I don't know nothing 'bout nothin.

DD was in the kitchen today, making fried rice. Turns to me and says "I don't think you can help with this, cause you are married and all, but how do you know when a boy likes you?"

Talk about makin' the mom feel old! I pointed out to her that though I've been married almost twenty years, I didn't live under a rock, I didn't have a crystal ball, and obviously I did figure out that her father liked me, or we wouldn't be having that little talk right then.

"Yeah, but he came up and asked you to dance. And he proposed like a million times. It was kinda obvious, otherwise he wouldn't have come up and talked to you." True dat. But she's no dummy, and she knows that her crush likes her, too. It's one of those "let's dance around each other and not admit it" things.

Maybe she needs to get this cute little puff sleeve 80s sweater from mademoiselle*vintage, on ebay. It's almost exactly like the pink one I had on the night the old guy asked me to dance. Crystal ball not included.

Floats like a butterfly, STING like a bee

Everyone has someone that they admire from afar. For hubby, it's Elle McPherson. My mother loves Cary Grant. Me? I love Sting. Not that horrid wrestling guy -- the original hottie Sting.

I've loved him since his days with The Police, with his wild 80s blond hair. Loved watching him descend the steps whilst entering a solo concert in Tampa, back in the days BC (before children). I think I may have even yelled "I'll have your baby" to him whilst at a concert at Verizon, here in Indianapolis.

Yeah, I love the guy. But what's not to love? He's intelligent, well read, articulate, talented, and he has an accent. Prolly has an ego bigger than my house, but hey, I'd just like to prop him up in the corner and stare at him.

Yep, I love him. Kinda put him on the back burner, till The Police opened the Grammys. Sting has been doing his workouts, and looked downright HOT. And hey, if you ever read his interview about Tantric yoga well, let's just say, a woman could really appreciate a guy like him.

Hubby knows that, should Sting ever knock on our front door, that hubby would be shoved out the back door so fast his head would spin. And he's cool with that -- probably because he knows that Sting isn't about to leave his castle in England, just to come here to Irvington. His loss.

And so, in honor of My Man Sting, here's a cute yellow and black rockabilly dress, coming to you from Bebopdiva Vintage, a seller with some seriously cute stuff, on ebay.

Daddy got his gun

Nurses deal with all types, and if you're a good nurse, you just kind of roll with it. Of course, the real loonies always bonded with me, so I've definitely had to learn to roll with it. But it's all good, cause it takes all kinds to make a world, and the loons keep it interesting.

If you've ever been in the hospital, you know that, upon admission, you will asked eleventy-thousand questions: height, weight (everybody lies), medical history, etc. I can't stress how important this information is. I also can't express how the nurse never, ever knows how people are going to answer the questions.

I had a patient once who was being admitted to ICU. He was beaten up, but very coherent. Actually, beaten up would be the wrong verbage. He actually HAD beaten up a vintage 60s VW Bug. Yep -- the man totalled a car with his bare hands. Turns out he was a Vietnam vet and thought that the VW was the Viet Kong. The car was ok the first time it went by him, but the second time, he leapt out in front of it--getting hit in the process--and proceeded to beat the crap outta this poor defenseless little car. I can't even imagine with the driver must've been thinking, sitting there whilst a bloody man beating the crap outta his car, but 911 was called and he landed in ICU with multiple trauma. Heck, I'm not even sure which one hurt him more, getting hit BY the car, or hitting the car himself.

So here I am, doing his admission, and asking his questions. This guy was a good ole boy with a hillbilly accent to prove it. So I ask him "have you ever been in the hospital before?" His response: "only when my daddy shot me."

"He shot you?" "Yep," he says. "I was havin' one of them there flashbacks, and I guess I was kinda outta control. Daddy had to call the police, and they was tryin' to handcuff me. Well, I guess I was resisting arrest, and my daddy said 'son, you better calm down for them there police. Well, I kept a-fightin' them, so my daddy went and got his gun and shot me in the leg."

