And more Adventures in MOG Land. Part 3.

Once the relationship took an ugly turn with the Spanx incident I decided to seek solace by having a manicure.( Seriously Pat, you don't remember me ?)  Well, this was more a preemptive strike against the sure onslaught of "MOM, you NEED to have your nails done BEFORE the wedding!"  After work I ran over to the local nail salon.  It was late and I was the only patron there.   I don't have my nails done on a regular basis, in fact I can't remember ......oh, wait, yes I do, it was last Thanksgiving and I got a lot of flak from my son because I had acrylic nails and they were really long and very red and I can't repeat what he said they reminded him of.   And then another discussion ensued over his opinion not being needed SINCE I couldn't get them off by that time.  Sadly his opinion was confirmed by his sister whose fashion sense I trust infinitely more than his. Which is why I text her photos of me in clothing or shoes BEFORE purchasing.  And you may remember how well THAT worked when trying to purchase the DAMN DRESS with a broken arm.  If not refer to the earlier post called "The middle part".

"Justin"  did my nails.  After confirming that Justin was NOT his real name, because I ask the hard questions, he convinced me that he could make my feet look just as gorgeous.  We shared a laugh.  Then he said he was serious.  And I was tired.  And the large comfy chair with swirling water was so so inviting.  And so I said yes, but I did apologize in advance for any seizures looking at my toes might cause him and the fact that I had not shaved my legs as this was completely unplanned.  His reply " No worries, I don't care about your legs, maam."  and I said "Justin" I'm Kelly and that is my real name."

The chair is a little intimidating, it's tricky to get in it without falling into the swirling  water.  I confirmed with "Justin" that people had fallen in before.  I'm kind of like an investigative reporter about crap no one cares about. ( this fact was confirmed by almost everyone I live with, including the cat. ).  I sat in the chair and he pointed at things he wanted me to do like put my foot here, move my other foot there, I think it was to avoid further conversation, but whatever.    And then he turned on the chair.  Hmm, this is nice.  Vibrating up my back and neck. Then the chair started moving toward him, suddenly I felt like I was about to have a gynecological exam against my will, this happened about the time he took a stone thingy and ran it across the bottom of my foot.  I burst out laughing and couldn't stop.  I'm thinking I am never leaving.  At this point I think we're officially engaged based on the proximity of my ......... to his face.  I'm talking very little personal space here.  

2 hours later....... our relationship ended.  I think it's the language barrier. I'll never be able to pronounce his name anyway.

Sidenote :   Best manicure and pedicure EVER!  Justin is an artist.  Seriously though that chair is crossing some line somewhere.

Later my family confirmed this was more useless information.  So I have succeeded.

More Adventures in MOG Land. Part 2 . Spanx

STOP IF YOU HAVEN'T READ MY EARLIER POST. GO BACK. ---okay then.

Literally one day later

Me:  Hi Pat!!
Pat: [stares at me like she's never seen me before] ummm, hi.
Me:  I'm backkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
Pat:  Can I help you?
Me: We bonded yesterday, I was the bra-ripper.......I'm back to get that Spanx.
Pat: Oh.

Clearly this relationship meant more to me.

I'm home with the Spanx

Bill:  HEY, did you just buy something at "Rhymes with Williards" for $92.00?  I just got an emailed receipt.
Me:  Yeah, isn't that great that I can email it to you from the store?
Bill:  yeah, great, whatever......what cost 92.00
Me:  My underwear, you know the Spanx so I can get in that dress.
Bill:  92.00..............?????
Me:  Trust me this is NOT an area we can afford to skimp in.
Bill:   Apparently not.

Adventures in MOG Land. Bring a compass. And wine.

As the wedding looms large this coming weekend there have been lots of "things" that needed to be addressed before it's arrival.   Most of them involve my body.  I have no idea why that's just how it ended up.

Needed:   New Bra 

Challenge:  Finding one that fits without actually trying it on.  ( I think you can see I'm going to fail this miserably) 

Site:    Local large department store that starts with the letter "D" and rhymes with "Willards". 

Person in charge of touching me :   Pat from SNL

Me:  Hi .....um,  are you the person ( I haven't decided if this is a her Pat or the other one) that can help me find the right bra? 

Pat: Yes'em.

Me:  Oh, okay, I like my old bra , do you still have this in stock?  The only thing I don't like about it is the back has a tendency to rip when I pull it down.

Pat:  [in an appalled voice] WHAT ARE YOU PULLING IT DOWN FOR? It's  suppose to be up that high .........that's why it's ripping, you're doing it wrong. 

Me:  Of course I am, why would I do that, I'm not sure I'm qualified to wear this anyway. 

Pat:  Well, bad news. That one just got discontinued.

Me:   AHHHHHHHHH, THAT'S MY FAVORITE BRA.....I ALWAYS BUY SEVERAL!!! WHY DO THEY DO THAT?  They discontinue my makeup, my mascara, my lipstick.  I feel violated.  And now sad. 

Pat:  I'll find you some that work.  Let me get the measuring tape we store in the deep freeze . ( I'm sure that's what she said)  

Me: [humming at the ceiling , counting tiles......hurry little woman person whose hands are tiny icicles]

Pat:  Hmmm, you're wearing the wrong size. 

Me: Good lord, again?  You'd think a grown woman could figure out what size bra she wears and not destroy it in the process.  I blame gravity. And Victoria's Secret 

    she scurries out to hunt down and bag the appropriate sizes and varying styles I already know I'm going to hate.
Pat:  Here's the "sizing" bra.
I'm not sure what these even means ----does the bra assign me size or  does it conform to my existing size,  is it like the Sorting Hat from Harry Potter.  "  Interesting....hmmmm , not symmetrical and unusually lowwwww.,,,,, [ it grimaces] you're in the House of Playtex.  Live with it.  [ Hard Hat]
The "sizing bra"  relegated me to exactly NONE of the cute bras on the end kiosks displays.  With wings and feathers and rhinestones the dig into your breastbone but you look so cute and like you're anorexic that you don't care.  Stupid sorting sizing bra.  Nope, I get sent to the corner of the store. The sturdy line.  The Sears Husky.  The Tall Shop.  arghhhh.
Pat:  Here's some.

Twelve tries in we nail one.

Me: Thanks, Pat.  I'll be back when Spanx are in season.  I need to bag one before the wedding.
Pat: Okey Dokey, want me to show you the ones I wear.
Me: nah, let's keep some mystery in our relationship.

Bill didn't find any of this amusing.  He claims I'm killing his fantasies.

.

Our Wedding

29 years ago today this happened.

I'm all smiles.  I laughed through the entire ceremony.

