Thursday, October 29, 2009
Overheard...
Overheard at our dinner table tonight:
Libby: This chili looks like barf.
Me: Libby, it's not nice to say that.
Libby: Mommy, barf is just a fancy word for throw-up.
(Oh well, in *that* case...)
**************************************
(A little later, conversation has circled around to Halloween costumes for the 52nd night in a row:)
Davis: My Halloween costume is real elastic.
Me: What? Your costume isn’t elastic.
Davis: Nooo, I mean it looks like a real soldier uniform. It’s real elastic.
(And just like that, I have a new favorite phrase. LOL)
**************************************
Josie (talking to Davis): You can be a troublemaker. I think it's because you're the middle child. The middle child is usually a troublemaker. No offense, Daddy.
Phil: What?! *I* wasn't a middle child.
Josie: Oh yeah, I forget... no offense, Mommy.
(Gee. None taken, I guess...)
Libby: This chili looks like barf.
Me: Libby, it's not nice to say that.
Libby: Mommy, barf is just a fancy word for throw-up.
(Oh well, in *that* case...)
**************************************
(A little later, conversation has circled around to Halloween costumes for the 52nd night in a row:)
Davis: My Halloween costume is real elastic.
Me: What? Your costume isn’t elastic.
Davis: Nooo, I mean it looks like a real soldier uniform. It’s real elastic.
(And just like that, I have a new favorite phrase. LOL)
**************************************
Josie (talking to Davis): You can be a troublemaker. I think it's because you're the middle child. The middle child is usually a troublemaker. No offense, Daddy.
Phil: What?! *I* wasn't a middle child.
Josie: Oh yeah, I forget... no offense, Mommy.
(Gee. None taken, I guess...)
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Campout Recovery
Why so long between blogs?
Well, to be perfectly honest, after this weekend, I was downright exhausted. It’s taken me two days to recover enough to be able to drag my sorry little butt over to the computer to do anything other than reply to an email requesting that I bring chili for an event (um… Wolf brand?), and to check Facebook and make snarky comments on other people’s status updates (really… no one CARES that you are on a cruise in the Caribbean. Or that you saw Regis Philbin. Or that you possibly won $2000 playing Keno onboard. So bitter… so very, very bitter.)
A campout with a bunch of Girl Scouts will do that to you evidently. Make you tired. And just the teensiest bit cranky.
Don’t get me wrong… I had a great time with my girl. Our troop had fun. I loved the other moms from our troop that went, and our leaders are great. They are very relaxed with the girls, and we all had some nice down-time to get to know each other, along with our activities.
We made s’mores, participated in a talent show, went on a scavenger hunt, and spent two nights on mattresses that I think may have been concrete slabs in their former lives.
Now I’d like to preface this next part by admitting that I could *never* be a troop leader. Nothing in my history as a teacher or parent has prepared me to be willing to take on this monumental task. The cookie duties alone would be enough to have me screaming for pain killers, washed down with a shot of Kentucky bourbon.
So, huge ‘props’ to the big hearted ladies that take this on.
Some are just a little… um… serious. Maybe… *very* serious. About all things Girl Scouts.
And more than a few are pretty tightly wound. They live, eat and breathe all things related to the ‘Girl Scout way of life’. I met some this last weekend whom I suspect might actually poop out Thin Mints when they’re on the Port-a-John. (my apologies if that’s your favorite cookie… oh, and p.s.: we’ll be around in a few months with the order form!!)
All I’m sayin’ is… let’s keep it in perspective, ladies. We’re not finding a cure for cancer, here. We’re bonding in the spirit of sisterhood…yes. We’re selling a few boxes of over-priced cookies for a good cause… yes.
And most importantly, perhaps, we’re educating these young ladies on the proper way to toast a marshmallow and squish it between two graham crackers.
Which I have to believe is a vital skill for the future of our species. ;)
Well, to be perfectly honest, after this weekend, I was downright exhausted. It’s taken me two days to recover enough to be able to drag my sorry little butt over to the computer to do anything other than reply to an email requesting that I bring chili for an event (um… Wolf brand?), and to check Facebook and make snarky comments on other people’s status updates (really… no one CARES that you are on a cruise in the Caribbean. Or that you saw Regis Philbin. Or that you possibly won $2000 playing Keno onboard. So bitter… so very, very bitter.)
A campout with a bunch of Girl Scouts will do that to you evidently. Make you tired. And just the teensiest bit cranky.
