"How are YOU today?"

Earlier this summer, we had a group of Swedish students visit our church and perform a free concert.  

To save money on lodging during their tour from New York to Miami, the group asked if members of our church would open our homes to them before they set off for south Florida the next day. 

We happily obliged. At the end of the evening we caravanned home from the venue with seven Swedish young people in tow.  

“One thing I am confused about,” shared one of the young men after he became comfortable with us,  “Is how I should answer the question ‘How are you today?’  What should I say?”  

As Americans, we just don’t realize how “American” this question is.  

It is the safe and acceptable question to ask when other topics, like football or the weather, elude us.    “How are you today?” is the Wonder Bread of American questions.  

Because we HATE silence.    

I recently had an experience at Walmart in which the woman behind the counter didn’t ask me any of the “usual” questions.  I was met only by a tired silence.  She looked harried and battered down by life, and hardly seemed able to have ANY more interactions with her customers that day.    

And you know what?  That entire interaction (or lack thereof) was horribly awkward.

A new television show called “Welcome to Sweden” began airing on the NBC Thursday night line up this summer.

Bruce (Greg Poehler), the main character, has moved with his girlfriend to her native Stockholm.  His clueless, wide-eyed ignorance to the subtleties of her culture is providing endless amounts of comedic material.

In fact, this very question came up in one of the very first episodes.

“I mean,” Bruce says to his girlfriend, Emma,  “What’s wrong with asking people how they’re doing?”

“Well,” Emma replies, “it’s fake. In Sweden, we just do that if we really want to know the answer, you know?”  

“But I DO want to know the answer,” Bruce exclaims.

“No, you don’t.”  

“Yes,”  Bruce insists.  “I genuinely care about how people are doing.”  

“Okay,” Emma says.  “But if you care about Swedes, leave them alone.  Okay?”

Bruce doesn’t buy it. 

“Say, ‘Hej, hej’ at the most,” Emma says.  “If you do more than that, people will think you’re weird.”  

Confused, Bruce says, “Well how do you get to know new people?”

“That’s the whole point, honey.”

Yesterday, Maggie’s Girl Scout leader asked me,  “How are you doing?”

Now, I almost always attempt to answer this with the accepted “I’m fine.”  But suddenly, I just couldn’t.  

Perhaps she seemed  SAFE.  Perhaps I felt as if she really “wanted to know the answer.“  I am not sure.    

“I am sooooooo happy the kids are back in school.  I am not going to lie: this summer really was difficult,” I blurted out.

Summer, the time when activities ~ such as Girl Scouts ~  ceased, was ironically the time where we NEEDED  those activities the most.  

Summer began full of hope and dreams of sleeping in, adventures  and fun-filled days.

But it ended with fighting.  A LOT of fighting.  

And tears.   

And “I’m BOOOORRRRRREDs.”   

And unreasonable, tyrannical demands.  

The “adventures” we had tried to incorporate just turned into different, more exotic places for the kids to try to scratch the other’s eyes out.    

This particular summer melded into one giant blur of angst and crushing thoughts of inadequacy about our parental competence.  

I AM damn happy the kids are back in school.  

There, I said it again.  

And the children are happy to get away from us, too.There have been zero tears. There has been much excitement on both ends.  

And this school year has started afresh with different kind of hopes and dreams, adventures and fun-filled days.  

So.  

“How are YOU today?”

Jacked-Up Front Loading Washing Machines

It's been over five years since my youngest child was born.  

In April of 2008, I had a hormonally perverse distortion of my functioning skills and a brand-spanking new front-loader washing machine.  Front-loading washing machines were all the rage back then.  

Everyone was jumping on the front-loading washing machine bandwagon, myself included.  A front loader was SUCH a fabulous idea until I  realized how much bending over I had to do ~ an activity that I try to minimize by picking things up with my feet.  

I had to BEND OVER to pick the clothes up and put them into the washing machine.  

I had to BEND OVER to take the clothes out of the washing machine to transfer them into the dryer. 

And finally, I had to BEND OVER to retrieve the clean, wet clothes that had tumbled out of the washing machine into a puddle at my feet when I opened the front-loading door.   

