The three kids were running around wildly ... the oldest boy playing a videogame and asking his mother to "rent" him a cousin since he has none to play with and is bored ... the girl contorting her body into all sorts of bizarre positions and then demanding to know (and see) whether or not I could do any of it (I could, by the way, I do yoga and used to be a cheerleader, so HA!) ... and the younger one slamming into walls and barking like a seal while clapping his hands in front of his chin. They are 10.25, 6.75, and 4.75, respectively. Yes, they mark birthdays by quarters, which is just fine because I always celebrate my half birthday (July 21st). This year I ate the Cracker Barrell Big Boy breakfast on my half b/d.

JEB has been a total nightmare ... biting, waking up at 3:30 a.m. to play and poop and SCREAM, and demanding to get into the dishwasher all the time. Thank goodness we are returning home tomorrow. But first we will be making an appearance at the FBC Newton. I refuse to go to Sunday School, so I only have to endure one hour. Hopefully JEB will be in the nursery, but if he has a BMSF then my mother has assured me I will know because the nursery workers will notify me by way of "one of those little things like they have at the Olive Garden that buzz and light up to let you know when your table's ready." The Baptists have found technology and have not banned it (yet).

Well, I better go apply some extreme i-color (brown eyes version), lipstick, and blush so that my mother will not tell me I look pale upon arrival at the party. Toodles ...

Just call me ...

a bitch:

• Premium Exxon Fuel for the 350 mile trip south ... about $30
• The Big Boy Breakfast at Cracker Barrell ... $6.95
• Finding out that Satan and Company had a blowout in Kentucky and had to get four new tires and probably won't get here until after midnight and may even miss the birthday party ...

PRICELESS.

I've got one little word for you Satan: KARMA.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now that I'm here, I understand why Pappaw only eats milkshakes and 'maters. Homegrown Mississippi tomatoes are so good that I want to crawl up in one and slosh around.

So far, so good on the homefront. My parents are ignoring me because of JEB and I am just fine with that.

We went to see Pappaw in the home and that was difficult. The "Support the Troops" man had on the pajama bottoms and the t-shirt as usual, but had also put on a belt over the t-shirt. He met us at the door, which they keep dead bolted because one day he went missing and turned up at the Sonic. Pappaw is frail and it's hard to see him like that. However, his namesake, our Goose, was a hit amongst the residents. He made himself right at home by investigating everyone's walkers and wheelchairs (he's obsessed with wheels).

My dad has taken over what used to be my bathroom (imagine a large, wallpapered bathroom with old photos of me hugging youth group friends on sandy beaches, 14 bottles of Bath & Body works lotions which are leftover gifts from my graduation party (from high school), and lots of random seashells). The takeover could also be dubbed Old Man Invasion, as my bathtub now has a hospital-grade stool to sit on whilst one showers, a bottle of Selsun Blue with Menthol, three Sams-club size bottles of Dial Tropical Escape Antibacterial Foaming Shower Wash, and some sort of scrubber tool that looks like a horse brush. I dutifully removed the stool and made room for my Aveda products tonight so that I could bathe away the stress of the drive and the relatives.

Tomorrow we're making the rounds to show off the baby around town. If you can figure out how to sneak me something a little harder than sweet tea, then please let me know and I'll meet you out on Hwy 80 by the SuperWalmart.

The HEM is Back

And just when you thought my Monster Days were over. This story has a twist though: It's not MY husband.

So, as you know, I'm headed down to my parent's house in Mississippi this weekend for my Pappaw's 90th birthday party. Pappaw has just recently been moved to a home and his health is rapidly degenerating. Pappaw is like my saving grace in the family because somehow amidst a whole bunch of pretentious women, he blossomed into what I want to call a Dirty Old Man, which is a fitting title, but somehow seems too negative for someone after whom you named your child. I mean Dirty Old Man like Sweet and Dirty, and only Dirty when it's funny and it involves nurses in the hospital where you are having part of your stomach removed and your two pretentious daughters are standing around with their heads in their hands, too mortified to even look up as you say to your 24-year-old nurse, "Are you gon' sleep here in the bed with me?"

