So.............

Well, it's been almost two weeks "jobless" now, and boy am I having fun. I hadn't realized how much I was missing by drowning in the cesspool of corporate America, but I'm starting to get a little bit caught up.

Our dining room table, however, does not reflect this. It's a modgepodge of folded pattern repros, awaiting their envelopes and labels, original patterns waiting to be filed, a pair of boxer shorts that need a quick repair (I'm not asking questions there, folks, so don't you do it either), fish supplies (more on that later), and a potpourri of other stuff. Yes, that table is my project for tomorrow (which is now today, so technically, I'm already behind).

I have, however, had plenty of time to list fun patterns on the website, including some of the 682 I bought during an overnight trip to Chicago last week. Yes, I drove 3 1/2 hours one way to buy 682 patterns. And yes, they were REALLY good ones. These are the things you can do when you are sans job.

Thomas' bff came and spent part of spring break with us, so I put him to work. Mell is 6'3", and was quite comfy on my couch, so I had him bring in the printer, tossed some pattern boxes at him, and he scanned roughly 400 patterns while watching one of the weirdest mixes of movies I've ever seen -- I wish I could remember what they were, but I've slept since then. I know that one involved vampires, and one was Next Friday, but other than that.......just take my word, it was a weird mix. But hey, he saved me tons of time on the scanning.

Best thing that happened that week was that my buddy Jen, of momspatterns came to visit. We spent enough time working on patterns that I ended up on major asthma meds the next week, but the pattern rescue is richer for it. Not to mention the fine Estevez (seen above) that she found whilst we were trolling around. Sorry folks, it's already sold, but take a gander of it at Dorothea's Closet. It really is a sight to behold. And yeah, there's a whole shopping story behind it. Not to mention Jen's experience with the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department. Oh yeah, we don't do anything small, folks.

So this week is dedicated to organization, now that the fish have been freed and the Modes Royale are listed. More about Jen and hostage fish later.

All Good Things..........

I'm a firm believer that God places signs in our lives, to help us figure out where the heck we're supposed to be going. I believe, also, that we don't always pay attention to those signs a good portion of the time. That's how it is that fortune cookies helped me figure out a new path.

We order Chinese food at work, not too often, but once in a while. I'm always amused by the fortune cookies, with their sayings like "you are going to put shoes on today" and the like. Of course, on the back, there is always a word in Chinese which, for me, usually ends up being something like "paint" or something like that. And of course there are always the obligatory lucky numbers, which I always swear I'm going to play in the lottery, and never do.

We ordered Chinese a couple of weeks ago, and I had to laugh at my fortune, because it said "opportunities surround you if you know where to look." Well, looking around my cubicle, I saw another fortune, taped to the front of my monitor, which said "a fascinating project is in your future." Hmmm.....what could that be? Maybe it could be the lady who called, saying that her kid had swallowed a Lego pirate's telescope, and after he passed it, could he have it back, after they sterilized it? Uh.........no. How gross is that? Gross, but not fascinating.

Then I got an email from my boss, with ground rules to our leadership meetings, gleaned from some book that she read on how to be a better leader. I laughed when I read that we would now be coming out of meetings with decisions made on the issues, because in six years, I don't think we've EVER decided anything in a leadership meeting. Reading on, I read that we would be going from the presumption that everyone actually wants to be here, in these meetings. That got me thinking.

I don't want to be here. Then I remembered the fortune cookies, and the fascinating project that supposedly awaits me. I've never gotten a fortune like that at home, yet I had two from when we ordered Chinese at work. Could God be talking to me through a carton of takeout? Crazy.

After much thought, I realized that I was getting ready to go on vacation, and why come back? I've been ready to leave for about a year now, but couldn't decide what to do, so it was time to take a leap of faith. I emailed the boss my resignation, and emailed a few friends who 1) would want to hear it from me, not the grapevine and 2) would spread the word. Well, the word spread like a bush fire in Australia, and when I arrived at work the next day, some people were sad, and some could barely refrain from showing their glee. I, however, felt more gleeful than all of them, because now I'm a free bird. I have no idea where my path will take me from here -- probably to my websites for a while -- but it's taking me out of my cubicle and into a life full of possibilities.

