I had a flat yesterday. No biggie, really. I've changed my share of flats in my life. Heck, I taught the boys how to change one. Seth had the quickest tire changing lesson ever. It's still the only time I've been to Toledo. Flat tires are not a huge thing to me, as long as I can lift the new tire up. ::reminds self to do more pushups::
I was driving home from work in the Miata -- a rarity at this time of year. I left a few minutes early, looking forward to the drive on a clear winter's day, music blaring. Ten minutes later, I felt that familiar thump, thump, thump. Phooey. Fortunately, I was at an intersection which was blessed with a Marathon station, so I pulled in, popped the trunk, and got ready to get to work. Easy peasy Japanesey -- clear day, chilly but not too cold, and a small tire that's low to the ground. I figured I'd be out of there pretty quickly. I called Jim to tell him that I'd be late getting home -- the last time I didn't do that, he was ready to call the State Police, thinking that I was in a ditch. Sweet man, he is.
I did a little inventory of the trunk, wondering if I'd taken my own advice. When the kids bought their cars, I told them, ALWAYS make sure when you buy a car that you have a spare and a jack in the trunk before you drive out. Spare? Check. Jack? Check. Huh. The spare was held in place with a lug nut. Okay, no problem. I reached into the cubby in the trunk and pulled out the ziplock bag that held the lug wrench. UH OH. There's an adaptor, but no lug wrench. Huh. I looked around. No lug wrench. Look in the owner's manual to see if there's a cubby I'm missing. Nope. There was no lug wrench.
No problem, right? I mean, everyone has a lug wrench, right? Not so much. I quickly realized that I was parked right by the divorced parents' parental drop off, because someone pulled up by me and jumped out with their kid, and struck up a conversation with a person in the next car. I asked if they had a lug wrench I could borrow. "Oh man, I don't. My lug wrench isn't gonna work on your car." He had a pickup truck with big tires that apparently uses different, bigger lug nuts. He asked his ex, who was standing next to her truck. She rummaged. Nope, no lug wrench. Geez, lady, I hope you don't have a flat with your child in the car. I looked around, nothing but pickup trucks. I finally find someone else with a car -- no lug wrench.
I decided my best bet was to go inside and see if anyone had one. I went to push the door open, and realize that the whole station was full of Amish people. Well that isn't gonna help me. I went up to the clerk. No, he drives a pickup, too. He asked the other clerk, who looks at him blankly and asked what a lug wrench is. He looked at me and rolled his eyes, while he explained what it is. "Oh, I don't have one of those. My mom drove me to work." Seriously? The first clerk looked at me and said "the towing companies probably have one." Dude, that's what I'm trying to avoid -- getting charged for something stupid.
I decided that my only real option at this point is to call Jim and tell him what's going on. Only now, I realized that I am apparently in the Bermuda Triangle for T-Mobile, where my cell phone never works. How it worked the first time is beyond me, because it's never worked in that area before. Apparently, it used all its magic the first time, because I have no signal, no matter where I move. I went back in and asked the clerk if I can use his phone.
He says no problem, he'll just head up there and rescue me. He arrived shortly thereafter, lug wrench in hand. Unscrewed that lug nut and what? The stupid lug wrench is under the spare. Which was held in place with a lug nut. No way could I have changed that tire without the lug wrench. No way to get the lug wrench without the lug wrench.
And thus, a weekend was started with me stranded at a gas station with a flat tire, a bunch of Amish people, and no lug wrench. And you wonder why I'm half nuts.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Monday, March 16, 2015
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Speechless
We had a home invasion this weekend. For three days, we were held hostage while our home was rifled. Thankfully, only minor items were taken. I've come to expect this every time Jill comes home.
They got in at about 6:15am on Friday morning, after driving all nght from Pensacola. She had texted and said that they were close, so I jumped in the shower really quick, so as not to meet them all stinky. When I got out of the shower, the dogs were going nuts. I called out, only to find that yes, they had gotten home -- and that they had gone straight to bed. So much for seeing them before I went to work.
I got home and was met with "the look." "The Look" is something that her brothers and I hate to see. It's roughly the equivalent of Vesuvius threatening to blow, without the lava. It could go either way. Turned out that she had just found out the they needed new tires, so it wasn't a happy moment, but it was fixable. She then informed me that she had tried "every product that you have in your shower." She was elated to find that apparently we keep "a LOT" of products in there, and that one of them had made her now waist length hair "super soft."
I asked her if it was the dog shampoo. She did, after all, say she'd tried everything.
She said she was impressed by the amount of makeup I have, and that she would take it home if I wanted her to. She especially was interested in my eye cream, because she feels that, at the ripe old age of 23, she has developed laugh lines, and this isn't acceptable. Oye vay.
The next morning, she decided to go to breakfast with her brothers, and informed me that she needed shoes, because all she had were her boots, and they wouldn't possibly work for her. She swiped my Keds for the morning. I realized while they were gone that my brush had gone missing -- not cool, since Thomas and I were going to a wedding that afternoon. When she got home, she insisted that she had no idea where it was, despite admitting that she had brushed Michael's hair with it. She told me to use her brush, but she didn't know where it was either.
You see how this goes, right?
They were home for the weekend to attend another wedding, so when she came down ready to go, she asked how she looked, and mentioned "I borrowed your purse." HUH? I don't even use a purse. I took one look at her and said "that's not my purse." "Well, whose is it?" "Michele's." Michele is my dear husband's first wife, who passed away.
::crickets::
I've lived with this girl for nearly 24 years, and I think I can truly say that this was the first time I have seen her speechless. There was a long silence, during which she looked, wide eyed, up to the kitchen at Jim. Jim let her soak it in for a moment, then said "it's fine, Jill. Michele would be the first one to say you could borrow it if you wanted to." She said "oooooookaaaaay" as she slunk out the door.
So off they went on Sunday morning, back to Pensacola. Some people check to make sure that their visitors don't leave socks behind, or pillows, or, God forbid, pets. Me? I check for my brush.
Monday, September 15, 2014
No Such Thing as a Bedtime Routine
I was chatting with one of the kids on Facebook tonight, and told them I needed to put the puppy away, so I'd be right back. Here's what happened afterward:
Picked up puppy. Started down stairs and realized she had put the water bowl on the stairs. Picked up water bowl to avoid a fall on the stairs, and put it on the counter. Went in and turned on dryer to warm up the hubby's Browns' blanket before I took it up to him. Put puppy away. Realized Mickey had followed me downstairs and is now staring sadly at me by the door, wanting to go out. Let Mickey out. Went to kitchen, filled water bowl and put it on the floor. Mickey was now barking hysterically to get in. Let Mickey in. Grabbed blanket from dryer. Start up the stairs, but Mickey stops to get a drink. Call him to come upstairs. I get upstairs, only to realize that Bandit is pounding on Seth's bedroom door, which is closed. Let Bandit out of bedroom and he runs downstairs, wanting to go out to the garage. Go back downstairs and let him outside. Go back upstairs. Realize I forgot to get hubby's evening meds. Go downstairs and get meds and refill his Mason jar of water. Go back upstairs and realize that I never too my evening meds. Go downstairs and take said meds. Come upstairs and climb onto bed, only to realize that now Facebook has frozen, so the "I'll be right back" is truly a lie now.
Try to reboot computer. Go and brush teeth whilst it is rebooting. Come back, only to find that it still hasn't even shut down. Shut it down manually, while thinking that maybe my hard drive is dying. Don't really care, because there are several broken keys on the keyboard, so it's a lotta work to type on it. Restart computer and decided I'd better go pee while it's booting up. Go pee. Climb on bed, only to realize that Mickey had apparently followed me downstairs and he is now scratching at the bedroom door. Let dog in. Settle into bed with all my comfy pillows. Mickey comes around to my side of the bed, wanting up. Pull him up on to the bed. Open Facebook.
Kid has signed off.
Picked up puppy. Started down stairs and realized she had put the water bowl on the stairs. Picked up water bowl to avoid a fall on the stairs, and put it on the counter. Went in and turned on dryer to warm up the hubby's Browns' blanket before I took it up to him. Put puppy away. Realized Mickey had followed me downstairs and is now staring sadly at me by the door, wanting to go out. Let Mickey out. Went to kitchen, filled water bowl and put it on the floor. Mickey was now barking hysterically to get in. Let Mickey in. Grabbed blanket from dryer. Start up the stairs, but Mickey stops to get a drink. Call him to come upstairs. I get upstairs, only to realize that Bandit is pounding on Seth's bedroom door, which is closed. Let Bandit out of bedroom and he runs downstairs, wanting to go out to the garage. Go back downstairs and let him outside. Go back upstairs. Realize I forgot to get hubby's evening meds. Go downstairs and get meds and refill his Mason jar of water. Go back upstairs and realize that I never too my evening meds. Go downstairs and take said meds. Come upstairs and climb onto bed, only to realize that now Facebook has frozen, so the "I'll be right back" is truly a lie now.
Try to reboot computer. Go and brush teeth whilst it is rebooting. Come back, only to find that it still hasn't even shut down. Shut it down manually, while thinking that maybe my hard drive is dying. Don't really care, because there are several broken keys on the keyboard, so it's a lotta work to type on it. Restart computer and decided I'd better go pee while it's booting up. Go pee. Climb on bed, only to realize that Mickey had apparently followed me downstairs and he is now scratching at the bedroom door. Let dog in. Settle into bed with all my comfy pillows. Mickey comes around to my side of the bed, wanting up. Pull him up on to the bed. Open Facebook.
Kid has signed off.
Monday, August 04, 2014
Retribution.
In my last post, I said I would say how karma came around and bit me. I actually said "tomorrow." Well, it's the day after the day after the day after the day after tomorrow (or so), so I guess I'm technially still posting "tomorrow."
The hubby is healing quite nicely. I actually went in to Walmart with him the other day, as we had the need for more Bandaids. He was out of his camo Bandaids, so I went hunting and bought what I thought were camo. Turned out there were some kind of shark instead -- I know it's a military symbol, but he thinks they are too kiddie and won't use them. Maybe if I'd gotten Transformers ones.........oh well, good thing I bought some plain ones for me because yeah. Retribution.
A perfect storm of bad decisions turned into a Med Check visit for me, the day after Jim's mandolin accident. Thomas had been giving me some guff because "geez Mom, DAD has seen my new house, and YOU haven't." Doesn't matter how old they are, they still can play the guilt card. Well, I've been dealinig with a bum knee, and have been laying low (actuallly had surgery on it today, but that's a different story -- I'm fine), so yes, It took me two weeks to get to his new house. I told him that I'd be over on Tuesday, but he was tired, so I suggested Wednesday instead.
I got up and went to PT (pinched nerve in my neck. Geez, I'm falling apart.) and decided to head over to SoBro to his house. I realized that Thomas' roommate had some mail back at my house, so I turned back and went and got it. Mickey let it be known that his Mama was not being nice in leaving him behind. I mean, who can resist this face?