 My veil didn't make it to the picture taking.  My mom was still sewing on it as I drove myself to the church for my own wedding.  My dress I purchased off the rack on sale much to my mother-in-law's dismay.  In my shoe was $500.00 that my father handed me just as he was walking me down the aisle to pay for the flowers.   As I stood at the alter I looked at the flowers. Gladiolas. The only flower I asked them NOT to use.   They remind me of funerals.  So naturally that's what they used. That's when the laughter started.

 The day before at the rehearsal bbq my mother  introduced herself as part of the catering company.  At the actual rehearsal she yelled at the priest that she simply could not sit in the same pew as her ex-husband.  The best man whose one job was to gather music for the reception forgot.  "Celebrate" was the only cassette  the reception site had. Later when I looked at our wedding photos I realized the photographer, a personal friend of my mother in law, neglected to take any photos of my family.  Or many of me for that matter.  Almost all the photos are of Bill.  He does look pretty fabulous.  I can see why he'd be enamored.

Here's Bill with some laughing woman.  

We were young then.  I was 24 and he was just 22.  Both our mothers did everything to keep us from gettting married. From his mother's perspective:   I came from a divorced family.  Never attended college.  I would never fit in socially, intellectually, or any other "ly" with Bill and his friends.  My mother just never wanted me to leave her.  Ever.  Somehow things work themselves out. Maybe these are just life lessons that prepare us for our own children getting married.  Our son is marrying in November.   It is difficult to keep your opinions to yourself when watching your children plan their wedding.  At times I'm not sure I've fared much better than my own mother or mother in law but I'm trying.  Trying to remember that words spoken can not be taken back.  That words spoken leave a lasting memory.  Even if it's a small thing it can leave a big mark

Now when I see gladiolas I don't think of funerals, I think of all the good stuff.  The growing up and older together.  The lesson learned and lived.  That forgiveness is powerful.  That there are sides to stories I still don't know but just accept.  And in the end love wins.  It always win.  That's God's plan.  Love anyway.

And laugh.  A lot.

The Great Shirt Incident

First I'd like to say this wasn't intentional.

Friday night I received a text from my best friend.  It said " We have a mystery on our hands."

Her husband had to work that day but also had a doctor's appointment that afternoon so he took a change of clothes with him.  When he went to change this is what he saw.

 She went on to text " We have NO idea what happened. It was cut. Not torn.  1/4 of the back of his shirt is gone!

I responded with " Isn't that the shirt you gave me to practice sewing on?"

Breaking in my new machine 

the shirt I carefully hung on my chair. after surgery

Her response " OMG"

This is why men should hang up their clothes.  I never mistake one of my own shirts for practice material.  I have mistaken black bags of sweaters for Goodwill donations however.  Which is exactly how all of Bill's winter sweaters ended up being donated.  I couldn't tell the bags of old toys  from the "These are ALL MY SWEATERS IN THE WORLD  bag." when I was grabbing stuff out of the attic one day.  Or the time I was accused of intentionally leaving his suit at the cleaners and never picking it up.  In my defense I think we all knew it was past it's prime.  Still I am no longer in charge of dry cleaning.  I'm just heartbroken.
Men rarely find these kinds of mistakes funny.    But they are.

I did apologize.  I could sew it back on.  Next time I'm there .

Couch Conversations

A conversation that took place last month.

A commercial showing a guy fly fishing comes on TV.

Me: I'd love to do that, Bill we should go fly fishing!

Laughter breaks out from my son and daughter.

Me: hey, I can fish.

Katie: I've heard you can skin a squirrel too.

Andrew: poor Dad, he's going to be getting hooked, literally. 

Me: I CAN FISH.  As long as there are no snakes.  Do you think there'll be snakes?  We should just go when it's cold so there won't be snakes.

Andrew:  What about bears? 

Me: Bears? Will there be bears? .  I could shoot a bear, but not with a pistol I heard those just piss them off.  I'll need something bigger. 

Andrew: This isn't looking good for Dad. 

Me: I wouldn't shoot Dad.

Bill: Not on purpose. 

Me: NOT AT ALL, I CAN FISH AND SHOOT. 

Andrew:  Better make sure your insurance policy is paid up.

Me: What are you doing over there?
Andrew:  Tweeting.  Hey Mom, you're trending.
Me: Trending what?
Andrew:  Sh*t my mom says.
Me:  I hate bears. 

The middle part.

There's a story I'd like to tell.  But I can't. I've been asked to restrain myself. An almost impossible feat, and not for the faint of heart.  Whatever that means.  So I'll start in the middle of the story......and you can have fun guessing the first part until my personal restraining order is lifted by you know who.

I have braces.  No, I didn't plan on them. No person in their right mind decides on braces 4 MONTHS before their son's wedding.  They're a last minute addition to a sudden change in the proximity of my teeth.  Along with my beautiful cast on my left arm.  Also a sudden and unplanned adornment.  And a major pain in the @ss.   And it makes shopping for that stupid Mother of the Groom dress MUCH more challenging.  As far as the braces go I think I know why teenagers in general are just plain cranky. Everything I put in my mouth ends up displayed across my front teeth.

And the timing of this new and unusual punishment couldn't have been better.  My entire front desk staff is gone.  One, hopefully will be able to return, is on  medical leave.  The other is on a different kind of "leave". So watching me flail around at the front desk, looking much like a circus seal with a bad flipper trying to will a phone to levitate to ear level by mere visual contact is extremely entertaining.  I looked like Nanny McPhee, not the good one at the end of the movie but rather the OTHER one , no mole.

So I found myself in an absolute panic as the Mother of the Bride, who I LOVE ( I say that alot lest anyone doubt my devotion to my new in-laws) texted me that she had found her dress.  And of course she looks fabulous in it.  Most size zero women can look fabulous in a flour sack.  With the right necklace of course. And she's no exception. In her defense she works hard to maintain her shape and is to be commended for it.  I commend thee!  I, on the other hand, calculate daily how many hours before the event I should stop eating Snickers to lose that one pound.  I really think 4 is enough, anything more than that and a war might break out.  Currently I have to put my Snickers in the Vitamix to liquefy it before consumption.  Adventures in blender food.