We ordered Chinese again that afternoon, and what did my fortune cookie say? "It takes guts to get out of the ruts." No lie. And you say fortune cookies are not real? Bah. And for the interview I have on Friday, I'd wear this fabulous Dior dress, from Damn Good Vintage, but damn, it won't fit me! Click on the image to shop.

Things learned about the husband during inventory

Dan hates winter, not because of the cold, but because people don't do as much painting in the winter, so he's not crazy busy. I like winter, in part because of the snow, but also because when he's not busy, he does laundry, cooks (a little), and cleans the house. Since my primary job is usually busy in the colder season, I like having the help. It's the whining that makes me want to put nail through someone's head.

So I took two weeks of vacation from work, to go home and do what? Work, of course. On the websites. Meaning it's time to do inventory. We did it last year for the first time, and Dan bailed on me halfway through. That was when I had one website, and now I have two. I kept reminding him of his promise, just so he couldn't pull that "you didn't tell me" stuff that men tend to do. I got started on one website the night before last, after he was done for the day. We've also been moving everything around, and the poor boy was tired. But now I have an actual workspace, complete with shelves and table, and all the shipping in one place. And we've discovered that our sunroom has a floor. Go figure.

We finally got going on inventory in the afternoon, much to Dan's chagrine. He had finally run out of reasons to NOT help me with it, so we settled in to get the books straight. I've always said that if you want to really test the strength of your marriage, wallpaper with your spouse -- which, I might add, is something that we will never do together again. He is not even allowed to mention the word wallpaper to me again, but that's another story for another day. What I did discover yesterday is that another way to test the strength of your marriage is to do inventory together.

Things I discovered about my husband during inventory (which is still in progress -- we got one site done, and are now working on the other, which will be much more difficult to do):
1. The man has ADD. He cannot stay on task for more than maybe, if I'm lucky, ten minutes, before he's off on a tangent, asking what the boxes way on the other side of the room are for, why can't we label the boxes yet, do people really buy these things, and oh, I need a drink. Or something to eat. Or anything to get him away from the inventory.
2. The man is completely obsessed with painting. I asked him to put up the shelves for me, and when I went down to ask him something, he said, in a not too patient tone, to be careful on the steps, because he had just painted the edges of the risers. Who, I ask, paints the edges of the risers? The answer: a man evading doing inventory.
3. He has an almost sick relationship with his shop vac. The man will shop vac anything. He bought me a wonderful Dyson for mother's day a couple of years ago, and what does he use? His little shop vac.
4. He missed the listening skills part of kindergarten, but he's great with organization. I may have to tell him something three times, but once he gets it, he gets it, and it's all fabulously sorted out.
5. He's got a thing for labels. I mean, he LOVES labels. Constantly wants things labelled, even after I've pointed out that we can't label until we know what is going into the boxes.

That said, he's a great help, and I am well on the way to organization in my workspace. Of course, the kids are nowhere to be found, because they hate everything to do with sewing patterns, because that means I might ask them to do something tedious and boring. Not to me, mind you, but to them. Even the dogs stay away, which is no small feat. But I will say, Jill made some Oreo snow ice cream, which was a big hit with the help. She and Dan have ditched me for now, and are at the Y, whilst I take a little break to rest my back.

Why rest the back, you ask? Because as they were going out the door, Jill said "hey, do you have some tennis shoes?" "Yes, they're on my feet. I think they used to be yours, and you gave them to me." "Well give them back to me. I don't have any laces in mine." So the girl not only distracted the help with food, she took him completely away, and left me barefoot in the kitchen. Oye and vay. On the good side of inventory, I found this cool nightgown pattern that I thought was listed on the site, and wasn't. Well, it is now, so click the image to go there.

Ear-ie, Minnesota

I talked to my parents yesterday because, of course, it was Sunday. Sunday means football. Football means Dan has invited a bevy of people over to watch the game, generally without telling me, which means that both the TV, the living room, and my husband are completely occupied for a period of several hours. Yesterday was only slightly different. He told me that he had invited a guy from the paint store over. And that he was making chili.

