Boys 2 Men

Seth's best friend spends a lot of time at our house. He's kind of one of the boys, but I always tend to have extra boys, so that's fine. These two have been compadres since they were babies of a few months, sitting on Zoe Martinez in the church nursery. They even look a little bit alike.

When Seth was little, he put a pair of scissors in the dining room outlet. I came downstairs, and tried to turn the lights on. I couldn't figure out why they wouldn't work, when Jill says -- without ever looking up, mind you -- "oh, it hasn't worked since Seth put the scissors in that outlet." He was about two. This was the same age at which his buddy, Chris, cut a table lamp's cord in half with scissors, while it was on. Sparks flew, and Chris' eyes got really big, but not as big as the two mothers who were there at the time.

Chris threw Buzz Lightyear down the toilet, Seth put peas up his nose. Chris cut his arm at the river, Seth got a gash in the head in Sunday School. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when Seth came up with an imaginary friend named Chris. "Mom," he'd shout, rather frantically, "don't sit on Chris Smith," whenever we would try to sit next to him. When we'd take off in the car, he'd tell me, "don't take off, Mom, Chris Smith isn't buckled in."

As if I needed anything else to make me think I might just be losing my marbles.

Nowadays, these boys are just two big blonde dorks who play video games and never change their clothes until they're good and ripe. And dorks they are. Today, Chris was sitting next to me, watching TV. Seth came up behind him and was trying to ask him something, when Chris retorted that he was in the middle of something, and to be quiet for a minute. Seth's response? Typical Sethanese: "oh, if you're thinking, I'll leave you alone. Just let me know when you're done."

Oye.

And so, in honor of the two little delinquents in the slow lane to manhood, check out this vintage 50s Arrow shirt, from my gal Kim, at Fast Eddie's Retro Rags, on ebay. It'll get the sparks flying.

Deaf-initions

My brother in law is in town from Florida. He's the baby boy of five: four kids in four years, then six year later, there's James. My husband, the former baby of the original four, still has issues from having his baby-dom usurped, forty years later.

When I met Dan, James was 16. Dan told me "you'll have to meet my little brother. You'll like him. You'll just have to talk slow to him." Me and my big mouth, I say to my newly beloved "what? Is he deaf or something?"

Turned out he is. Oops.

So James, being sixteen, was left behind when Dan's parents went to Florida on vacation, so he could go to school. Since I worked nights, I was elected to be the one to go and make sure he made it up and to the bus on time, then I would crash at the inlaws house for the day. One of the days they were gone, there was no school, and in walks James with the phone, waking me up from a blissful day of sleep (I worked nights at the time). Hands me the phone and says "it's Sean."

Well, Sean can hear, so talking to him is no problem, but what transpired was almost surreal, especially when I was half awake. Sean had called for his friend Mike, who is deaf. James gave me the phone so that I could tell Sean what to tell Mike, and they got into this crazy argument. I don't even remember what the heck it was about, but I do remember finally telling him that it was more than a little crazy to wake me up, in the middle of MY night (don't worry that it was 11am), so that he could argue with his friend, and if they needed to argue, they should do it face to face, so there could be some lip reading going on. And that I was going back to sleep.

And I did.

Dan can do a near perfect James imitation, and frequently talks to his brother in his brother's voice. It's funny to listen to, and James doesn't care. Dan will break out in James-ese at random times, like the night that we were laying in bed, in the pitch black of night, and he suddenly broke into Sinatra's "Something Stupid," in James' voice. I almost fell of the bed laughing. But the funniest interaction I think I ever saw between the two was on Christmas a couple of years ago. Dan and James made quite a production of singing the one song that James could sign: "You Light Up My Life." Dan stood in front of the family singing in James' voice, while James signed it, in these wildly embellished signs. It was hilarious, because they were both so exaggerated.

But if you know them, that's how they both roll, so it's all good. And if you want something to light up your life, or someONE to do the same, take a gander at this crazy mad sexy gold bombshell 50s dress, from Blue Velvet Vintage. No argument here, it's gawgeous!

Do you hear what I don't hear?

