So, my son loves pink. It is his favorite color, probably because his sister loves pink and he would do anything to be like her. I have a pair of pink boxing gloves, which he is dying to wear. Today, he gathered all the pink and purple Mardi Gras-type beads and wore them around his wrist and neck. Then, he insisted that I call him princess. Thank goodness, my husband is not home. He would surely have a conniption.
I am listening to the Go-Go’s right now. Although I have had an ipod for three years, I have never put music on it. My daughter got one for Christmas, and I have now purchased music. Hers is loaded with girl music, primarily Hannah Montana and the Cheetah Girls, but I added some 80s music because I want her to be two-and-a-half decades behind. Really, she likes this stuff. So, she has this ipod and was all excited to listen to her music on the way to school, which takes up to an hour on some days. Stupid Delaware drivers! The earbuds hurt. We haven’t touched the ipod since then, so I get to listen to Billy Ray’s daughter and Pat Benatar on my computer. Woo hoo! Actually, I like Pat, and I wish I had Miley’s attitude and gruff voice. There’s nothing I admire in the Cheetah Girls. I just can’t connect with them. I don’t even like wearing leopard print clothing. In terms of the Go-Go’s, yes, I bet their town is so glamorous that I do wish I live there and want to be one of them—twenty years ago. Today, they’re all old and wrinkly. Their town probably now has noise violation laws, deed restrictions, and permits no homeowners under the age of 65.
Speaking of being 65, yesterday at drama set-designing, one of the dads who came to help asked if I was related to someone he once knew with my same last name. Turns out he was talking about my husband. They went to school together. When I said it was my husband, he had a look of shock. I guess he must have been thinking I most certainly don’t look 41. Thank goodness, because I’m NOT 41. There are benefits to having an older guy. Either he was thinking I look young, or he was shocked about something else. Does my husband have a secret past? Right. He was gay and I converted him. NOT. (I’M SO 90s. I simply refuse to turn centuries.)
Speaking of time and generations, my kids at school are still hooked on this emo thing. Drives me nuts. Any depressed character in a book, they call emo, ask if he’s emo, etc. Emo, emo, emo. You know what? I think I should dress up goth one day and go to school that way just to freak them out. Or punk. That’s knock them out of their seats. Only problem is that I have no eye liner, hair gel, mousse, lipstick, black boots, or metal buckles. I don’t think my black patent leather loafers with buckles will count. I’d actually have to go shopping to try to have an attitude. Don’t know what emo is? Look it up at urbandictionary.com. No, I’m not pasting a link for you. Don’t be lazy.
Speaking of being lazy, the other day, I didn’t feel like opening the garage door all the way. Consequently, upon walking back into the house, I forgot I left the door halfway down and walked right into it. Any kid walking to the bus that morning would have laughed his a$$ off. My head still hurts. I am still laughing. My husband said it sounded like a gunshot. My kids at school wanted to know why I was being so nice. I told them I hit my head, but they didn’t believe me.
Anyway, that’s it for now. I need to go to the grocery store to buy stuff to make cherry nut bread and chicken pot pie. I’m so not emo, goth, or punk.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Saturday, December 8, 2007
My Favorite Question
I fondly look back on the day when my daughter so proudly ran into the room and exclaimed that she knew how to spell mom: M O O.
I got over that. The theme, however, seems to be a recurring one. The other night, I was putting her to bed. She gently rubbed the side of my face, and in that moment of tenderness, she asked, “Mom, when is your belly going to be small again?”
Ahhh, children.
I got over that. The theme, however, seems to be a recurring one. The other night, I was putting her to bed. She gently rubbed the side of my face, and in that moment of tenderness, she asked, “Mom, when is your belly going to be small again?”
Ahhh, children.
Odds and Ends
My last post just makes me get all teary, so I have to change the mood and say that I think that boy’s soul has moved into my son a little bit, who has become quite rambunctious lately. Things heard, seen, and said:
Things Heard:
“Get your hands out of Mommy’s pants!”
“Na na Na na na…I’m naked…I’m naked…Na na Na na na!”
“My butt is hot! Don’t touch it!” (in a James Brown voice)
Things Seen:
Naked flips on the bed. Clear view from the rear. Really wish the video camera had film.
Running into the wall at full speed, only to bounce off, land on the floor, overcome the initial stunned feeling, and then giggle uncontrollably. Repeat. (obviously we killed a few brain cells the first time)
Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka hair on a two-and-a-half year-old who’s pretending to be a baby in my arms, giggling wildly while asking me to sing “Rock A-Bye Baby.”
