Nobody Knows

Nobody knows that when I was a senior in high school, my brother a sophomore, and our neighbor and mutual best friend a junior, we had some great big parties while my parents were vacationing elsewhere. Yes, I remember high school like a John Hughes film.

Nobody knows that I miss that brotherly friendship with all my little brother's friends who were constantly hanging around our house.

Nobody knows that one summer night at one of those parties, sitting on the shag carpet in front of the tv that was blaring MTV (back when MTV actually played one music video after another), Ken, one of my brother's friends confessed his love for me.

Nobody knows that same night, my resistance to someone younger than me was numbed by the wine we had been drinking.

Nobody knows that we kissed passionately while Modern English sang, "I'll Stop the World and Melt With You", the lyrics and melody magically surrounding us, reflecting our feelings for one another at that moment.

Nobody knows that my heart swelled and skipped a few beats for Ken that night we shared a somewhat innocent kiss. I never told him.

Nobody knows that when I came back from college at Christmas break, I wanted to be of service to my community, so I organized a movie day for some underprivileged kids in my hometown.

Nobody knows that my brother would not go with me to help out.

Nobody knows that Ken volunteered to go with me, without me even asking him.

Nobody knows that when Ken and I walked through the doors into the darkened theater, a string of kids, who had never been in a movie theater in their lives ran in front of us all the way to the very front row. We chose two seats directly behind them so we could keep an eye on all of them at once.

Nobody knows that Ken and I both fell madly in love with the youngest and smallest of the group, a small four year old boy named 'Ocean Man'.

Nobody knows why a mother would name her son, 'Ocean Man'.

Nobody knows that as soon as the lights went out and the huge picture came on the screen along to the booming sound, Ocean Man jumped out of his seat like a shot and ran the entire row, as I stood, panicked, calling to him. He immediately turned into our row and ran by all the empty seats to hoist himself squarely in my lap.

Nobody knows how special I felt at 19 to be chosen by this precious soul, or to be sitting on this row in this dark theater with these two precious souls.

Nobody knows that when I came home from college that summer, merely three months later, I was told that Ocean Man had been hit by a car.

Nobody knows how devastated I felt that Ocean Man was dead.

Nobody knows that I wondered constantly if Ocean Man's family appreciated him and tried to protect him, or were they too busy in their survival to be bothered. Was he left to fend for himself without the protection of a warm lap? Did anyone know how precious Ocean Man was besides Ken and I? Could I have saved him?

Nobody knows that the years passed, and I lost touch with my hometown and everyone in it, even Ken.

Nobody knows that years passed, and we both moved on, fell in love with other precious souls, were married with our own new precious souls to take care of without any word to each other.

Nobody knows that when I heard that Ken had taken his own life, I was devastated. I had no right to be devastated. Ken wasn't a part of my life any more, nor I of his.

Nobody knows that I wondered constantly if his family appreciated him and tried to protect him, or were they too busy in their survival to be bothered. Was he left to fend for himself without the protection of a warm kiss? Did anyone know how precious Ken was? Could I have saved him?

Nobody knows that when I saw Ken's picture, it was a picture of a grown man I did not know.

Nobody knows that when I closely studied his eyes in the picture, I saw the Ken I melted with that night so long ago.

Nobody knows that to this day, when I hear that song by Modern English, my heart swells, and the rhythm of it's beat changes. I am back there in the embrace of a precious soul, stopping the world and melting with him.

Nobody knows how much I miss those two precious souls who each etched their initials in my heart so deeply with such brief encounters.

Queen of Sheba Cake

I read about this cake that inspired Julia Child. It may be the first cake she

tasted in France. I was dying to try it.

The Christmas season finally gave me an excuse. It is the perfect occasion, right?

I invited some friends over for dinner on Christmas Eve eve.

I made a simple fish stew, and that was nice with the cheddar biscuits and a salad.

It was all really an excuse for me to finally take on the 'Queen'.

Of course, you know it was a disappointment.

How could I have worked myself up like that and not experience a let down?

The cake is good. It really is.

However, what cake can live up to mythic standards?

The icing was a sort of ganache.

It, on the other hand, was mythic and epic, and I'd happily trade

my husband and children for a bowl of it right now!

I Gotta Start Somewhere!

Wow, I really let this blog go.  A couple of blog friends tried to nicely mention all the cobwebs building up in the corners and the dust covering everything, but it took me a while to get over here and clean it up.