I caved, and he rode along with me. I mean, he goes everywhere with me, but given Thomas' dog Penny's feelings about Mickey, which are reciprocated in triplicate, I figured I would let him ride along, but he'd have to stay in the car while I visited. Mickey, not knowing whose house we were at, bailed out of the car when we arrived, so I just let him come. I knocked on the door. It wasn't latched, so it opened a little bit, and suddenly Mickey was nose to nose with Penny. She was not amused, and not only blocked the door, but growled. A lot. Thomas grabbed her, and Mickey and I went in. Mickey jumped on the couch, and Penny came over to see what was what.
They got nose to nose. Penny growled. Mickey growled. Suddenly, it was on like Donkey Kong. I'm not sure if I grabbed him to get him on my lap, or if Mickey was trying to get onto my lap, but I ended up with my arms wrapped around him, trying to push Penny away, because they were both going nuts. Remember all those times you told your kids not to try to break up a dog fight? Well, I remember, and despite my warnings to the kids since they were born, I did it anyway, and Penny sunk her teeth into my forearm. As in, DEEPLY sunk her teeth into my forearm.
Thomas finally was able to wrestle Penny away and was able to hear me say "she bit me. I need a paper towel." I'd actually said it several times, but no one had understood that it wasn't a small bite -- it was a deep, ugly one. Thomas threw Penny into the scary basement and grabbed some paper towels. It didn't hurt, so I got the grand tour of the house whilst holding pressure. Yeah, it was gaping enough that I knew it would need stitches. Thomas would alternately open the basement door and tell Penny how bad she was, then ask me if he needed to drive me to get it looked at. Heck no. I drove myself to the hospital when I was in labor -- twice. I drove myself to the ER with a broken arm, in the midst of an asthma attack. A little blood isn't that big of a deal. I told him the real bummer was that I had planned to take him to lunch, but that now he probably didn't want to go, what with my bloody arm and all.
Say free food to Thomas, and everything changes. He's not particularly worried about wounds, though he was pretty unhappy about Penny, as he told her multiple times "you bit my Mama. NO ONE hurts my mama." He's had stitches himself, so he knew it's not that big of a deal. He said if I was truly ok to wait, he'd go to lunch with me. I wanted to go with him, because he felt so bad that I needed to make sure he understood that it wasn't the dogs' fault before I left. It was 100% my fault. He dug out his first aid kit, we covered it up, and had a really nice lunch at O'Charleys before I headed off to Medcheck, where I found out that they preferred to leave it open instead of stitching, to help prevent infection. They couldn't even give me a tetanus shot because I'm immunosuppressed, so they gave me a script for antibiotics and had me go home after filling out an Animal Bite form for the health department. I made sure that it said on that form that I was DUMB and that it was all MY fault. Can't blame dogs for being dogs, ya know. It was just bad decisions from me from beginning to end.
So here we are, Jim missing a chunka thumb, and me with a mooshy, gushy wound on my arm ,and now ice packs on the incision on my knee. In short, we are a hot mess here. Moral to the story: before one gives one's spouse a hard time about not following safety procedures, make sure that you follow the safety rules too.
The hubby is healing quite nicely. I actually went in to Walmart with him the other day, as we had the need for more Bandaids. He was out of his camo Bandaids, so I went hunting and bought what I thought were camo. Turned out there were some kind of shark instead -- I know it's a military symbol, but he thinks they are too kiddie and won't use them. Maybe if I'd gotten Transformers ones.........oh well, good thing I bought some plain ones for me because yeah. Retribution.
A perfect storm of bad decisions turned into a Med Check visit for me, the day after Jim's mandolin accident. Thomas had been giving me some guff because "geez Mom, DAD has seen my new house, and YOU haven't." Doesn't matter how old they are, they still can play the guilt card. Well, I've been dealinig with a bum knee, and have been laying low (actuallly had surgery on it today, but that's a different story -- I'm fine), so yes, It took me two weeks to get to his new house. I told him that I'd be over on Tuesday, but he was tired, so I suggested Wednesday instead.
I got up and went to PT (pinched nerve in my neck. Geez, I'm falling apart.) and decided to head over to SoBro to his house. I realized that Thomas' roommate had some mail back at my house, so I turned back and went and got it. Mickey let it be known that his Mama was not being nice in leaving him behind. I mean, who can resist this face?
I caved, and he rode along with me. I mean, he goes everywhere with me, but given Thomas' dog Penny's feelings about Mickey, which are reciprocated in triplicate, I figured I would let him ride along, but he'd have to stay in the car while I visited. Mickey, not knowing whose house we were at, bailed out of the car when we arrived, so I just let him come. I knocked on the door. It wasn't latched, so it opened a little bit, and suddenly Mickey was nose to nose with Penny. She was not amused, and not only blocked the door, but growled. A lot. Thomas grabbed her, and Mickey and I went in. Mickey jumped on the couch, and Penny came over to see what was what.
They got nose to nose. Penny growled. Mickey growled. Suddenly, it was on like Donkey Kong. I'm not sure if I grabbed him to get him on my lap, or if Mickey was trying to get onto my lap, but I ended up with my arms wrapped around him, trying to push Penny away, because they were both going nuts. Remember all those times you told your kids not to try to break up a dog fight? Well, I remember, and despite my warnings to the kids since they were born, I did it anyway, and Penny sunk her teeth into my forearm. As in, DEEPLY sunk her teeth into my forearm.
Thomas finally was able to wrestle Penny away and was able to hear me say "she bit me. I need a paper towel." I'd actually said it several times, but no one had understood that it wasn't a small bite -- it was a deep, ugly one. Thomas threw Penny into the scary basement and grabbed some paper towels. It didn't hurt, so I got the grand tour of the house whilst holding pressure. Yeah, it was gaping enough that I knew it would need stitches. Thomas would alternately open the basement door and tell Penny how bad she was, then ask me if he needed to drive me to get it looked at. Heck no. I drove myself to the hospital when I was in labor -- twice. I drove myself to the ER with a broken arm, in the midst of an asthma attack. A little blood isn't that big of a deal. I told him the real bummer was that I had planned to take him to lunch, but that now he probably didn't want to go, what with my bloody arm and all.
Say free food to Thomas, and everything changes. He's not particularly worried about wounds, though he was pretty unhappy about Penny, as he told her multiple times "you bit my Mama. NO ONE hurts my mama." He's had stitches himself, so he knew it's not that big of a deal. He said if I was truly ok to wait, he'd go to lunch with me. I wanted to go with him, because he felt so bad that I needed to make sure he understood that it wasn't the dogs' fault before I left. It was 100% my fault. He dug out his first aid kit, we covered it up, and had a really nice lunch at O'Charleys before I headed off to Medcheck, where I found out that they preferred to leave it open instead of stitching, to help prevent infection. They couldn't even give me a tetanus shot because I'm immunosuppressed, so they gave me a script for antibiotics and had me go home after filling out an Animal Bite form for the health department. I made sure that it said on that form that I was DUMB and that it was all MY fault. Can't blame dogs for being dogs, ya know. It was just bad decisions from me from beginning to end.
So here we are, Jim missing a chunka thumb, and me with a mooshy, gushy wound on my arm ,and now ice packs on the incision on my knee. In short, we are a hot mess here. Moral to the story: before one gives one's spouse a hard time about not following safety procedures, make sure that you follow the safety rules too.
Monday, June 30, 2014
Weekender
My sweet hubby and I went away for the weekend last weekend. It was just a nice overnighter, but it's nice to get away once in a while. Plus, when you do an overnighter, the prep is pretty simple. It's the emotional prep that's hard.
Jim was pretty darned sure that the dog was either going to a) starve to death or b) be mauled by Thomas' dog. See, Penny (Thomas' dog) has this in-your-face-play-with-me personality which knows no personal space, and Mickey, our little prince, just ain't havin it. Mickey loves his humans and no one shall put them asunder. He sees Penny as a threat to his firm entrenchment as Dog of the House. Penny doesn't care. She just blunders through life with no regard to anyone. This does not always work out well, as Mickey doesn't want her near his humans, and although he's a third of her size, he will have his say withi Penny. Penny, on the other hand, has been known to pin Mickey to the ground, teeth bared, should he make her mad.
So the conversations went like this:
Jim: "Who's watching the prince while we're gone?"
Me: "The boys."
Jim: "No way. They will kill my dog. They'll forget to feed him. Those boys can't even remember to feed themselves. How will they remember to feed the dog?"
Me: "Penny is five. She has lived with Thomas her whole life. She hasn't died yet. They'll be fine."
Jim: "I'm telling you, he's gonna starve to death. Maybe I'll have David (his son) watch him"
::pause while he checks with David, who had plans and wasn't available::
Jim: " They're gonna kill each other. I don't want that dog killing my fuzzy dog."
Me: "They'll be fine."
Jim: "We're gonna come home to a dead dog. You just watch."
So the week went by, and Friday night arrived. He suddenly changed focus.
Jim: "So, those boys are going to starve while we're gone. You know that, right?"
Me: "Why in the world would you say that? They'll be fine."
Jim: "Because there's no one here to cook for them, and they don't know how to cook."
Me: "They are fine. They are both really good cooks."
Jim: "I don't think so. They're probably gonna starve."
The man has to have something to fret about -- and it's usually food related. Let's just say, there is ZERO chance of anyone starving to death around here, because we usually have enough food to feed an army. And so it was that we pulled out of the drveway and drove off for our little getaway, with Jim fretting that the boys would destroy the house in some way, shape or form. Can you tell that he raised three sons, three years apart? And yes, he did come home early from a weekend away to find a full blown party in the house, complete with teenagers passed out in his bedroom. So yeah, I get his point, but these are the Nerd Boys you're talking about. Geez.
So we got to the hotel, and Jim told me to call and see if they had fed the dog, and ask what time Seth's girlfrend had gotten there. Here's the texting.
Me: "Ask the clowns if they fed my dog and ask what time Elaine got there." LOL
Thomas: Elaine got here around 3. Dogs starved to death, I'm wont to report.
Cracked me up. The boys understand my dear husband so well. He laughed when he heard Thomas' response. On Sunday, here's the communicaton:
Thomas: What time are you guys heading back?
Me: We should be home around nine or so.
Thomas: OK. The liquor bottles and dead hookers should be cleaned up by then.
Me: Did you bury the dogs?
Thomas: Buried Penny. Had to eat Mickey.
Me: How'd you cook him?
Thomas: Fava beans and a nice chianti.
It's almost worth going away, just to see what they come up with next.
Jim was pretty darned sure that the dog was either going to a) starve to death or b) be mauled by Thomas' dog. See, Penny (Thomas' dog) has this in-your-face-play-with-me personality which knows no personal space, and Mickey, our little prince, just ain't havin it. Mickey loves his humans and no one shall put them asunder. He sees Penny as a threat to his firm entrenchment as Dog of the House. Penny doesn't care. She just blunders through life with no regard to anyone. This does not always work out well, as Mickey doesn't want her near his humans, and although he's a third of her size, he will have his say withi Penny. Penny, on the other hand, has been known to pin Mickey to the ground, teeth bared, should he make her mad.
