Groovy

Have I mentioned that I love having crafty friends? Because I totally am NOT craftsy in any way, shape, or form. But hey, as long as your friends are, you're good to go. Check out the groovy tie dyes that the kids did with Marie.

How I Became Super Bunny

by Jack Sorenson

First, I was a spirit. And then I came to Earth and became a magician. I had magical powers as a magician. I could make bunnies magically appear in my hat. One day, I made a bunny magically appear in my hat. And the bunny had magical powers. And magical beams came out of the bunny and came into me. And then I became Super Bunny! Since then, I have traveled around the world as Super Bunny, saving the whole wild world from evil.

The End

****

Meanwhile, outside of the Magical Kingdom (aka, inside where it was cooler), Jared and Ellie followed up on our trip to the farmers' market with some HAZMAT cleanup. See, turns out the twisty, turny, country roads leading to the farmers' market aren't so conducive to doggie Otis, who decided to throw up all over the car. Luckily, Super Dad and Super Ellie braved the mess to clean, vacuum, and wash the car, leaving the world safe from doggie vomit.

Queen of the Cretins

I'm a bit of a fraud, you see. I love cooking, yet most days find myself making the same ol' same ol' stuff. I love good movies and books, but can't remember the last time I ingested anything deeper than a chick flick or or a cheesy mystery paperback. I love fresh-cut flowers and smelly candles and haven't had either in my house since, well, since we've had this house. But it all stops here, people. (Imagine me pounding my fist on the table with righteous indignation. Or even better, imagine the guy going nutso in "Network," Norma Rae standing on the table to demand union rights, or Al Pacino screaming "Attica!" If you don't know these references, get ye henceforth to Netflix right now, you uncultured cretin. If you don't know what a cretin is, get ye henceforth to a dictionary, you cretin.)

I've started my own 12-step process to drag myself out of my uncultured cretin addiction. The other day I picked up a pretty little pitcher at Target, and it has since been filled with fresh-cut flowers. Picked up some citrusy-smelling candles too, to make the house smell nice and girly. I'm forcing myself to try two new recipes a week, even if the hubby and the kids complain about it. (Oh, and they have. The other day I argued with my husband that he couldn't know he didn't like tomatillos if he had never actually tried tomatillos. Is it normal to have identical arguments with your 4-year-old son and your middle-aged husband?) And I restarted our Netflix account, and am going to work my way through the American Film Institute's top 100 movies. I've seen a lot of them, but quite a few I haven't. So I'll tell you if they're any good as I work my way through them. Now, now, I'm not saying you're an uncultured cretin like I am. This is an anonymous support group, after all, so no finger-pointing or name-calling. It'll be our little secret.

This is When

I was flipping through old photos last night, and Jack saw the photo above and said, "wow, that must have been a long time ago, because Dad has hair!"

Jack may look at that photo as a testament to Jared's hair loss, but me, I remember that picture because that's when I knew I was going to marry him. The photo was taken in West Virginia, where I was living at the time. We had talked a bit about getting married, but I was going back and forth in my head - we hadn't been dating that long, and he had never really come out and asked me officially (never did, for the record, which still sticks in my craw, but that's a whole different story). But this was when I knew.

Jared was visiting for the weekend, and was just going nuts doing home improvements. I had to work that Friday, and when I returned from work, he had weeded and landscaped the whole backyard. We later came to find out that some of the "weeds" he removed were actually fancy ornamental grass, but hey, it was the thought that counts. Then, being the impetuous type that he is, Jared suggested that we refinish the hardwood floors that covered the family room, kitchen, and entryway. I'm sure it's not a surprise to you that I'm NOT the home improvement type, and I was NOT keen on this. But, not wanting to appear lazy (I'll admit it now, though - I'M LAZY!!), I agreed to it. And we then spent the next grueling 72 hours refinishing the floors. Well, let me clarify - JARED spent the next grueling 72 hours refinishing the floors. I helped where I could, but it wasn't a whole lot - I really didn't know what I was doing, and I was hot and sweaty and breathing in about 5 tons of floor dust and was actually quite cranky about it. But Jared persevered, and somehow managed to tune out my whining and get the job done. When all was said and done, the floors were beautiful, and when it came time to sell the house, the buyers said that it was that area with the floors that sold them on the house.

