Monday, June 30, 2008

Let sleeping grouches sleep.

So, back to vacation (yeah, it's been a discombobulated report, but that's how the whole trip was).

So, we've survived the blown engine, the six hour drive, the trip to Gatlinburg, and the hubby dressing like a woman. We even survived going into Kroger, and the DD getting eyed by some construction worker in the freezer section. Make note, young men, NEVER eye a teenaged girl when her father is nearby, walking, and you are on a ladder. It's not a good idea.

So, we went back to the cabin and got ready to go to bed. Jill announced, yet again, that the loft was hers, and that Seth is going to sleep on the couch. Announces not to wake her up in the morning. Dan says that he's taking Seth golfing in the morning, so that will work out fine -- for everyone but Seth, of course, who gets the couch AND gets woke up early, but he rolls with it. Bratty gets huffy and asks "what are WE doing tomorrow?" I say, "what do YOU want to do," to which she responds, "go to Kroger."

NOT an option, dear.

I tell her that it would be fine if she wants to sleep in, because I know she's tired. I get a rather shrill reply: "I cannot BELIEVE that you would LEAVE ME in the MIDDLE of the woods, ALL ALONE." "Well dear," I say, "I thought you might want to get caught up on your sleep, while the guys go golfing for the morning, and I go to the antique stores. "Oh great," is the response, complete with roll of the eyes, "antiquing or golfing. Those are my choices. GREAT." "No, dear. Your best option is to SLEEP." Another roll of the eyes, and a big sigh of disgust. I tell her that maybe we could find some shopping, but there's probably nothing nearby, other than kitschy shops that sell stuffed bears and chainsaw carvings of eagles and the like. Maybe we can have breakfast out instead, because the stores probably won't be open when we drop the representatives of the Y chromosome at the golf course. She ain't buying it.

Now, I have no idea what this bratty girl thinks that there is to do in Townsend, Tennessee, at 8:30 in the morning, cause it's a one stoplight town that just got an IGA a few years ago. I'm thinking that sleep is a good option, not only for us, but for the whole time. She finally says not to wake her up, "go AHEAD and leave me ALONE in the WOODS while you go SHOPPING. I'm sure I'll be just FINE."

No bear ain't comin' anywhere near this girl. She'd bite it.

Next day, I get up, drive the boys to the golf course, and go out for a little shopping. Found a fabulous 40s velvet beaded dress, and this royally inspired Lewella girdle. Royally inspired? Who thinks about the queen's underwear? But I digress. I drove back to the cabin, where Jill opens the door for me, with a look of death on her face. She looks half asleep,and fully unhappy. I asked her, "how did you sleep? Do you feel better today" to which she said, quite emphatically, "NO. The phone woke me up." Phone?

I go on vacation to get AWAY from phones, but it turned out the telemarketers knew where we were, because they called every morning. Jill never did answer the phone, but I'll tell you what, if she had, those people would not only not call again, they'd probably leave their job, and move into the Unabomber's cabin, in fear for their life. And maybe I'd join them.

Friday, June 27, 2008

Hale, high water and the old man in the blue suit

My dad preached his last sermon today. No, I don't mean the kind that he gave me when I'd wander in after curfew, I mean the church kind. He's finally retiring, at the ripe young age of 80. I'll believe it when I see it. After all, this is what? The second or the third attempt to retire? I can't remember. He keeps retiring, usually to become a travel agent, because minister or cruise director, heaven or the high seas, he wants to get you where you're gonna go.

I guess the fact that he can't stay retired makes him some type of repeat offender. Not bad for a Methodist. I suspect that he'll keep being the go to guy for the funeral home, in Hale, Michigan, where he's done services for the churchless, because you can't keep a good guy down for long (unless they're the one in the casket of course, and Dad's nowhere close to that)

My dad got started in the preaching business late. I was in seventh grade when he got his first church, and suddenly became "the preacher's kid." It was odd to me that suddenly I was defined by my dad's job, where I never was before that, but I just rolled with it. I can't tell you the number of times that I was told that I wasn't the typical preacher's kid, because I wasn't prim and proper, and I sure wasn't a partier.

Middle of the road, baby, that's where I stayed.

It's always enlightening to see the world through a preacher's kids eyes. Like the time my niece, then 2 years old, walked up to the pulpit in the middle of the sermon, and announced "I have to go doodoo, Grandpa." Or the time, in his first church, in Winfield, Missouri, our half blind and fully deaf collie walked up to the altar during a sermon. Maybe she heard the call, who knows. Of course, it's no fun getting called out by dad in the middle of the sermon, for talking in church. THAT is something that only happens once, trust me. To this day, I don't let my kids talk in church.

But there are also the fun moments, like being married by your dad, who explains all of the important things, like what a "nuptial" kiss is (not too long, nothing gross, just a "nuptial" kiss), and to be sure to hang on to my veil when I blew out the unity candle, lest I go up in flames. I remember the photographer asking me if Dad would be ok during the ceremony. I thought the guy was nuts. Of course he'd be ok, but apparently the photographer had done a wedding the week before, and they dad/minister could barely make it through, he was crying so badly.

Dad did pretty good. He started, his voice cracked, he took a deep breath, and went through it like he'd done it a million times. Maybe he had, I don't know, but I guess it's different when it's your daughter, even when she's the baby of the family.

And so, no more weddings for Dad, unless he marries one of the grandkids, I suppose. Lord knows, I'm not going through another wedding. Matter of fact, I think there are people who would pay me not to have another wedding, after that craziness. But in ten years, my dad can explain the whole nuptial kiss to my daughter, and then marry her off, hopefully with less drama than her parents had.

But until then, he'll will be doing funerals in Hale. So, for the old man in the blue suit, this one's for you. From Swing
Candy Fashion.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Things start looking up

OK, so we finally arrive at the cabin, amazingly, without any arguments about navigation. This is nothing short of a miracle, because our arguments about navigation, or lack thereof, are legendary amongst our kids. Dan just flat doesn't navigate. His version of navigation, though he'd beg to differ, is to study the map like it's the bar exam, then let me know that the exit I needed was two exits ago, and why didn't I take it?

This does not go over well, to say the least.

I decided when the kids were young, that they would learn to navigate, so their spouse can't blame me someday. I'd make them navigate me home from wherever we were. I even had Thomas navigate me through Chicago one time, during Taste of Chicago. "Turn right. Turn left, turn right. Elvis."

What in the world? Turned out yep, an Elvis impersonator was standing at the corner we were at, on Michigan Avenue, in Chicago, complete with white jumpsuit. Crazy, but really, this kind of weirdness happens to us all the time. It's not like I could make it up.