"Calmed me right down."

Guess that'd calm ME down too. So now this guy can go to his earthly reward knowing that his only two hospital stays were when his daddy shot him, and when he totalled a defenseless little car with his bare hands. Wonder what St. Peter will say about that one.

And so, in honor of my flashbacking hillbilly friend, here's the cutest pair of vintage repro 40s Hillbilly overalls, perfect for my friend's girlfriend Ellie May, coming to you from buddhaboogie on ebay. Just don't wear 'em when you're drivin' your Bug, or you might get more than you asked for.

Death Wish II

Well, it happened today. The dd got her driver's permit. God help us all, I just got my nerves back from the ds's driving experiences, and now we're at it again. Pray for me, will you?

She really wasn't too interested in driving at all. Actually, she really wanted us to all revert to using horses, as she saw no reason for a car. No reason, that is, till the guy she likes got HIS license, and now she's decided that she will look "cooler" to him if she's driving too. Oh brother.

At least she is anxious to drive. The ds16 went into driving kicking and screaming. He'd still be up in his room playing World of Warcraft, had we not made him take Driver's Ed. Driver's Ed was an awful experience with an idiotic driving school -- especially for a kid who, every time he got behind the wheel had the disclaimer "ok, I'll drive..........if you want to die." Gee, that really built the mother's confidence.

It got to the point that I had to MAKE him drive. A couple of times, I would come out and get in the passenger's side for the trip home from an outing. He would stand there and insist he wasn't going to drive. I would reply that he was driving, or walking.

The first time I told him that, he walked. I couldn't believe it. Mind you, it was only maybe a twenty minute walk on a good day, but this kid never walks anywhere. Called hubby with one of those "you are not gonna believe what your child is doing" calls, and he couldn't believe it either. The next time I told him that, he was considerably further from home, and I guess he didn't want to spend two hours walking, cause he finally got behind the wheel.

Now he loves driving, and has his own little rust bucket to prove it. DDs biggest concern is that her photo on her permit isn't flattering (welcome to my world), and that she's gonna have to drive a "soccer mom" mini van. I insisted that if I were ever to be called a soccer mom, the entire group would disown then name, but she still insists that it is a) uncool to drive a minivan and b) totally uncool to drive the pimp-mobile Towncar from 1990.

Guess she's gonna have to come up with a hitchin' post for the horse, and get to trottin'.

So, pray for me, as I deal with the student driver. And, if I should die before she brakes, please, please, please, bury me in this
To Die For Black Dress, coming to you from lucitebox, on ebay. It's definitely not what a soccer mom would wear.

The Bush Club

I love flowers. I told my hubby that I know heaven has flowers, and if I wake up after I'm dead and there are no flowers, I'll know I ended up in the wrong place.

The first few years in our house, I went wild with the flowers. Planted dozens of bulbs and tons of annuals. But we had this forsythia bush that simply would NOT bloom. It's been there forever, and it's huge -- over six feet tall, I'd bet, and spreads way out, but it just wouldn't flower. But that didn't matter to the kids, cause they turned it into The Bush Club.

The inside of the plant was curved into a C shape, so there was enough room for them to climb in and sit down, and no one could really see them. They loved it, cause it was their private little place. They'd get in there and have "meetings". Drag toys in there, eat lunch, and just have fun. At one point, ds and his friends p*ssed off dd when they put a "Boys Only" sign outside it, a la Little Rascals "He Man Woman Haters Club." They played in that crazy bush forever - or at least till they wouldn't fit anymore. Looking at it now, I can't believe they ever fit, cause it is not a very big place in there, but they practically lived there in the warmer months.

One day, we were at the doctor's, and when we were checking out, the kids were talking about playing in The Bush Club when they got home. The girl across the counter asked if we lived on a certain street -- and I told her yes. Turns out she was a good friend of our next door neighbor, who had told her all about The Bush Club. It had gained a certain fame, I guess.

