Random Acts of Vintage

Riding in the Car with Boys, Sethanese, and Satan's Butthole

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 26 Oct 2015 02:55:00 +0000

We had a long day yesterday. We drove 3 1/2 hours to Evansville to go to a wedding for one of Jill's childhood friends. This is the third of four out of state weddings that she's in -- one more to go -- in the period of three months. Basically, it's an "always a bridesmaid" trend that she seems to have started when she got married last year, but I'm ok with it, cause we have gotten to see her more than normal. I'm not complaining.

The boys rode down with us. To clarify: Thomas and Seth rode down with us, because my pseudo-son Chris was already down there, since he was also in the wedding. Thomas and Seth came out and spent the night here, which was nice, but it was all in the plan, so we didn't have to a) drive into town to get them and b) wait for them to get ready, because we all know that they would still be asleep when we went to pick them up. The mother knows her boys.

So, somehow on the way down, they got into a discussion about heights. Specifically, fear of heights. To be more specific, FALLING from heights. Seth remarked that he thought Thomas was afraid of heights, to which Thomas replied "nah, I am afraid of ladder heights. I'm not afraid of high heights. I'm afraid of falling off a ladder and getting hurt. I figure if you fall off a tall enough height, like a bridge, or a building, then you're gonna die, so there's nothing to be afraid of, cause you're just gonna be dead. I'd rather be dead then in pain." Seth replied that it'd probably suck on the way to dying, and you'd probably be scared too. "But if I was falling from a height like that, I'd probably just fan out like a flying squirrel."

Huh?

We went to the wedding and reception, which was an odd mishmash of formalwear, jeans and boots, and an old tightly-pulled woman in what I thought was snakeskin print pants, only to find out while in the buffet line that I think they were actually snakeskin print sweats. I mean, is there really such a thing? Combine that with the guy walking around in actual sweats and a baseball cap, and it kept people watchers like Jim and me busy all night. He was particularly enjoying watching a former church friend/lush, who walked in with her own Minute Maid container (full of cherry vodka) that she drank dry before the wedding started, then switched to wine, then beer. I'm sure she was feeling it today, but that's her M.O. I was interested in the people who brought take out containers and proceeded to fill them up before the buffet line was torn down. Fun times.

Good times were had by all, including Jill, who sweet talked the DJ into playing her request first, Seth, who shared many hilarious moments with Michael, and Thomas, who professed to hating weddings, but then didn't want to leave. This may have had something to do with the free beer but he eventually decided it best to go with us, as we were returning home after the reception. The boys and Jim piled in and we headed off. I stopped to fill the tank at a gas station, and made a face at Seth in the window while I was standing there. He made a horrified faced not at all unlike Edward Munch's "Scream" at Thomas at the same time, I hadn't even gotten all the way back in when I realized that either the Bud Light had kicked in, or there was a dead animal in the car. "Damn, boy," was all Jim could say. Seth was just gasping for air. Now, you know it's bad if I can smell it, because I can't smell anything -- and this was just awful. I couldn't get the windows down fast enough. "Damn boy, next time, stay away from the Bud. Coors isn't nearly that bad," I said. All he could say was that it came straight from Satan's Butthole, which Seth pointed out meant that Thomas was Satan, and that I had given birth to Satan.

That boy is just full of philosophical thoughts.

Riding In The Car With Boys Eve

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sat, 24 Oct 2015 02:49:00 +0000

We're having a slumber party, of sorts, tonight. The boys, Jim and I are heading south tomorrow to go to a wedding for one of their friends who they have known since they were little. It's the third wedding Jill's in since the beginning of August. She has one more to go in two weeks and thank God, that'll be done -- they are all out of state weddings, so she's had to do a lot of travelling. On the flip side, we've gotten to see her a lot, which is pretty great. But yeah, it's expensive. Such is the price of being popular.

So I told the boys to come over tonight and sleep here so we wouldn't have to pick them up in the morning. As in, we'd have to go to two locations, and the odds of them being up and ready to go when we get there to pick them up would be nil. So here they are. I'm mentally preparing myself for yet another day of fun conversations from the back seat. I'm thinking it may not happen, because they are both planning to be studying the whole way down to Evansville, but I'm sure we'll get a few in.

Like tonight, for example. Seth was talking about his posse of friends at Butler. He was talking specifically about his freshman year, saying "yeah, now THAT was a group. We had our token gay guy...yada yada......" "Wait a minute, I said, is he GAY?" "No," Seth said, "but he IS diabetic." Whut.

After we got home -- we'd taken a quick trip to Walmart to get Seth some dress shoes because "I could only find one, it was smashed, and it was brown" (don't ask), the boys settled in to some geekery in the family room. I was taking my bedtime drugs and the puppies were yipping VERY annoyingly. Thomas said "hey Mom, can I Old Yeller these dogs or something, cause they are driving me nuts." I told him to ignore them and that hopefully they would shut up (full disclosure: probably not). Seth piped in with "yeah, that's what they taught us in my psychology class. If you want a baby or a dog to shut up, just ignore it."

This has me concerned on a number of levels. Will the dogs be alive in the morning? What is all the tuition money buying me at Butler? Should I be concerned for my future grandchildren?

So many questions. So few answers.

Make My Day

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 30 Sep 2015 00:02:00 +0000

It's been a weird week here. Twice this week I have been told by friends that I "inspire" them, and once I was told that I had a kind heart. Whut.

See, I'm not used to this. I read an essay in Elle this month that mentioned a luncheon they threw last year for outstanding women earlier this year. Each "outstanding" woman was introduced and each, in turn, curled into herself, trying to make herself smaller, apparently not wanting the accolades. This same essay asked the question -- when would you see a man do that? Truth.

Our dietician at work is the sweetest young thing you'll ever meet. She also, admittedly, has issues with asserting herself. She will, as we call it, turn into a turtle, in that same attempt to make herself smaller, hoping that no one will attack. We're working on teaching her to take her so-called "power" as a woman -- or as a human being. She's young. She'll get it. In the meantime, we are all learning lessons in sweetness and kindness from her. She inspires us.

So I guess I'll accept that idea that I have inspired a couple of people, however odd that seems to me. One friend texted me a photo of a painting I did for her. It was a quick painting of quilt blocks, each one different -- and if you want to hurt your brain, try to think of 20 different patterns to paint on one canvas! My brain hurt at the end of that, but it had stripes, dots, rabbits, bees, and more. She, as a quilter, loved it, and it now sits in her quilting room and, by her own admission, inspires her. The second inspiration accusation came from a friend who I paint with. We're having a small dinner party on Saturday -- Italian themed -- after which we are going to paint. Now trust me, said friend has a true GIFT when it comes to art. She is talented. How she came to decide that I inspire her, I don't know, but one thing I found when I started painting is that inspiration comes from all over the place, and frequently when we aren't even looking for it. Slow down and enjoy life.