(And as I bent over, I would get a good whiff of a rotten, mildewy stench coming from my front loading washing machine.  And if I bent over far enough and poked my head inside, I could see the science experiment from hell growing inside the drum and around the seal.   This might have greatly disturbed me at one time,  and I might have gathered my cleaning agents  and tried to scrub away the mini greenhouse growing rampant in my front loading washing machine.  I might have scrubbed, scrubbed for a while, as I BENT OVER, and realized that that black shit was never coming off.  My family is SURELY breathing spores of something unholy that could potentially kill them.  Ah, but I digress.)

So, with my brand new washing machine and my brand new baby, I had a hormonally induced idea  to use cloth diapers.   

Anyone who knows me probably would agree that this wasn't the best idea I have ever had.  And predictably, it didn't last for very long.  

The cloth diapers would be sold on Ebay to some other new mom who had a skewed sense of efficiency.  

And the child would quickly grow up to be delightful, a princess, and now, a kindergartner.  

Yet the washing machine is still here, mostly unchanged... until a few days ago when the "door ajar" alarm sensor alarm ~ and it is a God-awful alarm ~ broke.  

Thankfully, the washing machine is in a laundry ROOM.  Room.  As in, with a door.  A door that can be shut to partially mask the screaming "door ajar" alarm.   I put up with this all, because a.) we are so close to Christmas and I don't want to pay to get it fixed right now, and b.) the washing machine still technically washes clothes.  It still WORKS.

I said all of this because in some sort of rabbit-hole way, it reminded me of a  couple of interesting things that I have heard in the past day or so.  

The first occurred this evening, via my husband, who was reading his course work in Officer Training School for the US Army.   

In a crude nutshell, he told me that he read that "death is not a good enough motivating factor" for unhealthy people to get off their fat asses and help themselves become healthy.  

Not a good enough motivator to get up and  exercise to maintain to a healthy weight.  Not a good enough motivator to make themselves a salad.  Not even good enough motivator to get up, waddle over to the medicine cabinet, and pop a tiny pill every day.  

When looking at the cold, hard percentages and health statistics, humans are big, fat failures.

Which is entirely incomprehensible to someone like to my husband.  Because he is disciplined, rational and ~I'm pretty certain about this ~ is not befuddled by a million different voices inside his head (one, which shrieks at approximately 11pm to FEEDMESOMEFREAKINGNACHOSORIWILLCLAWYOURFACEOFFYOUWEAKBI#%&!).   

Another epiphany occurred while listening to my favorite podcast, Radiolab*.  It was a broadcast from 2011, titled "Help."

"You want to DO something, badly," says Robert Krulwich, Radiolab host.  "But then another part of you says 'No, I DON'T want to do that.'  When it's you against you, what do you do?"    

I'll say that again, because in my simplicity, this was astoundingly profound:  "When it's you against you, what do you do?"

And this pretty much sums up my life.  

Because somewhere, deep down,  I have an addiction to immediacy.  

I want it now.  

And I KNOW I'm not alone there:  my entire generation WANTS IT NOW.   

But in my case, 99% of the time what I want now is not good for me.   It will make me fat.  Or it will put me in debt.  Or it will cost more than researching it online and finding it somewhere else much cheaper.   

Getting something right now is addicting, it's thrilling.  I open my computer and my internet is RIGHT THERE!  I don't even have to wait for the computer modem to dial the online service anymore ("You've got mail!" Anyone?).    

What I also want, is months (or years) away.  It is difficult for me to envision.   I get distracted and have no imagination. 

My washing machine works.  It's jacked up, dirty, smells and makes a horrible, loud noise.  But it works.  It's limping along and I'm PROBABLY not going to fix it.  

My body works.  Technically, however, it's slightly fleshier than I want it to be at this moment...but it is working okay.   My last pregnancy jacked it up a bit, but I take a few pills every day.    

The finances work, despite our mucking things up.  We muddle through.   We are not fiscal rock stars.  

Why is it so difficult to be "all in."  Not just with diet and exercise, but with ALL ASPECTS of our lives?  Is it not broken ENOUGH?

When will I be broken enough to fix everything?  

I don't have the answers; I'm a work in progress.  

As I listen to the horrible buzzing of the washing machine "door-ajar" alarm, however,   it seems that the front-loader washer will be fixed before I am.   

Naturally.  