Begging to play in the snow and then crying because it is cold and not pink.
Favorite Comment from Me:
There is no pink snow. God doesn’t make it that way.
No, angels do not come from McDonald’s.
See, you almost poked her eye out.
On the topic of comments, my favorite comments in the classroom this week:
Hmm, tomato soup on the carpet does, indeed, look like vomit.
This classroom is not a democracy. It’s a dictatorship, and the sooner you come to grips with that, the happier we will all be.
What? Who on Earth told you that you would have fun in my class? There’s no fun in this classroom. You must be out of your senses.
My skateboard NEEDS a balloon. (the back story on this one is just too long)
Other miscellaneous note:
Online recipes can be excellent or simply posted to torture the cook. Today is my husband’s birthday, so I decided to make him some jambalaya. The recipe said it made six servings. It ended up taking four hours to cook. It was finally ready at 10:00 P.M. It made a GIGANTIC pot of food. Enough to feed twenty. I had to freeze two-thirds of it. Who’s coming over for jambalaya?
Things Heard:
“Get your hands out of Mommy’s pants!”
“Na na Na na na…I’m naked…I’m naked…Na na Na na na!”
“My butt is hot! Don’t touch it!” (in a James Brown voice)
Things Seen:
Naked flips on the bed. Clear view from the rear. Really wish the video camera had film.
Running into the wall at full speed, only to bounce off, land on the floor, overcome the initial stunned feeling, and then giggle uncontrollably. Repeat. (obviously we killed a few brain cells the first time)
Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka hair on a two-and-a-half year-old who’s pretending to be a baby in my arms, giggling wildly while asking me to sing “Rock A-Bye Baby.”
Begging to play in the snow and then crying because it is cold and not pink.
Favorite Comment from Me:
There is no pink snow. God doesn’t make it that way.
No, angels do not come from McDonald’s.
See, you almost poked her eye out.
On the topic of comments, my favorite comments in the classroom this week:
Hmm, tomato soup on the carpet does, indeed, look like vomit.
This classroom is not a democracy. It’s a dictatorship, and the sooner you come to grips with that, the happier we will all be.
What? Who on Earth told you that you would have fun in my class? There’s no fun in this classroom. You must be out of your senses.
My skateboard NEEDS a balloon. (the back story on this one is just too long)
Other miscellaneous note:
Online recipes can be excellent or simply posted to torture the cook. Today is my husband’s birthday, so I decided to make him some jambalaya. The recipe said it made six servings. It ended up taking four hours to cook. It was finally ready at 10:00 P.M. It made a GIGANTIC pot of food. Enough to feed twenty. I had to freeze two-thirds of it. Who’s coming over for jambalaya?
Sunday, December 2, 2007
The Loss of a Friend
One of the greatest kids I ever knew died last week. He was in the first class I ever taught. He was enthusiastic, genuine, accepting, and an all-around wonderful boy. He could joke around with me in class but was so real that he didn’t cause a distraction or steer others out of line. One Friday night, I was walking through the mall and suddenly someone ran past me, grabbing my purse and zipping ahead. It was this boy. He turned around and laughed, and so did I because he was a good kid, because he had that kind of sense of humor. I liked teaching him. He wanted to learn, even when he struggled.
I haven’t seen him since he graduated eighth grade, but from the comments posted with his article, I can tell that he didn’t change and remained the warm, friendly, happy boy I knew in 1994. Even though I haven’t seen him in many years, I mourn the loss of someone so real. He was a treasure to all who knew him. We will miss him dearly.
I haven’t seen him since he graduated eighth grade, but from the comments posted with his article, I can tell that he didn’t change and remained the warm, friendly, happy boy I knew in 1994. Even though I haven’t seen him in many years, I mourn the loss of someone so real. He was a treasure to all who knew him. We will miss him dearly.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Fruit Flies
Fruit flies, fruit flies everywhere
I find you flying past my hair
On the door, the sill, the sash
You’re driving me insane
Where did you come from?
I don’t have any fruit
No one here eats healthily
What are you doing in my toilet?
Or the walls of the bathroom?
Or in the shower?
There’s no food in there.
Did you and a gazillion relatives decide to move in?
You’re on the windows of the car
Do you follow me?
What can you possibly want?
Die already.
I find you flying past my hair
On the door, the sill, the sash
You’re driving me insane
Where did you come from?
