BBs and the blues

I got a call the other night at work. 20 year old kid who says "yeah, I got a bb in my leg, and I can't get it out, so I was wondering, should I go to the doctor?" Turns out the BB is imbedded in his leg, so I say to him "Ya know, I just gotta ask the obvious question here. How did that BB get there?" Well, he must've had me on speaker phone, cause there was a LOT of laughter from the other end of the line. When he finally quit laughing, he said "well, I told my friend to shoot me with it, so he did." Well geez, why didn't I think of that?

I didn't ask how much beer was involved.

Just for the record yes, if you get shot with a BB gun and the BB sticks in you, you do have to go to the doctor. Like my dh who, to this day, if you ask him if he's ever had surgery, will tell you "only when my brother shot me." And if the brother and he are in the same room, an argument will erupt over whose fault it was.

I'm not sure how old he was, but I think he too was about 20 -- must be the age of no reason. Anyway, he and his brother got into an argument over the brother's bike -- I still don't really know what started it, but at some point and for some reason, dh tossed the bike on the ground. This made his brother mad (when I met dh, I think everyone in the family had a dent in their car from his brother kicking it -- he had a bit of a temper). He decided to get the BB gun, aimed, and shot at the dh as he pushed the screen door open. Brother says he was aiming at his head, but he hit hubby's middle finger instead (fair warning: don't ask him to show you the scar).

When the blood started spewing, the brother realized his fate if he stayed, so he took off running to the neighbor's. When dh showed up with blood dripping down his arm, the neighbor told him to go home or she'd call the police. And I believe that he got grounded when his parents got home -- but before he got to the ER. Go figure.

Those two still argue the facts of that case but the truth is, hubby had to have general anesthesia to get the darn thing out, and the finger still aches in certain weather. And he still claims, on certain days, that his brother is a pain in the butt. But never when he's holding a weapon.

And so, thinking of tiny little round things made me think of polka dots, so I found the cutest little polka dot ruffled swimsuit, from USMC Mars. Not sure why she didn't model this one, cause she's so darned cute, but here you are. Enjoy!

The 12 Step Program for Arachnophobia

I hate creepy crawly things. I camp, but I don't like anything crawling next to me when I do. So, when we had an influx of wolf spiders at the house a year or two ago, I wasn't too happy.

I was lying in bed one night when one of those suckers crawled right up on my chest and saluted whilst I was reading my book. The shriek that emanated from my mouth was probably like none other, but suffice it to say, that spider knew that it was not welcome in my house. The whole neighborhood probably knew that it wasn't welcome in my house.

DS17 doesn't like them either. The three kids were in his room one day, just doing kid stuff. DD and DS12 came running out -- dd laughing at her brother, of course. DS said there was a spider in there, and he wasn't going back in. DD, who fears no living creature, sat laughing at the wimpy boy, when suddenly ds17 came shooting outta there like a bat outta hell. Came to an abrupt stop in front of me with that "try to be cool" look. When I asked what the problem was, he blurted out something about "thebiggestdamnspiderI'veeverseeninmylife." DD really started laughing then, but ds17 claimed that he really just wanted to watch TV.

That boy hasn't watched TV since 1993, when he would sing "gogo Power Rangers."

So I went in there looking for it. Tore that room apart and yep, he was right. Biggest damn spider I've ever seen in MY life. And of course, when I tried to whack it, what happened? It ran right into MY room. Under my bed.

Well, you know, I wasn't gonna sleep, knowing that spider was under there. So dd said she'd take care of it. Said "I'll scare it out and you whack it." So she did, and I didn't. When I took one look at that huge thing running full tilt at me, I ran screaming out of the room and fell smack on my face in the hall.

DD just sighed. "OK," she says, "this time, I'm gonna get it out from under that dresser right there, and this time, instead of running screaming out of the room, you are going to kill it. WRONG. No way I was gonna get that done.

So the bratty gurl just laughed at her mother, scared that nasty booger out from under my dresser and sent it to its eternal reward, from underneath my slipper. I think I threw the slippers away.