So it ended up being a plus financially, but the reason I remember it is because that's when I knew. Was it because he showed himself to be hard-working and dedicated? In for the long haul? Able to put up with my whining and laziness? Or maybe because I just liked to look at his butt while he worked? Potato, potahto - either way, it was then.

Of Ellie and Balloons

Oh, Ellie. That Ellie. You see, she has a "thing" about balloons. And by "thing," I mean that when she's around balloons she goes absolutely, positively, certifiably, ape-sh*t crazy.

She's not afraid of balloons. Per se. She's afraid of them flying away. But I mean, mortally afraid of them flying away. Afraid like you or I might be afraid of death or disease or a rampaging elephant heading toward us. That level of afraid. Which wouldn't be that big of a deal if our stinkin' grocery store didn't give out free balloons. And of course we're at that stinkin' grocery store 2-3 times a week. So 2-3 times a week we're subjected to Ellie's "thing."

So in her mind the best thing is to just not get the balloon - because, hey, why tempt fate and risk that balloon flying away. So just say no. So immediately as we drive up to the grocery store, she starts begging and pleading with Jack to not get a balloon. Begging. Pleading. Imploring. Most often, Jack, who seems even at his age to understand that Ellie's "thing" just isn't worth dealing with, will give in and agree not to accept the free balloon. But sometimes he just wants a balloon. So then comes the "thing." So for the remainder of our trip, Ellie does nothing but talk with Jack about the plan for dealing with the balloon. How she will take it, and hold it, and carry it out to the car, then from the car to the house, then from the 2-story entryway, safely back into the one-story family room. He is then allowed to play with the balloon. Yes, she explains this all to him in great detail, and repeatedly to ensure that he understands the protocol.

Normally, Jack humors her. But heaven help us all if he tries to snag that balloon at any time before it's safely placed in the family room. Because. Then. She. Goes. Nuts. And screams. And hollers. And cries. And people stare. Oh, the staring.

So, if we're lucky, the balloon arrives home safely. And Ellie will check on it periodically throughout the day to make sure it's still there. And, just to be safe, she'll sleep with it. You know. So it doesn't fly away.

That's perfectly normal behavior, right?

Right?

Like Mother, Like Daughter

This morning, while getting dressed....

Mom: "Here, Ellie, let's put these jean shorts on"

Ellie: "No, no, no! No jean shorts! I don't want to wear any jean shorts! They're tight and they hurt my tummy! I only want to wear sweaty pants! Only sweaty pants!"

Mom (wearing sweaty pants): "I hear ya, sister, I hear ya"

%*#%A&#% Nature

I hate %*#&#% nature. Today, at least. I hate it.

I decided this after spending part of the weekend at Riverside (that's the name of my parents' place - yes, we name our places back here). My brother John was taking his kids down there, so we decided to take our kiddies there for a couple days to hang out with their cousins and get in one last swim in the river before summer ends.

Well, the kids did have a good time with their cousins. Us, well, we battled with Mother Nature. And lost.

My parents' place is somewhat wild, with lots of woods and marshland and all kinds o' nature, so even though they leave most of it untouched, they still spend quite a bit of time mowing and hacking and hauling and clearing and what-not. So while the kids swam, Jared and my brother helped out a bit, mowing and weed-wacking at the marshy area down near the river. I'd like to say that I helped, but I'm not sure that my aimless wandering and complaining helped much. Let's face it, I'm more of an indoor girl.

And with good reason, it turns out. Jared came home with 26 (not exaggerating) ticks. So he laboriously removed 26 ticks (leaving 26 lovely welts), and then we spent the rest of the weekend in a paranoid frenzy, mis-identifying every birthmark and mole on our bodies as ticks.

Meanwhile, although I avoided the tick infestation, I was blessed with 67 (I counted) bug bites. Which itch like a MOFO, people. It's fine during the day, but during the night, when your defenses are down, well, let's just say it was not a fun night. And Jared and I pretty much spend our time disagreeing over who is in more discomfort, but agreeing that Mother Nature sucks.

(1) While the kids played...

(2) And surfed...

(3) And taking pictures of their cousins with Mom's camera....

(4) My mom and Dad, brother, and Jared mowed and hacked and dragged...

(5) And then mowed and hacked and dragged some more

(6) Even my dad didn't escape Mother Nature. Although his cuts were superficial, he bled out enough that I was racking my brain trying to remember how to fashion a proper tourniquet. I would show you a picture of my bug bites, but they're all in places that would exhibit my fleshy flabbiness, so I'll spare you. Next time I get a slew of bug bites on my slender arms or collarbone, I'll be sure to share.