Came home from work and there was a pot of chili on the stove, and two people in the living room, which evolved into seven people over the next thirty minutes. Good thing that all but one has known us for years, because the first time I went to tinkle, I saw that there were also two loads of laundry on the bathroom floor. Oh well, such is the life of Utter Chaos.

In my great admiration for the pigskin, I went upstairs and started working on Jill's computer, which has gotten a virus that has, thus far, eluded me. While I was waiting for the computer to boot up, I called Mom and Dad. Normal updates on the weather and the kids, and suddenly my mom says "OH! I forgot to tell you. I was talking to your sister yesterday. She said it's twenty below there." My sister lives in that frozen tundra known as northern Minnesota, where every sentence ends with "ohyeahsheryoubetch." I pointed out to Mom that that's not necessarily all that cold there, and she said "yes, but when I was talking to her the other day, she went and let the cat in. A mninute later she told me 'oh my gosh' her ear just fell off!" A minute later, she said that the other ear was falling off too.

What the heck? I don't know how long it takes for a cat's ears to freeze solid, but apparently not all that long, in Ear-ie, Minnesota.

Me being me, I asked Mom if she had fried them up and eaten them. Maybe with some fava beans and a fine chianti. Maybe they'd taste like potato chips. Nothing says lovin' like a nubbin in the oven. And if a cat loses its ears, does it still do that ear licking thing that they do, like when they are declawed and they still keep clawing on the sides of boxes and such? I mean, it can't impair their hearing any, since cats don't listen anyway. But it would cause seriously problems with wearing these cool cateye glasses, from KarmaRox, on etsy. Guess now she'll be blind, too.

I whistle a happy tune

I worked today, then came home to The Brat's retelling of the Great Camping Adventure, which was a great success. Dan's not home yet from Cleveland, so I plopped on the couch, with full intention of listing some patterns on the website. Several hours later, I've still not listed one.
Why, you ask? It's because Jill had The Two Towers on the TV.

I have seen this movie at least 20 times. No joke, except for the fact that saying I've "seen" it may be a stretch. We bought the DVD shortly before Dan went on his first mission trip to Mexico. That was the week I opened my ebay store, which entailed a lot of sitting around figuring out HTML code, IM'ing a friend of Thomas' when I got stuck, counting pattern pieces, taking pictures (yeah, we didn't have a scanner yet). When one is spending so much concentrated time on the computer, one needs something on either the radio or the TV, so I chose The Two Towers. The kids think it's because of my fascination with Legolas (not Orlando Bloom. Legolas), but it was really because the music in that movie is simply so beautiful that you can listen to it over and over again. I've never bought the soundtrack, but I listened to the movie at least ten times in that week alone. So when Jill had it on today, I couldn't resist, and sat and listened while catching up on email and editing the website.

Jill got irritated when I mentioned, for probably the bazillionth time, how much I love the music in the Lord of the Rings series. Oh well. It was no more irritating to her, than the fact that when Titanic came out, I purchased the soundtrack, but never once was able to listen to it in its entirety with Jill around. Jill, who had never seen the movie, would begin freaking out midway through, running through the house, hands over her ears, screaming "they're in the water, they're all dying! Turn it OOOOOOOOOOOOFFFFFFFFFFFF!" And I'll be double dipped, but she always did it in the part of the soundtrack where the people really WERE in the water, dying. She had some kind of Music Whisperer gene that told her when the life jackets were donned.

One time, Thomas, who loved Titanic, said to me "Mom, she's in the tub. She won't hear it. Can we please listen to it now?" I figured he was right, and put it on pretty softly on the CD player. I'll be darned, right about the time that things went south in the movie, The Brat jumped outta the tub, grabbed a towel, and came outta the bathroom screaming about the carnage and that we HAD to turn it off.

To this day, she has never seen that movie, and she's never heard the whole soundtrack.

So if you want some more uplifting music, listen to one of these: any of the Lord of the Rings movies, The Wedding Singer (his song to Linda is hilarious, and the song at the end requires a hankie, it's so precious), Moulin Rouge (listen to the soundtrack unless you want your heart ripped out by the movie), The Sound of Music (the hills are alive........), Gladiator (gruesome, but GREAT music), White Christmas (watched it last night, for the second time in my life -- yeah, I don't understand how that happened either), O Brother Where Art Though (nothing short of hysterically funny, now matter how many times you see it), Walk the Line (I love Joaquin Phoenix, and the clothes are just plain eye candy), The King and I, et cetera, et cetera......