The kind heart accusation came from a co-worker, who talked with a former co-worker, who said that I am "good" for another co-worker (are you following that?) who suffered a stroke a year or so ago. She's young -- 40 --- and has only minimal physical after effects from a stroke that should've killed her. She does, however, have problems with processing and attention span. She also is technologically challenged, and hey, I can help with that. Apparently aforementioned co-workers think I work with her well and have a kind heart. Wow. I'll take that.

See, the thing I figure is this: I've spent a lot of my life feeling broken and unworthy. I've always known I'm intelligent, but inspiring? No. Kind? Maybe. I have a nurse's heart, and aren't all nurses called because they have a kind, compassionate heart. I don't know, but I didn't necessarily feel it. Well, I'm past 50 now, and I'm gonna accept what comes my way. I think everyone should.
And if you have someone who inspires you, tell them. You might just make their day.

Take a Flying Leap.

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 16 Mar 2015 18:16:00 +0000

We call Leeloo a circus dog, because she loves to get on her back legs and chase after you, if she thinks you have food, or anything that might interest her. She runs around the house, chasing Mickey, tossing toys in the air, and leaping over anything in her path like it's her own personal steeplechase. But nothing prepared me for yesterday's antics.

Jim invited his youngest son and his family over for dinner last night, so after morning church, we headed to the grocery to pick up a few things. We went home, unpacked, and realized we'd forgotten a couple of necessary items, so I got the dogs in the car and back I went.

We take the dogs almost everywhere we go, as long as the temperature is ok to leave them in the car. Mickey just curls up in the seat and chills out. Leeloo stands on the back seat, front paws on the console in front, and stares out the windshield, standing proud like she's the great adventurer she is. Sometimes she rests her head on my shoulder and stares at me with those sweet, big, brown eyes. There is no greater love at that moment. ::sigh::

So, I locked the car, ran in and got my things, getting an odd look from the Girl Scouts who were selling cookies, because they had just seen me there about half an hour before, but in different clothes. Such is my life, girls. Deal with it. I went out to the car, juggling bulky bag and a big package of toilet paper, being cautious to keep the puppy from getting loose, because she can be a bit wild. She's a puppy, ya'll. She gets rambunctious at odd times. I started the car and went home, pulled into the garage, and got my stuff out. Opened the back car door to let the dogs out.

There's only one dog -- Mickey -- staring at me. Staring at me with a confused look that says "what the heck just happened?" There's no Leeloo. What. The. Heck.

I went into the house and dropped the stuff in front of Jim and said "I can't find Leeloo." He turned around and stared at me with a stricken look, and said "don't say that." "I'm serious." We went back out to the garage and found that the back passenger window was open. This meant that no only had she managed to open the window, she had jumped out of a moving car as well. Now, I've had some crazy dogs. I've had some dumb dogs. I've fostered, owned, or petsat for more animals than I can count, but I have never had an animal jump out of a moving car.

Marsh is at least a couple of miles from our house, and I had no idea where we had been she had taken her flying leap. I called Jim's daughter in law, who said she would help search, and I took off for Marsh. No Leeloo. Customer Service hadn't had a report of a dog, and the window washers at the next building hadn't seen her. I jumped back in my car and Jim drove up. He couldn't find her either. He headed off one way, and I went the other. I ended up retracing my path carefully, looking for places where I had turned, thinking perhaps she had jumped at a stop sign, or lost her balance on a turn. There's a place in our neighborhood where it takes a job -- Jim hates it that I drive that way, but I like it. Normally, when I turn on that jog, Leeloo knows she is almost home, and starts barking joyfully. Right in my ear. I didn't remember her barking, so I knew she had to have gone out before that turn, so instead of taking the jog, I drove down the dead end street to the left. And there she was.

She heard my car and came racing up to me, flopping in front of me just as I opened the door. She gave me a look as if to say "where the heck did you go?" She was wet, after running across a huge puddle to get to me, and she leapt into the car, soaking me in the process. I tried calling Jim, but he didn't have his phone. Lo and behold, I headed toward home and was right behind him. We arrived in the driveway in sync, and both breathed a big sigh of relief.

Needless to say, the lock will be kept on the windows from now on. A head count will commence before and after each outing. And we may have to look for a sparkly cape for our little circus dog. And a Xanax for me.

What a (Lug) Nut

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 16 Mar 2015 17:12:00 +0000

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.

An Uncomplicated Christmas, and Other Complications

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sat, 27 Dec 2014 01:59:00 +0000

Jim and I decided to make this an easy, stress-free Christmas. Neither of us wanted to be running around like crazy people, buying stuff that no one really wants. We did a lot to the house in the past six months, and we have some other things in the pipeline, so we decided not to buy for each other at all, and keep the shopping for others to an absolute minimum.

I say we agreed not to buy for each other, but as I told Jim, I had already pre-bought a couple of things for him -- small things -- so he would be getting a couple of gifts, but seriously, I didn't want anything. I had, after all, ordered myself a new laptop at the beginning of the Christmas season, since mine was on its very last legs. Come Christmas morn, Jim was happy with the Badpiper CDs I had gotten him (who can't love the only punk rock bagpiper, anyway?) and his book -- "If History Was Scottish". We got dressed and headed out to see the boys.

We had gifted them money so that they can go to Florida to see Jill, so the shopping was minimal. Thomas was SO surprised to receive the only book -- indeed, the only thing -- on his Christmas list, but I totally surprised him with a tiny Blue Power Ranger button that he wore proudly all day. Seth got a button that said "Oh snap, it's an onomatopoeia!" and a two pound container of Kraft Parmesan cheese, because it is a joke -- or not -- in our family that Seth LOVES Parmesan cheese. As in, there's generallly more Parmesan on his plate than spaghetti. I'm not sure if he was appreciative or annoyed, but he and Thomas agreed that it would be gone in short order.

Jill's gifts were a bit more complicated. She had sent me a short list of things that she wanted, so I ordered her the Kitchenaid mixer that she wanted. In icy blue, no less. I was trying to figure out if that was going to be it for her, because I had bought a bunch of other small stuff, and I was trying not to overdo. The decision was made on Sunday -- her birthday -- when she called and said that Michael had bought the same mixer for her AND she had already used it. Oh dear.