Teaching the kids to navigate has actually paid off, because my kids can get all over the place, most days, without getting too lost. So we got to the cabin without getting lost, and it was a proud moment for the kids, I suppose. We didn't even stop at the Food Lion to shop, like we normally do, figuring that we'd shop later.

No sooner got in than a debate starts between the kids, about the bed upstairs. No way Jill was sharing it, so Seth relented and said he'd sleep on one of the couches. After all of that was settled, we decided, for some odd reason, that Gatlinburg sounded like fun, so after the four hour drive we'd already done, we got BACK in the car, and drove the 45 minutes to Gatlinburg, home of fudge, Ripley's Believe It or Not, and a lot of T shirt shops.

Jill wanted Italian to eat, so that was the main reason we'd gone there. Ate at a so so Italian place (good food, slow service but hey, we were in the South), then decided to wander around. First place we came to was an old time picture place, and Jill asked if we could do a picture. I've always wanted to do one, but no one else ever did, so I was all over that. Only thing was, I felt weird doing a "family" picture, because Thomas was at home, so I told her that she and Seth could do it.

We looked through the book, laughed at a bunch of the photos that they'd done, and told the clerk that Dan wouldn't hesitate to be like the guys who dressed as saloon girls. The kids decided that they wanted to be bank robbers (no saloon floozy for my girl!), so they were in the process of picking out costumes when Dan walked in. We were alone when we first went in this place, but by the time the kids decided on what they were going to do, the place was getting pretty full, and the crowd came to a standstill momentarily, when Dan asked -- rather loudly -- if he could dress like a woman.

Told ya so. Again.

So he hops up on the bar in his fishnets, and here is the end result. Be prepared, and don't say I didn't warn you. I love the first one -- look at the kids' faces. For some reason, the sober look just cracks me up.

The second one, she told them to do something crazy. She, of course, had no idea who she was working with. The Utter's threshold for crazy is somewhat more accelerated than most people's, so we ended up with this:

I'm not sure exactly WHAT Dan is doing. Looks like he's getting ready to shoot his boob off, but whatever the reason for his posture, the picture cracks me up, till I realize that it's MY husband sitting there in a barmaid's outfit, with hundred dollar bills stuffed in his hose. Oye. That's my man.

So yeah, because those pictures are worth a thousand words, I'm not including any vintage today. I'm not sure anyone would want to be associated with those pictures anyway. If you do, message me, and maybe I'll include you tomorrow.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008


So, we were on our way to Tennessee in a rented van, with the two youngest kids, both of whom are teenagers. That means that there is always some enlightening conversation.

Now, before you read further, realize that I live with a very dingy blonde kid. He's been like this since birth, and we love him for it, of course. It's one of his endearing qualities, and everyone's been aware of it, at least since he pronounced, quite loudly, during the children's sermon at church, that "we have food in our house." Never one to quit when he was ahead, he also shouted "I threw up on Daddy." When the sermonizer said "I'll bet your mom took good care of you when you were sick," he proudly announced "no, she was on a cruise."

Granted, it wasn't a lie, but still.........

So there we sit in a restaurant in Lexington, and Dan decides to take advantage of a teachable moment, and asks if Seth knows what state we are in. "Yes. Nashville," says my baby.

Ummmm.... wrong. And wrong. Dan just shook his head.

Later that day, we were playing word games in the car. Seth loves puzzles. We were playing things like "give me a three letter word for a mode of transportation." When it was Seth's turn, he said, "give me a five letter word for a color." Dan said "green," to which Seth replied in the negative. I said "purple," and was, of course, right. Dan promptly went into protest mode, saying purple didn't have five letters, but I told him he didn't speak Seth-anese. Seth is an excellent speller, and a whiz at math -- he's just dingy. Did this several times, and I was right every time, so Dan started using my strategy. He never did pick it right, when Seth-anese showed up, because it's erratic, and probably only predictable to the mother.

On the way home, Dan was reading the newest issue of People. I had bought it so that he could read about Tim Russert (RIP), but somehow he got reading the article about the sexiest bachelors. Actually, he wasn't reading, he was just making fun of all of them, whilst Seth peered over his shoulder. Seth said "Lance Armstrong. I know about him. He walked on the moon."

His sister just rolled her eyes, his dad choked on his drink, and I tried my best to explain to the spare to the throne that that was NEIL Armstrong. ::sigh::

Somehow, the conversation drifted to Billy Bob Thornton, which means that Dan went into his best (aka annoying) Sling Blade imitation. Having a discussion about the merits of Billy Bob, especially in "Bandits", led to my kid saying "OOOOH! I know who he is. He was on Dancing with the Stars."

What planet does this kid live on? I know he wasn't born in a barn -- I was there -- but what in the world?

Turned out he was confusing Billy Bob Thornton with Billy RAY Cyrus, who WAS on Dancing with the Stars (though what he did could only very loosely be called dancing). But Anglelina Jolie never walked around with a vial of Billy Ray Cyrus blood around her neck, that's for sure.

You just have to love this kid though, because he may be clueless, but he's always very sincere. Everything he says comes from the heart, including the time on a cruise when, in the middle of the night, he suddenly shouted "I don't know what it is, but it's REAL ketchup-y!" Darn near gave his brother a heart attack, right there in the middle of the Caribbean. Of course, then he sat and laughed, but Seth was none the wiser, because he was sound asleep.

You can have whole conversations with him when he's asleep. He'll respond with totally nonsensical things, eyes open, and it's just hilarious. He fell asleep on a plane, on the way home from the aforementioned cruise. Suddenly, he sat straight up, looked me in the eye with a mournful look and announced, "I fold. AGAIN."

Can you tell the kids had played a lot of poker on that cruise? Who says homeschooled kids live in a box?

And so, for the spare to the throne, the poster child for all persons blonde, here's a cute vintage baseball uniform pattern, from my store. In honor of his illustrious baseball career at Irvington Sports Association, his papa's alma mater. It's almost as cute as Seth.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

The Wrong Witch, or, Lord, Take Me Now, Part II

Now, I never mentioned, for those of you who wonder why in the world we only drove three hours from home before getting a hotel: We couldn't get our cabin in the Smokies till Tuesday, but since we both took Monday off, we decided to leave a day early, and have a "leisurely" drive down to Tennessee. So, two hours into vacation, and it's just a big ole dose of Utter Chaos, which means we are having a grand old time. SEVERAL grand, I might add. But at least we are now in a van that has air conditioning, which means that that everyone can chill out till we get to Lexington.

Well, at least OUR version of chilling out, which means that hubby is doing the math to figure out just how many gallons of paint equal an engine, I am trying to figure out how to read the directions to the hotel that Thomas texted me after the originals flew out the window, and the kids are just wondering just what in the world is gonna happen next.