I did eventually figure out how to get that forsythia to bloom, although Indiana weather sometimes kills it midbloom. Nonetheless, that bush will be there forever, and some day those kids will show it to their kids, and maybe there will be meetings again.

And so, in honor of The Bush Club, here's a cute vintage style dress with an African violet print, offered to you from Macqueen*Bee Boutique on ebay. Yeah, I don't usually feature non-vintage, but this is such a cute vintage style AND it's Betsy Johnson, that I couldn't resist. Plus, I have an African violet on my kitchen counter that hasn't bloomed in at least five years, so it's a motivational issue. Enjoy!

Dude, where's my cat?

We've had a lot of pets at our house. We've had a dog named, of course, Denver, whose sole mission in life seemed to be to run that far. A cat named Chelsea who ran the place for 19 years. A gecko named Yoshi that lasted till I left the kids with a babysitter for the first time, then made his escape to parts unknown.

We currently have two dogs, two cats, a guinea pig, and a horse. The horse is not housed here, but dd stables him at a barn 15 minutes away.

DD's first cat's name was Dash. Dash was pretty. Longhaired and gray, she liked to hang out and see what people were up to. She used to come in and turn on the printer when I was typing. She was the cutest thing.

Then one night I was at work, and at about midnight ds, then about 10, called me. Lots of uh, um, ahhhhs, and Mom had had it: "Thomas, what do you want?" Immediate response from the kid: "The cat's dead." What? I figured he was talking about Chelsea, who was at least 16 at the time, but no, it was Dash.

Well, I was working all night, so I told ds to go wake up his father. No way. No way I could convince that kid to wake him up, "cause he gets mean." It was years later when I realized what he was talking about, but he's right -- that dude wakes up very grumpy. I don't remember how it ended that night, but the next day, when I was trying to sleep before working nights again, ds and his buddy come bursting into my room.

Babbling on at the same time, till I couldn't make any of it out -- and these were two boys who never talked. Here was their version of what had happened to the cat -- who was less than a year old at the time, I might add:

"We were downstairs playing video games. In the basement. There was this weird noise, and I said Dude, what was that? It sounded like a duck. And he said Dude, I don't know what it was, so we started playing again. Then we heard that noise again and I said Dude, what was that and he said I don't know. So I decided Dude, I'm goin' to bed, so I go upstairs." Then the buddy chimes in, "so he goes upstairs to go to bed, and I decided that it was creepy playing video games with that duck noise, so I decided to go to bed. I went to pull out the couch bed, and I couldn't pull it up. When I looked down into it to see why it was stuck, Dude, there was the cat. And so I go upstairs and try to wake him up and he won't wake up and I say Dude the cat's dead. And he says WTH and I said DUDE the cat is dead. And he says leave me alone I'm tryin' to sleep so I yell DUDE THE CAT IS DEAD. And we went down there and she was. Dude, it was so creepy, but I think that duck noise was the cat, cause she got stuck inside the couch, and I think she hung herself cause Dude, she was dead."

So, I say "Dude, where is the cat now, and does your sister know?" And they say, "Oh man, that wasn't good. But they are burying her in the back yard now. Dad bought a cooler to put her in, and they are having a funeral."

I don't think those boys ever tried to sleep in the basement again, cause Dude, they still talk about that duck noise that was actually the cat dying. "And Dude, that was so creepy." Oye.

So, may Dash rest in peace. We went out to the Humane Society three days later and got Izzie, who now rules the roost with a wave of her calico tale. Not long afterward, we got Bandit, who is so cute, but dumb as a rock, God love him. He even sleeps with ds, now 17, every night.

And so, in memory of Dash and her not so ducky end, here's a cute Enid Collins Turtle Purse, from North Mountian (sic) Vintage, on ebay. Cause a turtle is one of the few animals that we've never had here, though ds12 wants one. Cause Dude, turtles are cool. And they don't make noises.

The black holiday

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. We don't do anything for Valentine's Day here -- it's always been my train of thought that if you show someone you love them 364 days of the year, then one other day really doesn't make a difference. So we stay home and watch TV.