Snickerdoodles in the Air

When we lived in the Midwest, some friends of ours had two little girls.

They were hardcore girly-girls, and loved the things that girly-girls seem to gravitate towards:  twirly dresses, tutus, Hanna Andersson and above all, glitter.

I saw the father on a regular basis, and for at least two straight years, I never saw him without glitter on his face.

I would be in the speaking to him and my eyes would wander to the piece of glitter stuck on his eyelid or nose,  which had temporarily caught the sun and had momentarily blinded me.  

It was endearing.  

I say this all because Maggie is now a glitter-phile.

I find  glitter glue that some schmuck bought her ~ not me ~ on tables, cabinets, in her hair.

She is mesmerized by  this loose glitter that I bought three years ago, for some craft project.

(And never used.  Crafts?  Me?  I MUST have been on crack.)  

It is pourable, and one of these days, I am certain  it will be dumped somewhere that I will be finding it for years to come.


And I said all of that above because it is Christmas time.

And there is glitter everywhere.  It is in every project that Maggie brings home from pre-school, on nearly every ornament.  

I open each Christmas card gingerly, lest a cascade of some glittery substance that some turd thought would be festive, falls out all over my floor and forces me to get the vacuum (it has happened).

I'm basically a Scrooge.

I don't like opening presents in front of people.  I let others put up the tree and put on the ornaments.   I have ONE Christmas candy recipe that I have managed not to lose, and I use it every year.

But today was different.

It has been raining and cold here in Florida for the past three days.  

(Okay, all right, not COLD.  I used to hate assholes in Florida who said that when I lived in the Midwest.  It is "chilly.")

And since it usually is sunny here, I welcome the not-normal days where it is a little gloomy.   It feels like winter in a place that always seems to feel like summer.

Which is great, mostly, but sometimes it is just nice for a change.

I was driving in the fog and gloom today and suddenly the urge came over me to make cookies.

I used to make cookies.  At least more often than I do now (which is NEVER).  

I have literally not made cookies for over four years.  (::As a mother, hangs head in shame.  But for only one short moment.  I'm fine now::)  

I have mostly bought those pre-packaged little squares that you just tear off and bake.  Which I think are disgusting and  don't taste like "real" cookies.    

I have not felt like making much of anything in the way of dessert, so my 11-year-old son learned how to make cakes and cookies.

Which I think is fantastic.  My laziness bred resiliency and innovation in my son.  I couldn't be prouder.

 I had snickerdoodle ingredients at home:  butter, flour, sugar, cinnamon, etc.

So Maggie and I set to making snickerdoodles.  When Chris came home from lunch,  he was startled and wondered what the catch was.    He was unsure if he should eat one or not.  (I assured him that it was all right.)

I guess it goes without saying that I am medicated again.  

I feel a little more like me, which is so weird.   Only those who are as crazy as f**k will probably understand this.

The person I was off of medication was like this psycho shrew who lived in my house, slept in my bed, and didn't clean very often.  I hardly knew her.

Oh well.

I feel much more able to deal with glitter now:  vacuuming it up, washing it off,  peeling it off of furniture.

And I haven't felt like writing anything in a long time.  So, hellloooooo.

(And for those who like Snickerdoodles, here is a great recipe.)

Best-Ever Snickerdoodles

3 cups flour
2 tsp. cream of tartar
1 tsp. baking SODA
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. nutmeg (optional)

1 cup (2 sticks) butter
1 3/4 cups sugar
2 tbsp. light corn syrup
2 large eggs
2.5 tsp. vanilla extract

1/4 cup sugar
2 tsp cinnamon

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.  Grease baking sheets.

In a large bowl, mix first 5 ingredients well.  Set aside.

In another bowl, add next 5 ingredients, except for the eggs.  Beat well, like 2 minutes.  Add eggs one at a time, then slowly add the flour mixture.

The dough will be thick and you will roll it into balls.  Try to make them the same size, then roll them in the sugar/cinnamon mixture and put on a cookie sheet.

Bake in the oven for 11-12 minutes.

You can't put these close together because they spread out a lot.  I learned that the hard way.

These aren't the crispy snickerdoodles; the corn syrup makes them chewy.

Hope you have a great holiday season

  

Wordless Wednesday: Lotsa Geek.

Insanely photogenic stingray.

