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I don’t know what is going on with my face, but I’ve developed these dry patches on both eyelids, around the corners of my mouth and all along my jaw line. I haven’t been using any different products or eaten anything different lately or done anything else I can think of to warrant this kind of facial sloughery. I moisturize multiple times a day. It’s not helping. And now my neck itches. Woe is me!
Yesterday, while I was in the shower I had the chorus to DM’s Shake the Disease stuck on repeat in my head. But I’d only get as far as:
Here is a plea
from my heart to you
nobody knows me
as well as you do
And then I would switch to Phil Collins’ Against All Odds:
But to wait for you is all I can do
and that’s what I’ve got to face
It was like one of those mash-ups they do on Glee where they take two songs that seem to be completely unrelated and meld them into one. So I was on this repeat cycle of:
Here is a plea
from my heart to you
nobody knows me
as well as you do
But to wait for you is all I can do
and that’s what I’ve got to face
And for the life of me I couldn’t get out of it. Maddening, I tell you. Maddening!
What songs would you like to see mashed up?
What’s wrong with this picture?
I’m seriously considering dumping Dumas’ full-length masterpiece for the abridged version. Unfortunately, my local library does not appear to carry the abridged version. I decided to look for it on Amazon, and thought while I was there I would read a few reviews to see if there were any strong opinions about reading the abridged v. unabridged editions. One reviewer said, “I loved the beginning of this book… Dumas sets the whole thing up perfectly. It was entertaining, entrawling and a great story.”
On Wednesday, I volunteered in Goose’s classroom. She’s a second grader in a 2nd/3rd grade split. The teacher had me grading math papers while she gave some writing instruction. She was talking to the kids about different ways you can begin a story (e.g. setting, dialogue, action), and provided her own examples of how to begin the same story using these three methods. Her action story start: “Heather and I jumped on our bikes and peddled down the street as fast as we could.”
Last year, DynaGirl’s teacher had “Daily Schedual” posted on the wall. Laminated.
Sigh.
Goose started piano lessons this week. Mr. T and DynaGirl have been taking piano for a few years now, and Goose has been anxiously awaiting her turn. Piano lessons for three is a little pricey, but having stayed with the same teacher, we’ve at least been able to pass down the books from kid to kid. On lesson day, I packed up the kids’ books, including the primer that Goose would be using, and sent them on their way.
When I went to pick the girls up an hour later, DynaGirl got in the car and announced that Goose had to borrow the teacher’s lesson book because I’d forgotten to pack it, and then produced a note from her teacher asking that I please send the primer for next week’s lesson. I told DynaGirl I had sent them with the primer. She said she looked in the bag and didn’t see it. Mind you, this is an average sized tote containing four music books, a theory book, and the girls’ two reading books for each to pass the time during the other’s lesson, not Mary Poppins’s carpet bag in which you’d have to look behind coat racks and under armchair cushions. There just aren’t a lot of places for a book to hide. I opened the bag and pulled out the book. I didn’t even have to look for it. It practically jumped into my hand.
When we got home I told DynaGirl she should be sure to tell her teacher next lesson that I had sent the book the last time, so that she would know that I’m not the kind of idiot mother who would send her daughter to a music lesson unprepared. Then DynaGirl said, “But I looked in the bag for the book, and my teacher even looked for the book too. Won’t that make her look like an idiot?” Naturally, my first thought was “better her than me”, but DynaGirl’s innocently astute and compassionate observation appealed to the better part of me—the part that is occasionally willing to look like an idiot in order to spare the beholder of my alleged idiocy the same embarrassment. The sacrifices I make.
And I’m totally not sitting here now, two days later, still trying to figure out how I can subtly and compassionately convey my non-idiocy. Totally. Not.
Goose had cheer camp this morning, and I thought after I dropped her off I’d run a quick errand. I’m not at the high school much, so I’m not overly familiar with the roads there. I turned down one I thought would get me where I wanted to go. But it didn’t. It didn’t cut through to the street I needed, so I decided to just head a little farther north.
A little farther north is a bunch of neighborhoods, but I figured one of them would connect to the main street I was looking for. I turned down a street that kind of twisted and turned, making it difficult for me to see if it would actually go through. I saw a road off to my left that seemed to have an excessive number of speed bumps for a residential neighborhood—I took that as a sign that people had probably been using this as a thoroughfare to the main street and turned left. I was right about the excessiveness of the speed bumps (that was quite a ride), but wrong about it leading to where I wanted to go. Turn after turn only led me to dead ends, which was frustrating because don’t they usually post “dead end” or “not a through street” signs? A little warning might have been nice.