And so with the dead line looming I started looking in earnest to find a real dress.   And by "in earnest" I mean I actually went into a store with the intention of looking at an actual dress.  Not like before where I pin all kinds of fantasy dresses on my Pinterest board in hopes that I'll have chronic diarrhea in order to achieve the chic heroin look of the models in said dresses.  Diarrhea being slightly less expensive than heroin unless I'm wearing the "good" underwear.  Seriously, have you priced woman's underwear lately?  The next patient that complains about the cost of sealants while holding a bag from Victoria's Secret I'm going to punch right in the throat.  And it doesn't offer protection from cavities.  Although in some profane way it is a cavity protector.  Wait for it.  You're welcome.  The first store I went into said they had formal dresses.  I asked if they had anything that wasn't designed for pole dancing or aging beauty queens.  The store clerk actually smiled and then said "honestly, no. Everything in there is designed for the raging hormonal puberty set." To which I agreed.  So I bought "mom" pants instead and told them my sad story that I can't tell you.  Which doesn't seem very fair, but I don't make the rules, I'm just forced to abide by them.  Or something like that.
And so I went to the next shop.  And spied not one but TWO dresses.  I felt like I was hunting wild turkeys and hit the jackpot. .  I listen to a lot of talk radio hosted by good ole boys so I feel confident using this expression.  Also I found myself sneaking up on them, the dresses not the turkeys, and calling to them. Clearly this is lot like hunting.  The saleslady lugged them to the dressing room and shut the door.  I stood there for a second wondering if I could navigate the zippers with one arm and then went for it.  I HATE breaking out in a sweat just trying on clothes.  My right arm took on the shape of a tiny Chinese contortionist.   ( if she was 5'9") . I kept giving that arm a pep talk " almost there, almost there" . Which just now occurs to me probably didn't sound right to the woman changing in the room next to mine.   And then I guess I really made her uncomfortable when I started taking pictures with my phone which was making shutter noises with each snap.

Strange woman in dressing room next to me ( yelling to her husband) " HEY, ARE YOU TAKING PICTURES OF ME OVER THERE?"

ME ( realizing what is happening): " No that's me.  No, I mean I'm taking pictures of myself to send to my daughter"

SW: " oh....."     She then leaves rather abruptly.  No doubt to report me to the store security.

I keep peaking out the dressing room door for another Mom-Person to zip me up and take my photo as Flipper the one armed wonder keeps taking shots of the ceiling.  I track one down and she helps me out.
Then I have to wait for the sales clerk to pass my door again to get OUT of the dress.

After spending that much time alone in the dressing room with the 2 dresses we all bonded and  I didn't feel it was fair to leave one behind after all we'd been through together.  Plus there's the damning photos.  So they're both hanging in my closet.  Unless I eat more Snicker Bars.

I'm keeping the receipts.

making my bed

Everyone has their quirks.  Some of us are blessed to have a variety of quirks.  I'm quirk friendly.  And there is a distinct difference between a quirk and an obsession and an illness.  It's a fine line.

When I go on vacation.....I make the bed.  I can't help it.  I make the bed.  With all the little decorative pillows and shams fluffed up and back in their places.  I love walking in and out of my room as if I'd just gotten there.

places everyone!!!

And then I get a HUGE cup of coffee with extra cream BECAUSE IT'S VACATION. And I sit and stare out the window. 

the window

No one puts their crap on my bed.  That would be a mistake.  One doesn't want to rock the happy boat on vacation.  ( all of Bill's stuff is in the closet) 

Sometimes I take pictures of things in my room.  I usually forget I've taken them and then later can't figure out where the heck the door knob is from. 

dresser door

Knob

water color.  All I can think of is it probably smells there. 

Sometimes I do this as early as 6:00 am.  Fortunately for Bill he's already down at the beach staring out at the ocean from his chair.  He knows all the chair guys, lifeguards and the 15 or so dogs that walk the beach every morning.  He reports back later how many sharks, sea turtles and supposed seals ( this is a major bone of contention) that he's seen.  He also has his quirks, although it's safe to say he'd label them being focused on a issue that needs to be resolved.  A quirk by any other name.  His are the beach chairs. And I'm good with that.   

These are my chairs.  From which I stare out from the balcony and see his chairs.  But no seals.  

Buster could swim here safely 

Laundry Songs

Sinatra sang about Ermine.  Those were the days.  

Me:  Anybody have laundry they need done?  Looking for colors only.

Andrew:  Laundry in my white tee.

Me  What? No, I said colors.

Andrew:  Making demands, in my white tee.

Me: What? No, I SAID GIVE ME YOUR COLORS TO WASH!

Andrew: Yelling, in my white tee.

Me:  What are you talking about? Do your own laundry then.

Andrew: Laying down the law, in my white tee.

Katie: Mom, he's making fun of the very large white t-shirt that you're wearing.

Me: Well it's comfortable and I like it. Why is that funny?

Andrew: Asking questions, in my white tee.

Katie: It just is, don't ask.

Me:  Well, I think we both know I'm going to keep asking until someone tells me. Or I Google it.

Andrew: Googling, in my white tee.

Me.  That's it......


Don't , just don't look it up.
Seriously.
( It's a very catchy rap song about all the fun and illegal things one can do in a white tee clearly written by very sad and lonely children with too much time on their hands.   With words I can only find in the Urban Dictionary.)

I'm still wearing it though.

Summer Reading Contest

Every summer vacation our family quietly ( hahahaha) has a reading contest.
Me: woohoo, just finished my first book on the beach!
Andrew: Did you start it on the beach? because technically that doesn't count.
Me: says who?
Andrew: When did you start it?
Me: well, June 10th, but I don't think...
Andrew: So , not on the beach.  Doesn't count.
Me: Hey, YOU'RE rereading a book, that doesn't count either!
Bill:  Please stop.
Me: Tell him to stop.
Bill: Both of you stop.
Andrew: Doesn't count mom.
Me: You're not the boss of me.
Katie:  CHANGE APPROVED
Bill: Oh, good grief.
Me: This is why I read on the balcony. It's a hostile reading environment down here.
Andrew:  Mom look....smoking beer shooting teenagers with a radio....go get em!
Bill:  Stay in your chair.
Katie:  Yeah Mom, go smack that radio with your book.
Me: Technically 1/2 a book. I'm going to need a bigger book.  [Jaws reference]
Katie: Use Andrew's book, he's already read it.

a field guide perhaps

Bill: Nobody is smacking anybody.
Me: Well no, because I'll need a bigger book. and a taser.
Bill: Why do you resort to violence?
Me: Code of the beach.

Andrew is reading a Brad Thor novel ( for the second time)
Katie is reading Game of Thrones: A Storm of Swords
I'm on my first WHOLE book - Dave Barry, "Lunatics"
Bill is reading some book on Integrity.  
Need I say more?

Mom, you're old and crabby

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

I recently discovered I am old and crabby.  By discovered I mean Andrew said, "Mom, you are old and crabby."   I think I was born old.  The crabby part I have nurtured and cultivated to a point of perfection or contention depending on who you talk to.

Things I do well on the beach.
Sleep
Read
Drink
People watch
Laugh
Tell very accurate stories rarely embellished at all. Especially about squirrels.
Repeat.