Buy it! http://wanelo.com/p/287442/snow-white-macbook-decal-by-miumius

F- yea, I bought 'em.  https://www.etsy.com/transaction/95231581

Flashback Friday: Padma Lakshmi and The State of my Panty Drawer (8.27.09)

Today a snitch made off with every single pair of earphones in the house.

So, I was forced to make up my own soundtrack on the daily jog. My thoughts were a pitifully sad state of affairs this morning. They went something like this:

"How does Padma Lakshmi look the way that she does?"

"In that butt shot scene in "Fast and Furious" where the woman is wearing satin yellow hot pants, what did she do exactly to make her inner thighs not touch all the way up to her crotch?"

And:

"Exactly how much effort would I have to expend to lose the belly flap that has seemed to form after the birth of this third child ~ the high maintenance nature of it being that it requires applications of cornstarch powder throughout the day to keep it fresh?"

But mostly I thought about the pathetic state of affairs of my underwear drawer. 

Some would correct me, saying that I should call it a "lingerie drawer." However, calling the contents of this drawer "lingerie" would sort of like be calling that Malibu Musk aerosol spray I purchased at the dollar store, "eau de parfum."

I first thought about the underwear situation a couple months ago, shortly after our monumental road trip from Iowa to Florida.

The said underpants had been carelessly (on my part) thrown into my friend Kaat's load of laundry and were not given another thought until I saw ~ with a horror that brought a stars into my vision ~ that she had very carefully folded my panties and set them apart from her clothes.

I stared at the neat little pile, speechless and mortified. They were the white, granny, multi-pack fare ~ the kind bought at Target for $4.99. The crotches were  dingy  and some even had holes in unmentionable places.

My panties have not always looked like this.

I remember with a sense of loss and remorse the panties I had purchased when my husband returned from Iraq. I even take them out and look at them every once in a while. I made the mistake once of trying one of them on recently.  It made me throw up in my mouth a little. I took them off immediately.

The year he was gone was spent in the gym. All the lunges, running and weights had improved the general situation going on with my body to the point where I didn't mind the full-length mirror in the bathroom so much anymore. It wasn't a bikini bod, by any means, but it was satisfactory.

I blame the Brazilian butt bikinis for getting me knocked up on the very first day that my husband came home.

That was the end of my adorable Victoria Secret  lingerie stash, because I was immediately green with morning sickness and anything that wasn't waist high wasn't comfortable enough.

The lace, frilly pairs of panties were packed away in a box and were not thought of again until this morning when I was forced to be left alone with my own thoughts on my jog.

The thoughts should have made me go a little bit further or longer, but they didn't. I came back early to make them mercifully stop.

Oh, and I have a lot of laundry to do; I'm out of clean underwear.

I'm Quitting Facebook, and This is Why.

I'm quitting Facebook.

I'm currently on my way out, and I am deleting as many photos and personal information about myself that I can.

And it is really hard.  And I'm struggling.  

And I hate that I am struggling because it should seem like a no-brainer.  

There are other ways to keep in touch:  I can e-mail, I will still keep my Twitter account.  

But I am conflicted with the reason WHY I feel the need to share everything.  It's sort of a sickness, an obsession, and I am ready to admit that and be done with it.  

I don't think that my Facebook usage is helping out my life at all.  

Sure, it was nice to stay in touch with people from high school, college, or family members.  I love to look at the pictures and keep track of what they are doing, what their kids are doing, etc.  I admit it:  I'm a Facebook troll.  I love looking at other people's pictures. 

But at what expense?   

Well, first thing is that  I have never been a good housekeeper.  Anyone who has dropped by unexpectedly, or even "expectedly" could see that.  

Does hanging out on Facebook help that problem?  Not really.  

And what good does it do my children when I have my nose in Facebook when they need me for something?   It doesn't.

I felt sort of the same way about the television.  

About six months ago, we got rid of cable.   

It was SERIOUSLY radical for us.  I mean, we LOVED cable, and I could have married the DVR.   

What upset me the most was the price tag.  During one month of particularly merry clicks of easy ordering of On-Demand new releases, I racked the bill up to almost $200.00.  

We currently have Netflix on the Wii, and that is just fine with me.  Netflix is about $11.00 a month for streaming only.  