But I have a friend who calls it The Black Holiday. The first time I heard her say something about The Black Holiday, I gasped, because I thought she was making some sort of disparaging remark about MLK Day. She was appalled, and said "no way, I'm talking about Valentine's Day." Why in the world is it The Black Holiday, I ask.

Here's her theory. This is the theory of a 30+ yo single woman. "When Valentine's Day comes around, either I'm not dating anyone and don't get a gift, or I'm dating someone and I get a sucky gift. So it's The Black Holiday."

I just rolled when she told me that. I'm sure there is a lot of truth to that, to a single woman with big hopes. But for us married folk, I guess it really doesn't matter, cause it's not really even a holiday at all.

Ghosts in my machine

The Grammys are on tomorrow night, and be still my heart, The Police are going to perform. First time in several years, and then only once, at their Rock & Roll Hall of Fame Induction. WOOT!

The Police are firmly ingrained in hubby's and my relationship. Synchronicity was THE album the year before we met, and he still talks way too fondly of the Synchronicity tour concert he attended with another female -- not me -- who made a wonderful banner that said something about Sting-chronicity. It got stolen after they hung it from the railing, and he's still unhappy about it.

He used to call me when he lived in South Bend, and sing me his own rendition of "So Lonely." Still does sing it to me, if we're apart for a few days. It's a "only the wife could love it" song. We never got to see them perform live together, though we have seen Sting perform three times, and hubby is quite aware that, should Sting ever knock on our front door, that would be the last I'd ever see of the hub. But then again, that will never happen, so he's not scared.

And as for the police, we've also mentioned to the kids that, should they make it to the age of 20 without us ever hearing from a law enforcement officer, they will get 1000 bucks. DS17 and DD16 have hope of seeing it. We're saving up ds12's grand for bail money.

Victoria's not so secret

Oprah asks everyone if they are wearing the right bra. Spent an hour trying to explain how to figure out if you have the right bra on. Oye. Can't have the uni-boob from the athletic bras, can't have overflow, gotta have the RIGHT one.

I had the right size on when Oprah was talking about it -- I'd been to Victoria's Secret and been measured, only to be told that they didn't sell my size in the stores anymore. Talk about insulting -- they had just discontinued that particular size the WEEK before. And they don't make pretty bras for curvy women either. Bras for curvy women are built like a piece of heavy artillery.

Kinda goes back to that "only gonna get jiggy with it till I'm 50." I guess they think women only get jiggy with it till they are 38s. ::sigh:: Of course, my friend has the opposite complaint -- she swears that when she goes for her mammogram that they have to track down a pediatric plate to do it on.

Gettin' jiggy with it, from the halls of Montezuma

"This is not a prank call." Let me tell you: when the call starts like that, you know it's gonna be a sex call. And when you start with a sex call at 3pm, it usually means that the whole shift is gonna go like that.

So, said person informs me that he and his wife had had a wonderful time the night before. "Got a little rough," says he. Yep, I get paid to listen to this. And then he informs me that "now it's bent, and it won't go down." Okey dokey. "Not bent like an L, but it's bent. And my friend said I probably broke it. But you can't break it, can you, cause it's all just cartilage down there, right?"

Um, WRONG. Not even cartilage honey, just good blood flow, God willing.

"Ma'am it's not from Viagra or anything, cause I don't need that stuff." Thanks for sharing, dude. So I inform him, ya gotta get to the ER, cause that can cause permanent damage. "Ma'am, I'll do that for sure, cause I don't need permanent damage. I'm only 25, and I'm gonna get jiggy with it till I'm 50."

Thanks, dude. You give me no hope for the future, if you only get jiggy till you're 50. I'm still thinkin' about that one.

What Mom Ought to Wear

I'm a very casual dresser. Jeans and sweatshirts, sweaters in winter, dresses in summer, cause they are more comfortable. I'm usually barefoot, as long as it's warm enough. DD says all the time that she's turning me in to What Not to Wear. I probably deserve it.