Don’t get me wrong… I had a great time with my girl. Our troop had fun. I loved the other moms from our troop that went, and our leaders are great. They are very relaxed with the girls, and we all had some nice down-time to get to know each other, along with our activities.
We made s’mores, participated in a talent show, went on a scavenger hunt, and spent two nights on mattresses that I think may have been concrete slabs in their former lives.
Now I’d like to preface this next part by admitting that I could *never* be a troop leader. Nothing in my history as a teacher or parent has prepared me to be willing to take on this monumental task. The cookie duties alone would be enough to have me screaming for pain killers, washed down with a shot of Kentucky bourbon.
So, huge ‘props’ to the big hearted ladies that take this on.
Some are just a little… um… serious. Maybe… *very* serious. About all things Girl Scouts.
And more than a few are pretty tightly wound. They live, eat and breathe all things related to the ‘Girl Scout way of life’. I met some this last weekend whom I suspect might actually poop out Thin Mints when they’re on the Port-a-John. (my apologies if that’s your favorite cookie… oh, and p.s.: we’ll be around in a few months with the order form!!)
All I’m sayin’ is… let’s keep it in perspective, ladies. We’re not finding a cure for cancer, here. We’re bonding in the spirit of sisterhood…yes. We’re selling a few boxes of over-priced cookies for a good cause… yes.
And most importantly, perhaps, we’re educating these young ladies on the proper way to toast a marshmallow and squish it between two graham crackers.
Which I have to believe is a vital skill for the future of our species. ;)
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Your thoughts?
'The time has come,' the Walrus said, 'to talk of many things.'
Well, the Walrus may have been referring to shoes and ships and sealing wax, and potentially whether pigs have wings, but I am referring to something far more disturbing.
The time has come, I am guessing, for my children to change my name.
Trust me, I'm no stranger to having to change my name. I was born with one name which I sported for the first 26 years, and I have been called Staci, Stace, Priss (long story), Miss Jackson, and then for about two months after I got married, I was Miz Jac...Um.. Linson (my students, God bless 'em, tried very hard to remember my 'new name'). I have been Mrs. Linson (and still am, of course) and then finally, I became Mommy (one of my personal favorites. ;)
So, I knew it would come eventually. I just thought I had a few more years as 'Mommy'. Today, however, Davis has spent the entire afternoon calling me, 'Mom'.
And its the way he says it that took me by surprise. There is no cute little Texas drawl there... no 'Mo-om'. It's 'Mom', said by barely opening your mouth, and just opening and closing your lips together really quickly.
Every single time he's said something to me today, or asked me a question, its prefaced by 'Mom'. I asked him, 'When did you start calling me Mom?'
Davis: 'It's just more fun to say.' ('More fun for whom?!!' I wanted to ask.)
So I'm not sure it will last, and while there are certainly worse things he could call me, I'm not sure I'm ready to stop being called 'Mommy' by my 7 year old son.
Am I crazy? Why does this make me a little melancholy?
'...of cabbages and kings. And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings.'
Well, the Walrus may have been referring to shoes and ships and sealing wax, and potentially whether pigs have wings, but I am referring to something far more disturbing.
The time has come, I am guessing, for my children to change my name.
Trust me, I'm no stranger to having to change my name. I was born with one name which I sported for the first 26 years, and I have been called Staci, Stace, Priss (long story), Miss Jackson, and then for about two months after I got married, I was Miz Jac...Um.. Linson (my students, God bless 'em, tried very hard to remember my 'new name'). I have been Mrs. Linson (and still am, of course) and then finally, I became Mommy (one of my personal favorites. ;)
So, I knew it would come eventually. I just thought I had a few more years as 'Mommy'. Today, however, Davis has spent the entire afternoon calling me, 'Mom'.
And its the way he says it that took me by surprise. There is no cute little Texas drawl there... no 'Mo-om'. It's 'Mom', said by barely opening your mouth, and just opening and closing your lips together really quickly.
Every single time he's said something to me today, or asked me a question, its prefaced by 'Mom'. I asked him, 'When did you start calling me Mom?'
Davis: 'It's just more fun to say.' ('More fun for whom?!!' I wanted to ask.)
So I'm not sure it will last, and while there are certainly worse things he could call me, I'm not sure I'm ready to stop being called 'Mommy' by my 7 year old son.
Am I crazy? Why does this make me a little melancholy?
'...of cabbages and kings. And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings.'
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Dinnertime Rhyme*
*Through the eyes of Libby (age 4)
"Eat barbecue chicken?
Shredded on a bun?
