Flat Mae

Mae's self-portrait.  Not funny at all, until...

...you read the back.  :)

Dirty Thirty

In two weeks from today, I will turn thirty.  Contrary to my prior blog, I do not really feel old.  Too often, we think of years past and panic at how many memories we have, as we are only allowed so many before arthritis, dementia and/or death set in.  Instead of looking back, we should all use the 'glass half empty/glass half full' theory.  Like this:


-I still have 35 years left before I can retire (and the retirement age is bound to change in that time, so really, I probably have about 55 years left of painful eight-hour days).

-No matter what, my brother is always eight years older than me.

-Based on average lifespan, I will have to change the litter box 676 more times before my cats kick the bucket.  (And this is based on the assumption that I will never get another cat in my entire life [fingers crossed]).

-I have probably fully digested all of the gum I swallowed as a kid by now.

-True:  I will never have algebra homework again.  Also true:  Both of my kids will have algebra homework and fully expect me to help.  Also, also true:  Everything I have ever learned about algebra has been fully and magically erased from my brain. 

-There is still plenty of time to try out new and exciting inventions.  Today, Swiffer Wet Jet.  Tomorrow, flying cars. 

-There is still plenty of time to try out new and exciting adventures.  Today, nature walk with the kids.  Tomorrow, flying in cars with the kids.

-I will find at least eight million ticks crawling on me in the night before my estimated date of death.  **This number is based on the amount of ticks I have found in the past week multiplied by the number of weeks in a year and then multiplied by the number of years I probably have left to live.  I'm certain there is an algebraic formula for this.  I'll have to ask the kids' tutor when they get one.

So, as you can plainly see, I still have a long, long, very long, painful, horrible, horribly long life left to live.  Wow, looking at the glass as 'half full' might be even more depressing than 'half empty.'  How'd that happen?

Here I sit, old and withered...

Kyler told me that a friend of his has a mom that is the same age as me, "and she's pregnant."  I mistook his doubtful tone for excitement and said, "That's great!"  The look on his face told me that this was not, in fact, great.  I asked what the problem was and he nervously looked around the room and said, "People your age can't have babies." 

Ready for a long and drawn-out argument, I remembered the conversation we had thirty minutes prior to this in which I had to explain to Kyler what a cassette tape is, how it's used and worst, how I know this.  "I was alive back then!"  (Of course, in the moment I was proud and almighty).

Then I double-flash-backed a couple of years to Mae's utter shock when she realized that, "Mom, you were alive in the 1900's?!  Holy cow!!!"

And before I even got the chance to triple-flash-back, I noticed that I was sitting all alone on the living room floor, laughing. 

This means that it's even worse than I thought.

Dog Gone

Artie (the boy-dog), wouldn’t come inside.  I hung halfway out the door, repeatedly calling his name and getting more irritated each time he ignored me.  After about one minute of this nonsense, Teeyl (the much more mature and people-friendly girl-dog) looked at me, nodded her head (I swear) and headed out the door.  A few seconds later, she returned with Artie trailing close behind her.  I wasn’t the only one who witnessed this; my faithful offspring were nearby, as always.

Fast-forward ten minutes.  We were all sitting around the living room, reminiscing about how smart Teeyl is.  In the midst of our compliments and ear scratches, she stepped on a squeaky toy, thus scaring the living daylights out of herself.  She immediately took off at a running pace…right into the wall.

And that was the end of the smart-dog conversation.

Teeyl-doggie

Grocery Singing

Going grocery shopping all by myself is a spectacular rarity.  It takes twenty-five minutes to drive to the grocery store and the same amount of time to get home.  This equals out to fifty minutes of pure, sometimes violent, blissful sing-time.  Just me and my radio, turned up loud.

I had one of these rare little fiascos yesterday. 

I sprinted to the car, hopped in and turned up the volume knob.  The trip there was perfect, to say the least.

After shopping and shoving all the groceries into the trunk of the car, I returned my cart to the cart corral and then slid into the driver’s seat.  I noticed that I had left the cell phone sitting on the passenger's seat.  There were eight missed calls, all from home.  I dialed the home number and the answering machine picked up, so I figured it must not be too important.  I threw the phone back onto the seat and turned the radio back up and sang my heart out.

When I walked through the front door with eighty bags of groceries hanging from my arms, my wonderful little family was in a huddle on the floor.  They were laughing ridiculously hard.  I love laughing, so I threw the bags onto the floor and joined the huddle, asking, “What are we laughing at?”

Then I saw that they were gathered around the phone.  I instantly knew that there must be a funny message.  Probably a pocket-dial.  I LOVE pocket dials.  Mae hit the PLAY button on the answering machine and I heard the most awful sound.  Me.  Singing.  Loudly, wildly and so far out of tune that I didn’t even recognize the song at first. 

I asked how many times they had listened to this and still laughing, Kyler was able to choke out, “A LOT.”  That’s when I noticed tears streaming down his face and I knew that something had to be done.  As I hit the DELETE button, I heard the word “no” in slow motion from three different mouths and soon after, the laughter came to an abrupt halt.

As I began putting the groceries away, Kenny asked if he should turn on the radio so I could sing along while I did my chore.  I told him that would not be necessary and that maybe he should focus on more important things, like figuring out where he’s going to sleep from now on.

Our answering machine has since been disabled.

Road Rage

My mother drives very slowly everywhere she goes.  If the speed limit is seventy-five, she complains that it is just ridiculous that anybody drives that fast and steadily maintains her fifty-five mile-per-hour pace, often resulting in many honks of horns from angry drivers who get stuck behind her.  She doesn’t seem to notice them.