So the conversations went like this:
Jim: "Who's watching the prince while we're gone?"
Me: "The boys."
Jim: "No way. They will kill my dog. They'll forget to feed him. Those boys can't even remember to feed themselves. How will they remember to feed the dog?"
Me: "Penny is five. She has lived with Thomas her whole life. She hasn't died yet. They'll be fine."
Jim: "I'm telling you, he's gonna starve to death. Maybe I'll have David (his son) watch him"
::pause while he checks with David, who had plans and wasn't available::
Jim: " They're gonna kill each other. I don't want that dog killing my fuzzy dog."
Me: "They'll be fine."
Jim: "We're gonna come home to a dead dog. You just watch."
So the week went by, and Friday night arrived. He suddenly changed focus.
Jim: "So, those boys are going to starve while we're gone. You know that, right?"
Me: "Why in the world would you say that? They'll be fine."
Jim: "Because there's no one here to cook for them, and they don't know how to cook."
Me: "They are fine. They are both really good cooks."
Jim: "I don't think so. They're probably gonna starve."
The man has to have something to fret about -- and it's usually food related. Let's just say, there is ZERO chance of anyone starving to death around here, because we usually have enough food to feed an army. And so it was that we pulled out of the drveway and drove off for our little getaway, with Jim fretting that the boys would destroy the house in some way, shape or form. Can you tell that he raised three sons, three years apart? And yes, he did come home early from a weekend away to find a full blown party in the house, complete with teenagers passed out in his bedroom. So yeah, I get his point, but these are the Nerd Boys you're talking about. Geez.
So we got to the hotel, and Jim told me to call and see if they had fed the dog, and ask what time Seth's girlfrend had gotten there. Here's the texting.
Me: "Ask the clowns if they fed my dog and ask what time Elaine got there." LOL
Thomas: Elaine got here around 3. Dogs starved to death, I'm wont to report.
Cracked me up. The boys understand my dear husband so well. He laughed when he heard Thomas' response. On Sunday, here's the communicaton:
Thomas: What time are you guys heading back?
Me: We should be home around nine or so.
Thomas: OK. The liquor bottles and dead hookers should be cleaned up by then.
Me: Did you bury the dogs?
Thomas: Buried Penny. Had to eat Mickey.
Me: How'd you cook him?
Thomas: Fava beans and a nice chianti.
It's almost worth going away, just to see what they come up with next.
Monday, May 05, 2014
People Will Talk (But Not in Church)
I have a real thing about talking in church. Growing up a preacher's kid, I was called out from the pulpit by my father on more than one occasion for chatting during the sermon, so I still get a little nervous if the person next to me starts chatting. Keep in mind that my husband has, by his own admission, ADHD -- though he tangles the letters pretty often, making it all sorts of acronyms like ADT. No dear, not even close. He can sit through an entire sermon with not a word, but by the time we get to communion, all bets are off. And I never know what's going to fly out of his mouth, meaning there can be wildly inappropriate laughter involved.
Fortunately, our minister has ADHD too, so his filter occasionally goes off as well. Like the time I got to the front of the line to be served the communion bread. There was a backup at the wine serving, so I just stood there waiting patiently. No sense in getting the bread if I can't move, right? I smiled at our pastor, who mouthed something to me that I couldn't make out. I furrowed my brow and tilted my head, trying to figure out what he'd said. He said it again. And again. I mouthed "I can't understand you," and he finally shrugged it off. By then it was time to serve, so I moved though the line and sat down. After church, he came up and said "I was was saying traffic jam." Gotcha! "Yes listeners, we have a backup in the center aisle. There are a couple of laggers at the wine service, but the traffic should only be held up for four minutes or so, and then it's clear sailing........"
I love our church.
And so it was that we attended evening service yesterday. Evening service is usually pretty casual and small, but this was a special service to greet our new associate pastor, so the place was packed. There were a handful of other pastors there for the installation. There they sat in a line, all in white robes with red stoles. One of them, from a city south of Indianapolis, preached the sermon, warning us that yes, there was a clock facing him at the back of the church, but that he didn't pay much attention to it, once he got going. And he got going. And going. And going.....not overly long, mind you, but longer than we're used to. Of course, by the end, Jim was getting fidgety. He made some joke about asking "the cardinals" where their hats were. Oye vay. Fortunately, he was able to blow off some steam by the passing of the peace, making sure to greet his girlfriend -- a 101 year old lady he always makes a point to say hi too. But by the time we sat down again, he was restless again. Maybe it was the smell of the food in the kitchen (they were having a Cinco de Mayo dinner after the service) but he was in particularly rare form. I gave him the look. I shushed him. He wasn't having any of it. They were getting ready to serve communion, and since we were in the front, we were going to have to wait a long time for our turn while he fidgeted. And then the pastor emerged from the sacristy.
This is a new pastor. He does things his own way. He's young, and sweet, and has a beautiful singing voice. And he, for the first time during our attendance, wore a chasable. Now, I can't find a picture of the exact chasable, but it was beautiful. A deep ruby red, it was embroidered with a gold cross. Worn over his white robe, it looked beautiful. I was taking it in, because I'd never seen this before, when Jim leans over and says "what is this, Fistful of Dollars?"
I darned near lost it. By the time he said something about the Cinco de Mayo dinner afterward, the solemnity of the moment was gone, especially given the Mexican accent it was rendered in. Of course, I responded by singing the alternate Spanish lyrics of the last hymn, which befuddled him, but really wasn't disrespectful. Oh well, at least it got him to quit talking.
Fortunately, our minister has ADHD too, so his filter occasionally goes off as well. Like the time I got to the front of the line to be served the communion bread. There was a backup at the wine serving, so I just stood there waiting patiently. No sense in getting the bread if I can't move, right? I smiled at our pastor, who mouthed something to me that I couldn't make out. I furrowed my brow and tilted my head, trying to figure out what he'd said. He said it again. And again. I mouthed "I can't understand you," and he finally shrugged it off. By then it was time to serve, so I moved though the line and sat down. After church, he came up and said "I was was saying traffic jam." Gotcha! "Yes listeners, we have a backup in the center aisle. There are a couple of laggers at the wine service, but the traffic should only be held up for four minutes or so, and then it's clear sailing........"
I love our church.
And so it was that we attended evening service yesterday. Evening service is usually pretty casual and small, but this was a special service to greet our new associate pastor, so the place was packed. There were a handful of other pastors there for the installation. There they sat in a line, all in white robes with red stoles. One of them, from a city south of Indianapolis, preached the sermon, warning us that yes, there was a clock facing him at the back of the church, but that he didn't pay much attention to it, once he got going. And he got going. And going. And going.....not overly long, mind you, but longer than we're used to. Of course, by the end, Jim was getting fidgety. He made some joke about asking "the cardinals" where their hats were. Oye vay. Fortunately, he was able to blow off some steam by the passing of the peace, making sure to greet his girlfriend -- a 101 year old lady he always makes a point to say hi too. But by the time we sat down again, he was restless again. Maybe it was the smell of the food in the kitchen (they were having a Cinco de Mayo dinner after the service) but he was in particularly rare form. I gave him the look. I shushed him. He wasn't having any of it. They were getting ready to serve communion, and since we were in the front, we were going to have to wait a long time for our turn while he fidgeted. And then the pastor emerged from the sacristy.
This is a new pastor. He does things his own way. He's young, and sweet, and has a beautiful singing voice. And he, for the first time during our attendance, wore a chasable. Now, I can't find a picture of the exact chasable, but it was beautiful. A deep ruby red, it was embroidered with a gold cross. Worn over his white robe, it looked beautiful. I was taking it in, because I'd never seen this before, when Jim leans over and says "what is this, Fistful of Dollars?"
I darned near lost it. By the time he said something about the Cinco de Mayo dinner afterward, the solemnity of the moment was gone, especially given the Mexican accent it was rendered in. Of course, I responded by singing the alternate Spanish lyrics of the last hymn, which befuddled him, but really wasn't disrespectful. Oh well, at least it got him to quit talking.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
A Certain Sense of Decorum
My dear husband had a plan today: to take me to the fort to get my military ID. Though he said it was so I have access to his military benefits, I think there's a more evil plan afoot: this means that now I can go to the commissary without him. As in, grocery shopping.
Homey don't play dat.
Every time we go to the commissary, I have a bunch of retired military guys asking me where inane things are, like apples. Or cereal. Or hamburger. It usually happens 2-3 times during ever trip. So yeah, I'm not anxious to go alone. I will say, the service there is wonderful, the selection is great, and it's not crowded, as opposed to Kroger, where I only go when I have a death wish. What is it with that chain, that every one of their stores is filled with frantic people who fly around, even in mid-July, like there's two feet of snow coming and the fridge is empty? But I digress. Grocery shopping is just too close to cooking for me, so I try to stay away from it whenever possible.
So, my Marine woke me up at 5:30am to go to the fort, proclaming his fact that if we didn't get there by 7:05, all of the parking spaces would be gone. I promptly went back to sleep for 20 minutes. By this time, he was threatening to throw a trash can at me, a la basic training, so I got up.
I hate morning.
So we jumped in the car and took off. I was quite proud of the fact that I had remembered all of the documents that I needed, in order to officially be the officer's wife. We got there, and lo and behold, there were plenty of parking spaces. Jim made a point of saying that we needed to register the car with security, since we were visitors. I said "do you know your license plate number?" He just looked at me and shook my head. I turned around and looked, then realized DUH, he gets a special plate with his rank on it.
I'm not good at this officer's wife thing yet.
So we went in, grabbed a number, and waited. One of the clerks busied himself with asking what people needed. I'm pretty sure he did this as some sort of sadistic gesture, because he asked, and then when the person would walk toward him, explaining why they were there, he backed off and said "oh, I'm not waiting on people. I just need to know why you're here." Really? Pretty soon, one of the clerks called out "THREE," and ;the lady next to me went up to her counter. The first guy, obviously a rocket scientist, said "I think you'll be next." I'm not sure if he said that because a) we were the only ones left in the waiting area by that point or b) Jim was obviously holding the number FOUR. Rocket scientist, I tell you. His mother must be SO proud.
When they called our number and made it up to the counter, we found that amongst all the flotsam and jetsam, it also had stacks of laminated random cartoons like Bizarro and Dilbert. I sat there reading them, thoroughly amused, and probably laughing way too loudly at a few of them. I read a couple of them to Jim, who did not seem amused. Pretty soon, the girl told me to sign my name (Jim leaned over and said "sign the right name, dear"), then go stand over by the curtain so she could get my picture. She asked how I liked their Walmart curtain, which was a gray and white stripey-abstract print. She went into a long discussion about how they had sent her to Wal-Mart to buy a background for the pictures because, as her compadre loudly announced "the white wall made the black people blacker and the white people whiter." Well. Isn't that special? She settled on gray, which apparently doesn't do anything for anyone, because when I got my ID, it looks like a faded tintype, so you can barely make out the picture. Oh well, it's good enough for government cheese, I guess.