Things I don't do well on the beach
tolerate teenagers ( which is why we rarely come here during spring break)
a radio
any radio
any music
wind chimes ( yes)
being read to ( especially if it's good for me)
being told to pray for people I'd like to see get eaten by sharks
cigars
cigarettes
fishing lines
sharing water with teenagers who were just shooting beer while their parents watched and whine that it's too far to walk back to their house and get some. (true story)

I was a kid once.  We did stupid things too.  Not at my parents house.  And not with my parents liquor. And we knew our parents would hold us accountable.  We were not allowed a sense of entitlement.  Which is probably why I was born old.  And if you really want to cultivate a crabby side work in a pediatric practice of any kind and watch the parade of clueless parents that are too busy being friends to their lost and boundary-less brood while feigning shock that anyone would require any amount of decorum while around said monsters.  Listen to them talk to their parents in such a way that is both disrespectful and degrading while the parent is writing a check for they're next entitled activity.  Dance, Football, Rock Climbing, Camp, Nails, Hair, Tanning Beds, New Car, etc.    They aren't all like that, most are wonderful.  But sometimes I feel like the tide is turning.

I'm pretty sure I got my attitude from my father.  He wasn't perfect but there were some things he got right. My mother had a dinner party at our home and invited some family she knew that had 2 daughters that were mine and my sister's ages, 6 and 8.  We were definitely a lower middle class working family. My dad had worked hard to get my mom a piano.  My mom could play and she loved that piano.  Over the course of the evening the guest monsters had gotten on top of the highly polished piano bench IN THEIR PATENT LEATHER SHOES and tapped away.  My mother although horrified would never had said a word and I feel certain she asked my father NOT to say anything.  And he didn't.  Until they got ready to leave.  As they were saying their goodbyes at the door and telling my mom what a great cook she was and how wonderful the evening was my dad leaned into the door and said " We had a great time too, we really enjoyed your company, and you're welcome here anytime, however don't ever bring your kids in my house again. I don't allow my children to act like that in my home and I won't allow it from yours either.  Have a nice evening."
And then he went to bed.  My mother and my sister and I stood there stunned.  Probably not as stunned as they were.

They never came back.
I inherited the piano.  And the attitude.

The piano, mom, Kim, Me and Mr. Attitude. 

Slides. Not the playground kind.

My mom took tons of pictures.  She only took slides.  We sat many summer nights outside with a white sheet hanging on the side of the house as a screen  just looking at slides.  When my mom died I insisted on taking as many of the family photos and slides as possible with the good intentions of getting everything copied and scanned to share with my sister.  

That was 1993.    

The road to hell should be finished by now with a bypass and several interchanges complete with scenic overlooks and rest stops.

And my mother didn't store them in small boxes. Nooooooooooo.  I brought home about 50 Kodak Carousels jammed packed ( 100 slides each) plus a couple of boxes of the tiny boxes of slides which of course is just so easy to find a place to store in a controlled environment.    And so begins my scanning projects.

I picked up a cheap simple slide scanner, which I regretted almost immediately , as I have to hand feed each slide.  Plus I get side tracked looking at the tiny 2 x 3 inch screen with my less than perfect vision trying to discern which tree in the state of Missouri my mother felt the need to commemorate.  And there are lots of them.  And after scanning a couple of the boxes and complaining about NOT having a clue how to clean the slides I discovered it wasn't the slides it was the darn scanner.  Yay for the hundreds I've already scanned.  And my highly observant skills.

I am not exaggerating

And here we have......trees.

when I say 80 percent of each Kodak Carousel that I've scanned is trees.  Trees on the side of hill.  Trees by the lake.  Trees on the farm.  Trees on the side of the road as they drove about 75 miles per hour  down some unnamed highway while clicking pictures out of the car window.  And she saved all of them.  Bad shots, missed shots, unfocused shots.  I know because they are numbered. And none are missing.  At first I tried to just scan the good ones but it was easier to set up a rhythm and scan them all.  Which is probably how she came to keep all of hers too.

Occasionally I run into real gems.  Ones that answer age old questions, you know, like  Why are the animals in zoos so far away from the people now?

Clearly some parents.....

use questionable methods.....

for expanding their toddlers education.  Thanks Dad. 

Or this,  did Colonel Sanders just sell chicken? 

Apparently not.  Beef AND Ham.  

Or - Were there any signs that I had terrible eyesight as a child? 

nahhhhhhh..

And the treasure hunt continues.  

Stay tuned for more secrets revealed 

1969  trip to the Smokies.  More damn tree pictures.  

I fixed the car.

chirp chirp chirp 

I hired a personal trainer.  Wait, let me rephrase that.  My husband who would do ANYTHING if I'd just fall in love with exercise hired a personal trainer for me.  He does this about every 7 years.  I suspect there's some biblical mandate to do this, you know considering the whole 7 is the perfect number because its the combination of 3 for the Holy Trinity and 4 for the Earth.  Or maybe he's into numbers.  I don't know.  This is also followed by me insisting on various pieces of equipment because I disdain exercising in a public setting.   I always look like I've been held under water too long.  Or am awakening from a coma.  I've actually had people ask when I've been coerced into attending a class if I was okay.  It's not exactly a confidence builder.   I may just pass out and make everyone happy.    So to add to my list of equipment Bill added a heart monitor watch thingy.  He thinks he's clever for getting me a pink one.   It looks suspiciously like one of those bands they put on you if you're under house arrest.  I think it feeds him real time information as to whether or not I actually went to the gym.  But it is pink, so.

After he showed me how to attach the band around my upper body that reads information to the pink house arrest bracelet and set the numbers I went to the gym.  I also have wireless earphones so I can watch Netflix movies on my phone while watching the pink house arrest bracelet do it's thing.  I'm pretty techno, but not coordinated.  Which comes into play every time I get on the treadmill.  It's always a toss up as to who will win, the next episode of "Arrested Development" or the bracelet from hell.   Sometimes they sync, sometimes it looks like I'm growling obscenities at the treadmill or Matt Lauer if I can't figure out how to switch the TV monitor above the treadmill.   It's safe to say I do both on a regular basis.

Friday I left the gym all thrilled with myself for not falling off the treadmill and managing to sync everything correctly.  I got into my white-mommy-mini-van and cranked it when I noticed what sounded like a bird or rodent sound coming from under the dash.  At first I thought a baby bird was under the hood or maybe even in the mirror.  I turned off the air and the radio and all my techno crap and proceeded to try to locate the bird.   Putting my ear to the dash, the door, the radio console, getting out, walking around the car, looking behind the mirror, fender, under the car.  Nothing.  and I couldn't hear it anymore.  Get back in the car and crank it, chirping starts.  It's very faint but now I'm thinking some electrical switch or fuse is about to go kerplunk.  My sliding door's electric lock died a couple of weeks ago but I can hear it trying to engage so maybe it's something like that.  Well, I'll just tell Bill when I get home.....IF I CAN GET HOME.  My brain always goes to the worst possible scenario when it's car related.   I pull in turn off the car, still chirping.

chirp chirp chirp

Now before I tell Bill and look like an idiot because as all wives know children, pets and automobiles NEVER repeat the trick you've asked them to do I recheck all possibilities.  STILL CHIRPING.