I'm NOT talking about the kind of Dirty Old Man who gets dirty after he's had too much morphine for his knee replacement surgery (no, that's my dad) ... I'm talking about the kind of Dirty where you're asking for whiskey from the Baptist preacher who comes to visit you in the hospital because you know it embarrasses your daughters. Dirty like cantankerous and quirky and someone you'd dub "The Bald-Headed Hippy" when you're three. Dirty like someone who refuses to go to church in the Bible Belt, who won't eat anything but milkshakes and 'maters, and who cheers on his roommate at the home whenever he gets into fights with the man who only wears pajama bottoms and a "Support the Troops" t-shirt. Someone who shuffles around behind a walker with tennis balls on the legs, asking each little old lady resident, in turn, if they want to spend the night with him.

Just fun Dirty.

So my mom and her sister have this party planned (at the home) and a cake made by Elaine Sessums (pronounced EEE-lane) and my cousin (who lives in Cincinnati and has three kids and a husband (let's call him Satan just for funsies)) and I are making the trip down for the celebration.

My cousin is the kind of person who quit her job as a CPA as soon as she got pregnant and moved to the suburbs into one of those subdivisions that clears down all the trees and then replants non-native species and where the houses look so much alike that you get lost trying to find your way back outta there and onto the main street. They also own a Large Vehicle and attend a Large Church. The kind of church that puts orange cones on the street in front of their parking lot and has the deacons out there directing traffic for the 11 a.m. service.

Every year she dresses up her whole family in khakis and navy polo shirts and hires a professional photographer to follow them around a park while they play with their golden retriever. The kids play t-ball and take karate and have birthday parties for Jesus on December 24th. And this makes my mother think that I should also be doing this.

Because they have to drive DIRECTLY THROUGH NASHVILLE to get to the party, I invited them to break up the long trip and stay here for a night. I also asked if I could catch a ride since they have such a large vehicle and Satan wasn't planning to attend so there would be room. "Oh yes yes yes, what a great idea," she says, "the kids love air mattresses."

But then Satan decided that he should possibly attend this event since he has been avoiding a visit now for FOUR YEARS. Oh, another reason I think he's satan is because when I was 14 and he and my cousin were just dating, we were all out riding four wheelers in the cow pasture and he decided it would be fun to drive the one we were on (he was driving and I was holding onto to the mesh railing thingy in the back) into my dad's pine tree forest and then stop, turn around, and say, "When I was a kid I always used to be terrified that I'd drive out into a forest like this and find something really scary."

"Like what?" I said (sooo innocent, soooooo sweet, soooooooooo much eye make up).

"Like ...

A DEAD BODY" he says, and then chuckles.

Then they had a blush and bashful wedding, just like Steel Magnolias, complete with shooting birds out of trees, except not by her daddy, but by her brothers, Earl & Doug. I was a bridesmaid even though I look totally putrid in both blush and bashful. Pappaw was a groomsman.

So anyway, I sorta expected he was weird from the very beginning, but now he's Satan, and he's going to attend Pappaw's party, and because his job as an executive at a chandelier company is SO important, they have to make the trip all in one day and the kids can't come and play on my air mattress.

"OK, that's fine. So can I meet y'all out on the interstate and follow you down there so that if I have to stop and pee and JEB is asleep then I won't have to wake him up because I absolutely cannot hold my pee anymore because labor and delivery has destroyed my urinary tract?" I asked my cuz, when she called to report the change in plans.

"That sounds like a plan," she said, "but let me check with Satan to see if he's OK with it."

Oh, another thing about Satan ... he has one of those "I Love My Wife" bumper stickers on his company Taurus because he is a member of the Promise Keepers. (*SHIVER*)

The next day I got an email from her that said, "After talking it over with Satan, we have decided that we cannot possibly extend our trip by travelling with you. It would just be too much stress to put on our kids. I hope you understand. Adding even two hours to an 11-hour trip is more than they can handle."