The spiders continued till I finally read somewhere that you get rid of them with citrusy smelling stuff. I sprayed with Orange Pledge, lit orange candles, and burned lemon potpourri. Didn't see one the rest of the season. Hopefully, I won't see them again this year, but if I do, I'll just send dd after them. If she can stop laughing.

And so, in honor of AA (Arachnophobiacs Anonymous), here's a great Salvador Dali tie, from Dorothea's Closet, on ebay. It features a spider motif. Citrus aroma not included.

I can dance if I want to

I wanted to be a nurse, from a very young age. I did go through a short phase, at the age of 5 or so, of wanting to be either an opera singer or a ballet dancer. I would probably be en pointe right now, if it weren't for my evil siblings.

They told me that I was too pigeon toed.


They, the ones who would play cowboys and Indians with me, then go into the house, leaving me tied to a tree, ruined my aspiration to participate in the arts. My sister even admitted to the tree incident over the Christmas holidays. And I believe that they even have my hubby in on it now, because he talks about my duck walk.

My oldest walks just like me, turning one leg in markedly when he strolls. It's our trademark walk, and I feel quite certain that I could've turned it into one heck of a plie, given the chance. But those siblings of mine -- the ones who wouldn't allow me to watch "Dark Shadows" with them, after an ill planned attempt to watch it after school one day -- they ruined my career, before it took off.

Hubby has a strange, bow legged walk, exactly like his papa and his older brother. And he is one heck of a dancer, too. Grew up being called Disco Dan, as a matter of fact. Did his siblings stomp on that? No.

Do I have issues? Yes.

And so, to prove to my darling siblings the worth of being pigeon toed, here's a 60s Space Age Futurist top from LeRobo Vintage. It's proof positive that a pigeon toed girl CAN make it into Mensa, even if she isn't allowed to dance. And if you can't figure out the Mensa reference, well, belly up to the barre and maybe I'll explain it to you.

Fly the friendly skies

Sitting at the airport with the dd the other day, I was remarking about how people used to get dressed up to fly. I remember, even shortly after college, that I went out and bought a new white suit, just to fly to California in. Our casual culture now even extends into the air, because half the people getting off the plane were in jeans, and the other half were in shorts and spaghetti strap shirts -- and it was NOT warm in Indiana at the time.

I don't care for flying, no matter what I'm wearing. I'm a white knuckle flyer and, after our last flight to Seattle, I discovered the miracle of Xanax. When we flew to Vegas last summer for Ebay Live, I got a couple of Xanax, per my (nurse) friend's recommendation. Worked great. As she said, it won't knock you out, it'll just make you not care that you're 30,000 feet up in the air. That's my kinda flying.

Flying with my hubby is an adventure -- maybe that's why I don't like to fly. On our honeymoon flight to Paris, we were trying to figure out how we would get to our hotel from the airport. Hubby, of course, wandered off, only to come back and say that he'd found us a ride. What? "See that guy up there? He's a student at Emory, but he's from Paris. He's gonna give us a ride to the Metro station, and show us how to use it." No way, Jose -- I was sure that guy was a terrorist. But when we got to Paris, there we were in that guy's little VW Rabbit. Turned out he was really nice, and showed us exactly how we could navigate the Metro.

Last year, when hubby came home from the mission trip, he decided to see what first class was like. Plunked himself down in an empty seat, and flew halfway home before the flight attendant asked to see his ticket. "Oh, I'm not supposed to be up here," he said, "I just thought I'd try it out." The guy's lucky they didn't send the air marshall up after him, but he went back to his seat.

Yep, you never know what's gonna happen when you're with the big guy, but he's not afraid to try just about anything, and that's to his credit. He's something special in the air.

And so, for your viewing pleasure, here's a cute little Lilli Ann stewardess dress and matching coat, listed by Club Royal Vintage.