Jim announced this afternoon that since I am now an officer's wife, I must act with a certain sense of decorum. I'm not sure exactly what that means, but I'm pretty sure that it does not involve inappropriately loud laughter, and the cartoons on the counter were some kind of test. If that's the case, I failed miserably. If it requires much more of that, then I'm in trouble.
Hoo-rah.
Homey don't play dat.
Every time we go to the commissary, I have a bunch of retired military guys asking me where inane things are, like apples. Or cereal. Or hamburger. It usually happens 2-3 times during ever trip. So yeah, I'm not anxious to go alone. I will say, the service there is wonderful, the selection is great, and it's not crowded, as opposed to Kroger, where I only go when I have a death wish. What is it with that chain, that every one of their stores is filled with frantic people who fly around, even in mid-July, like there's two feet of snow coming and the fridge is empty? But I digress. Grocery shopping is just too close to cooking for me, so I try to stay away from it whenever possible.
So, my Marine woke me up at 5:30am to go to the fort, proclaming his fact that if we didn't get there by 7:05, all of the parking spaces would be gone. I promptly went back to sleep for 20 minutes. By this time, he was threatening to throw a trash can at me, a la basic training, so I got up.
I hate morning.
So we jumped in the car and took off. I was quite proud of the fact that I had remembered all of the documents that I needed, in order to officially be the officer's wife. We got there, and lo and behold, there were plenty of parking spaces. Jim made a point of saying that we needed to register the car with security, since we were visitors. I said "do you know your license plate number?" He just looked at me and shook my head. I turned around and looked, then realized DUH, he gets a special plate with his rank on it.
I'm not good at this officer's wife thing yet.
So we went in, grabbed a number, and waited. One of the clerks busied himself with asking what people needed. I'm pretty sure he did this as some sort of sadistic gesture, because he asked, and then when the person would walk toward him, explaining why they were there, he backed off and said "oh, I'm not waiting on people. I just need to know why you're here." Really? Pretty soon, one of the clerks called out "THREE," and ;the lady next to me went up to her counter. The first guy, obviously a rocket scientist, said "I think you'll be next." I'm not sure if he said that because a) we were the only ones left in the waiting area by that point or b) Jim was obviously holding the number FOUR. Rocket scientist, I tell you. His mother must be SO proud.
When they called our number and made it up to the counter, we found that amongst all the flotsam and jetsam, it also had stacks of laminated random cartoons like Bizarro and Dilbert. I sat there reading them, thoroughly amused, and probably laughing way too loudly at a few of them. I read a couple of them to Jim, who did not seem amused. Pretty soon, the girl told me to sign my name (Jim leaned over and said "sign the right name, dear"), then go stand over by the curtain so she could get my picture. She asked how I liked their Walmart curtain, which was a gray and white stripey-abstract print. She went into a long discussion about how they had sent her to Wal-Mart to buy a background for the pictures because, as her compadre loudly announced "the white wall made the black people blacker and the white people whiter." Well. Isn't that special? She settled on gray, which apparently doesn't do anything for anyone, because when I got my ID, it looks like a faded tintype, so you can barely make out the picture. Oh well, it's good enough for government cheese, I guess.
Jim announced this afternoon that since I am now an officer's wife, I must act with a certain sense of decorum. I'm not sure exactly what that means, but I'm pretty sure that it does not involve inappropriately loud laughter, and the cartoons on the counter were some kind of test. If that's the case, I failed miserably. If it requires much more of that, then I'm in trouble.
Hoo-rah.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Are You Sure? Well..............
We went shopping at the commisary yesterday. Jim loves to browse, so this takes some time. Add to this the fact that he's cutting down on salt, and it definitely put him off his normal game. So there we were, in the dairy aisle, with him looking muddled. I asked what he was doing, and he said he felt like he was forgetting something. Got to the checkout line, and he still felt it, but couldn't remember what it was he was supposed to be getting. So here's how the conversation went this afternoon, after a conversation on how to cook our standing rib roast for Easter dinner.
Jim: "Oh THAT'S what I forgot yesterday! Remember, I said I forgot something! That's what I forgot?"
Me: "What?"
Jim: "Butter! Remember, I said I forgot something when we were in the dairy aisle? I forgot butter. We got margarine, but we're out of butter."
Me: "Are you sure?"
Jim: "Yes, I'm sure. And I forgot to get it. I knew I was forgetting something. It was butter."
Me: "Are you sure? Because I didn't think we were out."
Jim: "Yes, I'm sure. We're out."
Me: "Are you sure?"
Jim: "YES. I am SURE. Quit asking if I'm sure, because I'm sure. We are out of butter. I don't know why you keep asking me that, when you knew that I forgot something while we were there. It was butter. Yes, I'm SURE we are out."
::long pause::
Jim: "Well, dammit, you'd better go see, because now I'm not sure."
By now, I couldn't stop laughing, because the whole thing was so funny, so I opened the fridge, but couldn't answer him, because I was laughing so hard. For the record, I was equally sure that we had some butter, but me not being the cook around here, I don't know what we have and what we don't most days, because he's the master chef. But I also stand corrected, because I found that we were, indeed, out of butter.
Jim: " See, this is what drives me crazy about you. You ask me five times if I'm sure, when I'm already sure, and then I'm not sure because you keep asking if I'm sure. It drives me crazy." ::long pause: ::laughs:: "I just love you."
Jim: "Oh THAT'S what I forgot yesterday! Remember, I said I forgot something! That's what I forgot?"
Me: "What?"
Jim: "Butter! Remember, I said I forgot something when we were in the dairy aisle? I forgot butter. We got margarine, but we're out of butter."
Me: "Are you sure?"
Jim: "Yes, I'm sure. And I forgot to get it. I knew I was forgetting something. It was butter."
Me: "Are you sure? Because I didn't think we were out."
Jim: "Yes, I'm sure. We're out."
Me: "Are you sure?"
Jim: "YES. I am SURE. Quit asking if I'm sure, because I'm sure. We are out of butter. I don't know why you keep asking me that, when you knew that I forgot something while we were there. It was butter. Yes, I'm SURE we are out."
::long pause::
Jim: "Well, dammit, you'd better go see, because now I'm not sure."
By now, I couldn't stop laughing, because the whole thing was so funny, so I opened the fridge, but couldn't answer him, because I was laughing so hard. For the record, I was equally sure that we had some butter, but me not being the cook around here, I don't know what we have and what we don't most days, because he's the master chef. But I also stand corrected, because I found that we were, indeed, out of butter.
Jim: " See, this is what drives me crazy about you. You ask me five times if I'm sure, when I'm already sure, and then I'm not sure because you keep asking if I'm sure. It drives me crazy." ::long pause: ::laughs:: "I just love you."
Tuesday, April 08, 2014
Matchmaker, Matchmaker
Good news. I got my new Social Security card. I not only got it, but after staring at it for four days, I signed it. And this time, I even signed it correctly. Miracles really do happen.
This entire Social Security card thing has been a learning experience. Here's what I learned: the Social Security Administration office is a happenin' place where people meet up. I know this. I've been there twice now. The experience was the same both time, and it goes like this: I walk in. I get a ticket by using the kiosk. I sit down. I kill some time reading emails and checking Facebook on my phone. And I eavesdrop, just a little.
Mainly I eavesdrop because the Social Security Administration office is full of old people, a good amount of whom are hard of hearing. It's also apparent that the closer you get to retirement, the less you get out, but once you get to the Social Security office, you will run into someone you know. And when you do, the conversation will go something like this:
"Oh hey, Bud, how are you? I haven't seen you in forever."
"Oh hey. I'm good."
"I heard that your brother died."
"Yep, he died last month. His (heart/kidneys/liver/insert organ of choice) failed after he had a (stroke/heart attack/transplant/insert medical event of choice). He had just moved to (Florida/Texas/Arizona/insert warm weather location of choice). He was only there for a (week/month/year/insert timeframe of choice) and now he's gone."
"Oh wow, that's terrible. At least you look great. I am retiring next month. How about you?"
"Well, I'm going to retire, but I'm also working at (Walmart/Bob Evans/McDonald's/insert menial job of your choice)."
"That's great. Hey, I gotta go. Call me and we'll go (hunting/shopping/to church/insert recreational event of choice), ok?"
"Yeah, that sounds great. See you later."
As soon as the buddy leaves, his friend will pipe up with "wow, I haven't seen him in years. He looks terrible." True story. Every. Time.
As for me, I hope to not have to go to the Social Security office again anytime soon. If I do, the little old men there are going to start thinking I'm stalking them.
This entire Social Security card thing has been a learning experience. Here's what I learned: the Social Security Administration office is a happenin' place where people meet up. I know this. I've been there twice now. The experience was the same both time, and it goes like this: I walk in. I get a ticket by using the kiosk. I sit down. I kill some time reading emails and checking Facebook on my phone. And I eavesdrop, just a little.
Mainly I eavesdrop because the Social Security Administration office is full of old people, a good amount of whom are hard of hearing. It's also apparent that the closer you get to retirement, the less you get out, but once you get to the Social Security office, you will run into someone you know. And when you do, the conversation will go something like this:
"Oh hey, Bud, how are you? I haven't seen you in forever."
"Oh hey. I'm good."
"I heard that your brother died."
"Yep, he died last month. His (heart/kidneys/liver/insert organ of choice) failed after he had a (stroke/heart attack/transplant/insert medical event of choice). He had just moved to (Florida/Texas/Arizona/insert warm weather location of choice). He was only there for a (week/month/year/insert timeframe of choice) and now he's gone."
"Oh wow, that's terrible. At least you look great. I am retiring next month. How about you?"
"Well, I'm going to retire, but I'm also working at (Walmart/Bob Evans/McDonald's/insert menial job of your choice)."
"That's great. Hey, I gotta go. Call me and we'll go (hunting/shopping/to church/insert recreational event of choice), ok?"
"Yeah, that sounds great. See you later."
As soon as the buddy leaves, his friend will pipe up with "wow, I haven't seen him in years. He looks terrible." True story. Every. Time.
As for me, I hope to not have to go to the Social Security office again anytime soon. If I do, the little old men there are going to start thinking I'm stalking them.
Friday, April 04, 2014
When You're Gettin Married In The Morning..........
When I got married the first time, we didn't do any premarital counselling. Perhaps it's because my dad was performing the ceremony, so that would be weird, but we didn't have to do any. Well, I take that back, we did get counselled on one thing: the "nuptual" kiss.