So, my last post was ~ 2 months ago.  What have I been doing?

I can account for ~ 3 weeks, which were spent traveling.  Then, there's the packing before the trip and the unpacking after the trip.  There's the time it took to find a place for the dog .  .  .

Okay, okay .  .  .  honestly, I just got out of the habit.  I had planned to do a lot of blogging while we were in Europe, but obviously, that didn't happen.

Since, I have to start somewhere, I'll start by recounting the three weeks I can account for.  

I'll start with the Negresco.  

It's a hotel in Nice.  Let me rephrase that.  It's a sort of .  .  .  a crazy hotel in Nice, France.  My husband had a business event in Nice, and his company chose to put everyone up at the Negresco.  We actually started our trip in Germany.  I love Germany, but the German part of our trip was really short and to the point, 

and I don't have any interesting pictures from that part.  

So, without further ado (my mother's favorite word when I was young and able to cause much ado), if you haven't met, let me introduce you to the Negresco.

It looks beautiful.  It is impressive.  It's outrageously expensive.  Supposedly, celebrities stay here.  There were paparazzi outside taking video, hoping to capture me stepping out on the balcony .  .  .  or someone equally as impressive.  

If I had $700/night to spend on a hotel though, this probably wouldn't be it.  I'm not complaining, I'm just saying.

This is the wall inside the elevator.  Enough said.

This is the wallpaper in the hallway of our hotel room. 

This is the sink in our bathroom.  If you can't tell from the picture, it is glittery, sparkly gold.  The bathtub and the bidet matched the sink.

This is the antique bed in our hotel room.  Notice the canopy that matches the wallpaper from the hallway walking into the room.

This is an original Salvador Dali painting found on the Dali hallway, which was filled with original Dali paintings.

Did I mention that this hotel actually prides itself on being an art museum?

This unclear photo was taken in the Negresco in Salon Versailles (said with a pretentious French accent).  This is a portrait of King Louis IVX by his original portrait painter.  There are three of these authentic paintings in existence.  One is located in the Palace Versailles.  The second is located in the Louvre, and the third is here in the Negresco.  This room is complete with Louis IVX furniture placed the way it was placed at Versailles.  We know because we tried to move a chair and got yelled at by the Negresco's proprieter.

This is a massive and gorgeous chandelier in one of the main salons.  

The roof was designed by Eiffel.  Yes, that Eiffel. 

Is the Negresco unapologetically pretentious? Yes.  Is it ostentatious?  Yes.  

Is it a mix of art from the 17th century through to the 21st?  Absolutely.

Is it lovely and tastefully decorated?  Not so sure.

The absolute best part of the Negresco you see in the top photo.  

The view from our room was awesome.

I will continue recounting the parts of our trip that I feel like recounting 

until I find my 'blog voice' again.  

Thanks for stopping by.  Sorry about the dust - I'll try to be more attentive.

Birthdays - the good, the bad and the . . .

I have to start by saying I am not complaining. Really, I'm not. I am soooo blessed and I do know how blessed I am.

My birthday was on Sunday. Whenever anyone in our family has a birthday, we start the day with breakfast together. It doesn't have to be fancy, but we always set the table to make it feel that way.

This Sunday I knew that my daughter and husband had to leave at noon. They let me know that we would have breakfast together before they left, and they would be home to make me dinner and had invited my mother and friend to join us that evening.

So, Sunday morning we all enjoyed a much needed sleep-in. I was hungry when I woke up, but I didn't get myself anything to eat, because I was waiting for everyone. I was reassured several times that soon they would get breakfast together.

Finally, at 12:05 my daughter and husband apologized profusely that they had let the time slip up and ran out the door. My nine year old son had cut up a peach for himself. I peered into the bowl of mush. It looked like he had pulled apart the ripe, mushy peach with his bare hands, squeezing as he went. He held the bowl out to me and asked, "do you want a piece of my peach?"

Fast forward to the evening when the guilty culprits returned with tails between their legs. They both promptly disappeared to do 'important' stuff. I was worried because I knew people were coming over, and I generally prepare before someone walks in the door.

I couldn't just sit by and watch more crashing and burning. I grabbed some cheese out of the fridge and poured some crackers on a platter just as the doorbell rang. I sent my son to find the scoundrels that were supposed to be making dinner.