The Brat has bad ears. I'm not sure what line she was in when they handed out ears, but it was definitely not the right one, because her ears have given us fits since she was four months old. Three sets of tubes later, the girl still has bad ears.

A week and a half ago, she started complaining of a little pain when she touched in front of her ear. Two days of this, and I took her to the doctor. Now, The Brat is awful to doctors. We have the best, nicest doctor on earth, and she is just an evil beast to him. Refuses to speak to him when she's there. So I take her in, and she of course says her ear is fine, glares at the doctor, and never says another word. ::sigh:: Got her eardrops after he diagnosed swimmer's ear (she hadn't been swimming, but remember, her ears are rotten), and within two days, she was a mess. Up crying all night long, which means I was up all night long too.

My reminiscing of years gone by, when I would rock her to sleep during ear infections, fell on deaf ears. Literally, because she can't hear outta that ear. Totally deaf, she is. And draining nasty bloody yuck.

Thursday of last week, we saw our doc's partner. Our doctor was "on vacation," but the poor little guy was probably hiding in fear of the Evil Brat Hater Child. She actually decided that the partner is her new favorite person, because he told her not to go to work for a few days. At least she didn't bite him, even when she said that now she had a middle ear infection, and she needed to take Amoxicillin. Did I mention how evil she is about taking medicine. Took us two people to hold this child down for antibiotics, even when she was four months old. I mean, she is AWFUL.

So over the weekend, the situation went south. Like Chilean south. Constant pain, drainage, headache, sobbing, ice, heat, drugs, nothing helped. An awful time was had by all, trust me. Talked to the doctor, who said she had to get in before the appointment that we had with the ENT next week. Yeah, right, that's no joke.
Monday morning, I was on the phone, trying to get her in. Ended up getting her in with a crabby doctor -- a partner of my ENT, who is wonderful, but this woman was a total crab. Stuck a wick in her ear while The Brat is sobbing, and just tells her to "toughen up."

I'll toughen her up, right upside the head. We couldn't get out of there fast enough. Bratty didn't talk to her the whole time we were there -- not one single word -- and didn't speak a word until three hours after we got home. It wasn't pretty, especially when The Brat heard that we have to do drops three times a day.

Next day, she tries to refuse to do the drops, brother pins her, touches her ear by accident, and there was drama. You probably heard it where you were. Next time, her father went in one door of Seth's room and I went in the other, so she couldn't escape, but at least I got the drops in without her crying.

Next morning, her ear was the Bleeding Ear Of Doom. FULL of blood. ::sigh:: I called the doctor, and they made me talk to the bitchy doctor's nurse, who tried to guilt me into bringing her in. NO WAY I was taking her in. Heck, I wouldn't have even gotten her in the car if she knew we were seeing the hater woman again. I told her I really just wanted to know if it was normal, because she acted fine, and I got the old "if she was my daughter, I would want her seen, to see what's going on." "Well, ma'am, I'm a nurse, and I'm cool with waiting, and taking the chance of ending up in the ER," says me. And that's what I did.

She's finally turned the corner, went to work today, and feels good enough to crab at us, so we know that our Bratty Girl is back to normal, or at least on the way. No more Bleeding Ear Of Doom, but she does have an appointment next week with MY ENT, not the hater one. You'll know she's there when the earthquake starts.

And so, to answer the question, heat or ice on an ear that hurts, try this Eisenberg Ice Rhinestone Earring and Brooch set, from Material Memories, at Babylon Mall. That set will make those ears hurt so GOOD. And if you really want to know, ice or heat, it's whichever one feels best, just don't fall asleep on it and burn your ear or give yourself frostbite. And don't call me. I'll be catching up on 17 years of ear infection induced insomnia.

Beyond the Red Door

Hubby did a paint estimate for the neighbor tonight. He wants his windows and doors painted, with the front door to be painted red.

I love red doors. It was tradition years ago that the front door would be painted red when the mortgage was paid off. Mind you, our front door is red -- not brilliant red like I'd love to have, but a brick red, which will do -- but fear not, our mortgage is not paid off for another ten years or so. I don't know if the neighbor's house is paid off either, but when I went looking at the tradition behind red doors, I found out a lot of stuff.