I just love music, which was a seed planted early on by our parents in all of the Mitchell kids. Same goes for the movies. And yeah, I can't resist great fashion either, which is what this little velvet number from Fuzzie Lizzie is. It's yours, for a song.

Death by Chicken Nugget

If you've paid attention here, you'll realize that althought I love to cook, I hate to cook for my
family. I actually get out of doing it as much as possible, by working evenings and by going out to eat a lot. Not good for the waistline, but sometimes, it's sanity vs waistline, and the sanity part wins.

Fridays have been an exception lately, because Jill's been hanging out at work late. On Fridays, the staff usually go out on rides themselves, once the place is closed, and take the horses out to places that are literally off the beaten path. Today, The Brat had an appointment to have the bleeding ear of doom checked out. Dropped her off at work afterward, and she mentioned that she probably wouldn't be home for dinner, because she'd be going on the "fun ride."

Yippee. With the veggie girl gone, I can feel free to cook whatever the heck I want.

I decided to make a cheeseburger ring, because Seth loves it, it's quick, and Jill hates it, and she's not going to be home. Figured I'd throw some onion rings in the mix, too, so I turned on the oven and put them in, whilst I was concocting the cheeseburger ring.

I figured I was being efficient and all, till I smelled something burning, and saw flames in the oven.

I was perplexed, because the flames were coming out from under the bottom of the stove, and above the drawer underneath. Let me give you a hint: there should not be any fire coming out from where it was coming from, so I was a little concerned. Concerned because the flames, though not huge, were not going away. I looked in there, and it looked like a puddle of grease aflame, which started me worrying.

I went looking for the baking soda, and couldn't find it, so I settled for tossing cornstarch on it, hoping for the best. No dice -- I was still seeing flames coming up from underneath, and can't see just how MANY flames are under there that I can't see. I had visions f the gas line blowing the house up, so I found the fire extinguisher, pulled the pin and let 'er rip. This, of course, caused a rather sizeable mushroom cloud of cornstarch to fly up in the air, and set me straight out of the room, in a huge coughin fit. By the time I stopped coughing, I realized that I still didn't know if the fire was out, so I went back into the haze to see what was up. Still flames, so I gave it a blast again, which about required a full blown resuscitation, but at least got rid of the fire.

Now I was nervous, because what do you do with your stove, after you've blasted the insides with a fire extinguisher, and what the heck was causing it to begin with? Heck if I know, so I did what any intelligent woman would do. Called 911, and calmly told the operator that I did NOT have a true emergency, but I needed them to come and look at my stove, to make sure it was safe to use, now that I've tried to blow us up.

Mind you, we had a housefire several years ago, so I'm not really fond of open flames in our house. I hardly ever even light candles anymore, so yeah, I'm nervous. Standing on the back porch, talking to 911, when Dan pulls in and sees me there, phone in one hand, fire extinguisher in the other, and a cloud of white smoke coming out of the kitchen windows. All he could say was "What the hell have you done NOW?"

Thanks, dear, I love you too.

I explained to him what had happened, and he asks, a little sheepishly, if it was a chicken nugget. Why, says I, and he says "oh, I dropped one down in the bottom of the oven the other night, and couldn't get it out." I didn't think that was it, and went out front to wait for the firemen to get there. The phone, still in my hand, promptly started ringing. I answered it, still short of breath from the cloud of god knows what in the kitchen, and the remainder of the asthma symptoms I already had for the past week. It was Jill, who said that she's not going on the fun ride after all, is on her way home, and wants to know what's for dinner.

The irony doesn't escape me.

I stutter and stammer, and tell her I have no idea what is going on. She gets exasperated because she can't hear me (bad signal), and hangs up right as I hear the sirens. I was leaning against the front porch wall, trying to get my breath, when the fire truck pulled up. Two firemen get out, and I tell them that I think it's out, but want them to check on the oven. Their only question is whether or not I've put the dogs up, because they are barking now like they are going to eat someone.