Although at times I am frustrated with the selection on Netflix, I must remind myself that it is only ELEVEN DOLLARS A MONTH.   Which is basically a fast food meal price.  Or a decent bottle of wine (or a **cough** box, in our case).  

We also plugged the television cords back into the wall, and we get the local stations and PBS.  And you know what?  PBS has some really good shows.  I've learned to enjoy what I have.

We have to be very intentional about what we watch now and I believe that to be a very good thing. 

You know what I DON'T miss?  

The kids begging for crap they see on commercials.  I COULD insert a shockingly gross statistic about kids and commercials [here], but I don't really need to.  

Anyone who has been around a three year old watching Nickelodeon  for two seconds and must endure the "I WANT THAT TOY!  I WANT THAT CEREAL!"  knows my pain.  

 No, I haven't regretted canceling cable a single minute.  I'm hoping that the lack of regret continues for the Facebook cancelation.  

I am also thinking that the entire scene isn't terribly healthy.  I am DEFINITELY not the pillar of health, and it the terms of emotional health, I feel at times I have been dealt the short stick.  

Do I think that Facebook is helping with this?  

No.   

Although I love to see what people are doing, a lot of what I see upsets me too.    Dumbass comments, people fighting, people saying derogatory things about each other or about certain groups of people.    It's not healthy for me, personally.   I feel as if it is getting worse. 

I also have been reading and hearing a lot of more seriously sinister things about Facebook, in general.  

A friend of mine (who deleted her Facebook account recently) has a husband who works in the computer security business, by profession.  In other words, he is a professional hacker.    People in that line of business don't have a lot of respect for Facebook, because they can see ~firsthand~ that the whole privacy thing and lack of security is a joke.  

The computer security contigent (or people who actually "know"), she tells me, have a plethora of derogatory terms for people addicted to Facebook, like "dead meat," or "monkeys."  

Do I care what people think because I have been a fan of Facebook?  Not really.  But I know the source, and I trust the concerns about security.  Because EVERYONE knows that Facebook isn't secure.  

Here is a link to an article I looked about about Facebook security.    It is a secondary article, and there is a link inside it to the first article.  Both were very helpful in my decision.  Here is another website worth checking out, but will probably scare the crap out of you and make you paranoid as hell.  

Because of concerns, both my husband and I recently looked into the "active sessions" on our Facebook account.  You can do this on your account, too.  And I suggest you do.   We were really disturbed to learn  that there were logins within the last month on EACH of our accounts in states other than our own.     

We promptly changed our passwords, but I am afraid that changing the passcodes really is not enough. 

And I also recognize that, although we are SO careful about shredding our personal information and mail, we are incredibly lax about putting our most TREASURED personal information ~ information about our children ~ out on the internet.   

Yes, my kids are adorable.   And "yes," I really want to share that new jumpsuit Maggie is wearing and see the firing up of the "likes" that I receive.  Because, really, she is freaking darling.  

But do I even need to go talk about who ELSE likes those pictures?   And the complete f-d up bastards online?  

NO, I do not. 

We are also telling people what we are doing, where we are going, intimate details and feelings, etc.    It's a little messed up.   

Wait, NO, actually, it is a LOT messed up.  I wouldn't DREAM of putting a sign on my door that says, "HEY!  Going on vacation for a week to Aruba!"  But essentially, I would do the EXACT SAME THING on Facebook.  

Yes, the facial recognition thing creeps me out.  And the idea that things aren't really "private," even if you make your information available to "only friends."   

And forget about deactivating your account, folks.  The information is still there for people to view.  Go HERE for a link to actually DELETE your Facebook account.  That is what I am getting ready to do.  

I am in the process of getting my pictures saved and my friends' emails.  What annoys me is that the "real" emails of my friends aren't even on their Facebook  informations anymore...it is only a link to a Facebook email, which goes into "Messages."   Obnoxious, non?

I am just trying to revert to living a simpler life.   I think that my kids need me.  They need me to demonstrate how to live a healthy, balanced life.   They need me to keep them safe, and to love them.  

Dumping Facebook will certainly be start to all of this.  

Flashback Friday: Chester Arthur and House Hunters International, Malta

I am afraid my husband has recently questioned his decision to marry me.  