So I thought to myself, oh, I'll go to Bath & Body Works and get her some shower gels and such on the day after Christmas, because that was on her list, and the boys are taking her presents to her when they leave this weekend. I didn't even talk to her on Christmas Day, because she had gotten the flu the day before, and spent her whole day sleeping. Apparently she woke up later, because some time in the evening, she texted me and asked for the recipe for my stuffing -- alas, there IS no recipe, because it's in my head -- but at least it meant she felt better.

Today, I went to work figuring I'd stop at Bath & Body Works on the way home. Then my phone rang and who should it be but the Bratty Gurl, announcing that she was on her way to work, and guess what? She was going to Bath & Body Works for their $3 sale first. Oh. My. Gawd. Is it not possible to shop for this girl without it getting complicated? I didn't say a thing, figuring it was a message straight from God saying not to worry, I'd already shopped enough. I just laughed and went back to my work.

Then the phone rang again. This time, The Brat announced that she had gotten a full bag of stuff, only to find that the line was too long at the checkout and she would've been late to work if she'd stayed so "please please please can you go to Bath & Body Works and get me some stuff?"

"I'm at work."
"Can you have Jim go?"
"Jim's at work."
"I thought he retired."
"He has a little part time job with a friend."
"Well, would he stop by on the way home?"
"Not likely, cause he has to go to the grocery."
"Puh-lease????"
"I don't know what kind you want. And you know I can't smell anything."
"Oh, I don't care what kind. I love ALL their stuff."

Do you see why she's the Bratty Gurl? And so it was that I found myself in Bath & Body Works buying numerous very, very cheap shower gels and lotions at 5:30 this evening. I have NO idea whether they smell like flowers, the great outdoors, perfume, or stinky feet, but she'll be happy.

Next year, I'm giving her money.

Date Night

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sun, 14 Dec 2014 05:26:00 +0000

Tonight was date night at the Smith house, and we did a throwback to our early days. On our second "official" date (according to my husband, cause I'm not sure what makes it "official"), we went to the Butler University Rejoice concert with my mom and dad. It's a wonderful free concert, and it includes many of the musical groups that Butler has to offer. We missed it last year, so we made sure to get tickets this year. Well, not exactly. We made sure to ask Seth to get us tickets this year, since he lives on campus. Seth, of course, forgot/procrastinated/ignored his mother, so his wonderful lady friend, Elaine, got them for us. She's a keeper, that one.

No seriously. We worry how Seth will function in the real world, should his lady friend wander off. I may or may not have a secret account in Wisconsin where I hide the funds that keep her from wandering off..........but I digress.

Our friends were so excited to go to the concert with us. They are usually headed to Florida for the winter by now, but decided to wait till next week, so we were excited that they could go with us. That is, until Mary was diagnosed with the flu today, and Fred started showing signs as well. So much for that. We were all pretty bummed. I called Elaine to see if she and Seth wanted to double date. Yes, she was excited to go.

Apparently, Seth was not equally excited, because he ended up backing out when work offered him some extra hours. Elaine, however, was still excited about going with us, which is great, cause when the mother gets alone with the lady friend, she gets the real scoop, like "how clean is Thomas' bathroom?", "how filthy is Chris' room," and "did you see Jill and Michael's last SnapChat, cause I'm thinking Michael didn't realize his mother in law was on the distribution list." Informative session, it was.

It was a slightly different concert than in the past, because the Indianapolis Children's Choir wasn't there, and the audience didn't sing with the carols. New additions: I was sitting next to Sheldon Cooper's doppleganger. A Middle Eastern lady sitting in front of us kept videoing instead of living in the moment, and when it finally got to be too much for me, I leaned up and said "excuse me, but my daughter here has seizure disorder and your phone is messing with her -- she's not feeling well at all. Could you please TURN IT OFF?" I'm not sure the lady understood English, but it worked. Boom. That sucker was off for the rest of the concert.

And then there was our personal favorite. Jim remembered a particular conductor from the past who really loves his job, because he is like a three ring circus up there. The energy he has, combined with the wild facial expressions, are something you have to see to appreciate. But when Elaine leaned over and said "I didn't know that Butler let Austin Powers conduct," it was all over. I could NOT unsee it. The guy is just awesome.

The best part of the evening though, was watching Seth's roommate. He is third chair violin, and he is awesome in just about every way. He's quite the sharp dresser, with a penchant for bow ties -- I had really hoped that this particular element would rub off on Seth, but alas, he's still a Tshirt and jeans guy. But the love that Travis has for music is just so evident when you watch him. When the symphony stood up to take their bow, all that was missing was the royal wave, because the boy looked just plain proud. My favorite part, however, was when he joined the chorale to sing, because they sang a German song, and Travis was INTO IT. You could tell that he was just plain having fun. It's a wonderful thing to see someone who really loves music. Add to this that Seth's other friend Wojtek, who is Polish, was up there having just as much fun, and it just made me smile.

Probably the funniest thing was that they had a high school choir from out east of Indianapolis sing with the chorale. We stopped at Applebee's on the way home for appetizers (half price, dontcha know), and when we left, there were those same kids, loading onto the school bus still in their concert clothes. It's all about the timing, folks.

So now, I've been exposed to the flu, kicked Seth out of the will, saw a Pole sing German, and had a margarita with Asian tacos. How was your day?

Orange Is the New Happy

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 31 Oct 2014 03:06:00 +0000

I started a new job some weeks back. I'm finally in a job working Monday through Friday, day shift, with no on call, no weekends, no holidays, and actually encouraged to take off the day after Thanksgiving and the week between Christmas and New Year's.

Life is good.

You know, the biggest problem with working a "normal" job is figuring out what the heck to wear in the morning. I mean, thirty plus years of wearing scrubs makes one rather lazy about what one wears. It also limits one's wardrobe quite a bit. Keep in mind that the last year in my last job, I worked from home. Much of that time was spent in my pajamas. You get my meaning here? Mama had to go on a few buying trips to find some cute things to wear in the daylight, after all those nights working from home. Thank God, my dear husband doesn't mind his beloved shopping.

And so it was that I found myself standing in the closet this morning, trying to figure out what to wear to work. On a Thursday (translate: I haven't done laundry yet). Indiana weather is wonky at this time of year, and my office is like the frozen tundra -- though my office mate runs the space heater till it's nearly Aruba, so it's difficult to know how to dress. I wear layers. It's the only way to survive.