They came and sort of pulled it together. There was a lot of talking and joking as we waited and waited for food to be prepared. At every opportunity my daughter disappeared, and we had to call her back to join the festivities. Granted, she's a teenager, but she also LOVEs a party.

When I opened my gifts, there were potted herbs for my herb garden, some great placemats, a Barnes and Noble gift card that will be used before you know it. My son made me a gorgeous bracelet out of purple string and silver beads. My husband gave me the big finale - something I had been really wanting - the Bamboo fun tablet for doing artwork and crazy creative stuff on my computer. My daughter's gift was conspicuously missing. She said she was still working on it.

The next night there was a beautifully wrapped gift on my bed. Within the homemade sparkly paper I discovered an amazing photo album full of our family at different ages. Every page was completely covered with colorful clippings, creative doodads and scrapbooked sayings all straight from my daughter's heart.

It might be my favorite gift - ever. But, next year I want to eat before noon!

Soiled at 10 and 2

Today I was driving around on my normal chauffeur route, squeezing the errands in between.

I drove up to the bank drive thru, and as I sat in my car next to the pneumatic chute waiting for the receipt to come back, I realized my hands felt sticky (no, not like the lady in my WWUD post). 

Upon inspection, I realized my fingers were black. I surveyed the steering wheel and immediately discovered the source of my problem.

Black, sticky splotches of paint were strategically located in the 10 and 2 position on the back of my steering wheel, but now smeared blotchily around the steering wheel and my hands.

*Important background info that I knew* 1. The last time I drove my car I took it to the car wash, which I rarely do, but sooooo enjoy the aftereffects.   2. My husband used my car after I took it to the car wash and had to open our recently painted gate to drive my car through. (you guessed it - I don't have to tell you what color the gate was painted!)

I was pissed (putting it mildly).  The whole momentarily pristine state of my car was sullied.  I lost my 'moment'.  

I started fumbling for wet wipes, trying not to distribute the lovely blackness any more than necessary. Once I got the deposit slip, I slowly pulled into the closest parking space in order to clean up, take a breath and plot revenge on the guilty culprit.

I got it together and moved on.

When I got home, my home phone was ringing. Here's the phone conversation that followed, and this is absolutely true:

"Hello, this is Rena, the manager from the Wachovia branch you visited today."

"Okay" - immediately scrolling through my memory banks - did I leave my card in the machine again?

Rena: The teller who helped you today said that when you left the drive thru, you did not have a smile on your face. We were concerned that you did not receive excellent service.

Me - stunned : Uhhhh, the service was fine. I had other issues within my car.

Rena: So, is there any way we could have improved your service today?

Me, so in shock that I can't come up with anything snappy: No, I don't think so.

Really?!?

Is my bank now concerned about my emotional health? I find this whole phone call hard to swallow. I still haven't figured out the underlying angle. They can't actually be interested in customer service after all these years of not caring.  The economy must be horrible if the bank is actually having to resort to positive customer experience in order to retain clientele.

This personal service is making me uncomfortable.

Story of a Princess

This story is based entirely on actual events that have occurred in the life of my friend, Gem and her boyfriend, Duke.

Gem was born in a small town in Georgia. Gem was always bigger than the life she was born into. She loves to travel and has an appreciation for the finer things in life.

Into Gem's life, Duke sauntered. Duke was born in Nigeria to a prominent family. He is now living in Georgia and in Nigeria, where he maintains three homes.

Life in Nigeria is far different than life in America. Duke is accustomed to such things as having his underwear ironed. He has one person on his staff in one of his homes whose only job is to reset the switch (equivalent to flipping a breaker) whenever the power goes out.

Duke quickly swept Gem off her feet and they were drawn together into a full-swing romance, traveling frequently all over Europe and Africa.

After a year together, they decided to establish Duke's American residence in Gem's home. They officially moved in together, though he still had his three homes in Nigeria and work there kept him in Africa quite often.

During one particular extended stay, Duke walked into their Georgia home from the garage. He was overtly upset as he slammed the door.

He said to Gem, "something's wrong with the light in the garage."

She asked, "is the lightbulb burned out?"

He said, "I don't know. Can you get somebody to fix it?"

Upon further inspection, Gem realized it was simply a matter of changing a light bulb.

Gem said to Duke, "I'm on my way out. You can change the bulb - there are new bulbs in the cabinet, " and she left.