Trying to find my keys to get back into the house I'm rummaging around and fussing about the car.  As I reach into my purse the pink house arrest bracelet passes by my ear.  Chirping.  Well, that was 30 minutes wasted on finding a bird.  I walk in and tell Bill my whole story.

Me:  ......and so it was my bracelet! Isn't that funny?
Bill:   so there's nothing wrong with the car?
Me:  Nope.
Bill:  ok.
Me:  Isn't that funny?
Bill.  Are you asking me if I think it's funny that you didn't notice the watch you've been wearing is making a chirping noise?  Why would I think that's funny? I worry about you.
Me:  It's funny , trust me.

A lot of my stories end like this.

Teacher Appreciation

I've always intended to write a letter of appreciation and publish it in the local newspaper to each and every teacher my children have had.  I also intended  to learn to levitate and spin dog hair into gold.    I'll practice while you get a cup of coffee - this post is long.   LONGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG.

Recently a friend of mine that blogs about dealing with the challenges of grief and unexpected change wrote  about the school "merger" that is taking place in our community.  She noted that one rarely reads about the good in the schools anymore and that spurred me on to do what I had been wanting to do for the last few years. To publicly thank those directly and indirectly responsible for the education of two kids.  My children are both graduating this year, one from a graduate program in Journalism/Mixed media from UT Knoxville and the other from dental school at UTCHS with plans to continue into their pediatric program next fall.

These are but a few people who played an important role in their lives.  And mine too.

Bonnie Zwirlein kept both my children , one from the age of 6 months and the other 6 weeks while I worked full-time.   She was/is a brilliant sitter on many levels but from a harried new mom perspective she always let me believe I was the first to notice any changes in my babies, first tooth, first step, first words.  And for that I will be always grateful ( and hope to have learned this lesson for my future grandchildren. whenever.  I'm patient ) Bonnie was instrumental in the importance of nap time after lunch (no exceptions)no TV or videos before lunch/nap time. Playing outside daily, being nice to each other.  She was fair and just and taught me the value of following through with promises.  She also sold me on never cooking on a Friday. Both my children loved Bonnie and were so comfortable they sometimes called her mommy and wanted to stay the weekend.  I was smart enough to know this was a compliment not a slight.  I keep Bonnie's number on speed dial , you know, just in case.. 

Both my children experienced pre-school at Collierville United Methodist Church.  We waited until they were 4 as the only skill we thought they would really need is THIS IS A CHAIR - SIT IN IT - STAY.  So , kind of like doggie obedience school.  Actually a lot like doggie obedience school.  Again, Ms. Pat Larkin ( looked exactly like Snow White) and Ms. Stephanie and Ms.Annette (Heimbach) were a blessing. Our children were loved.   This school was also the catalyst for us joining the church.  Hey, they had our kids, what did you expect. 

Then came public school. You hear everything bad. You stress. You worry.  Then you let go.   On the way to our son's orientation for kindergarten at Collierville Elementary School  he announces from the back seat "I hope I don't get a brown teacher."  We were speechless.  We started mental exercises through each and every conversation we'd had in front of him since birth and could not for the life of us determine where this came from.  Still have no clue.  Inside I kept thinking, oh please , oh please, if she's a brown teacher don't let him say anything.  And of course as we rounded the corner in the school building toward the table with his teacher's name on it, there sat a brown teacher.  I almost died.  Andrew sat down and Monecia Johnson reached across the table and took both his hands in hers and said, "Andrew, I am so glad you are in my class this year, we are going to have the best time". And he was a goner.  The entire year every picture that he colored all the people were brown.  I had a great tan!  His sister also had Monecia when she entered kindergarten.  Monecia contacted us shortly after Katie had started school concerned she was perhaps too young and should wait a year.  This was based on Katie's fearfulness when asked to do things by herself.  Bill ( my husband) asked Monecia, does she look at you and tilt her head and make her eyes real big? and Monecia said yes.  Bill said this is the same child that begs to visit neighbors without any assistance or adult supervision, Monecia- you are being played.  After that Katie never seemed to have a problem if Mrs. Monecia Johnson asked her to do something.    Thank you Monecia, for having a rocking chair in your room to soothe those that need soothing.  For being a kind but firm voice.  For being a kindergarten teacher who clearly loved all her little people. And as ridiculous as this sounds for being "brown".

First grade Andrew was blessed to have Mrs. McClinton.  I'm not sure she felt the same way.  She was astonished that little boys played  with imaginary bats and balls and run and are basically dirty little creatures that never sit still.  Plus she had to get use to Bill giving hugs. Eventually she'd see us coming down the hall and she'd say, "Oh, Lord, here comes that man that hugs". Then she'd smile.  I think we should hug our teachers more.    It was a tough year as that was the year my mother was dying of cancer.  I was gone a lot traveling to Kansas City to visit for weeks at a time.  We didn't realize how deeply that affected Andrew until he entered second grade.  Wanda Kerschbaum told us he was a year behind in reading skills.  With her support and encouragement Bill bought the Hooked On Phonics learning set and Andrew went from a D to an A in the next six weeks.  Andrew was lucky to have a teacher that cared about him enough to tell his parents there was a problem.  Thanks Joyce for giving him consistency in a year of constant chaos and thank you Wanda for seeing the problem and offering a solution.  He's been a  voracious reader ever since. 

Katie had Phyllis Agnew in first grade. Phyllis just retired this year.  Another teacher that thought outside the lines.  This was the year they introduced "whole " language.  See a duck , say duck.  Whatever.  Phyllis taught both, whole and phonetics.  THANK YOU PHYLLIS!!!   Children need tools.  Some teachers KNOW how to use a toolbox. 

Both of our children had Donna Clayton for 3rd grade.  Donna instilled a love for healthy competition in her class and a love for math and science.  She always wore tennis shoes , even in a dress - AND found any excuse for extra time outside to run, jump and learn all the while giving them the right amount of win-win spirit and challenging them to do their best always. 

Liz Wilson was Andrew's 4th grade teacher.   Liz had her hands full.  A bright but challenging class.  Fortunately Liz was on to them and never let it get away from her.  4th grade---- I feel like this alone was a good argument for separating them by sex.  Half the problems came from some of the parents.  Mostly idiot mothers living vicariously through their daughters.  This was just the beginning.

5th grade was the year of group project teachers.  I hated group projects but more than that I hated parents that did their kids group projects.  Shame on you for stealing your child's chance to learn and feel good about doing it themselves.  I think one of the most valuable lessons both my kids learned was to be prepared when the other "participants" came empty handed.  Trust me they'll need the skills even in college where this lesson paid off the most.  They learned to pick people they could rely on AND still make sure they knew all aspects if possible. They also learned that sometimes you get graded unfairly based on group participation, also you can get punished that way as well.  This gave them insight into choosing their friends wisely.