When I am driving and get stuck behind somebody slow, I just pretend the person in front of me is my mother and I am calmed.

When Kenny gets behind the wheel, his anger level immediately rises in anticipation of slow and reckless drivers that he might happen upon.  He has absolutely no patience. 

When we were driving down a gravel road earlier this week, we came upon a clunked-out old truck that was going about forty miles per hour.  Kenny began with the cursing, then waved his middle finger a couple times, then raised his voice, then stuck his head out the window and yelled for them to drive faster.  I thought now would be a good time to say, “What if that was my mom?”  Just then, we reached the top of the hill and Kenny saw that he could pass the truck.  As he did, we both looked toward the driver.  He was probably in his sixties, barely hanging on to the last two teeth in his mouth, face sunk in from years of…drinking?  Drugs?  Something.  He looked like a kooky old bastard.

Kenny said, “If that was your mom, I’d tell her to go to the dentist.”

I don’t think he understood the point I was trying to make.

Impossible Arguments

I'm standing at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes.  Mae pushes a stool up and heists herself onto it.  I think she's going to help me with the dishes, but I should know better by now.  She crosses her arms and says, "Mom, what if thirty seconds was a minute?" 

Oh NO.  She's ALWAYS asking me stuff like this.  She wants an argument.  She loves duking it out verbally over impossible what-if's.

I'm not in the mood so I just say, "Well, I suppose everything would be different." 

Before even a single hesitant moment can pass, she says, "Really, Mom?  Everything?  So this counter (she knocks on the counter next to her) would be different if thirty seconds was a minute?"

I roll my eyes.

She continues, "What about this powdered donut I'm eating?  Would it be different if thirty seconds was a minute?  Or how about the way I go to the bathroom?  Would THAT be different?  Huh?  Would it?"

Then she jumps off of her stool, wipes powdered donut dust off of her shirt and skips away.

Somehow, this half-my-size little girl is always leaving me exhaustingly confused.

I yelled after her, "IF THIRTY SECONDS WAS A MINUTE, YOU'D BE OLD ENOUGH TO GET A JOB!!!!"

...She pretended not to hear me.

I'm not flattering? What?

There is a commercial that I often see on TV and it makes me laugh every time because, well…it’s funny.  I don’t even know what the commercial is advertising, but it’s a pretty girl walking down the street.  Then, a narrator says, “Black isn’t always flattering.”  The camera zooms out to reveal that the girl is wearing a black coat that makes her look like a giant marshmallow.  Cracks me up every time!  So last night, we were getting ready to leave and just as Kenny was about to shut the TV off, that commercial came on and I told him not to shut it off yet.  After watching the commercial, laughing really hard and asking him if he thought it was funny, he said, “Yeah, especially since you have that exact same coat.”  I looked down at the coat I was wearing.  Oh.  My.   God.

Kenny

 Kenny’s words of wisdom:

“It seems the older we get, the faster time goes.  And I’m getting pretty old.  Tomorrow, it’ll be the next day.”

Pig Fat

This year marks a new era in Mae’s t-ball/softball history.  She began her t-ball career at the age of three.  Now that she is nearly eight, it’s out with the old, little pink glove and in with the new ‘big kid’ glove.  So, off to the sports shop we went.  She picked a leather glove that looks like Kyler’s, just slightly smaller.  She asked what ‘leather’ meant and I told her it was made out of pig skin (but now I’m thinking maybe it’s cowhide?  Hey, I can’t know everything).  She made a grossed out face and that was the end of that discussion.

Two days later, we pull up to the ball field.  Mae jumps out of the car upon seeing her friend Grace and runs to her for an ever so famous BFF hug.  Everybody is her BFF and they all hug.  All of them.  They touch so easily and don’t notice or care.  I almost fell off of the top bleacher once because a stranger sat too close to me and I was worried our arms would touch so I slid over.  Anyway, after said hug ended, Mae proudly held up her brand new glove and said, “Look, my mom bought me a new glove this year and guess what?  It’s made out of PIG FAT!”  A whole crowd of kids ew’d and yuck’d in unison and then someone said, “Tag!” and the pig fat glove was never mentioned again.

Crack. Cocaine.

I am twenty-nine years old and I just found out (via radio newscast) that crack and cocaine are the same thing.  I suppose this information neither helps nor hinders me in any way, but sometimes my level of naivety surprises even myself.

Tick Flick

I woke up around two o’clock this morning because I felt something crawling up my arm.  I knew it was a tick.  In the dark, I was able to wrangle it.  I walked into the bathroom, flicked on the light, grabbed Kenny’s lighter and gave it a good burning, then flushed it down the toilet.

I had trouble falling back asleep because I kept feeling like there were ticks on me.  As it turns out, there were.  Every time I got up and went into the lighted bathroom, I would find another one either crawling up my arms or already embedded into my scalp.  Meanwhile, Kenny was fast asleep, undisturbed.

I finally fell asleep at some point and when the alarm buzzed at five-thirty, I was not ready to get up.  I told Kenny about my tick troubles and how I barely slept.  He said, “Yeah, I kept feeling them on me, too.”

After much thought, I said, “Wait, you never got out of bed.  What did you do with them?”  He said, “Oh, I just flicked them off of me.”

Yeah, onto me!

My feet are NOT that big.

Kenny went to the store to buy new socks and t-shirts.  I asked him to please pick me up some new socks also.  He did.  Mens socks, size ten to twelve.  How convenient for him.