No way, no how, no thank you.
Can I please just be done?!
My chips are all gone.
The veggies, I ate.
But that sandwich is staring
At me from my plate.
You’ve got to be kidding!
Eat the WHOLE thing?
Hmm… I’ll try to distract them.
Hey, listen to me SING!
Doesn’t seem to be working,
So I’ll tear it to bits.
It will *look* like I ate some.
No resorting to fits.
Okay, never mind.
A fit’s JUST what I’ll do!
I will never, say NEVER,
Eat that barbecue!
A battle of wills,
And I’ll be the winner.
They’ve all left the table.
They’re through with their dinner.
I can’t count on my bro
Or my sis for alliance.
So I guess its now time…
For the ULTIMATE defiance.
Only one way to avoid
This plate still aheap…
I just *know* they won’t wake me.
I’m too cute when I sleep." :)
"Eat barbecue chicken?
Shredded on a bun?
No way, no how, no thank you.
Can I please just be done?!
My chips are all gone.
The veggies, I ate.
But that sandwich is staring
At me from my plate.
You’ve got to be kidding!
Eat the WHOLE thing?
Hmm… I’ll try to distract them.
Hey, listen to me SING!
Doesn’t seem to be working,
So I’ll tear it to bits.
It will *look* like I ate some.
No resorting to fits.
Okay, never mind.
A fit’s JUST what I’ll do!
I will never, say NEVER,
Eat that barbecue!
A battle of wills,
And I’ll be the winner.
They’ve all left the table.
They’re through with their dinner.
I can’t count on my bro
Or my sis for alliance.
So I guess its now time…
For the ULTIMATE defiance.
Only one way to avoid
This plate still aheap…
I just *know* they won’t wake me.
I’m too cute when I sleep." :)
Monday, October 19, 2009
I think the indoctrination is progressing quite nicely...
Found this on the front of the refrigerator on Saturday, penned by my oldest child.
“The Longhorn Song”
(little hand drawn musical notes accompanied the entire thing ;)
“We will, we will, rock you down,
Shake you up.
Like a volcano about to erupt.
Watch out, world,
Here we come.
Texas Longhorns, number one!”
(She learned this at summer camp, with the name of their camp group substituted for Longhorns, of course.)
But wait… there’s more, and it is all pure ‘Josie original’.
“We love Longhorns, yes we do!
We love you.
Looking at Aggies makes me boo!
Tech will try to kick us in the shin.
But we will always win!
Texas won the football cup (?), we are proud!
It makes the other teams cry out loud.
That’s the end.
Texas will win again!”
Awwww…. dangit. That made me tear up just a little.
Because while she may not get the ‘technicalities’ of football, (i.e. that a ‘cup’ in football has an entirely different meaning), and she doesn't like to actually watch the games with us (she did once ask us when the Longhorns would be playing the Tennessee Titans. Doh!)… this kid has some spirit.
All that singing of ‘The Eyes of Texas’ when she was in her crib has paid off. *sniff
“The Longhorn Song”
(little hand drawn musical notes accompanied the entire thing ;)
“We will, we will, rock you down,
Shake you up.
Like a volcano about to erupt.
Watch out, world,
Here we come.
Texas Longhorns, number one!”
(She learned this at summer camp, with the name of their camp group substituted for Longhorns, of course.)
But wait… there’s more, and it is all pure ‘Josie original’.
“We love Longhorns, yes we do!
We love you.
Looking at Aggies makes me boo!
Tech will try to kick us in the shin.
But we will always win!
Texas won the football cup (?), we are proud!
It makes the other teams cry out loud.
That’s the end.
Texas will win again!”
Awwww…. dangit. That made me tear up just a little.
Because while she may not get the ‘technicalities’ of football, (i.e. that a ‘cup’ in football has an entirely different meaning), and she doesn't like to actually watch the games with us (she did once ask us when the Longhorns would be playing the Tennessee Titans. Doh!)… this kid has some spirit.
All that singing of ‘The Eyes of Texas’ when she was in her crib has paid off. *sniff
Friday, October 16, 2009
Unlocking the mystery
I know someday these kids will hate me.
I know that someday I’ll be paying for therapy that is a direct result of the things I post on this blog.
But I simply can’t resist telling the world (and when I say ‘the world’, well…I mean all seven of you) some of the things they say.
I mean, seriously, how am I *not* supposed to tell everyone about my 4 year old and how tonight she was walking around the house (probably looking for a guinea pig that she had ‘just set down’).