I stood there staring, knowing that I was going to wear a pair of chocolate brown pants, because it's fall, and it suits. I debated for a while, then chose a Tshirt I had bought to wear to the prison. In Kentucky. On a Saturday night. In Walmart. Yes, that was a moment in which my life morphed into a country music song. Don't judge. I debated about that Tshirt, bought in a moment of semi-desperation, because it is orange, and I worried it would clash with my cherry red hair. It also has red (my favorite color) and gold glitter. In other words, it was perfect for perking me up in the not-so-middle of a long work week, on a morning the puppy woke me up forty five minutes early, not so quietly expressing her displeasure about being in her crate and not being allowed out to empty her bladder. I grabbed it, showered and got dressed, kissed the hubby goodbye -- he muttered a buh-bye that was so quiet and gravelly that it was pretty creepy. I'm not convinced he was awake, which made it all the creepier. But I digress.

So I went to work and started my day by calling back my first patient. We sat down in my office, where she promptly exclaimed "you look AMAZING! That color is BEAUTIFUL on you." Keep in mind that I had never met this woman in my life, and here she is, loudly telling me how said orange color looks amazing with my hair and my coloring, and that I should wear that color all the time. Next thing you know, she asks if I have a smart phone. I pointed at it, plugged in to the charger on my desk. She unplugged it and said "I have to take a picture of you so you can see how pretty you look." She took a picture of me, then said "now, send that to your husband, with the caption 'beautiful.' "

I realized later that my phone had locked up -- it hasn't been the same since I dropped it smack into the dogs' water bowl -- and the picture was lost. That didn't stop me from smiling the rest of the day, when I thought of that sweet lady and her kind words, said with such enthusiasm. Happiness is contagious. Spread some.

I love my job.

Speechless

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 15 Oct 2014 00:34:00 +0000

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.

Like a Rhinestone Kidney

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 08 Oct 2014 02:06:00 +0000

My dear friend has a kidney stone. A big, sometimes stationary, sometimes moving, painful-as-hell kidney stone. She is not amused.

She should be, given the fact that her granddaughter has deemed her kidney stone, a "kidney rhinestone." Brings quite the visual to an otherwise miserable experience, doesn't it? Me being me, the first thing that came to mind was a song called "Rhinestone Kidney," set to the tune of "Rhinestone Cowboy." Problem is, I am completely uninspired as to what the lyrics would be. I've tried and tried and pretty much have........nothing.

Till another friend mentioned that perhaps it should better be set to "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds." Perfect, given how many drugs she's on right now. As in, they can't get the light over her bed to go off. I mentioned that she could just shoot it out, since after all, she's in Texas. She replied something about "one and done," and I seriously started being concerned about her nurses' safety.

"Picture yourself on a bed in the ER
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies.
Somebody drugs you, you move oh so slowly,
A girl with a kidney rhinestone.

A nonstop spotlight of yellow and green
Towering over your bed
Look for the girl with the glint in her side
Cause she's the one:

Tina in the ER, with rhinestones..........."

Oh, I could go on, but the Beatles made it confusing enough the first time around, don't you think? And though she's on two heavy duty pain meds, it still doesn't equate to the stuff the Fab Four were smokin' when they wrote the song. That being said, I think drugs are probably the only option when you have a Texas kidney stone. I've never had one, but I know a lot of people who have, and I think it is best described by a friend who said that her father, a very stoic Marine, found himself on all fours, yelling "Sweet JESUS, take me now."

Maybe it would've gone better for him if he too had had a kidney rhinestone.

Alba gu bràth!

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sun, 21 Sep 2014 01:48:00 +0000

People have been asking me for the past couple of weeks how my wee Scotsman feels about the vote for Scottish independence. Let me say this: he would've voted for it.

He watched the debates on CSPAN with fervor. He explained the pros and cons to me, and to anyone who would listen, often with a thick brogue. The man knows his Scottish history. Heck, we even watched Braveheart somewhere in there, with him bellowing in said brogue "they can take away our lives, but they cannot take away our FREEDOM!"

The man loves the land of his father.

We went to Scottish Fest last weekend, and partook of some fine Celtic music (if you ever get a chance to hear the Rogue American's, DO IT. They are amazing.), had a fine whiskey tasting, watched some caber tossing, and even saw a Storm Trooper wearing a kilt. No lie. It was a fine time, and I'm hoping to have my Smith tartan sash by next year's fest. 'Twas a proud day to be a Scotsman (or woman).

We wandered around to see what they had, and found ourselves in the Viking encampment, listening to a very loud rooster. I couldn't figure out where it was coming from, and me, being the Chicken Lady that I am, went searching. We found him, a fine, fat specimen, in a wire crate near the ladies, bellowing his displeasure at his accommodations. I admired him, only to be told by one of the ladies "he's dinner." I must've had a shocked look on my face, because she looked me in the eye and said "I'm serious. He's dinner." So of course, after the Ceilidh (a dinner and music fest of its own), we had to check to see if the rooster was still with us. Alas, the Vikings were all asleep, and unless one of them was cuddled up with him, he was in several bellies. RIP Rooster, you were a fine chicken.

So yesterday, friends invited us out to "either celebrate Scottish independence, or mourn the loss" in the vote. We found ourselves munching on burgers at the Irish Mutt -- ok, so it's not Scottish, but we figured MacNivens' was a) probably packed and b) further away and c) a lot more expensive. Jim and Bob are like Mutt and Jeff, but they are both Marines, so they swapped sea stories over several beers, whilst Annie and I listened. Just when we thought they were done, Jim ordered a round of Scotch, and drank to the land of his father, saying Alba gu bràth (which means Scotland Forever).

Never mind that on the way home, these same two Marines were in the back seat of the car singing Mama Mia at the top of their lungs, which Jim today steadfastly denies.

Alba gu bràth!

No Such Thing as a Bedtime Routine

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 16 Sep 2014 01:42:00 +0000

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.

Everyone Has Their Limits

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 28 Aug 2014 03:33:00 +0000

The Spare to the Throne is a sniffer. He has, probably since birth, always smelled everything he comes in contact with, the first time he comes into contact with it. Food, shoes, clothes, shampoo, whatever. He always smells it. He used to come to me with his beloved blanket and say "wow, Mommy, my blanket smells SO good, doesn't it?" He'd hand it to me so that I could take a deep whiff.

This may explain why now, I have so little sense of smell. That thing was WICKED bad in its odiferous-ness, but it was hard to get away from him long enough to wash it. OK, so yeah, I had a rather co-dependent thing with my blanket when I was little, and maybe, just MAYBE I sucked my thumb till I was double digits, but yeah......I don't think my blanket smelled that bad.

So Jim made dinner one night a couple of weeks ago, and remarked "you know what Seth's gonna do when he sees this, right? He's gonna smell it." I knew he was right -- I can't remember what he had cooked, but it wasn't familiar to Seth, so of course yes, he picked up the plate and took a big whiff. Maybe the boy is part dog, or wolf, or cat or something. It's one of his little food quirks, like the fact that he doesn't like his food touching, or he eats only one food at a time on his plate. No biggie, just quirks.