My dad had, at that point, done a lot of weddings, and had probably seen just about everything, though ministers, like nurses, never claim to have actually seen everything. There's always something out there to surprise us. Heck, he even did a funeral once where the gravedigger fell into the grave, causing a rather pregnant pause, followed by a firm "I'm OK" to filter up from the depths. So yeah, stuff happens.
Apparently, one of the things that can happen is that the bride and groom linger a bit too long at the "you may kiss the bride" booth. My father was rather clear on it, saying something to the effect of "it doesn't have to be a peck, but don't get carried away. It's a nuptual kiss." I've sometimes wondered if he said this to everyone, or if it was a fatherly boundary being set by a man who was getting ready to marry off his youngest child. In either event, I listened.
The other thing he said was for me to hang onto my veil when we blew out the unity candles, because there apparently was some kind of a fire hazard involved. Whether or not he actually saw a bride self immolate, I have no idea, but he was concerned. I haven't watched the video in years, but I do believe that you can see him take a small lunge toward me when he realizes that I completely ignored his advice and was, in fact, briefly in danger of becoming The Human Torch. Oh well, it was the heat of the moment (no pun intended), and I survived. The marriage, not so much.
So this time around, a dear friend of ours performed the ceremony. As I mentioned, it was intended as a private affair, so there was no pressure. No pressure, that is, till he said that he pretty much insists that everyone he marries take a premarital test, and then have some counselling before the wedding. Oh dear. No, Jill and Michael had just taken their test a few weeks before, and she was sure that they had "failed." I had been assuring her that you can't really "fail" a premarital test, but she, The Voice Of Doom, was sure that they had failed. She didn't say what was on the test, and since neither Jim or I had ever done counselling before, we went into it blind.
Let me tell you, some of those questions were HARD. It was one of those "rate this from 1-5, with 1 being strongly disagree, and 5 being strongly agree" tests. I hate when they say that, because you just KNOW that there are going to be questions that require an asterisk. But there is no asterisk (reminder to self: tell the story of the greatest April Fool's joke I ever did), so you just have to commit. I guess that's why it's a premarital test -- they must want you to commit -- but I cheated and was asking one of my friends "how would you answer this" on Facebook while I was testing.
Take, for example, the statement "I believe I know everything about my future spouse." Well honey, I was married long enough to know that you NEVER EVER know everything -- and frequently you know NOTHING -- about your spouse. But I paused, worried about what it means to answer with a disagreement to this question. Would that mean we aren't compatible? That he has secrets? That we haven't been together long enough? That he won't fold the towels right? Oops, forget that last one. Well, I really grappled with that question, finally asking my friend - who has been married for thirty years, and has known her husband even longer -- what she thought about that question. She stated rather matter of factly that even she learns new things about her husband from time to time. I calmed down and finished.
Jim took his test a couple of days later, and then the fretting began. By now, I was calm and knew it was gonna be fine -- though some counselling topics could get weird when doing it with a close friend. Jim worried that we had failed. Oye vay, I'm surrounded by voices of doom. He finally had me text the pastor, who replied that we had done fine. "What does THAT mean," Jim asked. He dialed the phone, and jumped right in, asking how we had done.
Well, it turned out that we had done well. As in, we showed more compatibility than almost anyone the pastor had ever married. This is no small accomplishment, since he's been a pastor for over fifty years. Even he sounded surprised. I'm not sure why that is, but it is what it is: we always knew from day one that it was right. (Yes, I have a story about that too, but it will wait for another day.) We ended up doing our counselling the day before the wedding, and found out that we had no areas for improvement, and even scored 100% match on several areas. We had, indeed, done well. It led, nonetheless, to some interesting discussions on that day. We found that we had just misread a couple of questions, and would have done even better had we read them correctly, but it didn't matter -- interesting discussions were had, as well as some laughs. The wedding was ON. We planned to have a brunch together before the wedding. Yes, if you plan your wedding right, the minister and his wife will feed you before the wedding.
The next morning, we got up and started getting ready. My phone dinged a text notification, and I went to check it. It was from the minister, who said, and I quote:
"This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it. Do you have any white wine with you?"
Gotta love that man. We took the Riesling we had with us, had a nice little wedding, a wee dram o' Scotch, and it was all over. As in, no nuptual kiss. He never told Jim to kiss his bride. I'm not sure if he forgot or, more likely, that since we were using a new template of the ceremony that didn't have him pronounce us as husband and wife (WE did, in the vows), that perhaps the nuptual kiss was left out too.
My dad would be proud.
My dad had, at that point, done a lot of weddings, and had probably seen just about everything, though ministers, like nurses, never claim to have actually seen everything. There's always something out there to surprise us. Heck, he even did a funeral once where the gravedigger fell into the grave, causing a rather pregnant pause, followed by a firm "I'm OK" to filter up from the depths. So yeah, stuff happens.
Apparently, one of the things that can happen is that the bride and groom linger a bit too long at the "you may kiss the bride" booth. My father was rather clear on it, saying something to the effect of "it doesn't have to be a peck, but don't get carried away. It's a nuptual kiss." I've sometimes wondered if he said this to everyone, or if it was a fatherly boundary being set by a man who was getting ready to marry off his youngest child. In either event, I listened.
The other thing he said was for me to hang onto my veil when we blew out the unity candles, because there apparently was some kind of a fire hazard involved. Whether or not he actually saw a bride self immolate, I have no idea, but he was concerned. I haven't watched the video in years, but I do believe that you can see him take a small lunge toward me when he realizes that I completely ignored his advice and was, in fact, briefly in danger of becoming The Human Torch. Oh well, it was the heat of the moment (no pun intended), and I survived. The marriage, not so much.
So this time around, a dear friend of ours performed the ceremony. As I mentioned, it was intended as a private affair, so there was no pressure. No pressure, that is, till he said that he pretty much insists that everyone he marries take a premarital test, and then have some counselling before the wedding. Oh dear. No, Jill and Michael had just taken their test a few weeks before, and she was sure that they had "failed." I had been assuring her that you can't really "fail" a premarital test, but she, The Voice Of Doom, was sure that they had failed. She didn't say what was on the test, and since neither Jim or I had ever done counselling before, we went into it blind.
Let me tell you, some of those questions were HARD. It was one of those "rate this from 1-5, with 1 being strongly disagree, and 5 being strongly agree" tests. I hate when they say that, because you just KNOW that there are going to be questions that require an asterisk. But there is no asterisk (reminder to self: tell the story of the greatest April Fool's joke I ever did), so you just have to commit. I guess that's why it's a premarital test -- they must want you to commit -- but I cheated and was asking one of my friends "how would you answer this" on Facebook while I was testing.
Take, for example, the statement "I believe I know everything about my future spouse." Well honey, I was married long enough to know that you NEVER EVER know everything -- and frequently you know NOTHING -- about your spouse. But I paused, worried about what it means to answer with a disagreement to this question. Would that mean we aren't compatible? That he has secrets? That we haven't been together long enough? That he won't fold the towels right? Oops, forget that last one. Well, I really grappled with that question, finally asking my friend - who has been married for thirty years, and has known her husband even longer -- what she thought about that question. She stated rather matter of factly that even she learns new things about her husband from time to time. I calmed down and finished.
Jim took his test a couple of days later, and then the fretting began. By now, I was calm and knew it was gonna be fine -- though some counselling topics could get weird when doing it with a close friend. Jim worried that we had failed. Oye vay, I'm surrounded by voices of doom. He finally had me text the pastor, who replied that we had done fine. "What does THAT mean," Jim asked. He dialed the phone, and jumped right in, asking how we had done.
Well, it turned out that we had done well. As in, we showed more compatibility than almost anyone the pastor had ever married. This is no small accomplishment, since he's been a pastor for over fifty years. Even he sounded surprised. I'm not sure why that is, but it is what it is: we always knew from day one that it was right. (Yes, I have a story about that too, but it will wait for another day.) We ended up doing our counselling the day before the wedding, and found out that we had no areas for improvement, and even scored 100% match on several areas. We had, indeed, done well. It led, nonetheless, to some interesting discussions on that day. We found that we had just misread a couple of questions, and would have done even better had we read them correctly, but it didn't matter -- interesting discussions were had, as well as some laughs. The wedding was ON. We planned to have a brunch together before the wedding. Yes, if you plan your wedding right, the minister and his wife will feed you before the wedding.
The next morning, we got up and started getting ready. My phone dinged a text notification, and I went to check it. It was from the minister, who said, and I quote:
"This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it. Do you have any white wine with you?"
Gotta love that man. We took the Riesling we had with us, had a nice little wedding, a wee dram o' Scotch, and it was all over. As in, no nuptual kiss. He never told Jim to kiss his bride. I'm not sure if he forgot or, more likely, that since we were using a new template of the ceremony that didn't have him pronounce us as husband and wife (WE did, in the vows), that perhaps the nuptual kiss was left out too.
My dad would be proud.
Wednesday, April 02, 2014
Some Things Are Just Plain Hard
Once upon a time, there was a girl who was engaged. She (kind of) jokingly said to her fiance that he should take HER name when they got married. Her name was, after all, easier for people to pronounce. And it didn't consist of a part of a female cow's anatomy. The fiance stared at her silently. She pled her case -- again (kind of) jokingly, they laughed about the idea and moved on.
Three days later, the fiance came to her and said, quite seriously and totally out of the blue, "I just want you to know that if you don't want to take my name, then we aren't going to get married. A man waits his whole life to give his name to a woman, and if my name's not good enough for you, then we aren't getting married." Whoa, Dude. JOKING. (Kind of.) She took his name, forever banishing their children to a life of harassment about dairy cows and women's reproductive organs.
Over time, she found that the name was somewhat useful. When you have a name that starts with M, you always have to figure out what line you get in, or where in the seating chart you are, or where to look on the list of names up on the wall, because you're smack in the middle. But when your last name starts with U, it's all pretty simple -- you're always at the end. Your film (back in the day) or your prescriptions are easy to find, because there aren't many things in the U bin. Having a U name can be rather useful, she found.
That girl was me, and I eventually made piece with the name. The kids, except the Bratty Gurl, basically did, after putting up with the harassment from time to time. It fit well into our life of Utter Chaos, so it was ok. And the Bratty Gurl would get married one day and lose the name that she hates so much.
Fast forward to the part where I divorced his lying, cheating ass. I thought seriously of taking back the maiden name but didn't, because Bratty was so anxious to change HER name that the only way to chill her out was to say "hey, NO ONE gets to change their name till I do." She agreed, and I didn't change my name. Moms have a way of winning, always. It's a gift that is delivered before the first placenta, I think.
And so it was, that after a heartfelt New Year's Eve proposal a couple of years ago, and many settings and changings of dates, we took the plunge last month and got married in a private, very personal ceremony in Florida, complete with Scottish tartan, a quiach, and some Scotch whiskey, to boot. It was lovely and simple and perfect. We had a great honeymoon, full of relaxation, margaritas, sand, and not a care in the world. And then everything got complicated.