Duke was panicked. Duke had no idea how to change a lightbulb. Duke went to Gem's twelve year-old-niece and asked her how to change the lightbulb.

I dont' think I have to spell out who the actual princess is in this story.

I must admit. My son is afraid of any work. What I'm really saying here is, "I'm afraid my son may also be a princess."

Update on the whole horse debacle . . .

If you didn't read the previous post - this is just a follow-up.  

It was pretty anticlimactic.  

After many calls to Edna where she never answered, I loaded the kids into the car to drive over there with our gardening gloves and grubby jeans.  We knocked on her door to report for duty - still no answer.  I was beginning to worry about her.

We walked back to the barn and peaked into the stalls to see what was in store for us.

Those stalls were unbelievably, spotlessly clean.

So, we left, and I continued to call Edna until she finally returned my call.

This time it was a whole different story.  Her voice was bright and chipper, and she said she felt much better and had no problem now taking care of the horses.

So, it's the thought that counts, right?  I mean, I was willing to help her, and I didn't just hang up the phone originally, pretending that I didn't understand her, like my husband said to do.

So, God, do I still get all the points as if I had actually done the dirty deed of cleaning up behind the majestic creatures that are so much nicer when you don't have to clean up behind them?

I'm not sure though if I actually believe in domesticating animals like this.  Would I get more points for sneaking around at night and letting all the locked up horses run free?

Oh No!

Yesterday I phoned my friend, Lane,  to let her know about the health of a mutual friend.

Lane still lives in a different time period than the rest of us.  She barely uses her cell phone. She barely emails.  I'm sure she has no idea what a blog is.  Her kids are in high school and, of course, techno savvy, but somehow she missed the whole technology bandwagon.  

Anyway, when I called her home phone, her mother-in-law, Edna, answered and told me that Lane was in Costa Rica.  I had forgotten about their family vacay this week.

I was about to hang up the phone when Edna, in a highly distressed tone, said, "Wait!!!"

She then asked if I knew who usually took care of Lane's horses.

I said, "no, why?"

Edna said (very distressed tone): "I can't do it any more.  I'm supposed to take care of them, but I'm 80 years old, and it has really messed up my arthritis.  I'm in so much pain.  I don't know what to do."

Me: "Gulp."  

Now, I'm trying to think of a way out of going over there and cleaning stalls.  What could I possibly say other than I'll be over to help you, poor little old lady?  I barely have time for my own life - now I have to become a farm hand? What the hell is Lane thinking?

I told her to do some research? (well, what would you have said?) and try to find out who helps Lane out.  I guess their cell phones don't work in Costa Rica.

So, I now have to call Edna in the a.m. to see how mad her research skillz are.  

Wish me luck, cause I'm thinking I'll be smelling like horse manure tomorrow evening.

DAMN!!!!  I didn't need extra chores this week!!!!

Haunted

When I went to see a movie the other day, I saw a preview for another movie. Well . . . I sort of watched it through my fingers. It was a scary movie.

This was a preview of a movie about a haunted house. These people buy a used house in Connecticut. The house is possessed by ghosts. There is a teenage boy who is also possessed by the ghost. I don't know what else happened, but it was scary. After this preview I vowed to never go to the state of Connecticut or even the adjacent states.

After watching this preview, I realized that maybe our house is haunted.

Incident #1: I had a 48 ounce bottle of Dr. Bronner's eucalyptus liquid soap in my shower, and it disappeared. It was a 48 ounce bottle, really - it was huge. It just vanished. No one in my house took it. It was not in the trash can. I even thought eucalyptus was some sort of ghost repellent, but perhaps it attracts ghosts, and this started the whole thing.

Incident #2: My son was possessed by the ghost and became obsessed with Mario Kart.

Incident #3: My daughter was possessed by the ghost and became obsessed with Facebook.

Occasionally, our cat is possessed by the ghost and bites whoever happens to be next to him.

My daughter is destined for greatness, or at least a close-up of some sort

I now know that my daughter is destined to be a famous movie star - on the big screen.

How do I know this, since she is only fourteen and not interested in acting?

I know this because we went to the orthodontist today, and he informed me of a procedure that she will be getting in the near future.  

There was no consultation before he told me this today.  There was no question about how far we want to go in order to achieve dental perfection.  There was no mention of the cost of this procedure or weighing our options.