Sugar Booger

My first job was at the public library. Well, I guess it was my first job, if you forget about that ill-planned week at KFC, where I almost sliced off the end of my finger. Yep, that was the end of my KFC career, and off to the library I went.

For a whopping $2 an hour. I'm not sure how they were able to get away without paying minimum wage (which was about $3.35 or so at the time, I think), but they did. Probably because it was so boring, reading shelves. Reading shelves means that you look at the books on the shelf, to see if they are out of order. And if they ARE out of order, you put them IN order.

Yep, exciting stuff, that library work.

Actually, I loved that job, cause I learned a lot, plus, I love to read, so it was like heaven for me. And I worked with a great group of people: My biology teacher's wife Sue, who taught me that teacher's are real people, outside of school. Emmy, the children's librarian, who evaluated the new head librarian's wife (sensible shoes=boring), and our head librarian, whose name was Bruce. He wore little gold spectacles, and looked very bookish.

And then there was Sugar Booger.

Sugar Booger was Ethel, an enormously tall woman who pointed breasts who seemed to know everyone in our little town. She didn't have a Master's in Library Science, but she worked hard and had a good heart. And her husband loved her.

One day, I answered the phone and heard a deep voice at the other end of the phone that said "sugarboogerthere." What in the world? "Excuse me?" said the sweet little preacher's kid/library employee. "Sugarboogerthere." I had no clue. Looking blankly Sue, I just handed her the phone. Didn't even answer it and said to me "is he looking for Sugar Booger?" I just nodded.

"Oh," says she, "that's Ethel. I have no idea why, but he calls her Sugar Booger." And that he did. And I wanted to know why, but when I met him in person, he was a stout pig farmer, half Sugar Booger's height, who obviously adored his woman, so I never found out where the name came from. It's going to have to be one of those mysteries of life, I guess.

And so, in honor of Sugar Booger the librarian, here's a
Sage Green Embroidered 50s outfit, offered by andvintage, on ebay. Pig farmer not included.

Disease, pestilence, and all that rots

I sit here typing this, watching SNL to the sound of two of my children's hacking coughs. In harmony. With me joining in on the chorus. Yep, our house is diseased.

I hate being sick. I took last weekend off so that I could be home when hubby got back from Mexico -- in case he brought a souvenir of Montezuma with him. He came home healthy and the next day, I got sick. Went down like a rock. Fever, chills, coughing -- man, I was SICK.

Went to Immediate Care and lied enough about my symptoms to get what I wanted -- antibiotics in case it WASN'T viral, so I could get to work this weekend. Yeah, never have a triage nurse as an Immediate Care patient -- we definitely know what to say in order to get the goods, but I got what I wanted and I don't feel bad about embellishing a little bit. Went home, went to bed and died. Next morning, I woke up realizing that the back of my head was sore from laying in the same position so long.

Realized it, then rolled over and went back to sleep for two more hours. That was the best sleep ever, next to a coma. Man oh man, I was in bed half the week, but I feel better now.

Of course, now two of the brats have it. DS can't be too sick -- he's hacking and coughing, but he's fine -- he's still playing City of Heroes, and hasn't missed a beat. Rule #1: the kid's not sick till he's not on the computer.

DD is hacking and coughing, and still has a temp. Stuffy and just a mess. She didn't go to the barn yesterday, so yeah, SHE's sick. Rule #2: the kid must be sick if she doesn't want to play in the dirt.

DH swears he won't get it. Thumping his chest, he declares that "you wouldn't have gotten it either, but you don't eat as well as I do/take your vitamins every day/have an active job/moisturize every day." Ok, the last one, I made up, but you get my drift. Rule #3: we will ALL laugh at the hubby when he gets sick.

Then we will leave the house because, as dd says, he is the world's worst sick person. Awful. So yeah, vengeance is mine, if he gets sick, and then I'm out the door.