I loved the elementary school years.  I served on a PTA board with women that I am still blessed to call some of  my very closest friends.  Our husbands also worked with us and became friends.  These were the golden years.  I miss them.  To Vicky Stewart, Becky Dennis, Natalie Vaughan, Julie Riley & Denise Shaffer - I'd do it again in a second. And the staff was one of a kind - Ronnie Jamerson, Cindy Pennington, Nita Armour and of course Sissy Loftin.

                    (INTERMISSION - "LET'S ALL GO TO THE LOBBY.......)

Middle school.  That year was the year of the Columbine shooting.  We (I) struggled with private vs public vs home-schooled ( and the last one I must have been heavily drinking as both kids passed me academically by 3rd grade).  No matter how we looked at it there really was no better choice then Collierville Middle School.  So they bloomed where they were planted.   Bill and I asked for a conference with all the teachers during Andrew's 8th grade year.( As we did every year)   All the teachers filed into the room - plus a couple of school reps.  They asked us why we called the conference.  We explained that even though Andrew was doing well we always liked to talk to all the teachers to see if there was any needs or anything we needed to be helping with.  Plus there is never any time to talk to anyone during Open Houses, etc.  They were stunned, and then visibly relaxed.  They thought we were lodging some kind of legal complaint.  Bill and I laughed.   AND then we learned that even though Andrew was an excellent student there were still some areas he could use help in.              Frankly I think every parent should be required to meet with every teacher no matter WHAT the current situation is.   It helped to meet in a group, one teacher would ask the other if they thought the same thing.  Oh, and btw - Andrew was with us.  When Mrs. Claudia Guthrie told him he was a slacker in the English department and to reconsider enrolling him in Honors English as a Freshman because even though he was MORE than capable he wouldn't do the work ----- I think we all nodded in agreement , including Andrew.    (side note - after his freshman year in standard English he was so bored he begged for honors the next year.) 

Thank you to all the middle school teachers, Mrs. Kent, Mr. Gray, Mr. Plummer, Mrs. Davis, Mrs. Hammond, Mrs. Talley, Mrs. Guthrie, Mr. Brown, Mrs. Talarico, Mr. Clinton and others I'm sure I've left out.

In high school Andrew did very well- except for his year in Chemistry.  He wasn't particularly fond of his instructor.  Bill was patient to a point and then told him to figure out a way to learn it on his own  because in real life you don't get to pick your boss.  Again, we knew he was capable. Then a miracle of sorts occurred, Andrew broke a rule at home ( which I can't remember at this point) and was practically grounded for life.  His grades went up.  The teacher pointed that out. Things work out.

Thank you to the high school teachers like Mrs. Martin who was one of the toughest teachers and the one both of my children liked a lot. And coaches like Roy Kirkland who manages the daily chaos with a firm hand and larger than life voice and an unmistakable presence.   But not to the woman that stood at the entrance and gave detention to kids whose shirts came untucked as they got out of the cars.    You were a much bigger problem than the shirts ever were.

Both kids went to college prepared in advance by the teachers that pushed them to do their best and to think for themselves.  Thank you to all the teachers at Collierville Elementary, Collierville Middle and Collierville High.

But of all the people that influenced my children the most it was and still is their father.  Bill attended every meeting. Let every teacher know that we fully supported them and then told our children the same thing.  He demanded 100 percent effort and the only mistakes that made him crazy are the ones they didn't  learn from.  He's never once humiliated them or made fun of them.  He's never tried to beat them or compete with them.  He has always ALWAYS been there for them.  He's always believed in them. He has never lied to them.  Ever. Once they went off to college  the phone calls to each of us became distinctly different - mine are emotional, relational, what are your thoughts about.......  The calls to him are solutions to problems, advice about classes, thoughts on career paths.  He has spent time with each of them just because.  Making unnecessary trips to "drop by" Knoxville on his way home from an Atlanta trip. They know without a doubt that they can depend on their father.

Today I watched our son graduate from dental school.  It was one of those defining moments.  Partly because I was watching my oldest achieve a long time goal but also because I got to see the man I married have the honor of "hooding" Andrew during the ceremony as they share the same degree.   With his sister in the stands who made the trip home from Knoxville to see him graduate.  And his sweet fiance Olivia who has waited patiently through all the college years and his wonderful  in-laws to be Brett and Marylynn who love him like he's one of theirs.      Our children have had the support of many teachers in their lives. And to ALL of them I say thank you.

musings about my mother

Before May is gone and another Mother's Day is completely forgotten......there are lots of things my children will never know about my mother. She died at 55 years of age in 1993.  Andrew was 6 and Katie was 4. By that time she was in considerable pain from cancer.   Her manic/depressive/bi-polar tendencies had made it nearly impossible to visit without some serious mood altering drugs.  For me.  But there was a time when she was not like that, at least not to me. She was funny and clever and terribly creative.  Sometimes when I'm just sitting and thinking about her the good stuff just fills my soul.

Things they should know:

Back in the early 70's my mother embroidered skull and crossbones on to the leather motorcycle jackets of the rather interesting biker boys/men in our neighborhood.  I believe Tindal was the last name.  She always had a heart for the misunderstood. More than once gifts magically appeared at our house.  Stereo speakers the size of refrigerators, stereos, lawn mowers, a goat.  I still don't understand that one. The boys adored her. 

My father came home to a tent that was erected in our living room because one of the bikers and his 16 year old girlfriend had been thrown our of their home. Mom felt so bad for them. My father not so much. He was not happy but did let them stay for a night.  Years later a bearded homeless looking guy approached our car smiling and waving.  I was mortified.  My mother on the other hand recognized him as the kid that once lived in our living room.  He still thought she was an angel.  ( of course she nearly shot him that time, yes, she carried a weapon).

My mom let the FBI set up surveillance in her basement to help catch a drug dealer that lived next door.  She help keep detailed notes- INCLUDING documenting a leopard that she saw living in the house protecting the upstairs.  When the drug house caught on fire she ran outside and cut up our water hose and was majorly pissed off when one of the other neighbors called the fire department.  She was willing to testify in court against this scumbag.  Fortunately it never came to that.

At a horse show she single-handedly took on a man that she saw beating  his horse with a tire-iron after he'd lost a race. Not one other person in the stands would say anything.  She threatened him within an inch of his life in front of the entire crowd.  I think she gave that horse courage.  A few months later that same horse  put his hooves through the back of the truck window he was being hauled in killing the man that had beaten him. 

She was abused by a catholic brother when she was just a teenager.  Something she never talked about until I found photos of her that were cut up.  They had been taken by the brother as "art".  She had told her parents who did not believe her.    I did.  This also explained her love/hate relationship with God/men/churches in general.