Men will never understand what a pain in the butt it is to change your name. Jim was really sweet in asking if I was going to change it at all, or if I perhaps wanted to go back to my maiden name. I asked him -- as I've asked a number of male friends over the years -- if a man does indeed live his whole life waiting to give a woman his name, because the thought intrigued me. He, like every other man I have ever asked, looked at me crazy and said an emphatic "NO. Why would it matter?" Just as I thought. But I told him that I planned to take his name, which seemed to please him, nonetheless. Plus, the commonality of his name means going into the Witness Protection Program is all that much easier, should the need ever arise.
And so it was that I found myself in Anderson, Indiana last week, clutching all the documentation proving my names over the course of the past half century or so. I spoke with a very nice gentleman who told me that my new card would appear in about 2 weeks, and I set out to wait. You know, you can't change anything till that Social Security card arrives. It's very annoying, because in the meantime, what IS your name? Everyone congratulates you with one name, but you sign everything with the old name. It's all a bit confusing.
Lucky for me that the new card arrived on Friday, a mere five days after I applied for it. Yippee! Me being me, and last week being as nutty as it was (cleaning up from the great flood, unpacking from the trip, painting the closet where the flood started, and work was off the chain busy, so little sleep was had), I opened the envelope and then put it aside to deal with it later. When I went into my office, I decided to go ahead and scan it for Human Resources, then just sat and looked at it. Lack of sleep meant my rheumatoid arthritis was pretty bad, and my hands were extremely painful. And cold. And stiff. Last week was chilly, and my hands are always really cold when the temperature dips. So the card just sat there next to me while I started my workday.
It turned into a bit of a process. I decided to let my hands warm up, because once you sign that card, you have to look at that signature forever. It needs to be a good signature, not one like what you sign on the credit card machine at the grocery. It needs to be neat and legible, and one to be proud of, not unlike how you'd write it for your kids' teacher when they send home a permission slip. Yes, the hands needed to warm up, because when they warm up, they aren't as stiff. Or painful. Limber fingers make pretty handwriting. By the by, the fingers felt better, and I decided it was time to take the plunge. I picked out the pen. Nope, not that one. Got another one that flowed freely. Tested it to make sure it was working -- I didn't want to have to trace over part of the signature and make it look tacky. Yep, pen was working great. I took a big breath and wrote my name. Sat back and looked at it, thinking to myself "wow, that looks really GOOD."
Then I realized that I had signed my old last name.
I am pretty sure that life came to a standstill for about two minutes while I regained my composure. I mean seriously, NOW what? I couldn't turn it in as ID to get my driver's license if it had two different names on it. Heck, if I tried to use it at the bank, I might get up close and personal with the security guard. All thoughts of name-changing came to a screeching halt. All I could think was "DAMMIT."
Jim got home, and I started to tell him the story. He interrupted me midstream and said "you signed the wrong name, didn't you" before I could even finish. He may or may not have laughed to the point of tears. He informed me that I should've waited till he got home, cause he had wanted to have a little ceremonious signing of the card, and HE would've made sure that I didn't sign the wrong name. ::sigh:: I mean, really. I've been signing that name since 1987. This name change thing is HARD. Men just don't get it.
And so it was that the dog and I popped into the convertible, put the top down, and drove to the Social Security office again this week. I waited. They called my name. The girl asked how she could help me. I just handed her my card and yes, she burst out laughing. Now, I don't know for certain, but I'm fairly certain that federal government employees are not supposed to laugh at people, much less people in the Social Security office. I mean, most of the people there are either senior citizens or people on disability. It would seem unkind, and perhaps a bit confusing to the customer, for clerks to spontaneously guffaw. But then again, I was in Anderson -- home of the only restaurant sign that hawks "Pastries, Barbecue, and Bail Bonds." Political correctness may not be their forte. But I digress...........
So here I am again, back to square one, waiting for the new card. Fortunately, I had already scanned the first one before I signed it, so I was able to change my name at work -- but to add to the confusion, I can't change my nursing license yet, so I still have to use the old name when I'm working. I walk around confused most of the time. Hopefully, by next week, I will be able to start the name changing process in earnest, and put the old name to rest, once and for all. And trust me, if anything happens to my dear husband sometime in the distant future, and some man tries to say that he's waited his whole life to give me his name, I'm gonna tell him where he can shove it.
Three days later, the fiance came to her and said, quite seriously and totally out of the blue, "I just want you to know that if you don't want to take my name, then we aren't going to get married. A man waits his whole life to give his name to a woman, and if my name's not good enough for you, then we aren't getting married." Whoa, Dude. JOKING. (Kind of.) She took his name, forever banishing their children to a life of harassment about dairy cows and women's reproductive organs.
Over time, she found that the name was somewhat useful. When you have a name that starts with M, you always have to figure out what line you get in, or where in the seating chart you are, or where to look on the list of names up on the wall, because you're smack in the middle. But when your last name starts with U, it's all pretty simple -- you're always at the end. Your film (back in the day) or your prescriptions are easy to find, because there aren't many things in the U bin. Having a U name can be rather useful, she found.
That girl was me, and I eventually made piece with the name. The kids, except the Bratty Gurl, basically did, after putting up with the harassment from time to time. It fit well into our life of Utter Chaos, so it was ok. And the Bratty Gurl would get married one day and lose the name that she hates so much.
Fast forward to the part where I divorced his lying, cheating ass. I thought seriously of taking back the maiden name but didn't, because Bratty was so anxious to change HER name that the only way to chill her out was to say "hey, NO ONE gets to change their name till I do." She agreed, and I didn't change my name. Moms have a way of winning, always. It's a gift that is delivered before the first placenta, I think.
And so it was, that after a heartfelt New Year's Eve proposal a couple of years ago, and many settings and changings of dates, we took the plunge last month and got married in a private, very personal ceremony in Florida, complete with Scottish tartan, a quiach, and some Scotch whiskey, to boot. It was lovely and simple and perfect. We had a great honeymoon, full of relaxation, margaritas, sand, and not a care in the world. And then everything got complicated.
Men will never understand what a pain in the butt it is to change your name. Jim was really sweet in asking if I was going to change it at all, or if I perhaps wanted to go back to my maiden name. I asked him -- as I've asked a number of male friends over the years -- if a man does indeed live his whole life waiting to give a woman his name, because the thought intrigued me. He, like every other man I have ever asked, looked at me crazy and said an emphatic "NO. Why would it matter?" Just as I thought. But I told him that I planned to take his name, which seemed to please him, nonetheless. Plus, the commonality of his name means going into the Witness Protection Program is all that much easier, should the need ever arise.
And so it was that I found myself in Anderson, Indiana last week, clutching all the documentation proving my names over the course of the past half century or so. I spoke with a very nice gentleman who told me that my new card would appear in about 2 weeks, and I set out to wait. You know, you can't change anything till that Social Security card arrives. It's very annoying, because in the meantime, what IS your name? Everyone congratulates you with one name, but you sign everything with the old name. It's all a bit confusing.
Lucky for me that the new card arrived on Friday, a mere five days after I applied for it. Yippee! Me being me, and last week being as nutty as it was (cleaning up from the great flood, unpacking from the trip, painting the closet where the flood started, and work was off the chain busy, so little sleep was had), I opened the envelope and then put it aside to deal with it later. When I went into my office, I decided to go ahead and scan it for Human Resources, then just sat and looked at it. Lack of sleep meant my rheumatoid arthritis was pretty bad, and my hands were extremely painful. And cold. And stiff. Last week was chilly, and my hands are always really cold when the temperature dips. So the card just sat there next to me while I started my workday.
It turned into a bit of a process. I decided to let my hands warm up, because once you sign that card, you have to look at that signature forever. It needs to be a good signature, not one like what you sign on the credit card machine at the grocery. It needs to be neat and legible, and one to be proud of, not unlike how you'd write it for your kids' teacher when they send home a permission slip. Yes, the hands needed to warm up, because when they warm up, they aren't as stiff. Or painful. Limber fingers make pretty handwriting. By the by, the fingers felt better, and I decided it was time to take the plunge. I picked out the pen. Nope, not that one. Got another one that flowed freely. Tested it to make sure it was working -- I didn't want to have to trace over part of the signature and make it look tacky. Yep, pen was working great. I took a big breath and wrote my name. Sat back and looked at it, thinking to myself "wow, that looks really GOOD."
Then I realized that I had signed my old last name.
I am pretty sure that life came to a standstill for about two minutes while I regained my composure. I mean seriously, NOW what? I couldn't turn it in as ID to get my driver's license if it had two different names on it. Heck, if I tried to use it at the bank, I might get up close and personal with the security guard. All thoughts of name-changing came to a screeching halt. All I could think was "DAMMIT."
Jim got home, and I started to tell him the story. He interrupted me midstream and said "you signed the wrong name, didn't you" before I could even finish. He may or may not have laughed to the point of tears. He informed me that I should've waited till he got home, cause he had wanted to have a little ceremonious signing of the card, and HE would've made sure that I didn't sign the wrong name. ::sigh:: I mean, really. I've been signing that name since 1987. This name change thing is HARD. Men just don't get it.
And so it was that the dog and I popped into the convertible, put the top down, and drove to the Social Security office again this week. I waited. They called my name. The girl asked how she could help me. I just handed her my card and yes, she burst out laughing. Now, I don't know for certain, but I'm fairly certain that federal government employees are not supposed to laugh at people, much less people in the Social Security office. I mean, most of the people there are either senior citizens or people on disability. It would seem unkind, and perhaps a bit confusing to the customer, for clerks to spontaneously guffaw. But then again, I was in Anderson -- home of the only restaurant sign that hawks "Pastries, Barbecue, and Bail Bonds." Political correctness may not be their forte. But I digress...........
So here I am again, back to square one, waiting for the new card. Fortunately, I had already scanned the first one before I signed it, so I was able to change my name at work -- but to add to the confusion, I can't change my nursing license yet, so I still have to use the old name when I'm working. I walk around confused most of the time. Hopefully, by next week, I will be able to start the name changing process in earnest, and put the old name to rest, once and for all. And trust me, if anything happens to my dear husband sometime in the distant future, and some man tries to say that he's waited his whole life to give me his name, I'm gonna tell him where he can shove it.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Jim-anese
Well, it was bound to happen. My dear husband has caught the tongue-twisting-brain-bending virus otherwise known as Sethanese. He swears he hasn't always been this way, so of course, it's the baby's fault. I feel Seth's pain, and we have bonded over the baby-of-the-family issue more than once. I suspect, however, that Jim has been like this longer than he thinks. He also has more in common with Seth than he thinks.
Case in point: we were walking out of our hotel last week, whilst having a discussion about something. Jim says to me, "well, I'm very anatomic, you know." I actually stopped in my tracks. My mind went completely blank. All I kept thinking of was the Animatronic rides at Disney, or anatomically correct dolls, neither of which fit into the conversation. Seth's been in college for too long now. My interpretive powers are not as sharp as they once were. I stared at him for a minute and said "what are you talking about?" to which he responded "you know, like a cartoon character." "Do you mean animated?" He looked at me blankly, then just walked away laughing.
