Snake Fake..

Look at this cute boy...



And what is he holding? Why, it's a little wooden snake that he painted at summer camp. He calls it 'Snakey'. Awwww...

After he made it this summer, it had a home on his desk for several months. It is jointed, so it looks like it could actually 'slither', given half a chance and a Pinnochio wish.

But lately, for whatever reason, he has decided to bequeath 'Snakey' to his Mommy.

"Here Mommy... I want you to have Snakey!"

"Mommy, I put Snakey in your room for you. You forgot him downstairs!" (Really? I did? I forgot him in the basket next to the couch, underneath all those magazines?! Wow! ;)

So even though he has officially given Snakey to me, he still likes to play with it, and occasionally rescues it from my room, and then...leaves it somewhere. Anywhere, really.

Now, I *know* that it is a toy snake. It is colored with Crayola markers, and looks like what I think a snake might look like if I'd ever done acid back in the early 70's. (You know, like if I hadn't been an infant back then, and all.)

However, it is STILL very disconcerting to be walking through my house, minding my own business (singing along with my iPod...ahem!), and finding Snakey here:









or here:




or worse yet...










So the next time you're at my house, and I offer you a glass of iced tea, pay no attention to the flinching.

You had me at 'hola'...

Did you notice how my chest is all puffed out?

Noooo… I’m not still wearing the balloons from my Halloween costume (although, I have to say that I discovered that blondes with big boobs *do* have more fun. Go figure.)

It’s puffed out with PRIDE, my friends. Why?

Here’s a hint… “Hello, out there in Argentina!!”

That’s right. My blog is now being read internationally. Oh yes. It’s true.

A colleague of my husband’s called yesterday to tell me that his girlfriend reads my blog. She lives in Argentina.

AND, she’s getting her Master’s in Communication, AND wanted my permission to use my blog in one of her classes. Something about focusing on different types of… um… well… communication, I guess.

I have to be honest. When Chris called, I was in the middle of putting together a baked ziti for dinner, hiding the holiday toy catalogs under the banana peels in the trashcan, making sure that the neighbor’s cat did not make a snack of our guinea pigs, and making sure that the kids did not make a snack of the cupcakes I’d baked and decorated for the baseball party.

Seriously, I think I would have been more pissed about the cupcakes than the guinea pigs. I’m only ‘kind of’ kidding. (Those cupcakes took me a long time.)

So I wasn’t, in the strictest sense, hearing every little thing he said. He may have mentioned that she found the blog hilarious, but then again, he may have mentioned that she wanted to use this blog for nefarious purposes or as an example of ‘How Not to Win Friends and Influence People in the Blogosphere’. I’m not 100% sure. Like I may have mentioned, I was on high alert for guinea pig and/or cupcake catastrophes.

With all that being said…in the spirit of international hospitality, I just want to say hello to Vicky. (Don’t be alarmed, Vicky. Really. I directly address people in my blog all the time. The local weatherman, for instance. Or people that cut me off in traffic. Or Girl Scout leaders that need to take a chill pill. Anyway, I digress.)

For my more local readers: Now, now… don’t you worry. The PlanetLinson you’ve come to know and love will not be changing. I won’t suddenly start sprinkling all of my entries with phrases like, ‘Mira Vos!’ or ‘Tal cual’ or even ‘Todo bien?’ (Damn… what did we do before we could just Google “Common Phrases in Argentina”?)

I mean, I’m just saying. It’s all bueno.

All I can think, though, is how cool it is that my blog gets to go to South America. Cool, but a little unfair.

My blog gets to go to Argentina. Me, on the other hand? I only get to go to the Spanish food aisle in H.E.B.

What is it? What's the deal?

What is it about blogging that makes me think I can start each new blog the same damn way?!

What is it about writing a blog that makes me think I'm the Seinfeld of blogs? "What's the deal with airplane bathrooms?! What's the deal?"

See the last two blogs for evidence.

If you see this again, I will expect you to call me on it. ;)

A fish tale...

What is it about fishing that sounds so relaxing? The early morning hour? The cool, calm of the lake? The gentle splash of your line as you cast it into the water? The quiet contemplation as you focus on your bobber, and patiently wait?

Um…yeah…sure.

Add to that three kids, and…

Early morning… yes. Calm lake? Yes, until the kids start throwing rocks and sticks into it. And waiting patiently for a nibble on the line? Yeah, right.

Relaxing? Not even a little bit.

Forget about fishing at all with your own rod and reel that you carted along (with great hopes of catching ‘the big one’)… you’ll spend your time:

1. re-baiting hooks,

2. untangling one fishing line from another child’s fishing line,

3. Casting again and again because somebody wants it “really, really far out there. That’s where the good fish are!”

4. saying the following phrase repeatedly: “Don’t dump the worms in the water!”,

5. untangling a fishing line from a hapless dog that just happened to wander onto the fishing pier (poor dog!),

6. saying… “Watch your bobber!”

7. saying… “No, we’re not done yet.”

8. …“No, we’re not leaving yet.”

9. …“You have to be patient. This is not ‘Wii Fishing’. It doesn’t happen automatically.”

10. … “Seriously, stop dumping the worms into the lake.”