We were watching House Hunters International yesterday evening.  House Hunters International is a show that is particularly intriguing to us because, really, when will we ever shop for real estate outside this country? We might as well live vicariously through others.

The couple was Italian, apparently. I am not certain of this, but the woman's name seemed very Italian to me.

They were looking for a home on Malta in the "multi-million dollar budget"   range. This intrigued us even more as it is not very often that House Hunters participants have a multi-million dollar budget. 

The people who generally participate are average, middle-class folks who are just trying to eek by. 

 When I come across House Hunters that involve jet-setters and millions of dollars in their budget, I get sort of a sick voyeuristic curiosity that washes over me and I take notice.  .

The show also caught my attention because I wasn't sure exactly where Malta was. 

 Geography has never been my strong suit. 

(Addition: It hasn't gotten any better.  Three years later, I just realized that the Cayman Islands were WEST of Cuba.  I always had believed them to be somewhere East of Puerto Rico.  )

I mean, the last House Hunters International show I watched was in Panama. I could vaguely picture the Panama Canal, although I couldn't tell you much about the country itself, except it has strip of land that was highly contentious during the Carter administration.  

Even more perplexing, though, was that the man-half of the couple mentioned that he had children in Belfast, and the Malta didn't look anything like I believed Belfast would look like. 

I could tell by the architecture that Malta must be Mediterraean, though.

I considered the options: I could sit through the entire show and not know where the hell this House Hunters was filmed, or I ask my husband and risk him making fun of me.   

"Honey," I asked.

"What," he said distractedly, playing Angry Birds

"Where is Malta?" 

"Seriously, Mary.   Where do you think Malta is?"

"Greece?" I asked. The look on his face wasn't encouraging. "Italy?" I continued. He didn't say anything. "I feel as if it is an island," I carried on. He nodded a bit. "Off the.....coast....of.... Italy?" I questioned.

"Malta is where Maltese come from," he explained.  

The light went on,  although the intellectual respect had been greatly diminshed. 

 In his mind, it was sort of like in 1992 when his sister asked where, exactly, the Star Fleet Academy school was since she had been seeing so many stickers on the back of cars recently. Was it a new college?

So it was with great horror that tonight the husband witnessed another error in judgement as we sat and watched "Antiques Roadshow."

It came in the form of a signature in a book about Indians that dated...well...before any of us had been born.

The signature was that of Chester Arthur, to which the commentator referred to as "President Chester Arthur." Really? We had a president named Chester Arthur? I made a mistake saying this aloud.

"Are you freaking serious," he asked. "You don't know who Chester Arthur is?"

"Well, they just said he was the President, but I don't remember him at all." My husband prattled off some sort of trade agreement fact that only a history major with a photographic memory would remember.

According to Chris' little Iphone,  that he whipped out to demonstrate his coolness, Chester Arthur was the 21st President of the United States. 

 Add that to the list of "Things I Don't Know," I guess.  Such as where Malta is, or that the Cayman Islands are farther west than I had always believed.  

Combine this with the fact that I haven't taken a shower for the past two days, I have gained a considerable amount of weight in the past month or so. Oh, and I'm a bad housekeeper.

I am really quite a catch. Really. Quite a catch.

Certain Things About the South.

We drove through the Publix parking lot earlier this evening.  

As we turned a corner, I noticed an elderly man sitting in the driver's side of  a  Honda Civic.   He was in a corner space, next to the building.

He was in the midst of taking a healthy swig.    

I was like, "Oh, look, is that dude drinking an energy drink at this time of night.  Gads, he'll never get to sleep!"

His head was tipped back, making sure he got every drop in the small container.  I stared.  It was booze!   It was one of those mini-bar sizes of alcohol.   Something clear, probably gin or vodka.

I looked in my rear-view mirror as I passed him.  He opened the driver's side door, stepped out, and walked, stooped, into the Publix liquor store.

I didn't know what to do, really.

Does one call a deputy?  Should one be horrified?  Should one be sympathetic?  Apathetic?

I didn't know.

It reminded me:  I am in the South.

Some other things I have witnessed in the south that I certainly didn't see "up North."

• A man mowing his lawn on riding mower with a Budweiser and no shirt.   A Confederate flag flew proudly from the front of his home.

• Two monster-size trucks parked in a driveway.