Doors are painted red around the new year in China, to ward off evil spirits and bring happiness. (This may be why the neighbor wants red, as he's into Eastern religions.) In the Catholic and Anglican churches, red doors symbolize Christ's blood, or the lamb's blood painted over the door in Passover -- definitely not what it symbolizes in our house, because we won't talk about animal blood of any nature around the PETA daughter, even if it's a holy thing. 'Nuff said on that, before she sneaks up over my shoulder and starts a diatribe.

I remember that my sister loved the doors in Ireland, when she was there. She loved how colorful they all were. The doors in our neighborhood aren't necessarily colorful, but they are all different. Ours has a rounded top, a la Hobbit houses, that's too cute to describe.

OMG Dan just came in and asked what I'm doing, and I had to explain the blog concept. He's never read the blog, though he knows it's here. Doesn't have a clue what a blog IS, but knows I have one, whatever it may be. He's fairly Amish, but we're working on it. The red door is a start, of sorts, I suppose.

And so, in thinking ofthe doors of Irvington, Ireland, and everywhere in between, I went to the bay and found this mini poster of the colorful doors of Ireland, from Emerald Isle Gifts. Looks beautiful, no? Perhaps I will have to go and visit one day -- and perhaps I will meet a ghost or two like my sisters did. Meantime, I shall enjoy my round red door and my porch swing. And the mortgage payment that goes with it. And if you want YOUR door painted red - or any other color - and you don't sleep with YOUR painter, check out the hub's website. Especially if you live somewhere exotic, and you want to pay for him (and his assistant, wink wink) to travel to you.

Not your average Mrs Roper

I watched Oprah the other day, for the first time in ages. Seems like every time I actually get time, and custody of the TV, while Oprah is on, then it's a show I've already seen. Not this time.

This time it was about me.

Oprah did a show about shlumpadinkas. No, it's not Polish. It's Oprah-ese for a frumpy dressed woman who, in her words, "has given up, and it shows." Yep, that's me. The Brat is always threatening to throw my name in the hat for What Not to Wear. Heck, I'm pretty sure it's not just a threat -- I think she actually DID put my name in that hat. Drives her nuts, my shlumpy ways because, as she says, "how can someone have such cute taste in clothes to sell, and suck with her own wardrobe?"

Well, dear, it's cause there's no dress code in my life. Actually, there's not much of a dress code in anyone's life anymore, but you still wouldn't see me going out in my pajama bottoms. Heck, hubby went out to the minimart one time in his boxers, expressly to buy a newspaper from the machine, in the midst of a hurricane. You wouldn't see me doing that. I'm just a jeans and T shirt girl, cause that's what we wear to work. All those billboards of your Ask-A-Nurse sitting there in starched whites, with her cap on? Nope. Jeans and T shirts, or on a good day, when I'm working days during the week, maybe a skirt or a dress, with flip flops.

People usually don't care what's on your feet when you're on the phone, right?

Of course, being married to a painter helps, cause when everything he owns is covered in paint, it doesn't pay to dress up. Jill's always in either pajama bottoms, or boot leg jeans, with cowboy boots on. And heck, you're lucky to see Seth with clothes on. Dan's paint partner swore that he never saw that kid in clothes till he was at least 8, because he was prone to stripping off at any point in time -- even if it was 20 below, and we were on the way to church. He HATED wearing clothes. He's better now, but still wears shorts all winter, given the chance, just like his big brother.

And so, in order to find something comfy to wear at home that's not beaten up jammies, I went wandering around and found this cinch waisted caftan, at Kiss My Vintage. It's the perfect blend of comfy and style, if only I had the 28 inch waist to go with it! But it's not Mrs. Roper, and definitely not shlumpadinka. So yeah, it's what to wear, or you can kiss MY vintage.

Breakfast is ready when the smoke detector goes off

We stayed at the Fairfield Inn this weekend, partially because of the free breakfast. Dan is all about saving money -- though I'm not really sure that it saves money when you compare rates -- but hey, with a pool and food, he's happy.