See? I DO live in Utter Chaos.

I go into the kitchen, in which the oven door is thrown open, the cheeseburger ring is still on the counter, and the oven's interior is all white, but at least there's no fire. Dan has disappeared. The firemen inspect things, say it's fine, but take the bottom of the oven out, so that we can see what happened.

The pull out a charred chicken nugget.

They tell me to clean the oven out really well, that it should be fine to use, once it's clean, hand me the screwdriver back, and take off. I went out to the garage, where Dan's only question is what we're doing about dinner, of course. I go in the kitchen to figure things out, and the phone rings again. It's The Brat again, asking, yet again, what's for dinner. I tell her that I haven't sorted it out, because the firemen just left. "WHAT," she said, to which I said, "wait till you get home, and I'll explain it then." Jill's response: "There were firemen in our house?" "Yes, Jill." "Were they hot?" "Yes, Jill, you would've said that one of them was." "Did you take pictures?"

Oh. My. God.

Dan wanders in and says "well, the onion rings should be ok, right," and starts foraging around for these half baked onion rings that have been through the fire and back. I go to work cleaning up the mess, which, I might add, was no small feat. Dan sends Dan to get the fan, so we can air the place out a little bit. Jill wanders through, asking yet again what's for dinner. I told Dan that he had tried to kill me, since he didn't tell me about the mislaid poultry piece, and he assures me that he's really sorry and that no, he's really not in the market for a trophy wife.

I was just rinsing out the last of the rags, and the cheeseburger ring was safely in the oven, when Seth wandered in and asked why the heck it was so cloudy in the kitchen. I looked at him with that blank look that comes with post-traumatic-cooking disorder, and ask him what the heck he's talking about. "Didn't you see the firemen here?" "WHAT," he says. "Why do I always miss the good stuff?" I don't know, baby. I don't know. "What the heck happened," he asked, and when I told him that the oven had started on fire, his response?

"Was it that chicken nugget that Dad dropped?"

So now Seth is an accessory to attempted murder, his buddy, who is visiting for the weekend, enjoyed Seth firing the fire extinguisher his way, out in the alley, Dan has gone back to sanding Purdue Pete out in the garage, and Jill is still wandering around, wondering what's for dinner.

I give up. There are truly some days where I'm afraid to live my own life, here in Utter Chaos, but you take what you get, and you dive right in, lest you miss the good stuff. And speaking of good stuff, check out this cute vintage

50s novelty print skirt, of chickens and eggs, from Spitfire Vintage Clothing, on ebay. Spitfire Vintage. How appropriate. Alas, it will not answer that eternal question -- which came first? The chicken or the fire?

Bloody Hell

I hate to say it, but
the ear infection is back. Oh joy.

The Brat came down to the living room Wednesday night and said her ear was bleeding again -- like I really needed to be told that, because her hand was covered in blood. No pain, just bleeding profusely, so thank God, there was no drama. And I got sleep that night, though she woke up in the morning with blood everywhere, and I found myself once again pulling clots outta her ear.

Ewwwwww.

Called the doc, who never called back that day, but they saw her in the office on Friday. She was less than elated, needless to say, but with the help of a bit 'o Xanax, no one got hurt. I got that little prescription for her after the last appointment, when she threatened to punch the poor littl 5'6" doctor if he hurt her. Mind you, she told me this the day before, but I truly believe the guy would've been lucky to live, had her mother not gotten Vitamin X. After that, she had a cheery little discussion about Butler basketball -- turned out it was his alma mater -- and everything went great.

This time around, she maintained, despite the guy suctioning out her ear for about 20 minutes, during which time he pulled out a clot the size of a raisin. After he was done, he told the little resident doing rounds with him to look in her ear, because apparently there was blood bubbling out of her tube like the La Brea tarpits. He doesn't know why, but it treating it like an infection, and we get to do eardrops for another two weeks.

Oh joy.

She seems to be cooperating this time, because she doesn't want it to get that godawful pain again, so she's not fighting anyone, and tonight even did the drops herself. My little baby girl is growing up.............but she still says she likes her primary care doc best. Odd, since she usually refuses to even speak to the poor guy when she's there, but hey, I figure not threatening bodily harm is always progress, right?

when I went looking for something blood red to match the garbage in The Brat's ear, I couldn't resist this red brocade taffeta dress, from bamabelle, on etsy. Dig the pic, and you'll know why it's the perfect dress for this post. All it's missing is the Xanax.