Thomas' directions had to go into two texts because they were so long, and they were kind of odd to read in text form, but I knew that the last part said "text me and let me know that you got this." I didn't realize that that stupid ABC word predictor thing was activated on my phone, so he got a very odd message back, that said something like "ohiiii if goblin," instead of the "OK, I got it" that I intended. Of course, Jill rolls her eyes and says that I'm not allowed to text, because "when adults text, it just means that they are trying to act young," so I figured that even if he couldn't read it, Thomas would know that I wasn't on crack, but that I did, indeed, get his messages.

I finally deciphered the directions, and we got off the interstate. Turned left like they said, and ended up in Egypt somewhere, so I told the hubby to go back, because maybe we just needed to turn right, not left, despite the directions. Ended up having to stop and ask directions at a gas station(I was driving. Don't worry, the hubby didn't have to break the male code regarding directions), because we couldn't find New Circle Road for love nor money. Got directions (yep, we just hadn't gone far enough), and finally found the Hilton at Lexington Green, which was originally supposed to be a nice surprise for the little family, but now had become a refuge. The hotel, which was rated pretty well in the online reviews, and was by a nice mall. I had figured, a little swimming, a little breakfast the next morning, maybe a little shopping, or something horse-y, cause we were in Lexington, and then we'd take off for Tennessee again. Wrong.

The kids were kind of impressed that we were staying at the Hilton. We got in the room with the kids loudly exclaiming "isn't the Hilton for rich people" to the point of embarrassment. I had booked a two room suite, thinking they'd love it, but The Brat laid claim to one of the beds, and then it all broke open. Mind you, when she's at home, she doesn't think a thing about crashing on her brother's bed if she's tired, but there was NO WAY she was sharing a bed in the Hilton, and he didn't want to sleep on the couch -- mainly cause he's a fairly sensible kid, and didn't see the sense of sleeping on a couch, when there was a perfectly usable bed in the bedroom. I pointed out that the couch opened up to a sleeper sofa, but neither of them were biting (though I was a little worried that she might actually bite HIM). After the day we'd had, I just figured I'd let them duke it out, so I just climbed into my bed and pulled the covers over my head. Dan said he was taking them all down to swim. I didn't plan to go, cause I was a bit over the whole vacation thing by now, so I just hung out in the room. Did some yoga and just chilled out.

For about fifteen minutes, till they all came tramping in, informing me that, even though it was still light outside at 9:30, the pool closed at 9, so they couldn't swim. New session of griping opened up, and I climbed back into bed, whilst they decided to watch some DVDs in the other room, on Dan's new laptop, cause the pay per view movies from the hotel were 10 bucks each. Translated: husband bitching about being nickelled and dimed by the man, when he was already having to pay thousands of dollars for a new engine on the van. We've now gone into the third circle of vacation hell.

I fell asleep and woke up with Dan climbing into the bed opposite me. I hissed at him to get over with me, or he would pay the price of the daughter's wrath, since she had claimed that bed -- and to come over there and find him in HER bed wasn't end well, to say the least -- especially late at night, in the dark, when I was trying to sleep. He said he wasn't gonna be able to sleep in the little full size bed with me, but finally realized that his life might be in danger, gave up the ghost and came over to the bed I was in.

I woke up the next morning to Seth in the next bed, Jill on the couch (without it pulled out), with just a little blanket over her. Dan decided it was best to wake her up for breakfast. It was about 8 or so, and was also, in case you haven't yet realized, the second day in a row that he has decided to wake up the girl before her time..

It was at this point that I decided that our darling daughter, cast in her first stage role next month as Glenda in the Wizard of Oz, had been cast as the wrong witch.

In the midst of her rantings, I got dressed, told Jill to get in our bed and go back to sleep, and the three of us survivors headed for the restaurant, with Dan asking "why in the world would she not want to get up to eat" and Seth and me repeating the mantra "never wake Jill up. Ever." This was our entire conversation, all the way down to the restaurant, where we were served excellent food by a rather effeminate, very polite, transplanted Hoosier, sans accent, and his Bulgarian sidekick, Anna. All in all, it was decidedly NOT like being in Lexington, but the food was great, and Dan and Seth finally got their swim in, whilst I checked email at the business center, trying to avoid waking the sleeping dragon in Room 416.

When it couldn't be avoided anymore, I headed up, and find that Jill was half awake, but in a much better frame of mind. Of course, it was now almost 11:30, so I could understand. All in all, it was obvious that the day would go better, so there was still hope. Maybe we'd all survive the vacation, thought it still felt a lot like Chevy Chase was gonna show up at any minute, with Aunt Edna strapped to the roof of the station wagon.

You know, I still gotta sell some patterns to pay for the whole thing, so if you are in a mood to sew, try this hooded goth cape pattern, from my store. Maybe not the thing for Glenda, but it is good for when the Big Bad Wolf arrives.

Lord, take me now

Just back from vacation, and what a vacation it was. It's probably worth more than one blog entry, but I may need some therapy first.

So, the hubby says to me, last Sunday night: "we're leaving in the morning. I want to get an early jump on it, so we're leaving right after rush hour." I inform him that a) there IS no rush hour in the direction that we are going, on the road we plan to drive, and b) I am not in a rush, because we don't have to be anywhere at a certain time and c) (and most importantly) The Brat doesn't wake up happy, when wakened against her will and Monkey Boy doesn't wake up quickly. Therefore, we are probably NOT leaving in the morning. "I want to leave in the morning, I'm going to be ready to leave in the morning, and we ARE leaving in the morning," says the king. "Yeah, right," I think, but of course, do not speak, because it'd be spitting in the wind.

So, he wakes me up at 8:30 the next morning. I get up, get the suitcase (I'm a last minute packer), and pop in the shower. Get out, get dressed, get packed, and look for the van.

It's gone.

"Where is your father," I ask the boy. He mumbles something unintelligible, indicating he doesn't know (I think). I ask the girl, and live to regret it, because I get the full-on, head spinning around, spitting nails diatribe about getting woke up too early in the morning. And I still didn't know where the hubby and my van went. I figured he was going to gas up, and went back to packing. And waited, and waited and waited.

Finally, the hubby gets home, and informs me that he has been to Jiffy Lube, to get a radiator flush and fill, figuring it would help the mild knocking that's been going on under the hood. Informs me that, after paying $188 for a flush, fill, oil change, and God knows what else, they told him that they think that my beautiful Town and Country has a cracked piston rod, or something to that effect, and will need some major work. But, he says, it's ok to take on vacation, and get the work done when we get home.

"Do they realize that we are going to the mountains," I asked, to which the hubby says, with that "what, do you think I'm an idiot" look that only is exchanged from husband to wife, "of course, I did, and they said it will be ok, but to get the work done when we get back." "Maybe," says I, "we should get a rental and just leave it here." "Nonsense," he says, "we're gonna go, and we'll put it in the shop when we get back."