And so here, in honor of disease, pestilence, and all the ills us, is a 40s rhinestone studded dress, from Vintage Devotion, on ebay. She's got some seriously beautiful stuff, but this one is a perfect depiction of my week. The rhinestones are done in the motif of the little viral particles floating around my house right now. The studded part makes me think of the dh. The chocolate brown makes me think of his choc-aholism. And black is the color of the flag that'll be hanging in front on my house if he gets sick, cause he's always sure he's gonna die with the first sniffle. And the Miss Mrs tag is for the dd and myself -- who will be driving madly away from the house as fast as we can, before his first Kleenex hits the trashcan.

The (Almond) Joy of my life

I love ice cream. I love to go to Dairy Queen and get Tropical Blizzards, or a chocolate dipped cone. Ice cream is a pure, unadulterated pleasure of mine.

When we lived in Florida, the dh and I used to go eat at Larry's Ice Cream. It was a chain of ice cream stores that started in Ohio -- I have no idea if the place is around anymore, but man oh man, did we love to go there. Sometimes we went every day. It was that good.

We've never found anywhere like it since, either. Cause they served the best ice cream ever -- Almond Joy. It was just like the candy bar, which is my favorite too. Even after we moved back up north, we had to go visit Larry's whenever we went on vacation to Florida. We used to try to figure out ways to get Larry's home with us. We were told dry ice would do the trick, but we weren't sure we could get it on the plane. We bought our firstborn a Larry's shirt, which we still have.

Getting hungry for ice cream now..............

So, when I saw this fantastic double dip Swirl Dress from one of my favorite sellers, marie92001, on ebay. No dry ice needed.

Shock of the Irish

My grandparents had 18 kids. Yep, count 'em -- nine boys, nine girls. Crazy people, those grandparents 'o mine, but I'm told Grandpa thought that Grandma was put on earth to have babies. And have babies, she did. Eighteen. Blows my mind.

Of his siblings, he's the only one to have children, too. So his parents had six kids, and 18 grandchildren. All from the youngest child. Crazy. And my dad only had one brother. Imagine the shock when he met Mom's family the first time. He actually said he thought it was great, but I can't fathom it -- they had to eat in two shifts cause they couldn't fit 'em all at the table at once. You'd think you'd have had to pick him up off the floor, but he swears he thought it was great.

Eighteen kids. I have three, and I am bonkers half the time but eighteen? Two of the boys have the same middle name. When I asked Mom how that happened, she said she thinks they forgot that they'd used it before. And one of the boys was named out of the obituaries. Yep -- they couldn't come up with a name, so they grabbed some dead guy's name.

I guess that was an early form of identity theft.

And so, in honor of my Irish Grandpa's favorite holiday, here's an adorable green and white polka dot dress, coming to you from pinupdresses, on ebay. Not vintage, but close enough to pass. Guaranteed to bring the luck 'o the Irish, and a pinch or two, too!

The trophy wife

In June, we will celebrate 20 years of wedded bliss. 20 years. That's a long time. My parents have been married more than 50 -- and that is a REALLY long time.

Hubby and I got talking about mortality one time. I told him that, should he meet his maker before me, I would never get married again. "You can't say that" he said. "Oh yes, I surely can," I replied. He thought that was nuts. I told him that it was nothing against him, but I was done being married once the "till death do us part" part showed up.

"You mean to tell me that you would never have sex again," says he (proving, yet again, what is #1 to a man). "I didn't ever say THAT," I retorted. "I'll find me someone whose 22 and grateful, and goes home at night." Hubby just shook his head in dismay.

So he said to me "well then, I'm not getting married again either." "Oh, no way," I said, "you have to be remarried before the papers are all signed." He insisted no way, but I told him, no way could he handle Utter Chaos alone, and he'd have to be remarried -- quickly -- and I gave him a list of potential candidates. And told him that the dd would have to approve of whoever he chose, or I wouldn't be the only one in hell.

Years later, most of the girls on the list have moved on, gotten married or are otherwise occupied, but I still believe in planning, so here -- grab up this Busty Black Vintage 50s Femme Fatale Dress, from polyesters, on ebay. It's what all the trophy wives wear.