I was told that after the next visit, if the exactly particular spacing has occurred between the specific teeth, then we will make an appointment immediately following that ortho appointment with a dentist.  

Have you ever tried to get an appointment with a dentist immediately for cosmetic reasons?

Once we have successfully performed the phenomenal task and been granted the appointment, we are supposed to come back into the ortho office to have a bracket removed from the offensive tooth.  Then, we are supposed drive over to the cosmetic dentist that will miraculously give us an emergency appointment for the procedure.  Once the cosmetic procedure has been completed to perfection (and I still have no idea how much that procedure will cost), we are supposed to drive back to the orthodontist to have the bracket put back on so that my daughter's destiny can be complete.

She will be ready for the close-ups that her profession will require.  Why else would they have me jump through all these hoops?

I'm not even sure I really believe in braces.  But, since this investment will eventually pay off and replenish our retirement fund through the movie star's earnings, I guess it's all worth it! 

  

In Memoriam

Misha

1994? - March 30, 2009

You were sweetness personified and you will be missed

Apologies in advance for lame post

My life today - 

"Mom, he's breathing on me!"

Overheard from the other room as my son was in his piano lesson:

Piano teacher playing a new piece of music - then loud, fake snoring noises from my son as he pretended to sleep when he was supposed to listen to his new piece of music.  (I'm so proud)

After my daughter's piano lesson -

Mo,ooommmmm, he came into my piano lesson wearing a grim reaper costume!!!!!  Then, he stood next to me and chewed in my ear, while I was in my piano lesson!!!  I pushed him away, but he just came back!!!

Me:  No pushing.

Later at dinner:

Husband: I called your brother today.

Me:  I know, he emailed me.

Husband:  Really, what'd he say?

Me:  Tell your husband to stop calling me.

I fart in your general direction . . .

Disclaimer - If you have never seen a Monty Python movie or if you have no idea what Spamalot is, or if you did not know that Spamalot is a musical version of the movie, Monty Python and the Holy Grail (much of it word for word), then you may want to skip reading this post or skip down to an important issue in italics below.

My mom called me yesterday to ask if I would go with her to see Spamalot.  I enjoyed myself some Monty Python back in the day.  So I said - sure, why not.

I was never one to randomly spew quotes from the Monty Python movies as many of my friends did in high school.  Even though I had seen The Holy Grail and The Life of Brian, I could not figure out what they were talking about when a friend said something like, 

"Go and boil your bottoms, you sons of silly persons!"

So, I would say something ridiculous like, "huh, what are you talking about?"  and then they would act like they had a private club that I would never be cool enough to join or something.

So, anyway, my mom and I went to the show.

This brings me to one big, huge, giant major pet peeve -

Would everyone please rise up with me in protest of one thing - the standing ovation.  

I don't get it.  Regardless of how mediocre a show is nowadays - no matter what - there will be a standing ovation.  If you go to the crappiest hometown rinkydink show, there will be one. I get so frustrated by the whole thing that I try to sit them all out.  It's not easy.  My husband and I just look at each other as everyone starts standing up and both do a big eyeroll instead.  

The true big O was supposed to only be for those rare special moments when you just can't contain the amorous elation bursting through your veins due to a performance, it is an event where your mere mortal body cannot contain the vibrations coursing through your flesh.  The big O is then both spontaneous and unmistakable.

I'm protesting the whole 'fake Big O'.  I am afraid I will lose my grip on the difference between the real thing and all these little fako's if my fellow audience members are constantly faking it!  Come on, people!

I'm not saying Spamalot didn't deserve a Big O.  I'm saying I don't know anymore when it's real and when it's fake.

Stepping off my soapbox and back to the show with my mom.  We really enjoyed it - it was absolutely hilarious, and as we were leaving I mentioned something about how so much of the dialogue came directly from the movie.

Mom: "no, honey - it was originally a musical, then a movie."  

Me: "I don't think so, Mom."

Mom: "It was the musical, Camelot.  You do realize that the Lady of the Lake is NOT Guenevere, and I can't believe they called Merlin, Tim?  Why would they do that?"

Me: "Mom, have you ever seen a Monty Python movie?"

Mom:  "No, I don't think so."

Today's Notes

Notes from today:

Note to high school dude who was late for practice while I happened to be sitting in my car in the parking lot - next time you're late for practice, could you please put your protective cup on before you get out of the car, so we don't have to watch you do it in the parking lot?