He also loves shrimp. So Jim and I went to the commissary, and I decided I needed to get him these:

I mean, he loves shrimp after all. And he has always been a grazer. I figured oh well, let's see what he does with these. Well let me tell you, it was hysterical.

He looked at them quizzically and read the package. He opened it up and did his normal thing: sticking his nose into the bag and taking a big whiff. It was at this point that the entire bag almost went flying, because he not only smells things, he has a super SENSITIVE nose, so when that smell hit him, it almost knocked him down. "OH MY GOD," he said, "that is AWFUL." I mean, how can a strong smell of shrimp, enclosed in plastic for however many weeks, be bad, right? Thomas told him he was being a wimp, grabbed the bag, and promptly almost lost his lunch right in front of me. He suggested that perhaps they didn't taste as bad as they smelled. Seth decided to give it a try.

He took a bite. Paused. Chewed thoughtfully, appearing to be deep in thought, then announced "NOPE, they are just as bad tasting." I'm pretty sure he spit it out. And maybe even gargled a bit and spit into the kitchen sink. Then he decided that maybe it would be better, the more you ate. Nope. Same thing. He decided to clip 'em shut and save 'em for later. As in, two or three weeks later, when he suddenly decided to open them up and maybe, just maybe, try 'em again. And what does he do? Sticks his head in the bag again, recoiled, and tossed 'em straight into the trash. Trash which then had to be taken outside because the smell was defiling Jim's beloved pantry.

Moral of the story? Everyone has their limits. And for some people, that limit is Shrimp Chips.

Welcome to Our World

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sat, 23 Aug 2014 18:55:00 +0000

Where this...............

Turns into this, which is Leeloos new favorite pasttime.

New Digs

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sat, 16 Aug 2014 00:02:00 +0000

Thomas moved into his new apartment a few weeks ago, after spending some weeks visiting our fold out in the sunroom. OK, so I all it an apartment, and he calls it a house. It's actually a duplex, so let's split the difference. In either event, it's on the southern end of SoBro, which is the southern portion of South Broad Ripple, so he is now one of the cool kids. Or not. Oh well, he's close the the library, the police station and the fire station, all within a few blocks radius of his house.

He's living with one of his buddies, Ben, and my fourth child, Chris, who is in his element in his very first apartment. Ben, not so much, since he had a good job at Lockheed Martin as an engineer or, as he called it, The Restroom Grand Tour, since he basically spent his whole day wandering around the building with the excuse of looking for a restroom.. After a few years of the grand tour, he ditched it all and came to Indiana, and is now tutoring some Indian kid up north, making more money than I do as a nurse. But I digress. Chris has the small, corner room and seems to be as happy as a clam. Thomas got the big room and is still wondering why, since he really doesn't care.

Thomas' biggest complaint was that they needed a table. Jim tried to give him our smaller kitchen table, but he declined, saying that they didn't have room for it. Jim doubted this, and I just shrugged, till I was told by the heir to the throne that he couldn't believe that I hadn't seen his new digs yet. "I mean, Dad has been here, and you haven't. What's wrong with that picture?" I went over, and his dog promptly bit me (see previous post), but before I toddled off to Medcheck, The Heir told me that it wasn't that they didn't have room for a table, it was that they needed a bigger table than what Jim had offered.

That afternoon, they followed my advice, went to the furniture store up the block and pad $50 for a dining room table, which was promptly taken home by the four of them, carrying it he-man style down College Avenue. I wish I had pictures. Or video.

They needed a bigger table because they like to play games, and the card table they were using wasn't big enough. Seth spends lots of time over there, hanging out (it's closer to his internship than we are), or just hanging out with his bros. I suppose when school starts, they will still hang out, because it's only a few minutes from Butler, where Seth will be living on campus. And so it was that Thomas gave Seth a key to the house:

And Seth loves it. I thought at first it was plastic, but Seth told me today, as we were waiting to pick up his car from Walmart's automotive department, that it's not only metal, but it has some weight to it, "so when I swing my lanyard around, I thought that maybe it would kill someone if I hit them with it." This digressed into a conversation about how perhaps this is why Goths love Hello Kitty, because of the danger element.

Who knows.

OK, so this happened today.

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 13 Aug 2014 01:18:00 +0000

This is her new favorite position which proves, of course, that she's a terrorist, because she completely holds me hostage every time this happens.

And I'm ok with that.

The Tiniest Terrorist

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 07 Aug 2014 01:15:00 +0000

We've been discussing the possibility of having a baby. We've been married for almost five months now, so it's about time, I suppose. I've taken care of a lot of babies over the course of time, having been a nurse and mom for all these years, but still, it's not a decision to make lightly.

It all started one day when Jim said that we needed a companion. Something to liven the place up, dontcha know, because his child bride apparently isn't enough. And so it was that we ended up with this, our new baby girl:

Is she not the CUTEST baby you've ever seen? I wasn't too sure about this, because I haven't gone the puppy route since Rocky showed up, some almost six years ago. He's living the beach life with Jill and Michael now, which means he is a well discplined, non-spinning version of his former self. We have Mickey, who is also six, spoiled rotten, and a lover of everyone. But Jim mentioned something about getting him a girlfriend (he's neutered -- she's just a FRIEND), and I went off to search.

Mickey is a Cavachon, rescued from an abusive home, whose tongue constantly lolls out the right side of his mouth. It doesn't affect anything about him -- it just makes me look goofy, which fits him well. Jim wanted another Cavachon, because they are hypoallergenic and sweet as can be. It's not easy to find a rescue Cavachon, because there are no Cavachon rescues, and Petfinder doesn't list them as a breed. I found one in Cleveland -- serendipity, since Jim is from Cleveland -- but they wouldn't adopt it out of state. I found another in Ohio, but it was already being adopted. At one point, I found one in Austin, Texas, who, believe it or not, had been injured, resulting in a tongue that lolled out the RIGHT side of his mouth. Alas, Jim thought Austin was too far to go, and he wanted a girl. And so we found Leeloo.

This little beast has taken over the house. She is a ball of fire: cute as heck, always moving, and always underfoot. It's something of a miracle that I haven't fallen, given the fact that I had knee surgery three days after we got her. She's a wiggleworm who never sits still. She's been pummelled by the very annoyed cat, who looks at her like "oh for heaven's sake, not AGAIN." I mean, it's not like Bandit hasn't been down this path a time or two. I think that's why he expends so little energy on her. He knows the score. Mickey alternately growls, then lets her curl up near him. He draws the line at her grabbing his bear. He's definitely not having any of that!