He got up on Saturday morning and left without waking me up. I found a note that said "I'm at the pool," shortly before he wandered back to the room, griping about some old guy working at the breakfast buffet. Apparently, Dan reached in for his pastry with bare hands (yuck) and got his hand slapped by the breakfast host, who told him he gets in trouble if people don't use the tongs. Dan, never one to lack a complaint about having to toe the line, carried on about this all the way back down to breakfast (one doughnut does not constitute breakfast, mind you), then started up all over again under his breath as soon as he saw the host again. Oye.

We decided to have Belgian waffles, so we did the old "dump the cup 'o batter in the thingy and flip it" to start the timer. I was fixing a glass of milk, waiting for my waffle to cook, when I suddenly hear the ladies next to me getting a little excited about something. Turned out that they had put some bread in the rotating toaster thingy, and now it was stuck, and starting to smoke. They tried getting the host's attention, but he had walked into the storeroom, when suddenly the bread burst into flames. One not so bright woman blew into the toast, trying to put it out, and the flames got higher. "You might not want to do that," said her friend, rather earnestly. Duh.

By the time the host got over there, the flames were at least six inches tall, and all the guy did was gripe about how they had to have put something in there that didn't belong, and how stupid people are. Right about then, her charred bread popped out the bottom, but that didn't stop the guy. By now, the smoke detector was going off, and Dan and I were both looking for a fire extinguisher, cause the flames were getting to be about a foot tall. Guy keeps griping, someone suggests unplugging the toaster, to which Mr. Host replies, "no it does this when people put stuff in here that doesn't belong. See -- there's cream cheese. Someone put a bagel in here with cream cheese on it." Carried on about it till it burned itself out, then walked out, griping that no one could use it now, cause he had to clean it, and how people do stupid things like putting in bagels slathered with cream cheese, or even put the plastic plates in it, and he's the one who has to clean it up.

Mind you, he never so much as batted an eye at the flames.

We ate breakfast in a smoke filled room, by the door, so I didn't start coughing. Ashes were flying through the air rather freely, and I blew the stuff outta my nose the rest of the day. So make a note to yourself -- nothing goes into the toaster but breadstuffs, and please, use the tongs for your pastries. Or if you want to stick to the fruit plate, try this vintage strawberries apron, from a Venir, on Main Street.

When a tree falls in Irvington............

So, here I was in the living room today, trying to go about my day, when suddenly I heard a crash, and the entire house shook.

At first, I stupidly thought that perhaps Thomas had fallen out of his chair upstairs, or passed out or something. The last time there was any crash even remotely close to this on the Reichter scale, I thought the same thing, because Thomas had been very, very sick for a couple of days, and was on room arrest, till he got feeling better. I went flying up the stairs, ran into his room, where he looked at me sheepishly, laughed, and said "oh, did you hear that? I tackled Bandit."

That poor cat never looked at him the same. Probably saw his life flash before his eyes for a few minutes, but this very dumb beast finally had some synapses fire right, and stayed away from Thomas the rest of the summer.

But today, I knew Thomas was fine, because I could hear him talking to his brother. I suddenly remembered that we had two cars parked on the street, threw open the front door, and realized that half of the neighbor's tree was now in the street. Like totally blocking the street, with cars trying to maneuver around it, cause it is one HUGE tree. Huge like death, had you been under it, or like totalled, if the boys hadn't gone to the movies and moved the Town Car a couple of hours before, because it was parked right where the tree landed.

Yowza. I knocked on the neighbor's door and when she answered, we revelled in the fact that no one had gotten hurt, but now what in the world were we gonna do? Got the kids out there, and moved what we could, called the city to see if they could send someone, and started moving stuff around, waiting for the hubbies to get home.

I'm always amazed at how much of a neighborhood we still live in, because within an hour, we had several neighbors all over, dragging stuff around, chopping it up, and moving the limbs into piles, which quickly overtook the freshly mown lawn. Dan got his saw out and started chopping the smaller branches with aggression that was just a little scary, quite frankly, but I just kept my distance.