Memorandum

TO: Those who live under my roof and dirty the laundry
FROM: She who does the laundry
RE: Reasonable and Appropriate

Please note that the reasonable and appropriate thing to do with a pair of urine-soaked pants is to put them directly in the washing machine. A less ideal but still appropriate thing to do with them is to put them on or near the washing machine, where it can be seen and dealt with.

Conversely, an unreasonable and inappropriate thing to do with a pair of urine-soaked pants is to shove them into the closed laundry hamper, which gets emptied only twice a week.

It should be noted that urine-soaked pants do NOT age like a fine wine. In fact, urine-soaked pants in a closed hamper age much like one would expect a pair of urine-soaked pants in a closed hamper to age. The resulting smell is akin to the smell of death, decay, failure, and regret. And a whole lot of urine.

Your immediate attention, and relevant action, to this memorandum is appreciated.

Two Little Fishies

While my kids haven't ever really been afraid of the water, they weren't the type who took to it like little fish. They were definitely always cautious, and not the first to want to put their faces under water or try to swim without help. But this summer, all the pool time has really paid off. Jack is actually now officially "swimming" (albeit for short distances) and Ellie will go under water and will happily try to swim (although it involves what I would actually call near-drowning, but she seems to be happy with the results). Jared was home for the weekend, so the kids got to show off their stylin' moves to a very proud daddy.

(1) Look at my boy go! His distance before having to take a breather is still only 10 feet or so, but he's actually swimming - in this picture, he appears to be swimming toward a large land mass of some sort - oh wait, those are my monstrous thighs. It's really an optical illusion caused by the water - my thighs are actually long and slender. And if you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you.

(2) He's so proud.

(3) Jared and Ellie practiced going under water - ready, set....

(4) Go!!!

(5) Jared spent like 10 minutes convincing me I didn't look like a beached whale in this bathing suit - then ruined it all by suggesting that I practice my breast stroke, since it really helps build up "chest muscles." I'd like to say my lack of "chest muscles" is an optical illusion caused by the water, but. Ahem. Let's just change the subject.

(6) One little fishy ready to go home.

(7) Two little fishies ready to go home.

Singin' in the Rain

When it started pouring rain last night while the neighborhood kids were all playing, everyone rushed in to their dry houses. Except Ellie. Ellie loves the rain. She loves puddles. She loves raincoats and rain boots and umbrellas ("cabrellas," to her). Jared braved the rain for a while with her, but then even he succumbed. So we outfitted her in her rain attire and sent her to the backyard. Where she played. And jumped. And twirled. And sang. And sat on the steps and stared at the lovely rain. We finally bribed her back inside with ice cream, but even as we were getting ready for bed, she was still begging to go back out in the rain.

Epiphany

Gather 'round, good people, because I just had an epiphany.

Target is of the devil.

That's right. Sure, I used to think Target was great. But now I know better, thanks to my epiphany. Target is of the devil.

Bear with me, because I can prove it.

1. The devil makes you do things you shouldn't do.
2. Target makes you spend money you shouldn't spend.
3. That's something you shouldn't do.
4. Therefore Target makes you do things you shouldn't do.
5. Therefore Target is of the devil.

Case in point: I went to Target today, intending to buy dry-erase lapboards and a couple dry erase pens for Jack and Ellie to use to practice their writing. The dry erase boards were $1.00 each, and the pens were $3.99. So I should have spent, with tax, $6.29. But somehow my receipt totaled $146.08. How did that happen? The devil.

Because as soon as I got the dry erase boards, the devil made me pick up two puzzles. Then, as I was picking up the dry erase markers, the devil led me to the aisle with the cute ceramic pitchers that would look darling on my kitchen table. Then, completely against my will and my desire to only do good, the devil told me that Jack and Ellie should each have a cute first-day-of-school outfit (even though they both have plenty of clothes). Aye, the devil, me lads, the devil. Then, before I had time to grab the holy water out of my purse, the devil pointed me to a display of cute little bra-and-panty sets that are so cute my husband might not notice the big chunky thighs inside them. (Lust is one of the deadly sins, right? See? What'd I tell you. The devil.) Before I could exorcise the demon within me and make it to the checkout, the devil led me to a cute eggplant-colored tee and a set of darling placemats. (Do I even use placemats? No.) I finally made it to the checkout, and wasn't even safe from the devil's influence there, where they had a big display of gift cards. By the time the carnage was all done, even my quick prayer of repentance could not save me. It was too late. $146.08 too late.