We leave town at 1pm. That, for those of you who are not familiar with Eastern Standard Time, is NOT morning. Definitely not worth waking up The Brat at 8:30 for, because she was still griping. And the boy was complaining, because the air conditioning is also out on my van, which means that we can't really watch DVDs, because the wind noise is a bit much for his viewing pleasure.

Not even out of the city, and I'm regretting this trip already.

So, we get close to Cincinnati, and turn down the odd mix CD that Jill has made -- Maroon 5, Taylor Swift, and Hannah Montana -- and realize that the mild knocking has now become a full blown clatter. Suddenly, the wind catches the van and I realize that a bunch of stuff flew out my window -- 40 dollars that I had made the bad decision to set in my door, and the directions to our hotel in Lexington. Oye and vay, did I ever hear it from the hubby over THAT, but what I was most concerned about was the noise under the hood, and getting it looked at without any bodily harm. We were planning to go to the zoo -- ok, so HUBBY wasn't planning it, but I was, cause it's a nice zoo, and the kids had never been there. At this point, we were close to it, so we dropped off Jill and Seth there, whilst we went in search of a garage. Jill was still griping about us dumping her off in a strange city and why don't we ever do anything as a family when we drove away, and yeah, maybe it IS odd to drop them off at the zoo, but man, I didn't want those kids in the midst of what I knew was gonna happen.

Did you ever have "I told you so" sitting on the edge of your tongue so close that you can not only taste it, but if you stick your tongue out, people can probably SEE it, too? Cause that's where I was at, when the guy at the garage informed us that there was no way that van was going anywhere, cause a piston rod was blown, and we either needed an entirely new engine, or an entirely new car.

Two hours into vacation, and we were already in the hole something like 3-5 grand. Oh yeah, this trip is fabulous. Really. ::sigh:: Typical Utter Chaos.

We got a rental -- hubby hoofed it seven blocks over to Enterprise, just to move it along, so that we could pick up the kids before the zoo closed -- and I sat at Parkway Automotive, downloading ringtones that amused me, like "It's the End of the World as We Know It (and I Feel Fine)," and "Rehab," (which has lyrics that said "they tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no. I really didn't want rehab. I wanted the drinks. MANY drinks). Got the kids picked up, hit the road -- with air conditioning, but without a DVD player -- and headed for Lexington, with a choir of angels singing, and me thinking "it's gonna take one hell of a lot of patterns to pay for that engine, so Lord, just take me now." So someone, please, go buy some patterns from my store, cause Mama needs a new engine.

Part II tomorrow.

Monday, June 16, 2008

Hide and seek

A couple of things, for the road, as most of the family is leaving for Tennessee for a little getaway, till Sunday. The heir to the throne will stay home, for so he can "chill." Not sure what ELSE the boy does, but hey, I wouldn't mind a week alone either. We're just hoping that a) the house doesn't get burned down, b) the animals survive, cause the heir to the throne will not survive if anything happens to the brat's animals, c) no beer is involved at any point of the week, d) no one gets pregnant.

Actually, probably the worst thing that he'll do is sit nekkit on my couch which, as he told me last night "wouldn't be the first time." I could've done without the visuals that that evoked, but oh well.

And so we're off, to have the kiddies, and most likely the hubby, go down the hill in a Zorb ball:

Crazy stuff, but it's got Seth written all over it.

Meantime, tell your friends, I made the blog easier to find. You can now just type in, and you'll be directed straight here, so you won't miss a minute of the fun. Or the pretties, like this Lurex leaves pinup sweater, from Fast Eddie's Retro Rags, who also bought her own domain recently. If you get too lonely for me, just go look at her stuff, and get in touch with your inner delinquent. My delinquents will be rolling down the hill.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

Ee-ee-ee and the Ten Commandments of Hook-ups

Parental Advisory: Don't say I didn't warn you, cause today's post may be a bit shocking. As usual, it's all true, though. I couldn't make this stuff up.

I remember the day I got The Talk. I was in sixth grade. I was getting ready to walk the just-short-of-a-mile-so-I-couldn't-ride-the-bus-to-school walk. My mom was watching the Today Show. She looked at me and said "I want to talk to you about something called periods." I looked at her and said, "Mom, we saw the movie at school. I know all about them." She said "ok, go to school," and that was The Talk.

My kids learned a lot earlier. I was pregnant with Seth, and we took a class at church about how to talk to your kids about sex, from a Christian perspective. Thomas had just turned five, and Jill was four, and couldn't say her R's right. We read them the cutesy books about where that baby was gonna come from, and one day, she plopped up on the arm of the recliner and announced, "I know wheya babies come from." (Remember, she couldn't say the R's.) "Oh yeah," I said, "where do they come from, honey?"

She holds up her hand, thumb and forefinger together, and says "Fuhst, you get a spuhm." Other hand goes up, pointer finger up, "then, you git an egg." Pointer wiggles toward the circle, and tickles the thumb and forefinger. "ee-ee-ee," squeaked she, as the "sperm" goes crazy on the "egg". "Then you git baby."

My jaw dropped. "Go tell Daddy," I said.

She goes in the kitchen, and a minute later, I hear "ee-ee-ee," followed by a shout of "Leee-SAH!" He was horrified, but she pretty much had it down.

Fast forward about ten years, and I'm sitting in the drive through of McDonald's with the heir to the throne and a bunch of his buddies, on their way to our house for a gaming get together (otherwise called a LAN). One guy is talking about ee-ee-ee's with his girlfriend. They must've forgotten that I was actually there, but I finally turned around and announced that I wasn't really sure if their parents wanted me to give clarifications of The Talk, but hey, when you're at my house, you get treated like family, so I had to clear up a few misconceptions (no pun intended) about some of the topics they were discussing. This led to a long discussion about all sorts of things, with 14 and 15yo boys actually asking questions, whilst eating their fries. Cause you know, when they are in the car, they are a captive audience, so it's a great time to bring up stuff. Ya just gotta be cool about it.

And so today, when I got yet another whacko sex question, I decided that I needed to post my Ten Commandments of EE-EE-EE.

1. You might want to think twice before hooking up with a Navy guy until they've been off the ship for a while.

Got a call at work the other morning. 7:30 in the morning, to be exact. Girl was 18 years old -- barely -- and she wants to know about how contagious scabies is. I asked her if she has symptoms, to which she informed me "no, I just had sex with a guy who was treated for scabies, and I don't know if he's contagious, cause he's peeling all over his manhood." That's verbatim, folks. At 7:30 in the morning. This leads to commandment

2. If it's peeling, draining, blistered, or otherwise encumbered -- step away. Quickly. Face it, that thing ain't particularly pretty on a good day, girls, but deviations from the norm, in this case, ain't a good thing. And any efforts to make it prettier, with a neon Maxim, or a French tickler is just tryin' to cover up the issue.