She likes to chew on toes, shoes and cords. This morning, she dragged the bathroom rug out into our bedroom -- and it's easily several times her size. She got closed in the screen door once, and stepped on twice today, and she still bounces around here like a bunny. And right now, she is curled up asleep in her nest -- something that surely will only last for a few minutes before she's up and nibbling on our toes again. Hint: if you want to see a Marine melt, bring him a puppy. He sat in his recliner on Sunday, watching Too Cute with her "because she likes it." Oh brother............

She's our little Leeloo, and we love her.

Retribution.

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 05 Aug 2014 01:43:00 +0000

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.

Fleshy Vegetables

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 31 Jul 2014 03:21:00 +0000

As is well known, I don't cook. I can cook. I just don't. My dear husband, on the other hand, cooks up a storm. I sometimes am his sous chef, which means we get to spend some quality time together chatting and chopping.

Last night was a bit different. I'd had a rather busy day. The hubby had spent a good portion of his afternoon making chicken pot pies. My assignment was to make the salad to go along with them. Salad, I can handle. It doesn't count as cooking in the hubby's book, but he does like my salads. Truthfully, I just throw in whatever he says to put into it, so t's not so much "making" a salad as it is "assembling" the salad. It was too early for dinner when we sat down to chat -- we usually eat around 7 or so -- but the hubby told me to make the salad. "Nah, it's too early," I said. "When are you gonna make it," he said. "In a while."

He was restless. He realized that he had some tomatoes that he wanted to use before they went bad, so he set to making tomato/cucumber/sweet onion salad. For the record, I consider both tomatoes and cucumbers to be yucky. As in, they are at the top of my Yucky List. He understands this, so when he makes the salad, he fixes mine first and adds the yucky stuff later. Sweet man, he is. Well, he decided to try slicing the cucumbers with his newest kitchen gadget: a mandolin.

For those of you who are less informed, a mandolin is a device that scares me to death. It looks like some sort of medieval torture device. I tend to stay away from these types of things. Jim sat in his chair studying it and saying "I sure wish I had the instruction manual." Torture device without instruction manual? Double scary. I mentioned that he could probably find it online, but also asked where it had gone to, because he'd just taken the darned thing out of the box. I heard him mutter something about having found the manual while I headed off to put clothes in the dryer.

I swear I wasn't gone more than three minutes, but I came back and heard him saying something about slicing part of his finger off. WHAT? I ran up to the kitchen to find him with his hand under the faucet, with blood red water running down the drain. "Oh my God," I said. "Let me see it." Well, let me tell you, it was only a flesh wound, but it was an impressive flesh wound, because he now was missing a fair chunk of the side of his thumb. And oh, did I mention that it was bleeding profusely? "We need to go to the ER," I said. "They aren't gonna be able to stitch it, but they're gonna have to stop the bleeding." At this point, the Marine in him kicked in and he said "getthehellouttahere" (always said as one word). "I don't need to go to the ER. It would've been fine but I didn't use the safety shield. It'll be ok."

I handed him a paper towel, then sat down and waited.

He ran it under the sink for a while, then finally took my advice to put pressure on it. "Put pressure on it for ten minutes solid, and then we'll go to the ER when the bleeding doesn't stop." Now, imagine telling a stubborn Marine with ADHD to sit still for ten minutes. In short: it ain't gonna happen. He'd hold pressure for a minute, then check. Drip.........drip............drip. "We need to go to ER." "Getthehellouttahere. It's gonna stop." Drip........drip........drip. "Why don't you make the salad?" "I'll make it when we get back from the ER." "We aren't going to the ER. It's fine." Drip............drip............drip. "You know you're on Plavix and aspirin, right? You know those are blood thinners, right?" "Getthehellouttahere. It's fine.

Drip............drip...........drip.............drip........

"You know, it's been a half an hour and it hasn't even slowed down, right?" "It'll be fine." I raised an eyebrow, poured myself a glass of water, sat back and waited. "Make the salad," he said. "Nope, if I make it now, it'll wilt before we get back from the ER." "I don't need to go to the ER." He changed the paper towel, because the second one was now soaked, and he needed a third. "It'll stop." I sat back and waited. Drip...........drip...........drip. It was running down his hand and wrist, and soaking into the placemat in front of him. Drip............drip........drip.

An hour went by. Drip..........drip.........drip. "Wow," he said. "It really isn't stopping." "You're right dear." "Make the salad." "Nope. Not till we get back from the ER." He glared momentarily, then looked down at his thumb. "Wow, I really did a job on it, didn't I?" "Yep." Drip.........drip........drip. "Give me another paper towel." Silence as I handed it to him.

Finally, ten minutes later, a revelation: "You know what, I think we are gonna have to go to the ER." "Ya think?" He laughed. "OK, OK, you're right. I'm gonna have to go. And yes, I know you'll say I told you so." "No dear, I just want you to take care of yourself. So off we went to the ER. He mused "I wonder where the missing skin is. Did you see it in the cucumbers?" "Nope," I said. "It's probably on the mandolin." We were there for an hour; they popped some Gelfoam on it, wrapped it up like a cartoon character's thumb after a mishap with a hammer, and we were ready to go. I wrapped my arms around his neck and murmured into his ear, "now do you believe that I just wanted to take care of you?" "Yes," he said. "Oh," I said, "one more thing. I told you so."

They could hear us laughing in the lobby.

We were still laughing when we left, because I kept asking him my typical questions like "do you need a wheelchair?" "Are you dizzy?" "Do you need an ambulance transport home?" All were met with "getthehellouttahere." Can't blame a girl for trying. I got him home safely and he, of course, told me to make the salad. I followed him into the kitchen a minute later, and he pointed. "Look." "What?" "There's the missing skin." And I'll be darned, there it was. A nice little fileted piece of Jim-flesh, about the size of a fingernail, sitting right there on the counter. "Well, are you gonna eat it or what? Why's it on the counter? Do you want me to add it to the salad?"

He mentioned something about me being disgusting as he threw it away, but hey, I'm not the one who put it on the counter. And hey, don't joke about stuff like that with a nurse, because our sense of humor is totally different than other, more normal peoples'.There may or may not have been a joke or two about it being "only a flesh wound." I did, however, get my comeuppance. More on that tomorrow.

Weekender

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 01 Jul 2014 01:58:00 +0000

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.

It Was Nice While It Lasted, Molly

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 12 Jun 2014 03:07:00 +0000

Sadly, Thomas' Molly lost on Jeopardy tonight, in a nailbiter of a game. Thomas didn't register it at first and, thinking she had won after a comeback from third place, leapt higher in the air than I knew he was capable of. He ended up in a crumpled heap when he realized she had lost, holding his head and moaning "no, Molly, NO."