I swear, I'm lucky that I end the day with any kind of brain cells at all, if you consider who I hang out with. I wouldn't have it any other way though. This guys are the best. Even if they do need a few screws tightened up.
Case in point: we were walking out of our hotel last week, whilst having a discussion about something. Jim says to me, "well, I'm very anatomic, you know." I actually stopped in my tracks. My mind went completely blank. All I kept thinking of was the Animatronic rides at Disney, or anatomically correct dolls, neither of which fit into the conversation. Seth's been in college for too long now. My interpretive powers are not as sharp as they once were. I stared at him for a minute and said "what are you talking about?" to which he responded "you know, like a cartoon character." "Do you mean animated?" He looked at me blankly, then just walked away laughing.
I swear, I'm lucky that I end the day with any kind of brain cells at all, if you consider who I hang out with. I wouldn't have it any other way though. This guys are the best. Even if they do need a few screws tightened up.
Wednesday, November 06, 2013
Travelling in Cars with Marines
We just got back from vacation in the Sunshine State. OK, truth be told, I took a week off to unpack the rest of the boxes here, and then had a colonoscopy. There, I said it. But if you haven't been screened, do. And then follow up the scope with a nice trip to the beach.
We had a lovely condo overlooking the beach. I have to agree with the person whose guestbook entry read something to the effect of "our 17yo daughter walked in and said 'my life just got sooo much better.'" Cause yeah, it is that amazing of a place. We had crashing waves 24/7, right outside our window. Talk about good sleep...........I had the nuttiest of nutty dreams all week, and I loved it.
Here is what our days consisted of:
1. Get up and watch the sun rise on the left. Possibly go back to bed.
2. Watch the dolphins move from east to west in front of the balcony. Possibly go back to bed again.
3. Eat breakfast, complete with wonderful coffee, custom made by my private chef.
4. Spend most of the morning trying to decide how to spend the day.
5. End up on beach chair under an umbrella, with a cooler and a good book.
6. Go back to room and assess the damage.
7. Take a nap.
8. Decide where dinner will be.
9. Dinner. Sadly, no good seafood was to be found. Sadness.
10. Back to condo, where he watched TV and I read till sleep took over.
::and repeat::
Happily, we got to see the Bratty Gurl and The Intended several times. They took advantage of our cable to watch Walking Dead one night because yes, when you haven't seen your mom for two months, the first thing you want to do is figure out how to steal the remote. That's my girl. And after a blissful nine days, we headed home again.
Somewhere in Alabama, we listened to 93.3 Y'ALL, a radio station with the tag line "we're a hot mess." And they really are: Hank Williams followed by Guns N Roses, then One Direction followed by Sam Cooke........you get the idea. Totally bonkers. Of course then we passed the sign that said "Go To Church or The Devil Will Get You," replendent with a big red Satan on it. Good stuff. Somewhere a bit further north, my brain exploded when I heard "Lisa Mitchell plays the most music on" whatever random station the radio was on. (Yes, I left my iPod at home, much to Jim's consternation. Somewhere in southern Tennessee he said quite emphatically "I wish you'd brought your iPad (sic). I want to hear some Gaga." Can't help lovin that man 'o mine....... Alas, without the Nano to entertain him, he was left to his own devices. And this man is never bored.
Now let me tell you, my boo is an interesting one to ride in the car with. Our trips generally start with him putting on his seat belt while telling me not to kill him. Of course, my driving hasn't killed anyone yet, but I guess he figures that the admonishment will keep the phone poles at bay. Once we start down the street, he starts narrating. It goes like this: "oh look, there's a UPS Store......CVS....China Buffet right next to Chik-fil-A..." and so on. FOR MILES. It's a good thing I worked in the nursery for so many years, cause girlfriend can tune out just about anything. That being said, somewhere in Tennessee, the drivers lost their minds, driving by us like the Millenium Falcon at warp speed. That was about the time my boo began his impression of Darryn McGavin in "A Christmas Story."
"Oh look, that tree is pretty, but where are the flaming red maples. HOLY $#@&! What was that guy doing? Driving like a #$**!! Oh look, there's a gas station at this next exit. Do we need gas? OMG LOOK OUT that &#@) is driving right up you @#*! Oh look, there's a water wheel....." Yep. Sometimes the Marine comes out with very little warning. Loudly. And since I can't get the man to relax and let me do the driving, and God knows he can't go to sleep -- he might miss a Stuckey's sign -- I just laugh. It's pretty entertaining if you just roll with it, and God knows it's better than the days of travelling with an infant with an ear infection, or a toddler with motion sickness. It's really funny to see what will fly out of his mouth next, Goofus, Gallant, or Gunnery Sergeant Hartman. I did, however, draw the line as we got closer to Nashville, telling him quite sternly that he could not A) narrate or B) shout in consternation as I drove through the city, or we truly MIGHT both die.
It was at that point that I realized that his pre-travel command to not kill him might, in fact, be serious, because the man became silent as a tomb. Even past several billboards featuring Carrie Underwood in a corset. As in, not one decibel. For miles. Through construction, detours, and past several police officers at the ready. Boyfriend SHUT. IT.DOWN. Until he saw the next Cracker Barrel sign, at which point it was on like Donkey Kong. And he narrated the entire way back home to Indiana.
So now we are home again, and intend to stay so until after the wedding. And that's all I've got to say abou that.
We had a lovely condo overlooking the beach. I have to agree with the person whose guestbook entry read something to the effect of "our 17yo daughter walked in and said 'my life just got sooo much better.'" Cause yeah, it is that amazing of a place. We had crashing waves 24/7, right outside our window. Talk about good sleep...........I had the nuttiest of nutty dreams all week, and I loved it.
Here is what our days consisted of:
1. Get up and watch the sun rise on the left. Possibly go back to bed.
2. Watch the dolphins move from east to west in front of the balcony. Possibly go back to bed again.
3. Eat breakfast, complete with wonderful coffee, custom made by my private chef.
4. Spend most of the morning trying to decide how to spend the day.
5. End up on beach chair under an umbrella, with a cooler and a good book.
6. Go back to room and assess the damage.
7. Take a nap.
8. Decide where dinner will be.
9. Dinner. Sadly, no good seafood was to be found. Sadness.
10. Back to condo, where he watched TV and I read till sleep took over.
::and repeat::
Happily, we got to see the Bratty Gurl and The Intended several times. They took advantage of our cable to watch Walking Dead one night because yes, when you haven't seen your mom for two months, the first thing you want to do is figure out how to steal the remote. That's my girl. And after a blissful nine days, we headed home again.
Somewhere in Alabama, we listened to 93.3 Y'ALL, a radio station with the tag line "we're a hot mess." And they really are: Hank Williams followed by Guns N Roses, then One Direction followed by Sam Cooke........you get the idea. Totally bonkers. Of course then we passed the sign that said "Go To Church or The Devil Will Get You," replendent with a big red Satan on it. Good stuff. Somewhere a bit further north, my brain exploded when I heard "Lisa Mitchell plays the most music on" whatever random station the radio was on. (Yes, I left my iPod at home, much to Jim's consternation. Somewhere in southern Tennessee he said quite emphatically "I wish you'd brought your iPad (sic). I want to hear some Gaga." Can't help lovin that man 'o mine....... Alas, without the Nano to entertain him, he was left to his own devices. And this man is never bored.
Now let me tell you, my boo is an interesting one to ride in the car with. Our trips generally start with him putting on his seat belt while telling me not to kill him. Of course, my driving hasn't killed anyone yet, but I guess he figures that the admonishment will keep the phone poles at bay. Once we start down the street, he starts narrating. It goes like this: "oh look, there's a UPS Store......CVS....China Buffet right next to Chik-fil-A..." and so on. FOR MILES. It's a good thing I worked in the nursery for so many years, cause girlfriend can tune out just about anything. That being said, somewhere in Tennessee, the drivers lost their minds, driving by us like the Millenium Falcon at warp speed. That was about the time my boo began his impression of Darryn McGavin in "A Christmas Story."
"Oh look, that tree is pretty, but where are the flaming red maples. HOLY $#@&! What was that guy doing? Driving like a #$**!! Oh look, there's a gas station at this next exit. Do we need gas? OMG LOOK OUT that &#@) is driving right up you @#*! Oh look, there's a water wheel....." Yep. Sometimes the Marine comes out with very little warning. Loudly. And since I can't get the man to relax and let me do the driving, and God knows he can't go to sleep -- he might miss a Stuckey's sign -- I just laugh. It's pretty entertaining if you just roll with it, and God knows it's better than the days of travelling with an infant with an ear infection, or a toddler with motion sickness. It's really funny to see what will fly out of his mouth next, Goofus, Gallant, or Gunnery Sergeant Hartman. I did, however, draw the line as we got closer to Nashville, telling him quite sternly that he could not A) narrate or B) shout in consternation as I drove through the city, or we truly MIGHT both die.
It was at that point that I realized that his pre-travel command to not kill him might, in fact, be serious, because the man became silent as a tomb. Even past several billboards featuring Carrie Underwood in a corset. As in, not one decibel. For miles. Through construction, detours, and past several police officers at the ready. Boyfriend SHUT. IT.DOWN. Until he saw the next Cracker Barrel sign, at which point it was on like Donkey Kong. And he narrated the entire way back home to Indiana.
So now we are home again, and intend to stay so until after the wedding. And that's all I've got to say abou that.
Sunday, October 06, 2013
My 15 Minutes of Internet Fame
So, I had a yard sale back before Seth left for school. I had agreed to let Jill have the proceeds for her wedding, but Seth is poor and he was here to run it, so they split it. Little did I know what a pushover he is -- some people got some seriously crazy deals. But oh well, they made upwards of $300 and I got rid of garbage, so it's all good.
So I put the ad on Craigslist, and I guess people liked it, because I'm still getting fan mail over it, and people telling me that a) they would like to be my friend and b) they laughed really hard when they read it. It got put on Best of Craigslist, so the fan mail comes from all over now. It cracks me up.
So here it is. You decide. I'll be unpacking boxes.
All three of my kids have moved out in the past three weeks. OK, so the third is leaving Saturday, but you get my drift. As a result, the nest is shrinking and I'm getting rid of everything that's not nailed down. Here's a sampling:
--a very ugly, but structurally sound, couch, circa 70s, as noted by the butt-ugly orange and brown colorway.
--a bunch of end tables and cocktail tables, in various shapes and sizes. At least one vintage-ish.
--some horse tack, like saddle blankets, lead ropes, and the like, previously used. By a horse.
--an extra large dog crate. Previously used. By a dog.
--Various book shelves that would be great for a dorm room. Nothing fance, in case of too much Nerf ball-dom.