I thought it must have a been a misunderstanding, since they have to drive DIRECTLY THROUGH NASHVILLE anyway, and how could anyone possibly do that to their only female first cousin? Well, after much pondering on this topic, I have finally decided that the only answer is that

The Devil Made Her Do It.

That's really fine. My feelings are just the teensiest bit hurt, but it's really not a big deal at all. And it's also not a big deal that your kids never sent me a thank you card for any of the following gifts I have sent:

• The BOOK I wrote them for Christmas in 2003 (entitled, Pokey-Mae-Whoopin'-Dasher-Pace: A Story About Dog Families with Hyphenated Last Names) -- you know, the one that I printed out on high-gloss, really thick card stock and then took to Kinko's to have bound;
• The Ken Griffey, Jr. rookie card that Husband sent when your oldest son was obsessed with KGJ, which we could've sold on ebay for lots of money;
• The second BOOK that I wrote for your kids (entitled, I Like Cold Spaghetti: A Story about Human Families with Alternative Food Preferences).

Yes I completely understand.

What I DON'T understand is how it would be even humanly possible for me and The Goose to add two hours to your trip since he, unlike your kids, doesn't need to stop to shit and he, unlike your kids, doesn't need to stretch his legs, and he, unlike your kids, can entertain himself simply with a biter biscuit.

Another thing I DON'T understand is what promises, exactly, your husband is keeping ...

• A promise to be a jackass?
• A promise to convince you that it's OK if he's a jackass because he has an "I LOVE MY WIFE" bumper sticker on the Taurus?
• A promise to earn the nickname SATAN?
  

Yes, I understand perfectly. The next gift I send your kids will not be a story, it will be a self-help book entitled, "What to do when your Daddy's Nickname is Satan."

Thanks for the love, cuz, I'll see you this weekend. Happy Birthday Pappaw!

Something

Mexican Restaurant Art
Originally uploaded by Kimpossible, HEM, PWTPI.

Yesterday was JEB's 10-month birthday and Husband came home from work and said that he could tell that I needed to go out and celebrate. Wonder what was the clue … the red lipstick at 3 p.m. (Clinique: Vintage Wine), the toddy in hand, or the sippy cup being used as a microphone to sing Indigo Girls songs? So we packed the car (and for those of you who don't have kids, I really mean that we PACKED THE CAR) and headed downtown with the intention of hitting the honky tonks. If you are trying to get pregnant, then WARNING WARNING WARNING DO NOT READ DO NOT READ, I REPEAT, DO NOT READ THE REST OF THIS ...

Instead, we ended up in a van down by the river.

OK, so we weren't in a van, but we were down by the river. We tried to have drinks, but Our Little Prince decided that he preferred climbing out of the highchair and onto the top of the table, sucking on imitation sugar packets, and submerging his dirty hands into our ice water all while whining continuously for half an hour. We only got one beer down before we retreated. The people around us were giving us dirty looks as if we had any control over the situation. As if children should be seen and not heard. As if, in this case, they should not even be seen. (Except I could tell that they all thought he was cute, because seriously, no matter how damn unbearable he is, he is still so friggin' cute that we always take him home with us even when we have to leave a watering hole because of his behavior and even when we pass a homeless woman on the street who is saying "oh baby sweet baby" and it crosses my mind to ask if she wants him, but even then, even when there are other viable options, we always take him back home with us.)

On the way down to the river, I had time to do some people watching and let me tell you, downtown Nashvegas is RIPE for people watching. If you want to see rednecks then go to a Nascar track (which I have done by the way). If you want to see Rednecks On Vacation, then come to Nashville. They are always in better form when they're on vacation, and it wasn’t even Fanfare. Do y’all know about Fanfare? It’s a springtime event where the country stars sit at folding tables in a big park and sign various items for their fans. Anyway, despite the fact that it was just an Ordinary Saturday Afternoon, here are a few things I noticed...