• A homeless, and presumably inebriated, man enthusiastically dancing in the shallow waves of the shores of the Atlantic Ocean.

• A dead alligator on the side of the road.  Which we contemplated poking with sticks.  (Who wouldn't?)

• A furry, red ant about the size of my pinky.  It wouldn't die, and I discovered later that it was called a "cow killer."  

• Pirates roaming the streets.  And a "pirate" war in the bay.  (St. Augustine.)  

•  A neighbor taking off the head of a cottonmouth that had been slithering around our yard.  She made sure to ask for bleach to clean up the blood on our front sidewalk.

• These things in our kitchen/family room

And finally, my husband added another decal to his front windshield.  I think we are assimilating well to the South.  

Sunday Funday, Baby Birdies, Acts of Valor

Happy Father's Day!

It was nice and laid back day, y'all.  

Church, then a slow- cooked, pulled-pork lunch with "real" garlic mashed potatoes, gravy and corn.

Yum.

Meg ~  (who had beautiful pigtails this morning )  watched the momma bird feed her  babies in the nest just outside our front door.  

 The kids played outside tonight while Chris washed the Wrangler.

We even let our German Shepherd out.

She kept a serious eye out for the kids, because no one watches those kids like she does.

Last but not least:  The baby birds.

What a terrible place to put  a nest.  

  But... they are cutie patooties, and are clearly visible from inside our house.  So they will be watched.

We had  another nice dinner of chicken enchiladas.  One of my husband's favorites. 

Then we watched "Act of Valor."  

 Although lacking in acting skills, it was a fairly accurate military depiction.

 I suppose one doesn't have to be a good actor to be a good sniper.

All right with me.


Thanks for stopping by the Funcoast.

xoxox

Flashback Friday: Chinese Water Torture and Fine Wine

I thought I would pull some of these old blog posts out of the archives and post them again!  Hope everyone has a stellar weekend.

*********************************************  

Today was a great day.

The culmination of the Chinese water torture phenomena that I call "summer vacation" came to a head this morning. 

My morning was spent slightly hung-over from the "back to school" celebration bottle of Shiraz I shared (I use that term loosely) with my husband last night, and urging my apparently half-deaf children to get dressed, eat and brush their teeth.

The urgings were gentle at first; however as the requests (orders) went unheeded, the urgings morphed into a full-blown freak-out in which   bodily harm was threatened and I practically drop-kicked the  children out the door.

The uber parents walked with their children, hand in hand, to the bus stop and waited with their precious spawn until the bus arrived; my children walked, shell shocked and confused, wondering what exactly just went down with their mother. 

I let out a whoop that probably was heard within a five-mile radius.

More caring parents might have thought longingly of their children a bit during the day, concerned that they were new students in new schools.  One of  them was beginning his first year of high school, even. 

I thought only of what I was going to eat for lunch.   

I believe the problem with the summer was that it was jam-packed full of changes and wackiness for the adults.  The stress from these changes "trickled down" and produced whiny, demanding children.

They were endearing, occasionally.  Generally in slumber.   

I would gaze down on them and feel slightly guilty about the several times that day that my shrieks scared not only them, but our poor little dog, a scrappy Cairn Terrier.  (His name was Sven, and he had begun to skitter away from me quickly whenever I entered the room).

I've always been a bit sensitive to stressful situations .  It might be an gross understatement to say that I don't deal with stress very well. 

My husband loves me despite this character flaw, and has only had to take the  drastic measures when ~for several weeks straight ~ I laid in bed, gazed out the window, and set the the Counting Crows CD on repeat.   

I suppose I could understand his concern.

I think  I have mellowed with age.  Like a fine wine, if you will. Or a Golden Retreiver.

The freak out events occur on a less regular basis these days.  

 I would love to have my children speak of me as my husband speaks of his mother.   "I don't remember my mother ever yelling at us," he says.   

I'm pretty confident that my kids will not say that about me. 

They will most likely say, "I remember that first day of school when we were living in Florida... and her head almost exploded!  It was the weirdest thing. The dog was hiding under the bed and the neighborhood kids were scared to come to the front door."

That will most likely be my legacy. And I think I will be okay with that because my eight year old told my husband he missed his mom today.

I think I probably missed him a little bit, too.