3. Please don't call the nurse to ask how soon a pregnancy test will come up positive if you had sex less than an hour ago. The nurse can't take a shower at work, and it just plain makes her feel dirty.

We had a doctor from Hong Kong at one of my former jobs. Shrimpy guy named Simon Wu. He liked to hang out in the nursery, because again, we were captive there, feeding babies. He used to come in and lament the fact that he couldn't find himself a American wife. As one of my co-workers decreed, the whole problem was Commandment

3. No woman with any self respect would go out with a guy with a butt smaller than hers.

She had a point.

4. Speaking the language of love sometimes ain't enough. A co-worker once got a call from a woman who wanted us to give a sexual how-to to her partner -- a much younger Hispanic guy who didn't habla ingles. You know, if you have to use the Language Line to explain the basics, how you gonna figure out the other stuff, like birth control and the clap? Honestly, it's just not a great idea, unless you have $4.95 a minute for a translator, BEFORE you get too close.

5. Regardless of what the frat boys at Butler University thought when they called me to settle a bet: a herpetologist studies snakes, NOT herpes. (There was probably some beer involved in that one.)

6. A girlfriend *might* be a fiance, but never a baby mama. And please girls, check out how many baby mamas he has, before you get too close, cause three's a crowd, in my own lowly opinion. Four or five is even worse. And guys, if you happen to have more than one baby mama with a bun in the oven at the same time, please don't bring 'em both to the hospital at the same time. I've been there, and it gets downright messy.

I got a call this morning from a girl who had some spotting, in the afterglow. She was nine months pregnant, and had called at 4am last night, and the nurse told her to go to ER. She didn't go, because she didn't have a ride. This leads to number

7. Never hook up with a guy who doesn't have a car at his disposal. Realistically, you never know when a sex injury could occur. I once had a call at 1:30 am from a guy whose wife went totally out "while she was sleeping." He couldn't figure out how to get her to the hospital, because she was laying there, with back spasms, screaming. And naked.

There's also that whole latex allergy thing, so you're better off with private transportation than without.

This also leads to number

8. If I am nine months pregnant, leave me the hell alone at 4 a.m. Come to think of it, even if I'm not pregnant, if it's 4a.m., leave me the hell alone. 'Nuff said.

9. If there is a second pink stripe on the test, it's positive. Doesn't matter HOW pink it is, it's positive, but

10. The test won't tell you who the baby daddy is. WE can't tell you who the baby daddy is. DNA, and about 500 bucks CAN tell you who the baby daddy is. Spend the money.

True story -- we had a patient once at the hospital who wasn't sure who the baby daddy was, so she brought both of the possible donors with her to the delivery room. One was Hispanic, and one wasn't. After the delivery, the mama asks the nurse who she thinks the baby looks like. Nurse responds "I don't know," leans down to the baby and says "como estas?" Cracked the nursery nurse up, but the baby wouldn't tell.

And so, from the world of you-can-still-be-covered-up-and-be-sexy, here's a coolcurvy vintage Jantzen swimsuit, from aren, on ebay. In nursey nurse white, for purity, of course.

Friday, June 13, 2008

The cards ain't the only thing on the table

Hubby loves to play cards. I, on the other hand, am not a card player -- especially euchre, which is his favorite. Of course, this man refuses to lose, even at Candyland, so I don't know that I'd play cards with him anyway, so he usually plays with a different partner.

He has played poker at church, once a year, for the past few years, on the weekend of our fish fry. Presbyterians gone wild, I tell you, and they didn't even have a Session meeting to approve it. It's just kind of a part of the security detail.

See, the guy who heads up the frying of the fish is a 70-something guy, who still carries shrapnel in his legs from the Great War. This guy dodged more than one bullet, so he's not afraid to be one of the guards of the fish fryers and the tent, so he sleeps in the tent every year. Sleeps on one of the tables, even.

You know, there's a special place in heaven for a guy who sleeps on a table, just to keep the fish fry safe.

The hubby, always a fretter, decided a couple of years ago that he would join him, as much for the comaraderie as for his concern for Bill's safety, so he spends the night there too, and they play cards. I used to rent a double across the parking lot, and kept my ebay stuff there. The first year, I came out of the double and heard the guys getting rowdy over their game of poker. I think that was the year that the hub walked away with 15 bucks, which was the total pot, all in nickels, dimes and quarters. Last year, another of the guys won - a guy who was there for the game, but not game enough to sleep on the tables.

So this year, hubby and I were getting ready to go home and get his sleeping bag, when one of the neighbors stopped by. He wanted to offer them access to his house, should the weather turn bad, or if they needed anything. Dan, being Dan, invited him over to play a friendly game of cards. "We just play for coinage. Do you have some nickels?" Neighbor promptly declined, sheepishly admitting that he has never really played poker, and doesn't really fully comprehend the game.

"Oh," said the hubby, "then bring half dollars. Oye. That's my guy.

So, the hubby is sleeping on a table tonight, and hopefully this year, he let the senior citizen win the money, but knowing my man, I wouldn't hold my breath. And, it being late and all -- and the fact that I had to go tearing down the street in my nightgown tonight, after the butthead dog took off out of the yard, I was too lazy to go looking for a vintage poker shirt. If you know of one, let me know, but I figured I'd share the fantastic vintage matchbook shirt that Christopher Walken wore in Hairspray. Nothing fishy about it.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

A History of Longevity

My mama had her birthday on Tuesday. I won't say how many years it's been, but let's just say, it's only 25 years till the big one. 'Nuff said, cause I think really that she stopped having birthdays at 39 -- or 40, depending on if you count the first 40th birthday, or the second, because she somehow lost count, was beset by a great depression one year, only to find out from my dad that it was only her 39th, not her 40th.

Of course, who really knows, cause when you're the middle kid of 18, and your dad named you backwards, anything is possible. Heck, she could be a year or two younger, for all we know. Maybe we'll just stick with that story. I mean, if all those Hollywood stars can do it, she can too, right? I don't mind, cause when it's your mom, you don't really care how old she is, as long as she's not one of these crazy women who decides to give birth at the age of ninety. I mean, for heaven's sake, that would be embarrassing.

I'm the baby of the family, and will always be, because my fine parents stopped when they finally got it right. Or perhaps the fact that I weighed over ten pounds scared Ma out of having more.

And so, Ma had her birthday, and I did indeed try to call to wish her a happy one, but no one answered the phone. I figured that they had gone out to dinner, and that I'd call yesterday, but time got away from me (I was brushing the dogs, remember), and I forgot. My bad.