Anyway, every now and then, she’d pull her little Minnie Mouse underpants out of her booty crack.
Me: “Honey, stop doing that. It’s not nice.”
Her (with a touch of exasperation): “*Sigh*. Mommy, I’m just trying to unlock my panties from my butt.”
I love that kid.
I know that someday I’ll be paying for therapy that is a direct result of the things I post on this blog.
But I simply can’t resist telling the world (and when I say ‘the world’, well…I mean all seven of you) some of the things they say.
I mean, seriously, how am I *not* supposed to tell everyone about my 4 year old and how tonight she was walking around the house (probably looking for a guinea pig that she had ‘just set down’).
Anyway, every now and then, she’d pull her little Minnie Mouse underpants out of her booty crack.
Me: “Honey, stop doing that. It’s not nice.”
Her (with a touch of exasperation): “*Sigh*. Mommy, I’m just trying to unlock my panties from my butt.”
I love that kid.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
What's the diff?!
Do you know any third grade girls?
Well, if they’re anything like my third grade girl, they are on any given day… sweet, sassy, spunky, weepy, irritable, reliable, and lately, a little bit sarcastic.
One day she is telling us that she had the BEST day ever at school! And the best part?
“I told off some boy.”
Um… what?! Granted, the boy had been bothering her, and we had told her that she needed to stand up for herself if she wanted to be left alone, but… (*sidenote: he hasn’t bothered her since ;)
So she is trying to find her own way. Her little personality is emerging, and she is not always the ‘easy kid’ now. She has her own ideas, her own way of doing things, and definitely her own way of looking at the world.
For example, she brought home a math paper where she’d gotten the following problem wrong:
“Kelly has 15 compact discs. Monroe has 19 compact discs. Who has more compact discs? What is the difference?”
She wrote that Monroe has more compact discs. Correct! And the difference? Well, the right answer, of course, is that the difference is 4.
I’m not sure if it was the wording (that she is accustomed to answering ‘how many more’ in math problems), or perhaps she was just in a mood… but her answer?
“The difference is that 19 is greater than 15. That is the difference.”
Um, like… DUH, totally! ;)
Well, if they’re anything like my third grade girl, they are on any given day… sweet, sassy, spunky, weepy, irritable, reliable, and lately, a little bit sarcastic.
One day she is telling us that she had the BEST day ever at school! And the best part?
“I told off some boy.”
Um… what?! Granted, the boy had been bothering her, and we had told her that she needed to stand up for herself if she wanted to be left alone, but… (*sidenote: he hasn’t bothered her since ;)
So she is trying to find her own way. Her little personality is emerging, and she is not always the ‘easy kid’ now. She has her own ideas, her own way of doing things, and definitely her own way of looking at the world.
For example, she brought home a math paper where she’d gotten the following problem wrong:
“Kelly has 15 compact discs. Monroe has 19 compact discs. Who has more compact discs? What is the difference?”
She wrote that Monroe has more compact discs. Correct! And the difference? Well, the right answer, of course, is that the difference is 4.
I’m not sure if it was the wording (that she is accustomed to answering ‘how many more’ in math problems), or perhaps she was just in a mood… but her answer?
“The difference is that 19 is greater than 15. That is the difference.”
Um, like… DUH, totally! ;)
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Promises, promises...
Well, heck. I just ate one (or three!) of those little Dove dark chocolates. I think that actually, they're called 'Promises'. A 'promise' to make my butt bigger, I guess. And if it is dark chocolate, is it called a 'Dark Promise'? Because that sounds a little sketchy, if you ask me.
Anyway, have you had these? They have a little message on the inside of each foil wrapper. Kind of like a fortune cookie, except without the lottery numbers and the pronunciation of a Chinese word. Like, 'MSG'.
Oh, and of course, doncha just know that you have to add 'in bed' to every single fortune cookie you read? 'You will have great successes in the near future. In bed.' LOL. That just never gets old.
So the one I just got (the chocolate, not the fortune cookie... I don't really eat fortune cookies)said: "Keep believing in yourself and your special dreams."
Um, really? My 'special dreams'? You mean the one where I actually get to sleep later than 7:00 am on a Saturday morning? That kind of special? Or the one where I have a housekeeper ala Alice from 'The Brady Bunch' to bake cookies for my kids, do my laundry, and dispense valuable advice to my blended family? That dream?
Sounds like one of those stupid things that people write in your high school yearbook. 'STAY SWEET!' (Um, was I?!) and 'DONT EVER CHANGE!' (because haven't we all just hit our peak at 17 years old?! Heck, I wouldn't even *think* about changin'!)