And thus Target is of the devil.

Good Night, Gracie

Jack got to go on a big-kid sleepover this past weekend. His best buddy Matthew just had his 6th birthday, and decided that he wanted to have Jack over for a sleepover. So mid-afternoon on Saturday, Matthew's brave parents picked Jack up and whisked the boys off for a day of waterparks, junk food, and fun, followed by a sleepover. Jack has actually been on two sleepovers before, but of course he is still just 4, so Jared was in full Protective Dad mode about sending him off on his own for the night. In full Alpha Male mode, Jared quizzed him several times about his phone number, and instructed him to call us if he got scared, lonely, sad, angry, constipated, itchy, and about 13 other adjectives. He then lent him his cell phone, which I considered to be quite fool-hardy, and fully expected a monthly bill full of phone calls to Angola. (Angola is a real place, right? I'll have to check that on a map. Reminds me of when a buddy of mine told me he had been deployed to Jibuti, and I thought he was talking dirty. Turns out Jibuti is a real place. Go figure. Yes, if you haven't grasped it yet, Lydia's not the sharpest knife in the drawer.) Anyway, I digress. So Jack went off with Jared's cell phone, and surprisingly, Jack was very responsible about it. Around 9:30 that night, we got a phone call from him - Jared was ready to jump in the car and go get his scared little boy, but Jack assured us that he was just calling to say hi. So we talked to him for a while and got to hear his 4-year-old-stream-of-consciousness account of the day. Then we got to talk with Matthew. Then Matthew insisted that we talk to his cat Gracie. Then he assured us that we must talk with his train Gordon. After lengthy conversations with felines and inanimate objects, we finally got the boys back on the phone and bid them (and Gracie) goodnight. Jack was returned safely (if somewhat tired) the next day, full of stories about his big-boy sleepover.

Jack and Matthew had a blast at the waterpark

Then played with Matthew's birthday present - a ginormous train table

They actually settled down for bed by around 10pm, which isn't bad for a couple of boys left to their own devices

Good Intentions

Well, I had good intentions. You gotta give me credit for that. Please, just give me credit for that, I beg you. Because once again, tonight, I became "those people." You know, I've told you about those people before - the ones with the loud, bratty kids in very inappropriate situations. Yeah, now you remember. Yeah, that's me again.

But it started out with very good intentions.

You see, I love love love going to plays and musicals. Used to go fairly frequently until two little punks came along and Traveling Man hubby came along. So I haven't gone in eons. But then I heard that "Mary Poppins" was coming to the Kennedy Center. Great reviews. Great venue. Kid-appropriate show. Bonanza. So I got tickets for us to go to see it. Good idea, right?

Yeah, not so much.

It started out well. The kids were very excited. Jared ended up being on travel, so our friend Marie came along. And for about the first third of the musical, the kids were enthralled. And then, I don't know, the planets misaligned, or the air quality plummeted, or something, but out of the blue Ellie decided to talk. And then whine. And then yell. At one point, I hissed to her "what do you want?" To which she responded "to be mean." Yeah, that's a good sign. So finally I decide I need to drag her out of there - yes, in the fancy Kennedy Center, everyone hush-hush, crammed seating, and I need to drag my kid over 12 people in my row, then up about 20 rows to the exit. With her screaming "No, Mama, no!" at the top of her lungs. So, we get outside finally, and she screams in the bathroom for a while, and finally settles down. And Marie and Jack come out during the intermission, and we get a snack. My plan (again, please give me credit for my good intentions!) was to send Jack back in with Marie and stay out with Ellie. But we got separated from Marie, and she went back in without us. So I either needed to keep Jack outside, or brave going back in there with Ellie. So I chose the latter. And what do you know, she fell asleep within about 2 minutes and slept the rest of the musical. And we did just fine - until the last 10 minutes or so, when Jack started whining. At one point, of course during a quiet part of the play, he proclaimed to the world "this is going on forever!!"

Yes, those are my kids. We're those people.

So now, when I run into those people in the store or on a plane, I'm going to give them a stinking break. Because you know what, they probably had good intentions.

P.S. - it really was a great musical - I recommend you see it - just don't sit near my kids

Why I Have a Big Gut

Because every time I lay on the floor to do situps...

this scroungy mutt climbs up on my stomach.