So there I was, laying in bed this morning, trying to convince myself that I really should get up, when the phone rang, and it was my mommy. Pretty bad when your mom has to call to ask to be wished happy birthday -- which, I might add, was not why she called (I really don't remember if she had a reason for calling, but it's always nice to talk to her). And, since moving to grab the phone scared off the two cats that were sleeping on me, it worked out well for me, although the cats are still mad at me.

And so, in belated honor of my mama's birthday, I thought I'd show you some things that reminded me of her.

First, a pair of cool catseye glasses,
from Julie at damngoodvintage. Oops! I said a potty word. No more of that, little missy, lest I get my mouth washed out with soap, but they do remind me of my mom's dark colored ones, from when I was a tyke. I don't think she had rhinestones, but she has that inner bling bling. Outer bling might just be too much, especially with the red hair.

Next, for the mother of five, who managed, somehow, to get all of us to eat our vegetables (ok, so my youngest older brother doesn't count), here's the cutest
3D veggie dress, from the always-a-favorite-seller, Meloo. That'll definitely give you your five a day, in one fell swoop.

My mama always has loved flowers, and working in the yard. I do too, but alas, my tendonitis is getting the best of me these days, so thank God, The Brat has taken over. She seems to have her grandma's green thumb, and our yard is looking spiffy. Grandma will be proud, when she comes to visit at the end of the summer. And so, I found this adorable
Tulip Swirl dress,
from catseye vintage, on the bay. Can ya dig it?

Now, all this talk of vegetables and gardening, might make one think that my mom has no sense of humor, however, there is, of course, the red panties. I don't even remember how it started, but my conservative mama started a tradition of some red panties being sent around to the women of the family at Christmas, but she did. I'm not sure where they are right now, but I can assure you, they aren't with me. And so, in honor of the red panties, here you go: a rhumba panty set, from the.cameo.shoppe, on ebay.
Not, of course, for the faint of heart.

And hey, just because I have always thought my mama was the prettiest mama on the block, I'm closing with a fantastic red and white dress, with flying birds, again by Meloo.
I'm told it shows birds in flight, and since Mama loves her some birdies, it's perfect. Ain't it tweet?

Happy birthday, Ma. Better late than pregnant, I've always said. Now, more than ever.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

What's on the menu

So after yesterday's debacle of cleaning under the couch, I decided that I needed to give these dogs a good combing. I couldn't find the brush, so the brat and I went off to Petsmart, to find a good one.

First stop was the fish, because one of my gouramis went to the great aquarium in the sky the other day, so I'm going to have to replace him, lest Sweeney Todd (my blue gourami) get too lonely. Browsed the fish for a while, inquired about the miniature crabs, which are SO cool, but don't live in an aquarium, so we went over to the dog department. The Brat went and looked for some treats for her goofy dog. She ended up with some Scooby Doo treats -- an oddity for a dog treat shape, if you ask me -- and I ended up with a shedding blade, an odd little tool that looks like a torture device, a nice little brush, and a big bottle of Shed Stop, which is a miracle cure for dogs that shed. Wandered over to the pets for adoption, where we saw a big fatty fat pants cat that looks just like my Bandito. Bratty girl spent some time trying to convince me that, if we got that cat, her father would never know, because they looked so much alike. She's probably right, but that cat is still sitting in the cage at Petsmart.

Came home, and took those nutty dogs outside, one at a time, and used that sheeding blade on 'em both. I can now say, with quite a bit of confidence, that I could stuff a couch with the hair that came off of them. There is dog hair all over the backyard. I finally stopped, because they were getting bored and tired, and I needed a shot or two off my inhaler. I'm not looking forward to finishing the job, but it'll probably add a year or two of life to my Dyson, when I'm done.

Hubby grilled steaks for dinner. They were YUM. It was youth group night, so the only one home to eat with us was the heir to the throne, who sat down and had an exclamation of happiness when he saw the menu. I swear he was looking at the veggies when he said it, but that can't be right, cause the boy won't eat a veggie, but oh well, he loved the steak. He got up and went to put his dishes in the dishwasher, after which he reached over on the counter, and grabbed a box of cookies for a little after dinner nibble.

Only it wasn't cookies. It was the Scooby Doo snacks that The Brat had bought for Butthead. Thomas just about took a bite of it before he realized what he had, darn it. I would've paid good money for him to have eaten that dog treat. That's one of those priceless moments that only a parent could truly enjoy to the fullest. Alas, he stopped just short, and we had a good laugh at how much he is like his father, though I'd likely rather have a Scooby Doo snack than potpourri.

And so, in honor of those crazy mutt dogs that live here, and the cats too, I decided to show you a couple of cuties, in Disney prints, that I saw some time back. From Lady and The Tramp, compliments of Dorothea's Closet, is this skirt of the infamous "we are Siamese if you please" kitties. Alas, it's sold. The matching doggie skirt was already sold as well, by Kakkoii Mono Cool Things, on the web. And the best thing? They don't shed!

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Netflix almost killed me

Thomas has a freebie membership to Netflix, for three months. This is the perfect gift for a kid who watches movies in almost every language.

I asked him once, what's the weirdest language you ever watched a movie in? Vietnamese, he said. Crazy. The kid absolutely loves movies.

So he was getting a movie almost every day. I asked the other day, how come you haven't gotten a movie in a while? I mean, he was almost accosting the mailman, waiting for his movies to arrive. Tells me that "oh, I need to send the other ones back," then mentions he can't find Bobby. The movie, not the Brady. A good movie, at that. Mentions that he should look in the couch, cause that's the last place he saw it. Oye.

So I decided to go looking for it, whilst the heir to the throne is at work. First of all, let me say, it's a dual reclining sofa, so there are lots of places for things to slide into. Here's how it went:

First, I tried the right side, by the armrest, deep into the abyss. Handful of dog hair. A Goldfish. The cracker, not the fish. A pen. More dog hair.

Next, I went to the back of the right side. A sock, in the corner. Dog hair. A pair of footies, all wrapped up from the laundry. A broken pencil and an intact one. Another pen. A container of Smashbox eye shadow, probably still left over from Christmas. A Blockbuster gift card. No one seems to know if that's still there from Christmas, or if it's been used up already, but it's definitely from someone's stocking.

Move to the middle of the couch. Another two pens. A dry erase marker, in brown. A phone. Yep -- a cordless phone that's been missing for quite a while. More dog hair. Another sock.

Move to the left side of the couch. In the back, I hit the motherlode of socks: two more pairs, folded up from the laundry, and three singles. One pair of brown, and the rest are white. Another pen. No wonder we can't ever find anything to write with around here. Under the left armrest, not much, another sock, covered in dog hair.