First, there were numerous ball teams (in uniform) with mom-like chaperones wearing Keds and white pleated shorts with their purses dead bolted to their bodies in fear of mugging. In these groups there's always a "T.J."

Next there's the middle-aged, our-kids-are-out-of-the-house (although not away at college, mind you) group. The women are leather from the tanning bed and are window shopping at "Tootsie's Boots and Taffy." The men are tagging along behind, trying to entertain their wives by finding fun things to do like ride in the horse-drawn carriages that stink up Broadway Avenue. I saw one group trying to convince a woman with a broken arm that she could indeed take their picture despite her injury and here, here, here's the camera (a disposable waterproof variety) and then after the shot (which stopped us dead in our tracks on the sidewalk) saying, "See there hun, you did it, broke arm and all."

There's also the 14-year-old, wannabe-the-next-Leann-Rimes karaoke queen, with her parents, dressed up in an entire outfit from the J.C. Penney's juniors department (not that there's anything wrong with that ... mind you, I have my share of junior's department, slutty tank tops). Her image prevents her from even carrying a purse and the whole family is standing in line to get into the karaoke bar so that she can be the first on the list. Her mama is chewing gum and wearing enough lipstick for a glamour shot (not that there's anything wrong with that ... mind you, I have had my nights of Entirely Too Much Lipstick). Her daddy has on some home-made cutoff bluejeans and some of those brown sandals that were popular with socks in the early 90s (now there IS something wrong with that). Her overweight younger brother is just along for the ride. They ate dinner at 3 p.m. at the Crab Shack just so they could be in line at the karaoke place by 4:30 p.m. because it opens at seven o’clock sharp and there might be talent scouts.

And then of course there are the old people exiting vans that have taken them around the city to look at the country stars’ homes (most of which are dangerously close to our house, I might add). They are sweet and smiley and oh look at the cherub-like baby in the stroller with his church-attending parents. They don’t notice that we are about to commit child abuse.

I’ve already told you about the homeless, so that about sums up downtown Nashville.

We never made it to the honky tonks.

Down by the river ended up being fun, and if you click on the picture above (which is going to be explained if you will just be patient) then you can see how absurd we are.

After rolling around in the chemically-treated grass for a while and taking idiotic pictures of ourselves, we got hungry and decided that JEB was going to have to endure a restaurant whether he liked it or not. So we headed to our favorite Mexican place from The First Time We Lived in Nashville (back in '01-'02 -- kidless newlyweds, ah, the memories ... several near-divorce-level fights and lots of drinking). Luckily, the restaurant was almost empty and they sold margaritas by the pitcher.

It was here that I took the photo that adorns the top of this post. I took it because Husband had just said, “I really like the art here. We should get some like this.”

Lord God in Heaven, bless his heart. Could it have been the fruit-covered booths or the bull knick-knacks or those tall, Catholic cylindrical candles with Jesus all over them that they sell at Kroger? (Why do they sell those at Kroger?) At any rate, I couldn’t resist documenting at least part of the décor. And then he said, “You know that guy, Ross, from ‘Friends’ – the one that was the voice of the hypochondriac giraffe in the movie, 'Madagascar'? I used to live by him in Chicago.”

How did I find such a gem? People, I found My Dream Man. Could life get any better than living in a park with an anti-honky-tonk-even-though-you-live-in-Nashville baby, and a house decked out in Mexican Restaurant Art married to Husband?

The answer is no, by the way. You know you’re jealous.

So there is a happy ending to the story. We didn’t get home until 7:30 p.m. and as a result, The Tiddy Rat missed his usual bedtime and slept in until 8 a.m. and that That THAT is why we continue to bring him home with us (unexpected extra sleep).

So there. This post was not about nothing. It was about something. Something "everyday." Something you may think is boring and weird. But "something" nonetheless.