I don’t have any fruit
No one here eats healthily
What are you doing in my toilet?
Or the walls of the bathroom?
Or in the shower?
There’s no food in there.
Did you and a gazillion relatives decide to move in?
You’re on the windows of the car
Do you follow me?
What can you possibly want?
Die already.
Ode to the Broken Moon
Oh, moon, hanging so willy-nilly in the October sky,
You are broken.
You’re not all there
Part of you is bare
Who took such a large chunk out of your side?
Did you bump into the sun?
You must be more careful
And watch where you’re going
I certainly hope
For the sake of my son
That your side grows back
Because I promised
I would have you fixed
In a few days.
You are broken.
You’re not all there
Part of you is bare
Who took such a large chunk out of your side?
Did you bump into the sun?
You must be more careful
And watch where you’re going
I certainly hope
For the sake of my son
That your side grows back
Because I promised
I would have you fixed
In a few days.
CPR
We had CPR training at school last week, and I had to be there because my certification expired. The new dolls work very nicely, but upon receiving my infant, I promptly, yet accidentally, decapitated it. At that point, I decided CPR would not help, as the child had obviously asphyxiated on a plastic bag and had a severed head. Saved some money on the autopsy. It was a good time, nonetheless, as I can never get enough of shaking a dummy and yelling, “Are you okay? Do you need help?” Do we really expect the infant to reply? You’ll be happy to know, however, that once I re-attached my infant’s head, I did an excellent job.
Monday, October 22, 2007
These Words Came Out of My Mouth
More things I never thought I’d say. Some come from school, others from home:
I don’t know why your hand keeps falling off.
No swinging from the curtains.
No hanging out by the potty.
Yes, at night I’m a spy. As a matter of fact, that’s what I’ll be for Halloween, but I won’t even have to dress up because I’m that good at it.
You have a bad case of blurt.
Grammar won’t kill you. Not even a comma splice, as dangerous as it sounds.
At least I will never have to call your family to tell them we lost you during surgery.
Please do not squirt your friends with bleach.
I am sure your teacher did not bite you.
You run in place very nicely, just like Shaggy and Scooby.
Yes, I am Daphne, and yes, you can have a Scooby Snack.
I can’t fit through the door.
You simply cannot mix granola with Cinnamon Toast Crunch. It’s against the rules.
There is no need for boots. We will not be walking on water.
Sorry, I forgot about the dog poop.
If you’re happy and you know it, sit down and be quiet.
I don’t know why your hand keeps falling off.
No swinging from the curtains.
No hanging out by the potty.
Yes, at night I’m a spy. As a matter of fact, that’s what I’ll be for Halloween, but I won’t even have to dress up because I’m that good at it.
You have a bad case of blurt.
Grammar won’t kill you. Not even a comma splice, as dangerous as it sounds.
At least I will never have to call your family to tell them we lost you during surgery.
Please do not squirt your friends with bleach.
I am sure your teacher did not bite you.
You run in place very nicely, just like Shaggy and Scooby.
Yes, I am Daphne, and yes, you can have a Scooby Snack.
I can’t fit through the door.
You simply cannot mix granola with Cinnamon Toast Crunch. It’s against the rules.
There is no need for boots. We will not be walking on water.
Sorry, I forgot about the dog poop.
If you’re happy and you know it, sit down and be quiet.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Gas and Grass
Well, we had a gas leak today. Sometimes, I think I'm so airheaded--pay attention to my thought process here.
I was seeding and fertilizing the front patch of dirt, and every time I passed the end of the house, I could smell gas. So, I walked up to the gas line and sniffed around. Hmmm. Definitely gas. Of course, I immediately thought, "Dammit, I've been paying for gas that I haven't even used." It didn't cross my mind at all that this is a dangerous situation. I was just irritated that I had to pay for gas that has been spewing into the air. Then, I began to think that might be normal. I sneaked over to one neighbor's house and sniffed around her gas line. Nope. Nothing. I sneaked over to another neighbor's house and sniffed his gas line. Nope. Nothing. The people across the street who don't speak English were watching me as though I were a crazy lady. I see why.
Now, I do realize that smelling gas is not normal, but I tried to rationalize it because I was fully aware that this could create a host of other problems and an unpleasant situation. Finally, I called the gas company. Four times. Because I didn't deem this an emergency and didn't want to report it as a gas leak because that sounds pretty serious, and I tend to jump to extremes. After finding that customer service is closed on weekends, no matter how many times one tries to call them, I was forced to resort to the gas leak emergency line. Groan. I told the woman that I wasn't sure if one is supposed to be able to smell gas by the gas line, but I could. She became slightly alarmed and said she'd send someone right out. I told her the smell wasn't overwhelming, but it was definitely there. She told me not to light anything near it. So, I went on trying to get grass to grow, muttering under my breath that I was paying for wasted gas.