Between yearbook platitudes, fortune cookies, and 'Dark Promises', I'm pretty sure that I will STAY SWEET! I have a great future ahead of me, and I know I will keep believing in my own special dreams!!
In bed.
Oh well... so much for changing anytime soon. ;)
Anyway, have you had these? They have a little message on the inside of each foil wrapper. Kind of like a fortune cookie, except without the lottery numbers and the pronunciation of a Chinese word. Like, 'MSG'.
Oh, and of course, doncha just know that you have to add 'in bed' to every single fortune cookie you read? 'You will have great successes in the near future. In bed.' LOL. That just never gets old.
So the one I just got (the chocolate, not the fortune cookie... I don't really eat fortune cookies)said: "Keep believing in yourself and your special dreams."
Um, really? My 'special dreams'? You mean the one where I actually get to sleep later than 7:00 am on a Saturday morning? That kind of special? Or the one where I have a housekeeper ala Alice from 'The Brady Bunch' to bake cookies for my kids, do my laundry, and dispense valuable advice to my blended family? That dream?
Sounds like one of those stupid things that people write in your high school yearbook. 'STAY SWEET!' (Um, was I?!) and 'DONT EVER CHANGE!' (because haven't we all just hit our peak at 17 years old?! Heck, I wouldn't even *think* about changin'!)
Between yearbook platitudes, fortune cookies, and 'Dark Promises', I'm pretty sure that I will STAY SWEET! I have a great future ahead of me, and I know I will keep believing in my own special dreams!!
In bed.
Oh well... so much for changing anytime soon. ;)
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
My thoughts, exactly.
Last week when I was getting my hair *did*, I ran across a little snippet in a parenting magazine that I found very interesting. (Yes, I *did* try to use some of my time effectively and better myself as a person... that is, once I ran out of Jon & Kate gossip. OMG...could those people BE more of a trainwreck?!)
Anyway, the little article mentioned that siblings who squabble will grow up to be closer to one another. So the article's suggestion was to not 'step in' and to let the kids bicker. It will force them to work things out, develop their relationships, and that when they are adults, they'll have a better friendship, and will come to rely on each other for support.
And I have to say that *is* probably the case. If not for any other reason than that they have to depend on each other...
Because their mother has had to be committed to the insane asylum as a result of all the bickering!!!
Anyway, the little article mentioned that siblings who squabble will grow up to be closer to one another. So the article's suggestion was to not 'step in' and to let the kids bicker. It will force them to work things out, develop their relationships, and that when they are adults, they'll have a better friendship, and will come to rely on each other for support.
And I have to say that *is* probably the case. If not for any other reason than that they have to depend on each other...
Because their mother has had to be committed to the insane asylum as a result of all the bickering!!!
Monday, October 12, 2009
Doesn't it just give you the warm fuzzies?!
For a little 'mini' project at school, Davis has to make a collage of pictures from his life.
And I definitely call it a 'mini' project because it did not require 14 trips to Hobby Lobby and/or Michael's, it did not cost me a week's worth of Starbucks for the cost of the supplies, and I will not have to deliver it to the front door of the school, leaving my van running to open the door for my child as he precariously balances it against his chest, all the while saying a silent prayer that it makes it to his classroom in one piece.
So a collage of pictures? No problem. We've got pictures...(boy, do we have pictures)...and I majored in 'Collage' in college. (okay, well maybe not, but I *did* take an art elective at UT, and my semester final was... you guessed it. A collage. So, technically, I'm over-qualified for this gig.)
Looking back through pictures of Davis when he was little was making me a bit wistful.
Thinking back to when he was tiny, and still had his pacifier. (I'm not sure I have very many pictures before the age of 18 months without it planted firmly in his mouth.)
Or when we cut his baby fine hair at a year old so that it would be a 'spike do'. Omigosh... those are still some of my favorite pictures.
Or the pictures of him being 'big brother' at the very mature age of two years old, and he would ask to "hode Wibby"... awww!
With every picture, I was saying, "Oh, Davis! Look at you! Oh, you were so little! Look, Josie... look at this one!"
Josie was sitting at the table, working on her homework, catching quick glances of all the pictures I was holding up of her brother, and she says, "Yep. That's really hard to believe."
Me: "That he was ever that little?"
Josie: "No. That he was ever cute."
Niiiiice...