But I do dress up occasionally, and doesn't it feel great? There's nothing like a pair of heels and a cool dress to make one feel like a lady. On our first cruise, I had a great, black strapless 80s does 50s dress. LOVED that dress! Hubby's favorite outfit for me was a pink acetate jumpsuit that I wore out, I think. He really loved me in that outfit.

::makes note to start working out, to get ready for cruise to Alaska in September::

Hubby wears a tux VERY well. He bought one before our Panama Canal cruise and baby, does he look hot in it. Of course, that cruise was over New Year's and New Year's Eve was formal night. He dressed up in his tux, but after dinner, changed pants and put on his swim trunks -- with his tux shirt, jacket and tie. Added his sunglasses and a party hat, and he was quite a sight. We got pictures of him like that, too. Oye.

Finally, a halftime show worth watching!

The last few Superbowl halftime shows have seriously stunk. I don't want to see Kid Rock, In Stink, or Britney at halftime. Heck, I don't want to see them any time. I have more self respect than that.

But this year, it's The Artist Formerly Known as The Artist Formerly Known as Prince. I can't wait. Archived posts tell one reason why I have a special place in my heart for Raspberry Beret, but Prince has some seriously rockin' music, with or without the guy in the red G string. Friends and I used to sit poolside and sing Purple Rain all summer, lamenting Tipper Gore's attempts to take away our fun. Hubby and I danced to that album during one of our early dates at South Bend's Ramada Inn -- then went out in the hall for some air where a complete stranger came up and told me how he liked to watch us dance. Crazy stuff, those days.

I'm sure that at some point, the hub has split at least one pair of pants to a Prince song. My kids have heard Prince, and I've even offered to buy the tickets if ds17s friend will just go see him with me sometime, cause he loves him too. Prince seriously rocks. My boss loves him like me. Has a picture of him in her office. She went to see him the last time he was here in town, whilst I worked. She told me later that he mentioned, near the end of the concert, that he was going to some bar on the north side after the show, and invited the crowd. She went home and went to bed.

Prince went to the bar and played for another hour and a half.

She can bake a cherry pie

My parents have a wonderful tape (reel to reel, no less) of my siblings, done at Christmas time, well before my birth. I am the infant of our family -- the tiny baby -- and was just a twinkle in my daddy's eye when the tape was done.

Come to think of it, I was probably more of a thorn in his side, because I was the fifth child, but oh well, that's what they get for saving the best till the last.

Anyway, said tape is really funny. The first three kids (I think my older brother wasn't verbal yet, as he was only a few weeks old) are conversing and singing. The middle sister proclaims, when asked what she wants for Christmas "a potty chair," with much enthusiasm. Wonder how that was, going down the chimney.

The other thing on the tape is some really cute singing. At one point, they are singing their version of "Oh where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy," and it is just too precious. Hitting the last note of "Can she back a cherry PIE" is almost out of their range, but the ensuing cracks in the tone are what makes it so sweet.

And prophetic. We had neighbors when I was a kid who had a cherry tree. Their last name was Hitchcock, and if I'd thought about it, it might have creeped me out, as this was when Alfred Hitchcock was in full swing. Nonetheless, I have memories of going out and picking cherries right off that tree. How yummy is that?

Well, my darling eldest sister decided that it was her calling in life to back a wonderful pie from the fruit of that tree. Might've been a cobbler, but in either event, we couldn't wait. There is just nothing like a cherry pie on a nice summer day -- and my sister was, and still is, a good cook. So we waited for that pie to get done, as it was a rare treat for us.

We tore into that pie like the golden ticket was buried into it. Couldn't get enough -- till the first bite, when we realized that she had forgotten the primary rule of cooking with cherries. It's the pits. Yep -- she forgot to de-pit the cherries, so eating that pie was a potential new car for our dentist, had each of us broken a tooth on those silly seeds.

And so, in answer to the eternal question, yep, she CAN bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy. It just might be a little hard going down.