Toodles.

Nothing

In case any of you don't keep up with my other blog, here is a quick update since really I have nothing to say as Kimpossible: JEB can ...

• say "ball";
• put the ball in a cup on command;
• stand by himself;
• say "Mama";
• give me zerberts on my stomach;
• imitate me saying "bye-bye."
  

Now whenever I pick up a phone he says "bye-bye." But I'm not really sure if he means it or if he just uses the bilabial stop "b" for any object. He use to say "AHBUH" whenever he held anything in his hand, and now he's taken away the initial vowel sound, but these kids are tricky. You never know what they do and do not know until you try to get them to show out and they act like you're the biggest liar on PE.

Notice the HUGE smile: Mom's disastrous post-partum belly makes funny noises!

These two pictures of him are my latest favorites. The one above is just after the first-ever zerbert occurred, while we were in the tub. Yes, I get in there with him. Trust me, it's easier on the back. In this next picture, he's just smiling because he likes me. Which is good, 'cause like him (most of the time) too.

Actually, today is his 10-month birthday, so tonight we're going downtown to the honky tonks in celebration. Happy b/d Diddums! You can click on either picture to go to my Flickr photostream to get a glimpse of how I spend my day (read: obsessively taking photos and spending entirely too much time cropping them, reducing red eyes, and then trying to find something relatively interesting to say about them in one of my blogs while concurrently attempting to keep JEB from turning off the computer (another new trick). Are there prizes for creativity in neglecting your child?

In other news, I am taking a trip to my parents' house next week to celebrate Pappaw's 90th birthday. In preparation, I have made lots of appointments with various kinds of doctors (a psychiatrist, a gastroenterologist, and an ayurvedic doctor/massage therapist) and may not have much time for blogging.

Nothing of interest has happened since our Ozarks Adventure. You are probably thinking that nothing has happened since I started this little project back in March, but at least now you know why I was so good at getting a B.A. in B.S. and otherwise do well on essay exams: I have an uncanny penchant for going on and on about nothing.

See there, I have a nothing inserted in initial, medial, and final position in that last paragraph. Admit it, I'm good.

Vacationing with Ticks, Chiggers, and In-Laws

We have returned from the Ozark Adventure. There were Four Thousand Ticks, Four Million Chiggers, and Four Generations of Beckers. Next year we're going to Seattle & Alaska.


Click on the photo for more shots of the trip.

The funniest thing that happened was that The Goose, while playing naked amongst three dogs on the front porch (you can do this in Arkansas), used the picnic table to pull himself up to a standing position, pooped, and then rocked back and forth until the log dropped from his bottom ... all while looking back at us and grinning. He is relatively tick and chigger free, although the same cannot be said for the rest of us and our wobbly bits.

I returned to find a Brown Recluse (heretoafter referred to as BR) in the upstairs shower and an email stating that ALL of my final evaluations for my online students are inappropriately formatted, written in the wrong tense, and attached as individual files rather than together in one document. Those evaluations are the equivalent of a ten-page paper, so this is just a little disheartening. Also, our housesitter did not collect her pay (a dozen fresh eggs), so now we're wondering if she's actually going to expect some other form of compensation. The nerve. Who wouldn't want fresh eggs for staying in a BR-ridden house? I love eggs. Especially with tomato paste.

This is boring, so go read some of the new additions to my "Links" sidebar.

p.s. You might be interested to know that the housesitter was Ann Dos from the abandoned story of the Owlnapping.

p.p.s. Ironically, last night I taught a lesson on the differences between the participles "bored" and "boring," which ESL students often confuse. At some point I said, "Usually we don't refer to ourselves as boring." However, this is clearly evidence that one can be both "bored" and "boring" at the same time.

Just call me a lusciously luscious lush

Unrelated note: If you'd like to make an appointment to have your own child's portrait taken, please let me know. Otherwise, on with the show ...