And I definitely call it a 'mini' project because it did not require 14 trips to Hobby Lobby and/or Michael's, it did not cost me a week's worth of Starbucks for the cost of the supplies, and I will not have to deliver it to the front door of the school, leaving my van running to open the door for my child as he precariously balances it against his chest, all the while saying a silent prayer that it makes it to his classroom in one piece.
So a collage of pictures? No problem. We've got pictures...(boy, do we have pictures)...and I majored in 'Collage' in college. (okay, well maybe not, but I *did* take an art elective at UT, and my semester final was... you guessed it. A collage. So, technically, I'm over-qualified for this gig.)
Looking back through pictures of Davis when he was little was making me a bit wistful.
Thinking back to when he was tiny, and still had his pacifier. (I'm not sure I have very many pictures before the age of 18 months without it planted firmly in his mouth.)
Or when we cut his baby fine hair at a year old so that it would be a 'spike do'. Omigosh... those are still some of my favorite pictures.
Or the pictures of him being 'big brother' at the very mature age of two years old, and he would ask to "hode Wibby"... awww!
With every picture, I was saying, "Oh, Davis! Look at you! Oh, you were so little! Look, Josie... look at this one!"
Josie was sitting at the table, working on her homework, catching quick glances of all the pictures I was holding up of her brother, and she says, "Yep. That's really hard to believe."
Me: "That he was ever that little?"
Josie: "No. That he was ever cute."
Niiiiice...
Thursday, October 8, 2009
So much for my lucky pen.
A few days ago, I was getting my hair highlighted, and my hair takes an insanely long time to process (could be that I love those ashy blonde highlights so very much, but my hair is so dark that it takes frickin' forever).
Anyway... I had taken my little blog notebook with me, harboring terrific and wonderful plans to get a bunch of little mini blogs written, or maybe to finish the chapter I've been writing for the last two weeks (no the chapter is NOT that long... it's just THAT good. Okay, well maybe its not that good... this particular chapter takes place in a Gymboree. The play place, not the store. Like that makes a bit of difference.) Okay, now I'm just rambling.
So, I took my iPod & my notebook, and I'd even brought along my lucky pen. (Yes, I have a lucky pen. And yes, I *know* I need a laptop if I'm ever going to become a 'serious' writer... donations can be sent in care of 'PlanetLinson'. ;)
Big plans, people. A bunch of little witticisms. Some intriguing insights. A few hilarious, yet true, anecdotes.
Big plans.
And then...
Well, then I noticed the stack of 'People' magazines on the table in the waiting area.
So, yeah. There's that.
Anyway... I had taken my little blog notebook with me, harboring terrific and wonderful plans to get a bunch of little mini blogs written, or maybe to finish the chapter I've been writing for the last two weeks (no the chapter is NOT that long... it's just THAT good. Okay, well maybe its not that good... this particular chapter takes place in a Gymboree. The play place, not the store. Like that makes a bit of difference.) Okay, now I'm just rambling.
So, I took my iPod & my notebook, and I'd even brought along my lucky pen. (Yes, I have a lucky pen. And yes, I *know* I need a laptop if I'm ever going to become a 'serious' writer... donations can be sent in care of 'PlanetLinson'. ;)
Big plans, people. A bunch of little witticisms. Some intriguing insights. A few hilarious, yet true, anecdotes.
Big plans.
And then...
Well, then I noticed the stack of 'People' magazines on the table in the waiting area.
So, yeah. There's that.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Pay attention, people!
Today's post has one specific purpose... I mean, other than to entertain the millions (gah!) who read it, of course.
Today's blog is to send a birthday hug to one of the greatest friends I've ever had.
My friend... who is not pitching a fit that her husband is flying out on her birthday to come visit us in Texas.
My friend... who listens to me throw my own personal pissy party over the phone on occasion, without ever pointing out the obvious (which is that on any given day, she's thrown more challenges than I have to deal with in a year)
My friend... who has one of the best laughs I've ever heard.
My friend... who is one of my biggest cheerleaders. (I *will* finish that novel, just so she can read it!)
My friend... who is one of the most loyal people I've ever known.
My friend... who 'gets me'.
My friend... Jen Levine.
Happy birthday, sistah friend. I love you, and I hope you have a wonderful birthday. You deserve it.
(you ALSO deserve another weekend trip to come visit me, but I won't push the issue just yet. We'll let the boys enjoy their weekend first! ;)
Today's blog is to send a birthday hug to one of the greatest friends I've ever had.
My friend... who is not pitching a fit that her husband is flying out on her birthday to come visit us in Texas.