The other amazing thing was the stupid questions that people asked as they went by. Things like:

"What are you gonna do with that wood?" Make pencils, dude. How many do you want?

"Did anyone get hurt?" Buddy, that's what the chain saw is for, so you better get outta the way before YOU get hurt for asking that. Man, if you don't see the jaws of life, or us moving just a little bit quicker, everyone is fine.

"Do you need some help?" After which the interrogator promptly disappears.

Gotta love the rednecks who stopped by with a full pickup of branches, and offered to haul the whole thing away for $350. "Do you have a chainsaw?" How in the world they were gonna do it without a chainsaw was beyond me, but buddy, if I'm providing the equipment, I'm damn well not paying you $350.

"Did it fall?"

The only possible response to that one? "What the hell do you think, buddy?" Honestly. I can't tell you how many people asked us just that. What a bunch of goobs.

So, we spent the twilight hours cleaning up the branches, with the help of the Parks Department, and the chainsaw their guy brought -- we can now get into the driveway, and people can drive down the street without asking getting stupid answers to stupid questions. And if you ask, when a tree falls in Irvington, does anyone hear it, you now know -- yeah, a lot of people do. And if you want something to commemorate the moment, grab this vintage Malia novelty tree print dress, from Gatco, on the bay. No chainsaw needed.

Surreal vacation moments

So, in the past not quite four weeks, I have logged roughly 2,834 miles in my car, just in the long trips, not including day by day driving around. One trip to Tennessee, two to Cincinnati, one to Michigan, and one to West Virginia and back. One blown engine and two monsoons later, I'm ready to stay home for a while.

So, we were in the pool at the Fairfield Inn, in Fairmont, West Virginia, the other night. Worked all day, then drove to West Virginia, getting in about 10 or so, and headed straight down for a dip. There were two young boys in the pool, maybe ten and twelve, throwing the football around. Nice young men, these boys and, since they had a football, Dan decided not to miss the chance to work the room and started talking Broncos football.

A bit of small talk later, he inquired where they were from. "North Carolina," they said. "Are you here on vacation," says the hubby, to which they responded, "we're visiting a friend of our dad's. He's in prison."

Wow. A family vacation to the slammer. How very odd. Their mom wandered in later, and hubby talked to her for a while, never sure if she had had a nip, or if he was nuts, but it was pretty surreal when she mentioned that they were visiting a friend who's in prison. "He didn't kill anyone," she declared. "He just took some money."

All righty then.

And so I got thinking about some of the more surreal moments on our vacations, and of course, Utter Chaos being what it is, there was a list to choose from:

The time in Mexico, on a mission trip, when the nurses at the clinic brought Dan some cactus souffle as a thank you gift. He was sick as a dog for two days.

The time in Colorado when Dan decided we were going to find a bed and breakfast to sleep in -- that night, by driving by and just asking. I was mortified, but we ended up in the Teddy Roosevelt Suite, at Red Crags, for less than half the normal price, sipping free champagne in the hot tub, with a group of hearing impaired guests. Dan slipped into the kitchen for a snack, suddenly reappeared, and asked the owner, "is there supposed to be a racoon in the kitchen?" It had snuck in an open door.

The day we went to the Rockwell Museum, in Stockbridge, Mass. We left the two kids (Seth wasn't born yet) with my aunt and uncle, and when we got back, we pulled right up to the back door, which was glass. There stood my aunt, with a very serious look on her face. I looked at Dan and said "you get out first," to which he replied, "no way. It's your aunt. You go first." We made a deal, and both got out at the same time, right as the door swung open, and Aunt Barbara declared, "these are two of the quietest children I have ever seen." We both let out a huge sigh of relief.

Our honeymoon, which almost didn't happen. Well, let's face it, the entire wedding almost didn't happen. But when we finally got on the plane, we started wondering, just how does one get from Orly to the Metro station? I don't worry about stuff, cause it always works out, but Daniel went to work, working the plane, totally unbeknownst to me. He goes to the bathroom, comes back, and points at some guy a few rows up. "See that guy," he says, "his name is Jesse, and he's in school at Emory. He lives in Paris, and he's gonna give us a ride to the Metro station."