He may need therapy. On the other hand, he spent a good portion of time today playing on some trivia app on his tablet. He was destroying people in math word problems, when he came up with a new opponent: Raj Kumar from India. "Oh man," he said. "I'm screwed. He's from India." Until he destroyed him, too. He moved on to General Trivia, where I think he was practicing for his own stint on Jeopardy where, he claimed, he will catch Molly's eye. Oye VAY the boy takes a cute smile seriously. I had a proud moment though, when he asked me what Coco Chanel's first name was (Gabrielle). Gotta love a boy who asks even ONE question about classic designers.

I may have to put him back in the will.

And, in another happy thought, Jillie sent me this:

I have no words. The preview photos from the wedding are beyond gorgeous, but this one says it all. Her response? "This is probably the one day of my life that I didn't have mud under my nails." Archaeologist, dontcha know.

I just look at it and think to myself, THIS. This right here makes it worth the fact that she screamed through her first year of life, didn't sleep through the night till she was four, and made me absolutely insane for a while when she was 18. This brought things full circle. I love you, Pretty Gurl.

I'll Take a Nurse for $2000, Alex.

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 11 Jun 2014 01:53:00 +0000

The Heir to the Throne is in love. Pretty sure it's the real thing. Plus side: she's a nurse. And super smart. And cute. (Those are in my order, not his.) Down side: she's married to someone else.

Thomas has developed a Jeopardy fixation. Now, this does not discount his obsession with game shows since an early age. When he was two, his father and I watched Jeopardy fairly religiously. The ex used to say he was going to get me on the show so we could pay the house off. The closest I ever got was on a cruise ship, where I did well, but lost cause the darned ringer didn't ring me in in time. But I digress. Thomas has been influenced since a young age, when he would come running during the station break, saying "debbydebbydebbydebby" and then kissing the screen as newscaster Debby Knox gave the station break announcement. He loved her.

Fast forward some years, and he has taken to watching Jeopardy repeats on youtube. He shoots the questions at me, then says, with a fair amount of amazement "how have you never been on this show?" Yeah, I have a fair amount of useless knowledge. So on his afternoon breaks lately, this is what he's done. And then he discovered Molly.

Molly Lalonde, of Nashville, Tennessee, has been the jeopardy champion for the past couple of days. The first day, I didn't realize his fixation. Yesterday, he was remarking to his brother "wouldn't it be funny if Molly was still on" right as they announced that she was, indeed, the champion. Thomas went nuts. I asked what the heck was his deal, and he replied "LOOK at her. She SO cute." Yeah, she is. She has a super cute smile. So he was enthused to be able to watch her again. She was on a roll, when she suddenly gave a wrong answer. His reponse was to yell -- quite loudly -- "NO Molly. That was so EASY!" He was in some fear, I guess, that she would be booted, but I'm happy to report that she won again. He set the DVR to record Jeopardy at that point.

So today, we couldn't decide what was for dinner. Jim got caught in traffic on the way home, and I don't cook, so we muddled about for a while before deciding to get takeout. Thomas was enthusiastic about picking it up, till I mentioned that it was 7:31. "Oh MAN, is Jeopardy recording," he said, before turning on the telly to check. "It it's not recording, my life is OVER." Apparently, a cute girl on Jeopardy can reduce a 24 year old young man to the mindset of a 13 year old girl, minus the door slamming. Thank God, it was recording.

He went with Seth to pick up the food, and was conversant during our dinner, then immediately retired to the DVR to cheer on his favorite girl. Now, keep in mind that last night, we Facebook stalked his woman, only to find that alas, she is married to another. He was sad. We don't like it when Thomas is sad. He may or may not have muttered something about it being temporary. He also may have mentioned that she's a hometown girl when we found out that her undergrad work was done at Notre Dame. As a side note, my dear husband may or may not have encouraged his interest with a pronouncement that "nurses are always hot, and ready to party." He should know. He's been married to two. Thomas took this under advisement.

That was right around the time that the tornado watch hit. Channel 8 went to the meteorologist, who happens to be a sweet young thing with a nice rack. Thomas didn't notice. He was busy wailing "NOOOOOOOO. Forget the tornado. Where's MOLLY?" He missed Double Jeopardy because of this. He was not amused.

And so it is that now his pseudo-wife Molly is now a three day champion, and the Heir to the Throne became a very happy young man.

Oh Happy Day

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 04 Jun 2014 03:49:00 +0000

Saturday last, my sweet girl got married. I have gone through a lot of emotions this week, to say the least. Here's a little snippet.

Her BFF snce the age of four threw her a bachelorette party, which was just going out to dinner at Macaroni Grill, then back to Corri's house for games, thanks to Seth's girlfriend Elaine. One of them was a "how well do you know Jill" game, which surprisingly, I won, with three points. I mean, who knew that Jill would most like to kiss Liam Neeson before she got marred? At least she has good taste.

Afterward, she and Corri went to the garage to get the tree stump her dad had carved for Jill's wedding cake stand. I pulled the car around, and my eyes laid on these beautiful young women, and I was suddenly carried back to when they were about ten. It was a flash that nearly got me, and I had to catch myself. Jill hates it when "grown ups" cry. I told her that all bets were off for her wedding day.

At the rehearsal, Thomas dscovered that the more serious the situation requires him to be is in direct proportion to how badly he behaves. Walking Jill down the aisle, I looked over and Seth was dancing, waving his arms over his head -- which is pretty normal for him -- and Thomas was dancing wildlly in place. Oddly, the priest did not say anythng, but Jill and Michael were met with a firm "NO SKIPPING" admonishment when they left the church improperly. I'm sure that the rather Napoleonic priest was blaming the Protestant bride under their breath. I, of course, laughed and high fived her as she skipped by.

Saturday morning came along, and off she went for a bridesmaids' breakfast. I met her at the church later to get hair and makeup done. She had bought monogrammed robes for the girls as their gift, so in I walked to the girls giggling like little girls in their pink robes, in various states of hair intervention. Jill went and laid down on a table at one point while she waited. I'm pretty sure that in that couple of hours, I saw some part of each of the bridesmaids undergarments. Not sure how that happened, but yeah. Suddenly, it was time to get over to the church NOW -- as in, we were late getting Jill over there so that no one would see her -- so the flower girl grabbed one end of her dress and I grabbed the other, and we basically ran across the parking lot, straight to the basement room where she was to hide. A few minutes later, I had sweat dripping down everywhere, thinking that I was in the midst of a menopausal power surge, when the photographer realized that the heat was on full blast. I can't imagine how hot Jill was under all that tulle, but she looked beautiful.
Contrary to her earlier warnings, she did NOT throw up.