My friend... who listens to me throw my own personal pissy party over the phone on occasion, without ever pointing out the obvious (which is that on any given day, she's thrown more challenges than I have to deal with in a year)
My friend... who has one of the best laughs I've ever heard.
My friend... who is one of my biggest cheerleaders. (I *will* finish that novel, just so she can read it!)
My friend... who is one of the most loyal people I've ever known.
My friend... who 'gets me'.
My friend... Jen Levine.
Happy birthday, sistah friend. I love you, and I hope you have a wonderful birthday. You deserve it.
(you ALSO deserve another weekend trip to come visit me, but I won't push the issue just yet. We'll let the boys enjoy their weekend first! ;)
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Demise of an appliance
I think I may have mentioned in previous posts that my boy has a sense of humor. A snarky, sarcastic little sense of humor. I’m really not sure where he gets that from.
Shut up.
Today, for example, I was ironing some clothes. Of course I was wearing my high heels and my pearls at the time, frying up some bacon, and waiting for Ward to get home from work so we could talk about the Beaver.
Shut up.
No really. I *was* ironing. I actually don’t mind ironing. I even iron t-shirts.
I don’t like wrinkles, and I don’t like to send the kids off to school in wrinkled clothes. It’s just my ‘thing’. I may have forgotten to feed them breakfast, but they look damn spiffy.
So anyway, I was ironing (yes...t-shirts), and Davis wanders by and says, “Is that a new iron?”
Me: “Yes. We had to get rid of the old one.”
D: “Why?”
Me: “It kept sparking when I unplugged it because the cord was coming apart from the plug.” (I have a tendency to pull it out of the socket by the cord… bad habit, I know)
So then Davis puts on this fake, sad little frown, and says in a quiet voice, “Awww, but he was so young.”
I busted out laughing at this point, and said, “Well we’d had it for about 5 years.”
(which, incidentally, is a long damn time when you yank it out by the cord)
Davis just shook his head, and said, “Only 5 years... but… I guess he was a lot older in iron years. Right, Mom?” *grin*
‘Iron years’. What a frickin’ crack-up. ;)
Shut up.
Today, for example, I was ironing some clothes. Of course I was wearing my high heels and my pearls at the time, frying up some bacon, and waiting for Ward to get home from work so we could talk about the Beaver.
Shut up.
No really. I *was* ironing. I actually don’t mind ironing. I even iron t-shirts.
I don’t like wrinkles, and I don’t like to send the kids off to school in wrinkled clothes. It’s just my ‘thing’. I may have forgotten to feed them breakfast, but they look damn spiffy.
So anyway, I was ironing (yes...t-shirts), and Davis wanders by and says, “Is that a new iron?”
Me: “Yes. We had to get rid of the old one.”
D: “Why?”
Me: “It kept sparking when I unplugged it because the cord was coming apart from the plug.” (I have a tendency to pull it out of the socket by the cord… bad habit, I know)
So then Davis puts on this fake, sad little frown, and says in a quiet voice, “Awww, but he was so young.”
I busted out laughing at this point, and said, “Well we’d had it for about 5 years.”
(which, incidentally, is a long damn time when you yank it out by the cord)
Davis just shook his head, and said, “Only 5 years... but… I guess he was a lot older in iron years. Right, Mom?” *grin*
‘Iron years’. What a frickin’ crack-up. ;)
Monday, October 5, 2009
Dora the Demon
Dora the Explorer scares the crap out of me.
There. I said it.
The television show itself is harmless. Libby likes to watch it, and has learned enough Spanish to be able to tell me what color ‘la manzana’ is (roja!), but fortunately not enough to know what that lady keeps yelling at her kid in the parking lot at Chick-fil-A.
For her part, Dora is a smart little cookie… an adventurer… dare I say it? ‘A wise Latina’… hollah, Judge Sotomayor.
And her monkey? Boots? Well, with his knee high red leather boots, he’s always clapping, singing & dancing at the end of every episode like it’s his own personal Broadway show. Yep, while Reverend Falwell was ‘outing’ Teletubbies, Boots the Monkey escaped the clutches of the Grumpy Old Troll (hmm… I *do* see the similarities) and was even singing about it… ‘Lo hicimos…We did it!’
I mean… I’m just sayin’.
So I’m cool with the show…what I am referring to is the demonic looking giant Dora head on the side of my bathtub.
For some inexplicable reason, we got this for Libby for Christmas last year (another of those drunken eggnog moments, I guess), and it has been freaking me out nightly ever since.