How about NO? I told him no way was I getting in a car with a stranger, in a strange country, where I didn't speak the language, but a few hours later, I was climbing in the back of his VW Rabbit, praying that he wasn't a terrorist.

Later in that same vacation, after a large quantity of sangria -- in a French Chinese restaurant, no less -- I found myself in a bathroom stall that literally had two footprints and a hole in the ground. I marched out and informed hubby that there was NO WAY I was peeing in a hole in the ground. He took me back to the car -- we almost got mugged on the way -- and took me back to the room, where we had actual plumbing.

There have been more, like the weekend drive to Florida -- 15 hours one way, with three kids -- to spend the weekend with the inlaws, and surprise my bro for his birthday, and the time I left my purse -- with $700 cash in it -- on the porch at the Visitor's Center in Townsend, TN (yes, it was there when we went back, with everything still in it), but these are just the ones that come to mind, and looking back, maybe a vacation to the prison isn't so unusual, given our history. And to stay with the vacation theme, here's a vintage Paris scarf, proclaiming "Paris and its marvels." It's a marvel we're ever allowed outta the house, most days, but you can pick up this little cutie from oopsie2, on ebay. Oopsie!

The big 4-6

OK, so today is my birthday. 7/11, just like the mini mart. 7-11, like the lucky numbers in some games. 7/11, like my uncle, two of my friends, and John Quincy Adams. It's a popular day, I guess.

The kids celebrated my birthday a day early, with an Asian themed dinner of stuffed mushrooms (YUM!), Caesar salad (I'm sure he owned some property somewhere in Asia, right?), shish kabobs, fried rice, and fried red tomatoes. Oh, and carrot cake, which is my favorite. They even made virgin daiquiris and had sparkling grape juice. Those are some kinda kids, I'll tell you.

And the food was good. Thomas evicted himself from the kitchen, after professing that the kabobs would be awful, but I liked them. He didn't do half bad for a rookie -- I've never made shish kabobs either -- except that he put regular charcoal in our gas grill. Sure am glad he didn't blow himself up. Oye. Live and learn is better than live and burn, I always say.

No arguing over dishes either, cause hubby said he'd do them. Of course, he got doing other things, including touching up the kitchen paint, and I did the dishes, but I don't mind. As I've gotten older (and I AM older, today), I find doing dishes to be therapeutic. It's great to clean the kitchen, because there's a purpose to it, a beginning and an end.

So now, my kitchen is clean, everyone's got a full belly, and I'm quietly reflecting this evening, on the fact that almost 46 years ago, my parents welcomed their fifth -- a 10 pound 4 1/2 ounce ball of fire, complete with red hair, and called her Lisa. Contemplate the time of your birth sometime, and the fact that you are here at all. It's pretty amazing, really.

Oh, there I go getting deep and all, but I guess it's cause we're heading to West Virginia tomorrow, to spend an overnighter with Dan's family, celebrating a 50th anniversary for his aunt and uncle, so I'm gonna chill and enjoy myself. Hillbilly birthday, oh yeah! Good times. And if I wasn't in my 40s, with a waistline to match, I'd be pickin' up this slammin' 40s sundress, from Julie at Damn Good Vintage. Cause today, I'm thinking it's a damn good thing I wasn't a boy.

Happy 4th of July!

Happy 4th of July! No plans for today, but hey, I have a day off from work, and after all of the driving I've done lately, that's enough for me. I don't know if there will even be fireworks here tonight, because it's rainy and yuck. Surprise.

We've done all sorts of things, when it comes to fireworks. We've driven downtown with the kids and a blanket, and watched them on the lawn. We saw them once at an Indians game. We've skipped the whole thing more than once, and just set them off at home -- with me in the house, 75 lb dog on lap (he's scared of fireworks) and the phone in my hand, ready to call 911 if the hubby blew himself up. It's never happened, but it pays to be ready for these things.