Getting out of jail is not always free

Seth had a difficult time waking up this morning. Since it's hard to do math whilst semi-comatose, we got in the car and went out searching for science supplies. That's how I found myself talking to my boss' husband whilst driving through one of the most
dangerous intersections in Indianapolis.

Honestly, when one hears one's boss' spouse on the other end of the phone, the first thing you think is "oh my GOD, she's dead, and who is going to run the department?" It's kind of like your life, along with your immediate resignation, flashes before your eyes, actually. I think I may've thrown up a little in my mouth.

Turned out there was no disaster; the hubby was just in jail. I breathed a big sigh of relief when I realized not only that the boss was still kicking -- and working -- but that her hubby had just gotten tossed in the clink as a fundraiser for the Muscular Dystrophy Association. I have no idea what his "cell" looked like, and he had no idea how much bail money was involved, but it was pretty funny to hear his pitch. Matter of fact, he sounded pretty darn comfy, kinda like he had Rita Hayworth hanging on the wall, and a rock hammer in his Bible. Heck, Morgan Freeman was probably sitting right next to him, for all I could tell.

My response, of course, was to question if my participation would be reflected on my performance appraisal. Gotta watch out for ourselves, folks, when the boss is involved. He made no guarantees, so I ponied up for the cause, and I'm pretty sure that he's now a free man. If not, it's a good thing I already got my raise for the year. Maybe I'll use it to buy this cameo and doily trimmed jailbird coat, from The Vintage Zoo, on etsy. But hey, the power suit doesn't mean I want the boss' job, that's for sure. I just want to look cute for the po-po.

Underscoring the point.........

And so, the boy arrived home from Lollapalooza, thankfully chemicallyl unaltered when I went to pick him up at the train station, accompanied by the grandparents. Don't ask, don't tell, and all that rot, cause I don't want to know, but I will say that I told him if he gets an academic scholarship for next year, I will personally buy his ticket for the return trip next year.

He has announced that he will be taking his little brother, at some point in the future, so that he too can become a man. When I mentioned that it involves a) noise, b) crowds, and c) heat, the three things that I know Seth hates most, Thomas replied "oh yeah, he would hate it, but he's going. Not right now, but he'll go, and he'll love it." Once again one of those things only a brother can share with a brother, I think. And again, one of those "don't ask, don't tell things" that only a mother can give the proper evil eye for. Oye.

So now, a week or so later, I was at work, and my friend Ann mentioned that she got another "misdirected" email. Ann, who lives on what we jokingly call "Wisteria Lane" because of the desperate housewives there, just happens to have an email address that is one underscore away from someone who appears to be a woman who is, shall we say, rather popular with the boys. All on the Q-T, of course, but in this case, popularity equals some serious cash.

When Ann first told me about it, me being me, I had to go and google and see what I could find. What found was that a good time is apparently had by all, and the woman doesn't have to worry about paying her light bill. Oye. Ann gets emails from time to time, from customers who can't seem to figure out to add that little underscore, and want to make appointments to meet up for a little "company." Little do they realize that the emails are being received by the wife of a dentist who enjoys quilting, dolls, and raising her nuclear family, and whose idea of excitement is an upcoming Yarn Convention in Chicago. All in all, she's very wholesome, so you can imagine the giggles these emails evoke.

Imagine her surprise when she opened up her email yesterday, only to find an offer from "Roy," who would like to enjoy her namesake's company for a couple of hours. Roy, who just happens to live only blocks from Ann's house. Oye. And of course, me being me, I had to google to see if I could figure out where Roy lives, and who he is, because I'm nosy like that. I mean, how many Roys can live on Wisteria Lane, anyway?