Note to my son's martial arts instructor - could you pick a time to end the class and stay within, let's say 15 minutes? Do you have any idea what I could have done with that hour? I am seriously deficient in internet surfing time, now.

Note to mother mentioned in the previous post - could we refrain from discussing personal stuff, such as sleeping habits until further notice? On second thought, could we just refrain from conversing at all until further notice?

Note to daughter - could you just listen to me and do exactly what I say, just for the next, say, 3 or 4 years? How about just 1 year? 1 hour? a few minutes?

Note to son - what did you do to the wii fit personal trainer that the video trainer told you to come back later since he wasn't feeling well?

Note to husband - if you go traipsing around Europe on 'business', and I'm here with our 'real life' and I call you, can you check the attitude?

Note to Teddy, cat - when you curl up next to me, purring, then you lay your head on my leg, and I pet you, immediately feeling the stress of the day melt away, until BAM - out of nowhere - I get nailed. Could you stop with the mean unexpected biting thing - and do you do it because you're mad that you don't have a tail? It isn't my fault. You were born that way. We have to learn to love the bodies we were given, Teddy.

Weird

A few nights ago I had a dream about an acquaintance. I really don't know her that well, but our kids are friends.

I don't remember the dream or anything about it. I know it was about her because I have this sick feeling whenever I think about calling her or even emailing her to arrange our kids getting together.

Remember that feeling you got back in school when the weird kid who sat next to you in chemistry started giving you candy and you struck up a friendship? and everything was fine until you found a note in your locker from that weird kid that asked you to be his boyfriend? Then you didn't know if it was really from him or if his friends were playing a trick on him or if your friends were playing a trick on you? but you got a creepy feeling, anyway, and you didn't know what to do. So you just avoided him and when he offered you candy, you said no thanks, and everything was really weird? You know that feeling?

That's the exact feeling I have about this poor innocent mother of my kid's friend when I have to interract with her.

I feel like she made an incredibly uncomfortable and unreciprocated move on me. I know she didn't.


I'm so weird. I can't communicate with her at all - not by phone or text or email or blog comment - please tell me she doesn't read my blog. I even canceled my kid's playdate with her kid!

I have issues.

Kids raising kids

Okay, okay . . . I might as well own up to it. I'm going to admit it. I know it's true. Deep breath, here we go:

I have no idea what I'm doing as a parent.

There, I said it.

When I first had my little babies, they were so cute and easy to snuggle. It all came so naturally to make sure they had food and sleep and . . . oh to be back there for those sweet times.



Fast forward to today. I have no idea how to handle a teenager or even my 9 year old. I feel like I am a teenager.

When I catch her 'chatting' with her friends on Facebook, and she's supposed to be defining terms for biology, what am I supposed to do? I have no idea.

As I sit here, typing in comments on blogs when I should be getting my husband's shirts out of the washer, so they don't get that sour smell, or wiping the kitchen counters, so the back cover of my book doesn't transpose itself there. I'm doing the same thing. Like mother, like daughter. She learned from the best.

By my senior year in college, I had the 'system' completely mastered. No classes on Fridays, Film Appreciation (watching movies) on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Human Sexuality on Mondays and Wednesdays, etc. It was awesome. Everyone I knew was in awe of my schedule. Isn't that what she's doing? Figuring out the system?

My son is 100% addicted to video games. The rest of his life is just superfluous and all about doing whatever he has to do to get back to his one true love - Mario Cart. He has to eat, sleep, do his school work and unload the silverware from the dishwasher - no problem, because somehow it will all lead to . . . (sound the trumpets, strum the harp) - maybe not today, but eventually - - - - - Mario Cart!!!!!!

What do I do? Give in to the indulgences? Get rid of all screened media in our household? (okay, you can forget that idea - we're all addicted) Restrict the times so I end up spending my life as a policeman? Lay guilt trips on them? Devise complicated charts and hoops to jump through in order to earn their respective addiction?

They actually used to be kind to one another!!!!

I know they're great kids. Really, they are. It's just me that's screwy and messed them up.

French Toast and . . . you don't want to know

Sorry, I'm exhausted because my good friends came to visit this weekend, and we had a little too much fun.

Fun can be exhausting and disgusting!