In truth, Davis and Josie can bait their own hooks (even Mommy doesn’t do that… yuck), and they can cast it themselves, and get pretty good distance. And Josie will patiently wait and watch… watch… watch her little bobber until she gets a bite.

The younger two get bored a little more quickly. They reel in their line after just a couple of minutes to ‘check and see if the worm is still there’. We re-cast, and within minutes, the lines are either hopelessly tangled or the kids are wanting to ‘take a little fishing break’. (Hey, I thought fishing *was* the break!)

Libby is least likely to want to participate (even though she has a totally rockin’ Barbie fishing pole… pink, no less!), and hands it to us to throw her line out again. Our camping trip this weekend was no exception.

We were fishing in a little cove on Inks Lake, and there she sat with her little pink fishing rod. We heard her start to giggle, and when we looked over, we saw her bobber bouncing around in the water. She thought that was pretty funny, I guess.

“Libby, you got a bite! Reel it in! Pull hard!” We were all cheering for her (well, with the exception of her brother, who was fully pissed that it wasn’t *his* line.)

So she did (with a little help from Daddy)…




Didn’t catch anything on your last fishing trip? Guess you need to get yourself a little pink Barbie fishing rod.

And of course, take along your Daddy to help you bait it, cast it, watch your bobber for you, reel in the fish, take the fish off of the hook, and hold it for you for pictures.

Now, *that’s* what I call fishing. ;)

Housework and Homicidal Maniacs

What is it about belting out a few Broadway tunes that makes sweeping and mopping a kitchen floor so much easier?

That was me this morning… iPod blasting the soundtrack from ‘Wicked’, alternately cleaning the floor and dancing with the mop (You’re trying to picture it in your head right now, aren’t you? Go ahead… I’ll wait.)

Finished with the kitchen, and feeling inspired, I moved onto the powder room, and then the entryway, progressing from ‘What is This Feeling?’ to ‘Defying Gravity’ to ‘No Good Deed’… singing at the top of my lungs. (I can’t hear myself with the music blaring through my earbuds, for which I am eternally grateful.)

Dancing around my house. My EMPTY house.

Until I feel a tap on my shoulder.



I jumped. I screamed. And I just about peed all over my nice clean floor.

And then I smacked the intruder.

Who happened to be my husband.

Who had just happened to come home for lunch. “Don’t you remember I said I’d be home for lunch today?”

Um, no. No, I did *not* remember.

Anyway, when I regained my voice, I yelled at him that he should NEVER sneak up on me like that again. For all I knew, he was a homicidal maniac, and I could have used my mop as a deadly weapon.

Of course, he tried to point out that he had done no such sneaking… he had opened the garage, walked into the house (which incidentally triggered the door chime), called my name a few times, and finally had come over to tap me on the shoulder to get my attention. (and then, of course, he added that I should not keep my music so loud anyway)

Well… still… I happen to call that 'sneaking'.

And then I asked the most concerning question of all…

“Um… you didn’t hear me singing, did you?”

Reasons I am worried...

Reasons I am currently worried about Davis


1. Today I heard him say the following phrase: “Libby, you’re the best little sister ever!” (And when I looked around the corner, she was not offering him her entire bucket of Halloween candy)

2. When I came home from the PTA meeting tonight, Phil told me that before going to bed, Libby had needed help taking off her necklace. He had gone upstairs to help her, but by the time he got there, Libby’s necklace was already off.

Phil: Did you take off your necklace by yourself?
Libby: No… Davis helped me.
(you mean that he yanked it off of you while you were kicking and screaming, right?! No? Hmmm…)

3. Davis read to her from his Donald Duck comic book this afternoon. Let me repeat that: He. Read. To. Her. (I know... I'm still slightly shaken.)

4. And then… I found this…



A picture that Davis had colored for her. And written her nickname on the top. ‘LibbyLoo’

And truly... the only thing that is keeping me from rushing him to the emergency room?

The fact that it is a picture of someone being attacked by a shark.

Truly. ;)

Halloween makes me happy :)

I think we all know how much I love Halloween. Next to Christmas and my kids’ birthdays (notice I did not say *my* birthday), its just about my favorite holiday.

I love the candy (a little too much, I might add… but seriously, where else can I get just 3 Whoppers in one little mini pouch?!), I love the colors of the season (heck, I even got married in October!)… but mostly, I love the costumes.

Ah, the costumes.

And this Halloween was no exception. I have a couple of friends that mentioned to me on the day of the ‘Adults-Only!’ Halloween party that they still hadn’t decided what they were going to be.

Me: “WHAAAAAT?!!”

Them: “No big deal. I still have a few hours left until the party.”

Me: “You’re crazy, Cynthia*”… um…I mean, “You’re crazy, friend who shall remain nameless for the purposes of this blog.” ;)

(*sidenote: my nameless friend and her hubby rocked it out as H1N1, complete with pig snouts.)

The kids chose their own costumes this year, again. And I survived.

They were… Hannah Montana, a soldier, and a ‘cutie witch’ (Lib’s words).








So now that they are picking out their own costumes (one of them was even purchased, and not homemade! Egad!), it is just my poor husband that is subjected to my costume craziness, I guess. He’s a good sport, as we all know.

We have quite a storied Halloween history, together, but I have say that this year, I think we outdid ourselves…







I hope for your sake, you don’t have a bounty on your head, because Dog and Beth are comin’ for ya!