She could paint scenes on rice.  And knit thread with toothpicks.  She spun "wool" out of her dogs hair. She could make her own clothes from patterns she drew herself.

She was an excellent bowler who regularly beat any man who mistook her as a beauty only.  They always wanted her on their team for her looks.  But she always beat them first.  She taught herself to bowl left-handed because she thought it was better to teach left-handed students by knowing how herself.

She taught herself to ride horses and play golf.  Both things my father quit the day she beat him at it.  Including the bowling. 

She raised an abandoned newborn German shepherd puppy because someone had brought it to the vet to be put down when the mother dog gave birth in their yard running from something.  She bottle-fed him.  He was the runt.  He grew up to be HUGE and was a devoted protector of the man she gave him to. 

She was pretty good shot with a gun.  She hunted and fished and taught me how clean both a squirrel and any fish.. Though she wouldn't hunt deer. 

Once my father became interested in antique clocks and traded our Shetland pony , Silver, for a clock.  My mother found out about it and went and got the pony back.  Silver had been owned by the Dr. Pepper Company.  My mother could get him to kneel, roll-over, pray , count ,and pick out Dr. Peppers in a line up.  She'd then let him drink it out of the bottle.

She cooked pies in the middle of the night. 

She could put a dead stick in the ground and it would take root.  Our house was always surrounded by blooming plants and a vegetable gardens.  I still have the rose catalog where she hand drew the layout of every single rosebush in our backyard.  Flowers loved her.  They bloomed for her. Even when we lived in Texas where there was nothing but red clay and tumbleweeds she had garden.

Once while playing at my friend's  house and my mom was visiting with my friend's mom an uncle walked in. He was visiting from Italy. After an evening of good food , wine and laughter he offered her anything she wanted if she'd be his mistress.  She laughed and said she was flattered but no thank you.  He let the offer stand.   She had that effect on men.  She looked like Tippi Hendren and Doris Day ( the early years) with a Carol Burnett/Lucille Ball sense of humor.

She had a huge laugh.         

She was funny.  And I miss her.                     Miss you mom.

Carolyn about 1964.  Before she went blonde. 

Achieving Goals. Mehhhh....

Last year I failed dismally at achieving my 2012 Goodreads goal of whatever number of books I thought I could read.  It was probably a million because I'm idealistic that way.  Especially after a carafe of coffee.  The same kind of idealism that sends me out to the sports store to purchase a new running shorts. And shoes.  And a heart monitor.  And the exercise ball.    Maybe idealism and idiocy are more closely related than I care to admit.   So this year I thought I'd pace myself by setting a goal of 1 book for 2013.  That way IF I read more will have surpassed my own goal and I'll feel very very good about myself every time I see I've completed 100% on my goal wall thingy.   And then I'll holler out "Tahhh Dahhh" !

not a hardback. 

Of course I am a little panicked that I've waited until the end of May to even commit to reading a book, so the pressure is on before the end of the year sneaks up on me.  And it's not that I don't like to read, I LOVE TO READ!  And usually I tear through books like I do my pantyhose.  But why punish myself?  

Right now I'm reading "Epson Stylus NX420 Series - The Quick Guide."  Not because of it's clever writing but because all my programs were wiped out in the great laptop death of early May and all my printer connections disappeared.    I doubt I'll finish it.  But if I do ....."Tahhh Dahhh"!!!!!

I love sharpies. And stupid magazine articles

Some days when I'm sideways with the world in general.  Or specifically a family member.  Or even more specifically a husband. To clarify I mean mine.  Not anyone else's.  I take out my frustration on magazines.  Usually the ads , sometimes the articles.  Like writing my insights onto the page somehow gets to the person responsible for either thinking this was good idea or more to the point that children under the age of 4 should run the world.  Look around.  They already do.  Hey Marketing Guru....please stop.  I hope you have a dozen children . All under the age of 7.  At once.  And you're left alone with them.  Without your clever magazine articles.  --------also I do this because I donc't think writing my comments on my husband would solve any problems. And  I'd only  feel better for about an hour.  You know, while he was sleeping. Which is now.   

sharpies... better than therapy. 

Say Yes to the Dress so I can go get a donut.

At first glance into the sea of taffeta and satin and lace I was overwhelmed with all the choices. But worse was being overwhelmed in the dressing room that I shared with the bridesmaids and mother of the bride all glaringly the size of munchkins. Not the fat munchkins,  the tiny ballerina munchkin.  I felt like Glenda the Good Grief Kill Me Now Witch.    They were barely taking up space.  My oxygen intake threatened to suck the air out of their little tiny lungs.   I feared for their safety.  If they all weren't so darned delightful and just cute enough to put in my pocket and take home I would have left before the fun started.   And the key to having lots of fun when you're in an uncomfortable place is to smile really really big ,strike a ridiculous pose,  talk and laugh loudly and intentionally put things on wrong.  Then the staff just feels sorry for you and becomes extremely helpful.  Plus their level of concern increases when they see you repeatedly try to zip up a silk gown while asking " Are you sure this is a true size 8? "  While leaving the tag of the shirt you  just took off in full view displaying a stretched out size 12. Whatever.

This is the tale of finding the ever elusive Mother of the Groom dress.   In an even more elusive The Shop of the Mother of the Groom dress.  I'm a rather pessimistic person when shopping for clothes.  As in I'm not a fan. I prefer a sloppy pair of jeans and an old t-shirt.  But it was time to at least look. And so with the encouragement of the bride's mom I began my search.  First I eliminated anything the color of sherbet.  And knit.  And short.  And strapless.   That left 10 dresses.  Then anything that had more sequins than sense. Then anything that cost more than my monthly house payment.  That left 5. But one of those was on the saleswoman. Or girl.  She was maybe 19 with purple hair.  On one side of her head.  But I'm  not judging.  I've had hair the wrong color.  Green once.  But I digress.

After perusing the carousels of horrors I picked the a few out.  In my defense I had too much caffeine that morning, they're lucky I didn't try on hats.  Which I wanted.  I love hats.

This beige/lace dress was the first one I tried on. Those are MOG gang signs.     First I argued with the clerk as to whether or not that was the same gown in the picture that was on the wall.  I still have reservations.  And it smelled funny. I tried NOT to think about how many other people have tried on these dresses. I already have issues with bowling shoes. At least I have on socks.  If you look closely you can see the Mother of the Bride in the reflection of the mirror.  I'm impressing her with my runway skills.

Here we have the blue dress with brooch.  The brooch is specifically designed to distract the eyes from the hips.  And waist.  And chest area.  So people will be mortified at the amount of sun speckled neck skin you so bravely chose to share. I never know what to do with my arms.  I wish this had pockets. And a dickey.  

The while silk dress top was SMALL.  I was waging war with the buttons up the side while they were MIA.  I call this one my Helen Miren twin with a gland problem. Still don't know where to put my arms.