The truck arrived, and it turns out that we had not one, but two gas leaks. The men fixed them. Then, I called my husband who was extremely upset, because (now, I didn't think of this) the house could have blown up if the gas were ignited. It worried him. What did I think when he expressed his concern? Insurance covers fires, but I still have to pay for the wasted gas.
I was seeding and fertilizing the front patch of dirt, and every time I passed the end of the house, I could smell gas. So, I walked up to the gas line and sniffed around. Hmmm. Definitely gas. Of course, I immediately thought, "Dammit, I've been paying for gas that I haven't even used." It didn't cross my mind at all that this is a dangerous situation. I was just irritated that I had to pay for gas that has been spewing into the air. Then, I began to think that might be normal. I sneaked over to one neighbor's house and sniffed around her gas line. Nope. Nothing. I sneaked over to another neighbor's house and sniffed his gas line. Nope. Nothing. The people across the street who don't speak English were watching me as though I were a crazy lady. I see why.
Now, I do realize that smelling gas is not normal, but I tried to rationalize it because I was fully aware that this could create a host of other problems and an unpleasant situation. Finally, I called the gas company. Four times. Because I didn't deem this an emergency and didn't want to report it as a gas leak because that sounds pretty serious, and I tend to jump to extremes. After finding that customer service is closed on weekends, no matter how many times one tries to call them, I was forced to resort to the gas leak emergency line. Groan. I told the woman that I wasn't sure if one is supposed to be able to smell gas by the gas line, but I could. She became slightly alarmed and said she'd send someone right out. I told her the smell wasn't overwhelming, but it was definitely there. She told me not to light anything near it. So, I went on trying to get grass to grow, muttering under my breath that I was paying for wasted gas.
The truck arrived, and it turns out that we had not one, but two gas leaks. The men fixed them. Then, I called my husband who was extremely upset, because (now, I didn't think of this) the house could have blown up if the gas were ignited. It worried him. What did I think when he expressed his concern? Insurance covers fires, but I still have to pay for the wasted gas.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Home
We are in the house! It is a mess. We are so sloppy. Toys everywhere.
Guess what I did two years ago? I packed up open bags of flour and sugar. What the heck was I thinking? Do I like bugs? No. Absolutely not, but I certainly made it possible for them to invade my life. I'm an idiot.
Guess what I did on Sunday? Bought a 50 inch tv. Swore I'd never do that, but I did. Now I live in total fear that it will fall off the wall and crush someone. Fun.
I know that all sounds very negative, but hey, I'm a downer.
Actually, it's wonderful. My bathroom is bigger than the bedroom I had in the house I grew up in. It's very cool. Maybe I'll post some pictures once I have the place cleaned and vacuumed with my CENTRAL VAC.
New house, new things. I decided to cook a turkey. It's in the oven now. Have never done that before. He he he. I read the directions on the bag. I removed the innards. Then, I tried to remove the neck. With tongs. I stood on a stool over the sink shaking that bird viciously trying to get that stupid neck out. It was probably pretty comical to watch. I shook and cursed and shook and cursed. And then I realized I was trying to pull it out the wrong end.
Guess what I did two years ago? I packed up open bags of flour and sugar. What the heck was I thinking? Do I like bugs? No. Absolutely not, but I certainly made it possible for them to invade my life. I'm an idiot.
Guess what I did on Sunday? Bought a 50 inch tv. Swore I'd never do that, but I did. Now I live in total fear that it will fall off the wall and crush someone. Fun.
I know that all sounds very negative, but hey, I'm a downer.
Actually, it's wonderful. My bathroom is bigger than the bedroom I had in the house I grew up in. It's very cool. Maybe I'll post some pictures once I have the place cleaned and vacuumed with my CENTRAL VAC.
New house, new things. I decided to cook a turkey. It's in the oven now. Have never done that before. He he he. I read the directions on the bag. I removed the innards. Then, I tried to remove the neck. With tongs. I stood on a stool over the sink shaking that bird viciously trying to get that stupid neck out. It was probably pretty comical to watch. I shook and cursed and shook and cursed. And then I realized I was trying to pull it out the wrong end.
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