In the spirit of the hotties, I took some Lynchburg Lemonade to a cookout with Husband's co-workers last night. I wore my green and white striped halter top and the Green Eyes Almay i-color series. Everyone else drank Sprite, but I am not ashamed. As we were leaving, I thought, "Hmmm, should I leave the leftover lemonade or take it home -- these people don't drink, so why leave it and let it go to waste?"

I went inside, grabbed it out of the fridge, and noticed that the one bottle I had finished was inside the container (note my moderation). I guess B put the empty bottle back in the case so that we could take it home to recycle it. He's a recycling fanatic.

As I was saying my goodbyes and thank yous, B's boss walked past me and grabbed something out of the four-pack. He is also a dig-stuff-outta-the-trash-to-recycle-it maniac, so I assumed it was the empty bottle. Later, while on my way to our car, I noticed that the empty bottle was still there, and one of my lemonades was GONE. Apparently The Bossman (picture an ex-marine, Church-of-Christ-member with six beagles) doesn't have any idea how far my PWTPI abilities have taken me. Even before I became the founder and operator of the #1 PWT Detective Agency, I always noticed when someone swiped my toddies.

Husband couldn't resist making a comment about this, so we both went back inside to ask his boss if he wanted the rest of the four pack. While there, the Boss's friend (picture ex-mullet-wearer with a huge affinity for my sans-raisin oatmeal cookies) answered for him, saying, "No, he never drinks. Ever. He's like a Mormon."

I said, "Me too."

Then the friend said (read this in your best TN accent), "Yeah, we've all heard you can throw 'em back with the big boys, but at least you can make some damn good oatmeal cookies."

OK, so now that I've been labelled a lush, I must contemplate the other word families that can be associated with this label. Clearly, our only choices are the following noun, adjective, and adverb, respectively: lusciousness, luscious, lusciously. Personally, I like it. So fitting.

Do y'all like this "Just call me ..." series? I'll have to do more with that.

On Friday (7/8/05), we will be embarking on a family vacation adventure with Husband's family. The Goose's Paternal Grandparents (even The Great Grandpa B) and his only aunt and uncle (I'm an only child) are meeting us in the Ozarks (of Arkansas) for a long weekend spent in a pet-friendly cabin with a whiny baby and two people (Husband & his mom) who are highly allergic to pet dander of any kind. This promises to be delightful. As a result, I may be on sabbatical for a while, because it is so incredibly difficult to plan and pack for any trips with The Goose that it will likely take me the rest of the week to finish.

In addition, I am finishing up my final evaluations of my online students. We don't give them grades, so I have to write one ENTIRE page for each of them, quoting their writing and interspersing constructive criticism with praise. These kids are usually brilliant (it's a "gifted" distance education program through a very prestigious university) and they (and their doctor/lawyer/corporate-executive parents) are scary in my opinion. They all live on the East coast except for the few California kids. They email me questions about grammatical concepts such as raising in "if-then" statements, how to tell the difference between noun complement and relative clauses, and subordinate adjectival clauses which may or may not be restrictive. Yeah. They're in 5th - 7th grades. Now, if you knew that there was such a thing called "raising" in grammar, then please email me because unless you have a degree in applied linguistics, then you are a total grammar dork and we need to swap stories.

Most of my student evaluations include this line: "Student Name, your writing is quite vivid and detailed; however, it's regrettable that you cannot operate your word processor's spellchecker even though you can program computers in five languages."

I have to finish 10 of those before we leave on Friday, so that's another reason I may be gone for a while.