Pulled out the footrests to see if I can see the DVD. Can't see anything but about 1/2 an inch of dog hair -- no joke. Got a flashlight, and found a one inch cube of neon colored Post It Notes. The April issue of Guideposts. Aha! I find the wrapper for Bobby, but alas, no DVD.

Still no DVD, so I decide to pull out the couch to see if it's behind it, and vacuum the dog hair. Found the leaf to the dining room table. I have no idea why the hubby put it there, but ok. Notice the three leaded glass windows are full of dog slobber -- a product of them thinking that they will eat the mailman -- so I got the Windex and cleaned them, and the window sills. Found the November 11, 2007 issue of the Indianapolis Star. Found the dog's shock collar, which hasn't been on him for over a week, since Jill went to Canada. A wooden painted Santa that probably fell off the window over Christmas.

Vacuumed, and filled up the Dyson with, you guessed it, dog hair, in a matter of seconds. Found a couple of stray scraps of paper and plastic, and one more Goldfish. Finally give up, and push the couch back, figuring that Thomas is gonna have to look around his room for the movie, because I'm only taking my life in my hands looking for it, one time, and it's gonna be in one of MY rooms, not his.

Walk out in front of the couch, and there it is: not one, but two DVDs. One from Pitney Bowes, for my mail meter, and voila! Bobby!

Thank you, Jesus. If I don't get an asthma attack from what this little search put me through, it'll be a miracle. Just for kicks and giggles, I looked under the loveseat, which gets vacuumed underneath pretty regularly. Just found a cool 30s jabot dress pattern, so I figure that's not too bad.

So I went looking for something that reminded me of Bobby, and found these here 60s leopard stilettos, from Damn Good Vintage. They reminded me of Demi Moore's lounge singer character, but also make me think of all the positives of having a cat. NOT a dog.

Sunday, June 08, 2008

The Speed of Life

I mentioned the other day that we bought a Yaris. Cute little car that we've been driving since Monday, and we still have a quarter tank 'o gas or more in it. WOOT!

Best thing is, the kids don't know how to drive it. It's a five speed, and since we've never had a stick shift since the kids started driving, then it's all mine, baby. And the hubby's, when he's home. It's a beautiful thing.

I learned to drive a stick early on, since that's all my parents had. We had a very ugly AMC Pacer, that we kids called The Aquarium. It was orange like a pumpkin, and ugly as sin. Our other car was an aqua AMC Gremlin. My parents must've had a thing for ugly cars, because that one was fugly too, but hey, it got me back and forth to school in my senior year, and I got my first ticket when I was driving it.

And fugly or not, the first car I bought was a white Gremlin that I painted black (with Rustoleum, man). By the time I sold it to get a better ride, after graduating nursing school, the transmission was being held together, quite literally, with a shoestring, to keep it from sliding out of gear. The salesman actually laughed at it when I told him it was my trade in. Jerk.

So I decided to take the boy out to learn how to drive the new ride. I think he wanted to learn more because if he learns whilst The Brat is out of the country, he'll have a step up on her, but who knows, really? It's in a guy's blood to drive a stick shift. I think after they learn, they can call themself a man, or something. So out we went, to the local middle school where they all learned how to drive.

Lots of construction going on at that school during summer break, but he did great. Tooled around the parking lot several times, feeling pretty darn confident. Made big circles around the place, parked it once, practiced finding reverse, then went to take one final loop. Turned right, and there was a jogger, on the left side of the road. Thomas went to shift into second right when we were next to him, gunned the gas way too much, and the engine revved like the Little Deuce Coupe.

Somewhere, there's a jogger who doesn't have to pee anymore.

Definitely scared it outta him, and gave us a laugh, but finished that loop and took it out on the road. Somehow, Thomas talked himself out of his confidence, and every time we got to an intersection, he started fretting, but still kept it going. Of course, he had heard me mention that learning to start on a hill is a challenge, so when we got to a place with a small incline, he got really worried. Killed it three or four times, but got up far enough that the car behind him could sneak up to the right of us so they could turn. We look over, and there are three or four teenaged guys, getting a giggle at the fact that they are moving, and we aren't.

Thomas gave them a grin and a wave, popped the clutch, burned rubber, and we were outta there. Oh yeah, he is a man now.

Of course, I haven't gotten him behind the wheel again, but he's a step ahead 'o the girl, and I think that's all that really matters. But hey, it's a confidence builder, to say that you can drive just about anything they put you in, because when we went to Aruba a few years back, the guys on our Jeep tour seemed impressed that I knew how to drive a stick -- they had to take a guy out and give him an automatic, but the woman could drive the stick. It was a humiliating moment for a guy, that Thomas will never have. Oh yeah. He's cool.

So if you want something cool for a guy, try this manly blue plaid Babe Magnet shirt, from The Strawberry Classic Menswear, on the bay. You gotta buy a hot ride yourself.

Saturday, June 07, 2008

Pattern Sudoku

I love puzzles. Actually, my whole family loves puzzles. Hubby starts his day with the Jumble, and is usually done in about 45 seconds -- a skill I will never aquire, because the Jumble just ain't my thing.

The kids and I like crossword puzzles, and Sudoku-- a Japanese puzzle that can become addicting very quickly. It's a grid of boxes, nine up and nine across. The goal is to get the numbers 1-9 in each line up and down, without repeating them anywhere, but also in each little grid of nine boxes. It's amazingly challenging, and will boggle your mind, most days -- at least it does me.

So, I got this box of patterns from an acquaintance, who knows that I love patterns. She sent me pics and I said sure, bring 'em over. Fabulous stuff -- 40s mostly, suits coats, capes, and a bunch more. Just lovely.

Till I see that the box, stuffed full, has lots of stray pieces, patterns tied in bundles, shattered envelopes, etc. Oh well, I like a challenge, remember? I set the box aside, figuring I'll work on it at some point. Last week, I figured, I'd better get to it, or I never would.

Turns out this is pattern Sudoku.

Those patterns are a hot mess. Envelopes that look perfectly fine become three different patterns, when the pieces are taken out for perusal. Most of them are missing at least one piece, which I figure may show up as I wander through. I even found a hat pattern in one envelope. The envelope was for a coat, but mixed in amongst several other patterns' pieces was a cool 30s hat pattern. I say cool, because I know the era of the hat, but I have no idea what the hat looks like, because I don't have the envelope. And the coat, whose envelope the hat was in? Well, there were no coat pieces in that envelope. There were a concoction of other pieces, but none for the pattern envelope that I was looking at.

This is the way the whole box is, except for the ones labelled "Ray's pajamas," "Sue's skirt," etc. This box is gonna be a challenge. I've found a handful of complete patterns, but have also started a box of almost complete, and another box of stray pieces, figuring they are going to show up somewhere.