The ceremony went off without a hitch, though it contained an overly long homily in which the priest a) said "Jill and Michael" at least twenty times, as if he was reminding himself of who he was marrying, or filling in the blanks on his standard speech, and b) he seemed to have a fixation with talking about the marriage bed, and consummating the marriage, both of which were met with wide eyes by the bride. She rolled her eyes more than once. The sweetest moment for me was when they lit the unity candle, and the soloist was singing "You Are Mine." I looked over and saw that my Jillie, who never can seem to stop singing, was singing to Michael -- and he promptly joined in and sung to her. It was just a perfect display of Jill and Michael. Then I realized that the priest was singing too, and it was just kind of funny.

I didn't cry. Not even close. I was just so happy. Her brothers, however, both professed later that they had trouble holding on and both almost lost it. That was a real revelation to me, after watching those three grow up at each others' throats a fair portion of the time. Ah, it's nice to see things come full circle, and realize that these parts of your DNA turned out to be just. so. nice. And man, they clean up well too.

Maybe I'll remember to tell about the reception, but given my proclivity for forgetting to finish two part blog entries, I make no promises. So I will just leave you with this, which warms my heart more than I can say:

Sethanese, All Grown Up

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 21 May 2014 02:14:00 +0000

Today was the day that Seth became a man. We took him to the fort for his date with a certain Walmart shower curtain. We got there nice and early -- early to the point that he got number ONE when we checked in. The gentleman at the counter asked him "are you really READY to be Number ONE" to which Seth responded in some sleepy version of agreement. Said gentleman then said, "well, we could do you one better." "Huh?" "You could be Number NOW." We laughed and sat down in the empty waiting area. Suddenly, we hear a female voice call out "Number NOW."

Seth didn't flinch.

She called out again "Number NOW." I nudged him and we got down to business. It was a busy day, with going to the fort, then my doctor appointment, and Seth had two appointments. Appointments mean waiting, so while I was waiting for the doctor, I was sending Seth Snapchats, which were met with mixed responses, at best. And when I came out, he shared what he'd been texting with his little lady friend.

No joke, this kid's little lady friend is a PERFECT match for him. Seriously. I laughed so stinkin hard when I read this that I about lost it. Then I asked him if I could share it on the blog. He thought the idea was great, and so it is that I share it with you, complete with their spellings and lack of punctuations and YELLING AT EACH OTHER IN CAPS.

Seth: Doodswag! Whatcha got goin on tomorrow?

Elaine: Nuffin. :-) planning on coming home and doing whatever the hell I want. You?

Seth: Noice. I gotta get up early and get me a military id then i have doctors appointments.

Elaine: Wait what

Seth: No Idea. Something about Jim being a Marine means I get a military ID. Insurance stuff.

Elaine: Yeah, that'd be good. Please dun enlist. I need you to take care of the farm.

Seth: Wait. Wut farm?

Elaine: Yeah.

Seth: U wot?

Elaine: I AM ONLY A LITTLE WOMAN I CAIN'T HANDLE A WHOLE FARM ON MAH OWN DARYL.

Seth: GERTRUDE GED DEMMIT AH TELLS YA I GOTTA SERVE ME COUNTRY!

Elaine: DARYL THESE CHICKENS AND CHILDREN AIN'T GONNA RAISE THEMSELVES.

Seth: THAS WHY YOU'S HERE WOMAN!

Elaine: I HAVE SO MANY OTHER RESPONSIBILITIES AROUND THIS FARM. I CANNOT STAND TO KNOWN THAT YOU COULDA BEEN DOIN HALF OF IT. CLYDE AIN'T EVEN SEVEN YET, DARYL.

Seth: THE HELL DOES RESPANSIBILINIES MEAN? CLEETUS AND MAGGY ARE OLD ENUF TO HELP YOU! HELL, WHEN I WAS 9 I'D ALREADY DUN KILLED MAH FIRST COW.

Elaine: I WILL NOT LET YOU GO TO WAR AND HANG AROUND WITH THE IRAYNIYANS AND BE UNFAITHFUL TO THE BIBLE BY KILLIN PERSONS. YOU COME HOME THIS INSTANT DARYL.

Seth: DAMMIT WOMAN TELL THAT TO OBAHMA!

Elaine: HONEY YOU DAMN WELL KNOW I TRIED. THAT MAN WON'T LISTEN TO US. HE DUN WANT NUTHIN FROM YOU WID YOUR BUM LEG AND GLASS EYE.

Elaine: wow that actually sounded anti Obama. My bad.

Seth: LOL well that was fin.

Seth: Fun

Seth: Fin Fun.

Is this girl a perfect match for The Spare, or what? And for all of Seth's posturing that Jim and I need our own sitcom, I am now convinced that he and Elaine need one of their own. Coming to a cable channel near you.

Ciao, Ristorante

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 15 May 2014 02:21:00 +0000

A local landmark fell recently. It had been a fixture for years -- before I moved to the eastside 25 years ago -- but I had never been there. A plain cement block building, painted white, with "Salute Ristorante" painted on the trim, it was completely unremarkable. Heck, even the parking lot sign was hand done: a white circle with hand painted letters saying "closed" on it, and attached to a thin chain. A sign that was strangely unnecessary, because the parking lot was always closed.

A friend of mine said that it was her husband's favorite Italian place, and despite his wonderful reviews, and the fact that we drove by it all the time, we never ate there. It was reputedly run by a true Italian who summered in Indianapolis, of all places, and wintered in Italy. My friend said that Vito (yep, that was really his name) cooked and served real Italian food, on a level with nothing else found here locally. She said that you had to pay in cash, and when you did, he would pull a huge roll of bills out of his pocket to make change for you.

Heck, we never even talked about going there, save the one or two conversations I had with my friend about it, so it was funny that last summer, when Thomas and I were driving by there, he mentioned that he half wanted to go there, and the other half of him was sure that he never would. He mentioned that he was curious about this place that had sat there for years with a neon "OPEN" sign on at times -- but rarely with a car in the lot. The kicker was that he didn't want to visit it, because he was sure that it must be a front for the mob, and he didn't want to destroy the picture in his head, which seemingly involved Tony Soprano and a strategically placed juke box. Apparently Thomas wasn't alone in this belief.

The other day, I was in town for something, and I realized that there was construction going on in the building. They're changing it into a gas station, and the only construction guy there happened to be digging a big hole in front, presumably for the gas tanks. I'm sure that's their cover story, but I know better. I'm pretty sure that now we know where Jimmy Hoffa's buried.