What was even more frustrating was finally getting to a street that ran parallel to the one I wanted, and still not being able to get there because they were separated by a large field with no connecting streets. For blocks. I made my way out of that residential neighborhood, annoyed with the unnecessary detours, and went even farther north until I found the street that would get me to the street I needed. Finally, I was on the right street and then the train rails came down. Sometimes you can head off the train farther down the road, but sometimes you just have to wait. So I waited. And I got to where I was going. And it was OK.
It’s still blasted hot. But that’s OK too.
Running errands.
BigHugs, getting into the car yesterday: It’s freaking hot.
BigHugs will be four on Friday.
Yesterday, I had my dreaded dentist appointment. It was pretty much the uzsh. My hygienest talked too much (why do they insist on trying to have a conversation with you when you’re incapable of responding?), the dental assistant (who wasn’t even working on me that day and only saw me from the back of my head) admired my foil, and, oh, my dentist (who looks and talks exactly like this–EXACTLY) informed me that the sensitivity I’d been experiencing in my lower right molars is from having two cracked teeth. Fantastic. She started to explain something about removing fillings and checking things out and “root canal” might have been tossed in there somewhere. I couldn’t really say because I was too busy listening to the music.
It all started as I was sitting in the waiting room. When I first sat down, Foreigner’s Waiting For a Girl Like You* was playing, which, of course, was awesome. I mean, as far as dental office waiting room music goes, does it get much better than that? But then Feel Like Making Love by Roberta Flack came on and I was like, “That’s what I’M talking about.” I had brought a book, but I didn’t get very far—it’s pretty hard to read and do mental karaoke simultaneously, especially when you’re being constantly bombarded by awesomeness. Just as Roberta’s voice was fading in the distance, I heard “Can you hear me? Can you hear me running?” –classic Mike & the Mechanics, Silent Running. Then something countryish came on and my hygienist came out to fetch me.
Luckily for me, the exam rooms share the same speaker system with the waiting room. Peter Cetera kept me company while I had my x-rays done. I can’t remember which song or if it was from his time with Chicago or after he went solo—it wasn’t one of his more familiar tunes, though that voice is unmistakeable. Then as the hygienist was scraping and picking at my teeth, I started praying for it to all be over while George Michael was Praying For Time. My hands gripped my chair arms as she poked and prodded my gums, but Lionel told me to just chill. It was all very soothing.
The assortment of songs that followed was really…interesting. Next up was Ebony & Ivory (which I can’t hear without thinking of this), then Crystal Gayle’s Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue followed by Missing from EBTG. And when Mr. Bolton started crooning How Am I Supposed to Live Without You? I thought my dental appointment experience was complete (or at least, I was hoping—my cleaning was over and I was waiting for my exam). But no, there was more! I still had to get out of Billy Ocean’s dreams and get into his car and then Anita Baker was giving me the best that she’s got and then just as I was starting to get good and irritated that the dentist still hadn’t come in to do my examination, some chick (I can never remember who she is) was reminding me to breathe, just breathe.
Still waiting for the dentist, I got a little Boyz II Men and an odd cover of Norah Jones’ Don’t Know Why, which I could have sworn was SmokeyRobinson and it was and good frick, where the aitch was this dentist already? My wait was still not quite over, but not to worry because it was Mike and Ann to the rescue! (As far as I was concerned, there was nothing almost about this paradise.)
At this point, I lost all track of time. I don’t know when the dentist came in because, like I said, I was too busy listening to the music. There were just three songs left: Jennifer Warnes’s Right Time of The Night (What’s with all the making love at the dentist? And WHAT is up with this youtube video?), Billy Ocean’s Mystery Lady (You know you’ve been at the dentist too long when you hear two Billy Ocean ditties during the same appointment. Nothing against Mr. Ocean, who is undisputably awesome, but really, what are the odds?), and A Whole New World (heaven knows I loves me some Peabo).
So there it is—the soundtrack to my latest dental adventure. I have another appointment in September to take care of those pesky cracked teeth, and strangely enough, I’m almost looking forward to it.
*While I was searching youtube for this song, I came across a version Andy Gibb did on Solid Gold (Mad, you HAVE to follow this link—seriously, talk about your solid gold!). Following that link led me to this, one of my most favorite Andy Gibb songs ever. Isn’t he pretty? Sigh. Yet another life cut tragically short.
We went to the doctor today. Better safe than sorry, right? Only a fool would let her accident prone daughter walk around with broken bones hanging out all willy nilly for ten days more than once. I am no fool, sisters. No fool!
So that sore pinky is perfectly fine. Beautiful, intact bones. WHAT a re-LIEF! It’s just the hand that’s broken. Yes, my friends, the hand. Who needs a broken finger when you can just break the WHOLE DING DANG HAND?!
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It looks like her already paid for cheer camp is out next week. Piano is a no-go, too. And she’s actually pretty excited that the swimming lessons I had planned for the first week of August will have to wait as well. Oh well. It could have been worse, right? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Well, THAT’S not ALL, folks! Why settle for a broken hand when you can have a broken hand AND, wait for it…
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…a BROKEN ELBOW!