At one point during the weekend, they shared some photos with me. One of the photos depicted a brown blob on a plate. When I asked what it was, they told me they didn't know.

We were also enjoying a nice brunch of french toast at the time.

As I chewed a particularly eggy bite of the french toast, my friend explained to me that the blob had plunked out of a maple syrup bottle onto a plate.

Hmmmm, that's really weird.

My friend continued to describe the blob. Remember I had an extremely eggy bite in my mouth. She said, "it was exactly like a placenta that just came out of the bottle and onto the plate."



Thank you to all the top entrecard droppers in February!

Lola's Diner
Rocket Scientist
Starcasm
Not Your Ordinary History
Celeb Girlz For Charity
Crotchety Old Man
Stuff and Nonsense
Celebrity Body Gossip
Prague
MakesYouLaugh

At least LOL cats aren't teachers, right?

I was helping my daughter format a biology term paper. I googled 'sample term paper format', so I could remember proper formatting. No, I was not trying to buy a paper for her online. But, I did find many, many sites willing to sell me one!!!

I finally found a website purporting to assist high schoolers in the term paper writing process.

Here is a passage from that website

When time for writing a high school term paper comes, you think that not everything is so good anymore, and you should do a lot of work. Writing a good high school term paper requires some time and your efforts. So, be ready to this.

What??????

In homeschooling my kids, I have come across this issue more often than you would believe.

How can you put yourself out there as an educator or a 'helper', when your grammar sucks? I really don't get it.

I have had two homeschool curriculum companies send me emails with attrocious grammar. I'm not talking about a simple apostrophe ommission or typo - I'm talking serious issues with grammar - like LOL cats bad grammar. Really - that bad.

Creepy and beyond . . .

There is a disturbing incident that I couldn't keep down and continues to bubble up in my memory coffers.

It all started in high school as most of these things do. There was a boy who had a crush on me, Mick. I considered him a good friend, but that was the extent of my interest.

He wanted us to be an 'item'.

The biggest problem with this issue was that all his friends were the only ones I was interested in dating. He had somehow forbidden his friends to date me (you know the ol' bros before hos' thing - not that I am or ever was a, you know, ho).

It was our senior year and all I wanted to do was date. I wanted to date every one of Mick's friend's. Somehow, I did manage to date quite a few of the forbidden friends, you know, on the downlow. (That whole 'bros before hos' thing can easily be gotten around.)

Anyway, I stayed in touch with Mick loosely through college and then we sort of drifted and lost touch.

Fast forward to our 20 year high school reunion. Yeah, I could have fudged and claimed it was my 10 year reunion, but I'm owning it. Anyway, my really good friend from high school called and asked me to come, so I did.

Once at the reunion, I was standing in the midst of all these strangers trying to remember who each of them is, and Mick walks up.

*note: I'm taking the high road here by not commenting on his appearance.

He came up to me and asked me if I still all had the poetry he had written to me in high school!!!??!! I know, creepy, but it gets worse.

I sort of stuttered that I could look in some boxes, but really didn't know what to say and found a way to wander off.

A little while later, Mick's wife approached me and introduced herself. She was sweet and soft spoken. She reminded me of a kindergarten teacher. She told me how highly Mick had spoken of me. This is a bit creepy in itself, as my husband has no idea who Mick is.

Then she dropped the bomb: "He keeps a picture of you in his bedside table!"

WHAT!!!!?!!!!?!!!!!!!!!!?

I haven't spoken to Mick in over 15 years. This is so wrong in so many ways:

1. Creeeeeeeeeeepppyyy!!!!!!!!

2. His wife knew this piece of information and actually told me.

3. Creeeeeeeeeeepppyyy!!!!!!!!

4. Creeeeeeeeeeepppyyy!!!!!!!!

Did I mention I'm having nightmares?

Note: If you didn't read the previous post, this is part 2

I know you've been anxiously waiting on the edge of your seat. Sorry you weren't able to sleep in anxious anticipation of what exactly was my daughter doing in the ladies' room at the ice skating rink.

So, without further ado, I bring you the conclusion to my last post.

Yes, folks. My daughter was running a tattoo parlor out of the restroom.

Okay, no needles were involved, but sharpies are permanent, right?

Her friend was leaving for Florida, so my daughter gave her a multi-colored custom design on her belly.

I can't wait to hear from the mothers of the tattooed victims.