Finally, I hope everyone had a happy and safe holiday and that you did not find any brown recluse spiders in your bathtub when you returned home from your burgers-and-fireworks celebration. And p.s. if you ate burgers then obviously you have not been keeping up with the news about the latest case of Mad Cow Disease, otherwise known as Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy. Personally, I would rather not develop holes in my brain, so I ALWAYS eat free-range, vegetarian-fed beef and I suggest that you do the same, along with making a committment to spend the extra buck and get organic strawberries rather than the PESTICIDE-RIDDEN kind that are grown in Mexico and commonly found on sale in Kroger at this time of year. The pesticides used on strawberry plants are some of the worst on the planet (both in terms of environmental and physiological effects). Hotties, if you're reading this, don't worry! Those daiquiris I made while you were visiting were all organic, right down to the high-fructose-corn-syrup-based mixer. Do I use too many compound, constructed-with-hyphens adjectives?

Country Lyric of the Week
"I'm not as good as I once was,
but I'm as good once as I ever was."

Just call me the mop queen

OK, I had to post this really sweet picture of The Goose in order to get my mind off of how he treated me tonight. I nearly took him to the neighbor's house. For good. But then I put him to bed (at 6:45 p.m.), mopped the floor for the fourth time today, uploaded all of my photos from the day (my nightly ritual), and was reminded that I would be difficult too if I couldn't talk and anyway, look how beautiful he is! If you want to see more pictures, you can click on this one to go to my photostream.


I don't have much to say tonight and I'm mad about that. I always have things to say on Sunday nights, but for some reason, tonight I'm just yuck. I look forward to having things to say on Sunday nights whether or not anyone else thinks the things that I say (write) are really worth saying. I'm not offended by comments that this blog is like Seinfeld -- a show about nothing -- but to me, it's not NOTHING, people! It's all very real and not at all overly dramatized and serious and important. And speaking of redundancy ...

QUOTE OF THE WEEK

"This will really work. These exercises are safe, effective, and they work!"
-- spandex-shorts guy from the "8 Minutes Abs" video

In the future I plan to do an entire post on the ridiculosity of workout videos. WHY DO THEY TREAT THE ENTIRE VIDEO AS IF IT'S THE FIRST TIME YOU'VE EVER WATCHED IT OR WORKED OUT AT ALL?!?!?!? The only ones I like are my Gaiam/Yoga Journal ones (especially those with Hot Rod -- Rodney Yee). If you need to be told which ones to avoid, here is a list:

• 8-Minute Abs with Bonus 8-min. Arms (not only does the talking guy annoy me in his zebra-striped unitard, but also the "experienced" model looks like a blond Joey Tribiani and is always behind both the beat of the music and the other people in the video. This makes me insane and I can't even look at him. Sometimes I have to just put down my handweights--"or tomato cans!"--in frustration).
• Arms & Abs of Steel (a Tammilee! video series -- she REALLY gets me going because she has just a portion of hair pulled up into a ponytail on the top of her head and she wears workout bikinis, and she discusses body types as fruit--and clearly I'm the pear and she's the hard, sculpted apple--and in general I just don't think she is that bright and why in the world does she sign her name all over the video box with an exclamation point at the end?)
• Hot Yoga with Barone Baptiste (Good Lord. This guy has spent entirely too much time in California and all the people in his videos are like extras in a porn flick. How am I supposed to accomplish ujayii (sp?) breathing in downward dog pose while he walks around adjusting the models buttox placement? Is buttox a count noun? I'm not sure I would know the answer to that if my students happen to ask in class this Wednesday. Can you say "buttoxes" ... or is it like "moose"? What about three mooses' buttoxes? Oh my goodness, this is as bad as the turtle ramblings from several weeks ago. Is anyone still reading? Bless your hearts.

I better just go to bed. But first, I have to do "P.M. Yoga with Patricia Walden," my Sunday night ritual. She isn't redundant or dressed inappropriately or stupid. But I do have to wonder how she got into the middle of that desert without making any footprints in the sand.

BANGS

In order to live up to my promise, here's a blast from the past:



If you want a hard copy to frame, just let me know.

p.s. My sitemeter tells me that an average of 20 people visit this site everyday. I have GOT to know who you are, so please post a comment ... even if you do it anonymously and just give a hint (I consider anonymous posts as work for the #1 PWT Detective Agency).