So, I guess that's my form of the Jumble. Hubby'd give up in a New York minute, and most people wouldn't blame him -- especially on an evening where I'm trying to sort pieces whilst watching TV. In front of a fan, because of our dying central air, vintage in its own right. Let me tell you -- counting pattern pieces in front of a fan is not conducive to being in a happy place.

So, I found a pattern in my store that takes me to a happy place. Of course, if it fit, I'd be even happier, and I'd make it exactly how the pattern illustration shows it -- one in a cheery floral print, and the other in green. I'd even get matching dress clips for it. Best thing about this pattern? It's complete! No pattern Sudoku involved.

Monday, June 02, 2008

The Walking Wounded

So the hubby had a little surgery today. Little is the key word here, cause he was in and out in about twenty minutes, and wasn't even put to sleep. It was a LITTLE surgery.

But it was a BIG deal.

You'd think the guy got a limb removed. Oye. His first surgery was after his little brother shot him, in a fit of anger, with a BB gun. Hubby ended up in surgery, but HE was the one who got grounded. He still takes issue with that, some thirty years later.

Second surgery, was a manly thing. (wink wink). Had the whole thing done under a local, after which he walked out, noticeably pale, and told me that he had smelled his flesh burning. And that they'd removed about two inches of tissue from him. Let me just say -- that urologist is my hero.

But today, he had to have a little basal cell cancer removed from near his eye. This is the second one he has had, but this one had to be removed in surgery, because of the proximity to the eye. He actually had a plastic surgeon do it, so now he can say he's had a little "work" done. I suggested a nip and tuck here and there whilst he was in surgery, but he declined.

Instead, he spent the past two days driving me nuts about going under the knife. Freaking out that he'll have a scar, which, of course, will ruin his chances in Hollywood. Ummm....Harrison Ford? Joaquin Phoenix? Oye. I'd tell him what I tell the boys, which is "chicks dig scars," but after almost 21 years of marriage, that's the last thing he needs to hear.

Dude came out of surgery with TWO external stitches, and he's still complaining that he'll scar. I told him nope, cause they put the incision right in his crow's feet, which he didn't appreciate, and besides, he still won't believe me. Gazed upon his stitches at least half a dozen times before we got to the interstate. Vain, anyone?

So, what does one do after one's face is cut upon? Well, the last time he was actually UNDER anesthesia, it was for a colonoscopy, and he followed that up with doing a paint estimate -- something the wife warned against, more than once. He refused to listen, and when he went back to actually paint the house a month later, he remembered nothing about even being there, and realized that those people had gotten a great, post-anesthesia deal on paint.

So today, he didn't have to be warned against all that "don't sign legal documents, don't do anything that requires a thought process" stuff, since he wasn't put to sleep, so we went out and bought a car.

The guy is never having surgery again. God knows what would happen post-op. I'd probably end up with an RV, or my own professional sports team, from Denver, of course.

Granted, we needed a car that gets some modicum of gas mileage, for all those trips back and forth to Vincennes, to pick up the boy from school. My van has over 100,000 miles on it now, and has no air conditioning, so I'm a little reticent to continue to put all those miles on it. The Town Car is beautiful, has a/c, but gets terrible gas mileage, so it's out of the question. Plus, it's 17 years old, so I'm always afraid a belt will break, or worse, on those trips. The paint van is always in use by the guy with the scar, so we went out and bought a little Toyota Yaris, in a pretty shade of blue. It's not big, but it gets good mileage. No power anything -- not even a remote for the doors -- but it's got gas mileage, and, because it's a 5 speed, the kids can't drive it yet, till someone teaches them how to use it. That means I am in the driver's seat, cause they can't fight over whose turn it is to take it. Oh yeah, I thought it out.

And so, for those of you who like to pamper yourself post-operatively, but have enough sense to not go car shopping, you can still get your fix with this cute novelty print car dress, from Ms. Firecracker's Vogue Collection. No keys required.

Sunday, June 01, 2008

Cher and Cher alike

My family won't leave my clothing alone. My personal clothing, owned and worn by me. In my dresser. Or closet. Except when it's not.

My husband has many times been caught wearing my socks. He is constantly wearing my sweat pants in the winter time, and in the summer, wears my shorts. Heck, the guy wore a pair of my maternity shorts till they wore out. Granted, they weren't those ugly ones with the big panel in front, but still, they were MINE. He claims my shorts are more comfortable. I claim he's nuts.

DD raids my sock drawer on a regular basis, to the point where I don't bother giving her socks anymore, cause she's always wearing mine. At least she leaves my clothes alone. She swears she has no idea how I can have such cute taste in stuff to sell, and dress like such a frump myself. I'm just not a high maintenance girl, that's all.

The other day, ds 13 was putting on his shoes, when I realized that he was wearing my socks. Good heavens! What is going on? So out we go, and ds18 was walking in front of me, and I realize that he is wearing my JEANS. MY jeans. I realized it at the same moment as dd, who says "did you notice what he's wearing?"

He just turns around and says "these jeans are SO comfortable." I just give him the look and tell him he's never going to see them again, because they are mine. Apparently, the hubby did the laundry, and gave them to the boy, but I got them back, and he can't have them again.

I've got more cross dressers here than a Cher concert.

So Jill had a friend over last night. She spent the night, went to church with them, then went to play mushball at the park with the youth group. Only she forgot tennis shoes, so I gave her mine to borrow. At least she didn't swipe 'em. She didn't even ask for them -- I volunteered. And when they came back -- Jill and friend, Seth and friend (who happens to be the Jill's friend's brother), and Thomas, I look at said friend #1 and say "aren't those Seth's shorts?" She said "oh, don't worry, I'll take them home and they'll come back here eventually." (Probably accurate, since her brother is here so much that he has his own toothbrush, and a drawer in Seth's dresser.) Jill responds, no, they aren't Seth's, they are his friend's, and he brought them over, so if she takes them home, it's all good. Turned out said friend had the shorts in his bag in the car, which Jill found open on the floor. She wasn't sure if the shorts belonged to Seth or the friend, so she just brought them in.

By the time I made an inquiry, they had been worn by Jill, Seth, Jill's BFF, her brother, and probably the hubby, if given the chance. I, on the other hand, have NOT worn them. Cause I wear my stuff, and pretty much no one else's, unless everyone else has swiped my stuff and the cupboard is bare.

And so, in honor of my cross dressing family, here's a great dress that no one would swipe from me, a Pink 60s Tent Dress, from Posh Girl Vintage, on the web. It's perfect for a pear like me, and the pink would keep the family at bay -- though the hubby would likely like the feel of the satin. But I'd just remind him that John Travolta wore a great tent dress in Hairspray. He might back away slowly. Maybe.