And starts licking me in the face with his nasty who-know-where-it's-been tongue. So I have to scream "Cooties!"

Which wakes up Batman, who comes to rescue Mom from the nasty beast.

Which awakens the Strange Blanket Girl, who comes in and jumps on top.

And that's why I have a big gut.

Or it could be the brownies.

But I'm going with this story.

Because if my husband can blame all sorts of nasty smells on the dog, well, I can blame him for the gut.

It's the dog's fault.

Get Ready, Folks....

...Because today is the official start of my mid-life crisis.

Oh, I was fine with having the "milestone birthday" - after all, I really do believe it's just a number, and you're as young as you feel. I'm pretty darn healthy, so I'm good with it. And I didn't mind the "old lady tests" like the mammogram and what-not - again, I'm healthy, so they're just tests, no biggie. And really, I do still have a kickin' ass, so I got that going for me. But a woman should only have to accept so much old-agedness, people, and yesterday I reached my limit. Because. I had to get. BIFOCALS. Frickin', stinkin', #*#&#%*&#A% BIFOCALS. Now really. Am I Job or something? What's going on here? How much am I supposed to accept lying down here? BIFOCALS? COME ON, PEOPLE!!! I might as well start wearing them on a chain around my neck, buy the high-waisted Mom jeans, and start checking out the Early Bird Specials, because this is just more than I can be expected to take.

So now I'm having a mid-life crisis. I'm not a guy, so I can't get a young girlfriend and a toupe and a shiny sports car. I just get to feel old.

And you know what else I realized once I started my mid-life crisis this morning? I don't have a THING. You know a THING? Lots of folks have a THING. For some gals, their THING is they're a really good scrapbooker, or photographer, or rock climber, or butcher, or baker, or candlestick maker. SomeTHING. Some hobby or talent that, well, maybe doesn't define them per se, but that you associate them with. And something that's their THING, aside from husband or kids or job. So I need to find a THING. Let me know if you know of a good THING I could get. Because frankly, we're running out of time, people. First step bifocals, then before you know it, my hip will go out and I'll start frosting my hair and then that's all she wrote. Act now before it's too late.

Delusions

(1) Said Ellie to Mom yesterday....
Ellie: Mom, I have 3 boyfriends
Mom: Ellie, you're not old enough to have ANY boyfriends, you should just have friends
Ellie: But I have 3 boyfriends, Mom - Mr. Cleo, Edward, and Chuck E. Cheese
Mom: What does a boyfriend mean, Ellie?
Ellie: I'm going to marry my boyfriend one day
Mom: Ellie, you can't marry Mr. Cleo because he's married already, and Edward is just pretend
Ellie: Well, then I guess I'll just have to marry the rat

(2) All in the space of a morning....
(Jack, wearing magician's hat and cape)
Jack: Mom, I'm a magician warrior - I pull rabbits out of my hat (which he then demonstrates), but when you try to fight me, I hit you with my sword and then do a magician warrior dance

(About a half-hour later, wearing a Princess Leia cinnamon bun wig, cowboy hat, and sword)
Jack: Mom, I'm an alien princess cowboy warrior, I fight the shooting stars and aliens, and put them in my space trash can

(Later, that morning, with paper mustache taped to his lip and two pieces of cardboard taped to look like wings)
Jack: Mom, I'm the mysterious Mr. Potato Head Bird Man, and I'm flying away on an adventure

(3) Just call me Four Eyes
Meanwhile, while my kids are flourishing with their delusions, one of mine was just crushed - for the second (and last) time, I was rejected as a candidate for lasik eye surgery - I simply am not a candidate because my astigmatism is so significant and my farsightedness is also so significant. So now I need to accept that I'm Lydia Four Eyes. Sigh. I know it's a delusion, but I've never pictured myself as Lydia With Glasses. Do you know what I mean? You know, if you're meeting someone for the first time, and you tell them what you look like so they'll recognize you? So if you're meeting me for the first time, I'd say, ok, look for me, I'm about 5 ft. 5, average size, with short brown hair. I wouldn't say about 5 ft. 5, average size, short brown hair with glasses. I've just never thought of myself that way, even though I've worn glasses since I was 16. But now I need to accept that fact. Because not only is lasik not an option, they told me contacts would probably not work for me either. So I'm in glasses 'til I croak, basically. So that's me. Lydia with Glasses. Did I mention "sigh"?