Well, I haven't found him yet, but if you know a guy named Roy who lives in northern Indianapolis, give him a nudge, and tell him to throw some extra in the offering plate on Sunday, cause he obviously has some cash to blow. And while you're underscoring your point, make him buy you this uber cool vintage wiggle dress from jazzboogie, on etsy.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

Put the Machete Away

I don't always get a chance to read the paper, but I try to. I'm not sure why, because I've usually read the morning news online the night before, but the paper can still be informative, especially about local news.

Take the article I read this morning. The author had gone to visit the City-County building here in Indianapolis. In order to get into the building, you have to pass security, which entails putting your stuff through the metal detector, among other things. The security guard had the audacity to confiscate said author's Sharpie marker. I'm not sure when Sharpie's became a threat to local government, but the incident caused him to go online, to see what you can and can't take the the City-County building.

It's quite a list. I mean, after all, when you get downtown and find that you've forgotten to leave your saber in the car, what are you going to do? And I guess that butchers can't go straight to jury duty from work, because they're not going to let you in with your favorite meat cleaver. And if Indianapolis is the sporting capital of the world, the local government must not know, because there is a whole bevy of sporting goods that you can't take in.

I'd say that the hubby is out of luck, cause you sure can't take spray paint, but he can make it up by taking a water gun. The guy likes to take a water pistol everywhere he goes, squirting people randomly from across the room, so he's in luck, as long as it's not a realistic looking gun. Do they make real purple guns?

If you notice, however, there are a few things missing off the list. Machetes, for example. Guess I could get in with that. Paper. I guess they don't realize the danger of a paper cut. Can't take my bow and arrows, but I guess I could take a slingshot. That could be fun.

How does the jury find? DOINK! Right in the kisser.

Our government actually spent tax dollars telling us that we can't take a flare gun to court, so we should spend next year coming up with a list of fun things they left out, then show up with them, just to see what happens. It could be interesting. And if you want to dress as innocently as possible, to try to get past the gate, try this sexy secretary dress from Damn Good Vintage. That cute cross-my-heart-officer-I-wasn't-going-to-hurt-anyone-with-my-Sharpie tie in front seals the deal. I'm just not sure if that metal zipper would set off the metal detector.

What Floats My Boat

The Olympics are fast approaching, and all political protests aside, we love 'em. I've watched the Olympics since I was a kid, and enjoy them. Summer or winter, it really doesn't matter.

Last time around, in the summer Olympics, we watched a ton of events. I remember sitting in the living room, watching some vague track and field event, when suddenly ds shouted, "well, I guess I'll just bleed to death, and no one will care."

Nothing like a little blood to get people's attention.

Turned out the heir to the throne had been taking out the trash, not realizing that the ds had put some broken glass in the plastic bag he was toting. Lugging it out to the curb, that piece of glass put a nasty gash in ds's calf. By the time I got to him, there was a nice little puddle of blood on the front step, and it was obvious there would be some stitches involved.

Plopped him down in the grass, threw on my shoes, and went straight to Immediate Care. By the time we got there, my kid, 14 at the time, was like "dude, did you bring the camera? I need a video of them putting stitches in me. I could do serious things with that footage." Oye. That's my kid. My kid who didn't bother to tell me that he could feel the last couple of stitches going in, but didn't want a delay in the game by messing with more anesthesia.

That's my kid. He'd be a great discus thrower, but since he's friends with half of the track team at Vincennes, I don't think it will ever happen. Heck, he won't even lift with them, cause he says he doesn't need the humiliation.

DD, on the other hand, is quick to say that she wants to be on the rowing team. Specifically, she wants to be the coxswain because, as she says, she wants to be at the front of the boat, so she can yell, "row, you losers, ROW."

Cause that's how my bratty gurl rolls. She'd probably be best with the men's team, since she's so used to bossing her brothers and their friends around. Or, as the whacked out homeschool co-op director said "she'll never find a mate if she doesn't learn how to not be so harsh to the boys." Oye. Sorry, lady, she's not wearing any puff sleeve prairie dress, and I'm not interested in finding her a mate at the (then) age of 15. And if she did, she'd manage just fine by saying, "clean, you loser, clean!"

And it would work, trust me.

So, if you are looking for a great nautical print dress to show off your Olympic spirit, check out my girl Rubie, atThe Vintage Fashionista, and her iconic Claire McCardell nautical flag print dress. Buy, you losers, buy!