For starters, Dora is just a head and torso. That, in and of itself, is a wee bit freaky. You’re supposed to wash and style her hair with the little comb. Libby, however, prefers to make her ‘swim’ in the tub, pulling her through the water like some unfortunate shark attack victim.
Secondly, this sucker is big… we’re not talking some petite little doll. Her head is easily the size of a cantaloupe, and she has long dark hair (all the better to get synthetic hair clogged in my drain!)
She originally came with suction cups to hook onto the the side of the tub. And can I just tell you? There’s nothing like the thud of a head in the bathtub at 2 in the morning to just ruin a good night’s sleep.
So we took off the suction cups, and there she sits on the side of my tub, startling me on my walk to the potty in the middle of the night. A head silhouetted in the moonlight. *shiver*
Why not just move her? Frankly, I’m a little afraid that if I do, I’ll forget that I did. And in the middle of the night, my sleep-addled brain will be unable to remember whether I moved the doll… or if…*gulp*…it moved itself.
I saw a movie like that once, and to be honest, I wouldn’t put it past her. Dora…Chucky’s crazy@$$ bilingual cousin.
She will cut you.
There. I said it.
The television show itself is harmless. Libby likes to watch it, and has learned enough Spanish to be able to tell me what color ‘la manzana’ is (roja!), but fortunately not enough to know what that lady keeps yelling at her kid in the parking lot at Chick-fil-A.
For her part, Dora is a smart little cookie… an adventurer… dare I say it? ‘A wise Latina’… hollah, Judge Sotomayor.
And her monkey? Boots? Well, with his knee high red leather boots, he’s always clapping, singing & dancing at the end of every episode like it’s his own personal Broadway show. Yep, while Reverend Falwell was ‘outing’ Teletubbies, Boots the Monkey escaped the clutches of the Grumpy Old Troll (hmm… I *do* see the similarities) and was even singing about it… ‘Lo hicimos…We did it!’
I mean… I’m just sayin’.
So I’m cool with the show…what I am referring to is the demonic looking giant Dora head on the side of my bathtub.
For some inexplicable reason, we got this for Libby for Christmas last year (another of those drunken eggnog moments, I guess), and it has been freaking me out nightly ever since.
For starters, Dora is just a head and torso. That, in and of itself, is a wee bit freaky. You’re supposed to wash and style her hair with the little comb. Libby, however, prefers to make her ‘swim’ in the tub, pulling her through the water like some unfortunate shark attack victim.
Secondly, this sucker is big… we’re not talking some petite little doll. Her head is easily the size of a cantaloupe, and she has long dark hair (all the better to get synthetic hair clogged in my drain!)
She originally came with suction cups to hook onto the the side of the tub. And can I just tell you? There’s nothing like the thud of a head in the bathtub at 2 in the morning to just ruin a good night’s sleep.
So we took off the suction cups, and there she sits on the side of my tub, startling me on my walk to the potty in the middle of the night. A head silhouetted in the moonlight. *shiver*
Why not just move her? Frankly, I’m a little afraid that if I do, I’ll forget that I did. And in the middle of the night, my sleep-addled brain will be unable to remember whether I moved the doll… or if…*gulp*…it moved itself.
I saw a movie like that once, and to be honest, I wouldn’t put it past her. Dora…Chucky’s crazy@$$ bilingual cousin.
She will cut you.
Friday, October 2, 2009
No time! No time!
Well, hell's bells, people. What did you expect?! It's the freakin' week before the Hairy Man Festival.
No time! No time!
Blogging? Nope.
Laundry folding? Nope.
Making dinners that don't have 'hot dogs' as the main ingredient? Nope.
Don't worry. I still love you. I *do*!! Now, stop shaking your head at me. Seriously. I'll be back in the swing of things in no time. (ha! I just said 'no time' again! I'm so clever.)
And if you don't know about the 'Hairy Man Festival', I'll tell you all about it. Another time. Because right now...
No time! No time!
Toodles... :)
No time! No time!
Blogging? Nope.
Laundry folding? Nope.
Making dinners that don't have 'hot dogs' as the main ingredient? Nope.
Don't worry. I still love you. I *do*!! Now, stop shaking your head at me. Seriously. I'll be back in the swing of things in no time. (ha! I just said 'no time' again! I'm so clever.)
And if you don't know about the 'Hairy Man Festival', I'll tell you all about it. Another time. Because right now...
No time! No time!
Toodles... :)
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