--Some clothes, more shoes, but not too much, cause that is boring.
--Some vintage smalls, mainly china and a few pictures. One Victorian era picture that looks like Ellen Degeneres. I dare you to disagree.
--File cabinets. Hopefully they help you organize better than they did me. No guarantees.
--Sewing pattern cabinets, metal, (2) like you see at Joann's. They hold sewing patterns. Duh.
--A projection TV. Cheap. Used mostly to watch Criminal Minds.
--A dresser, bought last year, in great condition. It looks manly.
--A day bed. As opposed to a night bed.
--A super large cooler. Perfect for beer. If you see the college student with beer, let me know. He will be in trouble.
--Some Christmas stuff. Don't hate. It'll be here before you know it, trust me.
--A set of weights and two weight benches. Get your Arnold on. Just not in my garage. Wait till you get home.
--A covered patio swing. Perfect for relaxation and naps. The garage is a No Sleeping Zone.
--an old tool box with a bunch of tiny unknown stuff in it. No tools.
--a bunch of yard tools like rakes and shovels, etc. To look for buried treasure, or bury the body. Don't ask, don't tell
--a bunch of other stuff, some interesting, some boring.
--check out our jar of freebies. Just some stuff that you might like that I didn't feel like tagging. Cause free stuff is fun.
--a FREE upright piano. Heavier than hell. Bring a truck, and several good looking men.
Half of the proceeds will go to my youngest, for college expenses (not beer money) and half will go to my daughter for her wedding/grad school expenses (perhaps beer money). I will let them fight over what "half" is, cause she's in Florida, and he's hosting the show.
So I put the ad on Craigslist, and I guess people liked it, because I'm still getting fan mail over it, and people telling me that a) they would like to be my friend and b) they laughed really hard when they read it. It got put on Best of Craigslist, so the fan mail comes from all over now. It cracks me up.
So here it is. You decide. I'll be unpacking boxes.
BROKE COLLEGE STUDENTS SELL THEIR MOM'S STUFF SALE FRIDAY 8.23.2013 (Eastside)
--a very ugly, but structurally sound, couch, circa 70s, as noted by the butt-ugly orange and brown colorway.
--a bunch of end tables and cocktail tables, in various shapes and sizes. At least one vintage-ish.
--some horse tack, like saddle blankets, lead ropes, and the like, previously used. By a horse.
--an extra large dog crate. Previously used. By a dog.
--Various book shelves that would be great for a dorm room. Nothing fance, in case of too much Nerf ball-dom.
--Some clothes, more shoes, but not too much, cause that is boring.
--Some vintage smalls, mainly china and a few pictures. One Victorian era picture that looks like Ellen Degeneres. I dare you to disagree.
--File cabinets. Hopefully they help you organize better than they did me. No guarantees.
--Sewing pattern cabinets, metal, (2) like you see at Joann's. They hold sewing patterns. Duh.
--A projection TV. Cheap. Used mostly to watch Criminal Minds.
--A dresser, bought last year, in great condition. It looks manly.
--A day bed. As opposed to a night bed.
--A super large cooler. Perfect for beer. If you see the college student with beer, let me know. He will be in trouble.
--Some Christmas stuff. Don't hate. It'll be here before you know it, trust me.
--A set of weights and two weight benches. Get your Arnold on. Just not in my garage. Wait till you get home.
--A covered patio swing. Perfect for relaxation and naps. The garage is a No Sleeping Zone.
--an old tool box with a bunch of tiny unknown stuff in it. No tools.
--a bunch of yard tools like rakes and shovels, etc. To look for buried treasure, or bury the body. Don't ask, don't tell
--a bunch of other stuff, some interesting, some boring.
--check out our jar of freebies. Just some stuff that you might like that I didn't feel like tagging. Cause free stuff is fun.
--a FREE upright piano. Heavier than hell. Bring a truck, and several good looking men.
Half of the proceeds will go to my youngest, for college expenses (not beer money) and half will go to my daughter for her wedding/grad school expenses (perhaps beer money). I will let them fight over what "half" is, cause she's in Florida, and he's hosting the show.
Thursday, May 09, 2013
End Times
Well, we rolled down to E-town last weekend for the bratty gurl's graduation. Hard to believe that she is at that stage in life, but it's a wonderful thing, and there is no prouder mother on the planet.
And so it was that my boo and I, along with The Heir, The Spare, and my Greenfield son did a roadtrip of three and a half hours there, and then back again, with a lunch, cupcakes, and a graduation in between. I've said it before -- travelling with these boys is hilarious, and this was no exception, with the exception of road construction. We got stuck in a gridlock before we even made it out of the city, and then again before Terre Haute, but somehow we still made it here in time for our lunch reservations. It's the in between that was typically hilarious.
Getting three young men up and ready and dressed in something appropriate for the occasion was going to be a huge endeavor, or so I thought. When we arrived to pick them up, however, all three were up, semi-dressed, and there was even a breakfast of scrambled eggs and pancakes on the stove. Hey, I think I must've done something right raising these boys.
When we got in the car, there was a long discussion about how tired they all were, given their late bedtime, and getting up earlier than usual. Thomas said he'd gone to bed early, and gotten up early. Chris mentioned that although he'd been to bed at his normal 2am, he hadn't gotten up till 9, and he usually gets up at 6, so he actually got more sleep than usual. This led to a discussion about when one makes up lost sleep. Seth said "I used to make up my sleep in trig class. Did the worksheets and then went to sleep. And I still got an A in the class."
I could've gone my whole life without knowing that. Oye vay.
Thomas has a love of the New York Times crossword puzzles, and typically spends his passenger time in the car working on them. He and the other two try to get the answers themselves, but if they get stuck, they toss it up to the front seat. Here is a small sample:
Thomas: "Mom, who's 'singer Lena'? Five letters."
Me: "Horne."
Thomas (with a very curious tone): "Whore?"
Me: "Horne."
Thomas: "It's five letters."
Jim: "H-O-R-N."
Me: "E. There's an E on the end."
Jim: "Yeah. H-O-R-N-E. Horny."
Thomas: "OH! Got it."
Oye and vay.
Later, I randomly heard the phrase, "How in the hell is that not Santa," which sounds pretty darned weird until you put together that they are talking about a crossword puzzle. The clue "Xmas visitor", had six letters and the third one was an E. I don't think they ever figured it out. Let me know if you do.
The most odd one to me was the clue "nerd." The answer was a five letter word, second letter E. And the three nerds in the back seat never did figure out what it was. Go figure.
And lastly:
Thomas: "Do possums climb trees?"
Seth: "Are you serious?"
The day has come with Seth has more sense than his brother. End times, I tell you. End times.
And so it was that my boo and I, along with The Heir, The Spare, and my Greenfield son did a roadtrip of three and a half hours there, and then back again, with a lunch, cupcakes, and a graduation in between. I've said it before -- travelling with these boys is hilarious, and this was no exception, with the exception of road construction. We got stuck in a gridlock before we even made it out of the city, and then again before Terre Haute, but somehow we still made it here in time for our lunch reservations. It's the in between that was typically hilarious.
Getting three young men up and ready and dressed in something appropriate for the occasion was going to be a huge endeavor, or so I thought. When we arrived to pick them up, however, all three were up, semi-dressed, and there was even a breakfast of scrambled eggs and pancakes on the stove. Hey, I think I must've done something right raising these boys.
When we got in the car, there was a long discussion about how tired they all were, given their late bedtime, and getting up earlier than usual. Thomas said he'd gone to bed early, and gotten up early. Chris mentioned that although he'd been to bed at his normal 2am, he hadn't gotten up till 9, and he usually gets up at 6, so he actually got more sleep than usual. This led to a discussion about when one makes up lost sleep. Seth said "I used to make up my sleep in trig class. Did the worksheets and then went to sleep. And I still got an A in the class."
I could've gone my whole life without knowing that. Oye vay.
Thomas has a love of the New York Times crossword puzzles, and typically spends his passenger time in the car working on them. He and the other two try to get the answers themselves, but if they get stuck, they toss it up to the front seat. Here is a small sample:
Thomas: "Mom, who's 'singer Lena'? Five letters."
Me: "Horne."
Thomas (with a very curious tone): "Whore?"
Me: "Horne."
Thomas: "It's five letters."
Jim: "H-O-R-N."
Me: "E. There's an E on the end."
Jim: "Yeah. H-O-R-N-E. Horny."
Thomas: "OH! Got it."
Oye and vay.
Later, I randomly heard the phrase, "How in the hell is that not Santa," which sounds pretty darned weird until you put together that they are talking about a crossword puzzle. The clue "Xmas visitor", had six letters and the third one was an E. I don't think they ever figured it out. Let me know if you do.
The most odd one to me was the clue "nerd." The answer was a five letter word, second letter E. And the three nerds in the back seat never did figure out what it was. Go figure.
And lastly:
Thomas: "Do possums climb trees?"
Seth: "Are you serious?"
The day has come with Seth has more sense than his brother. End times, I tell you. End times.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Going to Hell in a blister pack
One of the hospitals we answer for at work is Methodist Hospital, in Indianapolis. The Methodists believe in freedom of expression, so we can talk pretty freely to our callers. The Catholic hospital I used to work for, on the other hand, probably had me right on the top of the "needs a rosary said for them" list.
I probably have at least a dozen nuns praying for me nonstop, even now -- seven years after I left there.
The Catholics believe that birth control is a sin. They don't use it (::wink wink::). We weren't allowed to discuss birth control with our callers, EVER. I think sometimes that they got Protestant callers to call in as mystery shoppers, just to make me sweat. I toed that line so close that my boss would come out of her office, shaking her head saying, "you sure do dance all around it, but you never QUITE break the rules, do you?" I just grinned.
Never really envisioned myself dancing around a pack of birth control pills, but whatever rocks your world. I never got written up.
It was so crazy there that that same Irish Catholic boss, who was, I will say, much admired by yours truly, hated to shut her computer down because it said "aborting operation." Oye. She wouldn't let her kids eat at McDonald's because there was some connection between them and Planned Parenthood. Don't ask me what, cause I didn't want to know, but maybe Ronald was secretly handing out prophylactics with the fries. Brings a whole new meaning to the idea of a Happy Meal, now doesn't it?
But here with the Methodists, I started out yesterday with a call about erectile dysfunction, and ended it with someone who had "rainbow colored bugs flying out of every orifice." And started my day today with someone who wanted "help with conception." What she thought I would be able to do about that, I'll never know, but maybe if she'd called the Catholics......
So yeah, those Catholics are probably still praying for me, but so are some Methodists I know, as well as some Presbyterians, and probably a few others that I don't know about. God knows, I can use all the help I can get.
But underneath it all, we're all the same, so let me show you the way with this Henson Kickernik lavender teddy, from The Ornament Gal, on ebay. Cause if I'm gonna burn in hell, I'm gonna look good doing it!
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