A History of Longevity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 Speed of Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pattern Sudoku

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

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

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

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

Turns out this is pattern Sudoku.

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

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

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

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

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.