The most memorable 4th of July for me was in 1989. I was seven months pregnant with Thomas, and we had the bright idea of going downtown and watching the fireworks from the circle -- the exact center of the state, and home to some interesting places, like the symphony, the Soldiers and Sailors monument,the Columbia Club, and a bevy of other places. We went down there, parked, and wandered over to where the action was. There were a lot of people there, of all shapes and sizes, so we milled around for a while, then found a piece of curb to park ourselves on.

Waiting for the fireworks meant there were a lot of bored people, so some people were lighting sparklers, and a few brilliant minds had bottle rockets that they'd shoot off, once in a while. Well, some dingbat shots one off, and it careened into the back hem of someone's shirt, where it went off. The recipient was none too happy, and an altercation broke out. People started taking sides, and the next thing you know, we had a full blown gang war getting ready to happen, with people running by us at full tilt.

Hubby yelled that we needed to get out of there, so he jumped up and stuck out his hand for me. I was stuck -- sitting on the curb, very pregnant, and couldn't get up because of the people running by me. I ended up putting my hands over my head and doubling over to protect myself -- at some point someone jumped right over me. Hubby finally was able to get to me and yank me up, and right as we got ready to take off, we saw a very large car pull up to the curb by us and park.

In the midst of mayhem, an older lady, very plump, in slippers and housecoat, gets out and, oblivious to what's happening around her, walks through the crowd, deposits her light bill in the night depository at the IPL building, then waddles back to her car and drives off through the crowd.

It had to be one of the more surreal moments in my life, but hey, you have to keep the home lights burning, right? These days, hubby takes the two youngest kids up in the church's bell tower, and they watch the fireworks from there. Not one for heights, I just stay home, and that's just fine with me. But if you want something cute to wear for your celebration, grab this cute 60s sailor style culottes pattern from my buddy Jen, at Mom's Patterns. It's perfect for a summer celebration, and just what my mom used to make for us when we were little. So wag your flag folks, it's Independence Day!

Sethanese, Part II

I love regional accents. I love accents, in general. As a matter of fact, we have one doctor at work who has such a fabulous French accent, that I sometimes page him when he's on call, just to listen to him talk. OK, so not exactly, but I do look forward to talking to him, and tell the other girls that I'll page him for them, if need be.

Antonio Banderas has a pretty cool accent too, even when it's on a Nasonex commercial. Dutch accents are really, really hot. I think Canadian accents are fun -- even when it's from my sister. Ohyeahsure youbetcha.

In Gatlinburg, it goes without saying that most people speak with a twang. You can't go anywhere without hearing a ya'll, or a y'ins. Y'ins always makes me giggle. It just sounds funny. But not so funny as Seth, when he decides to serve as a translator.
He spent much of our vacation translating regular English (which, of course, is something of a misnomer. Americans speak an odd derivative of proper English, that is rarely understood from one generation to the next).

Now, we all understand that Seth orbit is just a little wider than most of ours. Those of us who live with him also understand that he has enough of a range of sound effects that he could take that show on the road, maybe even with his brother, who does a mean Wookie imitation. But I think that the funniest thing I've heard is Seth's translation service, when he translates into hillbilly.

Granted, it basically consists of variations of "derkadur. Uh der der der. Derkadur," but it's hilarious to listen to. And since there were a LOT of hillbilly accents in Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge, we got the full effect. It started with Jill, I believe, saying that she hadn't understood a word of what someone said, and Seth turning to her, and saying, quite seriously, "he said uh derkadur." From there on out, all hope was lost of me keeping a straight face, whenever Sethanese went hillbilly, because he carried it off so well.

"What would y'ins lahk for dinna" would turn into "derk derkadur dur dur," as soon as the server was out of earshot. "What kahnd of fudge would ya'll lahk," turned into "derky derky derky dur." I swear he probably was doing it in his sleep, like a drunken Annie Sullivan.

I've often told this kid that God gave him to me, just to make me laugh, and he always does just that. The kid is a nut, so here's a Nut and Squirrel print pair of golf pants, from Rubeus-Feire, on ebay. Der der der.