The third dress I've named "Right Boob Dominate".  I normally have a lot more loose skin on my arms but it got stuck in the dress after 10 minutes of tugging and pulling it onto my body.  Clearly my left arm has lost some of it's length.  I need combat pay.

There was a couple of other dresses.  But I'd lost conscientiousness by this time from lack of blood flow  I think they should make a wedding snuggie.  Hmm, they probably do.  I'll ask at the next shop.  After I regain blood flow in my arms.  . The adventure continues.............. 

laptop hell

I have been without my laptop.  It had a virus.  Or a nasty cold, whatever.  I got it back today. Personally I think this was God's way of keeping me from posting nasty comments about my marriage.  Or perhaps my marriage partner.  Since we've been in a marriage death match the last couple of months.  So I'm pretty confident that he's going to smite my laptop into oblivion after today.  Although I'm over my marriage frustration and have moved on to new and improved frustrations.  :

Like: 
Now that I have the laptop it's been wiped clean.  Of everything.   Like programs and connections and passwords and contacts. **&*#(@^**.    and that's all I'm saying about that.

Picking a song for my mother/son wedding dance.  I haven't found one yet that conveys the relationship I have with my son.  We're both so warped.  It's a challenge.  I like the "Yeah Toast" song, and it does address our shared love of warm crispy bread but it's hard to dance to.   I'm trying to talk him into a waltz with no lyrics, but mostly so I can twirl my dress.  All women like to twirl.  It's a fact.

Looking for that darn MOG dress.  Planning on going with the MOB to try on dresses this weekend.  She's a size negative 6, and lives in the gym and is in very very good shape.  And I love her which makes it doubly difficult to be unhappy about this trip.  She's going to try and talk me into a strapless backless slinky number which will look stunning on her and will only cause me to go into a deep depression.  I can't dance with back-fat flailing itself at guests  That's unseemly.  This should be great for my self-esteem.  I'm taking wine in a sippy cup. 

Hiring the fifth front desk person at our office in five years.  Seriously the fertility rate in that office is frightening. And it's even more frightening trying to use the phrase "working uterus" into interviews while not violating any federal laws.

But in case you were worried that I'd decided not to blog any more or worse you were hoping I would NEVER blog anymore .....fear/hope NOT!   I like venting into cyberspace.  And I've missed you all so much. And your uteruses.    

 

Why Marketing Departments should rethink their audience

Bill:  What's this ad for?
Me: Obviously it's aimed at the dedicated birdwatcher.
Bill: Obviously.
Me: I think you take the wipes and rub them on the tree trunks to attract woodpeckers.
Bill: This explains so much.......
Me: I know, right, I haven't seen one of those in a long time.
Bill: And again, explains so much.


This must address a fetish I know nothing about.   I'm not sure the Audubon Society is supporting this.
Also this could explain why that one woodpecker is extinct.   

 
From the same magazine:  ( btw - this is SUPPOSEDLY an exercise magazine.....)

Me:  They're missing one
Bill:   What...
Me:  Heat 
Bill:   What's the number for the Audubon Society?

My mind needs a safety gate.

ahhhhhhhhhhhh

I often wonder where the closest snake is.

I hate touching fax paper.  Styrofoam.  Corderoy ( large wale not pin wale)

I wish restraurants wouldn't put the condiment cups of dressing ON my salad.  I hate that.  Plates of food on my plates of food.  And crackers in packages ON my salad.   It's like they're too lazy to make another trip and they keep piling crap on top of my food. 

I once failed a German Exam for refusing to stand in front of the class and give a 5 minute speech. 

I can't resist telling a complete stranger if he/she looks like a celebrity.  Sometimes it's not a compliment.

I like to send birthday cards to people just because. 

I hate to cook eggs and then eat them.  I order mine out.   I cook eggs every morning for Bill and I have oatmeal.  It's weird. 

I won't embark on a road trip unless everyone has brushed their teeth.  Andrew isn't allowed to take his shoes off.  Still.

I love quarters. 

I can only take a fish off the hook if I have 10 bandaids.  One around every knuckle of each finger.

M.O.G.

This is my first posting of The Wedding : Dairy of a MOG.

First I had to actually ask what MOG was. For you newbies it's mother of the groom.  It should be MOTHER OF Give-Me-A-F'ng-Break.  It's not.  My son got engaged.  There's going to be a wedding.  She's perfect and lovely and we love her and her family so much.---------And that's all I'm going to say about that part. Until they all sign waivers. ( Actually they are all perfect and lovely and funny and have a really REALLY good sense of humor.) ( so far.) 

This is more of a running commentary on the business of weddings in general.  As my future DIL is not responsible for the over inflated egos of the wedding circuit snake-oil selling individuals roaming the streets and the Internet.  Especially Pinterest.  And the sixty million magazines.  That I buy daily.  'Cause they're so pretty.  It's like bringing home a unicorn.  With sparkles.  ......oh god save me from myself.  I name them all!!!
My mantra for the next 10 months -  "Wear Beige - Keep my mouth shut."  Which was the advice I was given by a close friend and it seems a smart and reasonable thing to do.  Which is why I will fail miserably at this.  So let me begin by what I'm most likely to screw up first.  The dress.  No , not hers - she'd look beautiful in a gunny sack. ( for those of you under 50 - why are you even reading my crap?) 



She must hate her daughter.  A lot.



Let's talk about what sadistic designers decide what determines a "Mother-of-the-Groom/Bride" dress.  Seriously it's awful.   It seems my choices are aged beauty pageant wanna-be complete with enough piped on icing ruffles and sparkly crap to please a murder of crows - which is also backless, side less, strapless, less less less- which looks FABULOUS on an over 50 body in a permanent relaxed state.  Like death.  OR Little House on the Prairie. ( shoot me) or perhaps the entertainment industry pole dancing division.  I may pluck my own eyes out.  



with detachable sunbeam



I've already had one go round with Spanx which I lost in the bloody stiletto heal battle of New Orleans, I don't think I can do this again. As far as I know Spanx doesn't come in a turtle neck design, something they should work on immediately.  There would be a high likelihood of my head popping off like an overripe grape. Also I imagine this is what it was like being born IF I was being delivered thru the world's tiniest vagina.  I may have to take pain killers to crawl back into that torture device......Not the vagina , that's dead, the Spanx.  Although I'd have to take pain killers in either case.  Now might be a good time as I can't seem to shake the vision in my head.  I hate my brain. 

Also trying to find the cheerleader/pom/dance/sorority elbow to stick to my hip for all the pictures as I am most positive this is the only acceptable way to be photographed in all wedding photos----yes , go check Pinterest. Or Facebook.  I DEFY you to find one set of shots WITHOUT said elbow pose.   Surely Ballew's sells an appendage in beige.  


the perfect MOG dress.  and title.

 Just broke the mantra. They should elope.