And you know what would be even MORE awesome? How about we put that broken hand and broken elbow on DIFFERENT ARMS?!
Bonus! Isn’t that just FAN-TAS-tic?!
As the Dr. splinted her up, DynaGirl started to sniff. Not because she was crying, but because she needed to wipe her nose.
Dr: You poor thing. You’re not even going to be able to blow your own nose. I didn’t think about that. And how are you going to eat? I didn’t think about that. And, oh no! How are you going to wipe your behind when you use the bathroom?! I didn’t even think about that!
Good questions, Doc. Good questions. So far I’ve fed her, dressed her, and taken care of her more personal needs. Good times, my friends. Good times. We see the ortho guy tomorrow (or today, depending on when you read this). Our doctor wasn’t sure whether or not she’d end up with two casts or one. We’ll just have to wait and see. Obviously, I’m tingling with anticipation.
And as if this wasn’t enough excitement, Chuck got called out of town last minute. He leaves early tomorrow morning and will be back next week on Friday. Awesome. Oh, and for just a little more icing on the cake, guess what lucky girl gets to go to the dentist in the morning? That’s right! Me! It’s me, me, me, ME, ME! I love my life! It…Just…Keeps…Getting…Better!
In all seriousness, I’m actually very glad it’s just a couple of broken bones. Thankfully, she was wearing a helmet. She’s OK. Inconvenienced, greatly, but OK. And, as usual, my blessings are too many to count.
And, as a TOTALLY unrelated aside, here’s some classic PSB for you (I think Neil Tennant’s hair is wondering this same thing):
You know, I’ve noticed lately that come 2 or 3 o’clock in the afternoon if I try to sit down to do something like read or watch TV, I can’t keep my 
eyes open. I’m literally nodding off with the droopy lids, startling head bob and all. (I think one time I even noticed a little moisture at the corner of my mouth. But that does not leave this blog. Do you hear me? I know where most of you live.) And I can’t help but think if you’re only as old as you feel then I’m just a shuffle away from the front of a Smucker’s jar.
And what is up with that recurring whisker under my chin? Seriously!
Do you know what I LOVE about the end of the year? Elementary school yearbooks. There is seriously NO better use for my $17 x 2.
For some insane reason, seven years ago I felt the need to purchase my eldest child a yearbook. He was in first grade. You can’t possibly leave first grade without a yearbook, right? It seemed silly not to buy one the next year too. I mean, it would be like collecting only one saucer in a place setting, right? Totally pointless. And incomplete. We all know how I am about incompleteness. So I set a precedent for this child and all the Bythelbs children that were yet to come.
A couple of months ago my girls brought home a “last chance to order your yearbooks” notice. I had never seen a “first chance” notice, but thought I’d better get my sweet fanny down to that school and order those yearbooks before it was too late. I asked the lady in the office for some order forms. She said they didn’t have any, but I could just write the check and include a note that said it was for a yearbook. No official forms, huh? Just include a note, eh? The whole thing sounded sketchy and more than a little unadvisable, but what was I to do? It was my last chance! So I wrote out the checks (one for each child) for $17. (When on earth did elementary yearbooks start costing $17? They were always $8-10 at the other school. You’d think the ridiculous price would be enough for me to refuse to purchase on principle, but we’ve already started the set, see, so there’s just no going back now.) I was sure to make a note in the memo on the check with my child’s name and that it was for a “yearbook”, and then I wrote another note on a full size sheet of paper with my child’s name, teacher, grade and FOR YEARBOOK. I stapled the checks to the notes and then hand delivered them to the office. (This is what you call foreshadowing.)
Well, last Friday Goose comes home from school and wants to know why she didn’t get a yearbook. They’d handed them out in class that day and she didn’t get one. Of course she didn’t. So I looked at our checking account online to make sure that the checks had cleared, which they had, and printed out copies of the canceled checks to present to the school office on Monday. I went into the office and told the lady (the same “just put a note with your check” lady) that my daughter did not receive her yearbook. “Did you check with her teacher?” she asked with more than a little hint of the “You’re kind of an idiot, aren’t you?” tone. I told her that no, I hadn’t. She told me to check with her teacher. So I traipsed down to the end of the school with BigHugs in tow and checked with the teacher. She consulted her list and surprise, surprise, Goose wasn’t on it. I went back to the office and explained that my daughter wasn’t on the list. The lady consulted her own list, which coincidentally looked IDENTICAL to the one the teacher had. (I might also add that the lady picked up the list from the counter right in front of her.) Sure enough, Goose was missing from that list too.
“And you paid?” she asked. I told her I had paid and had copies of the canceled checks with me. She waved me off and said she didn’t need to see those and proceeded to hand me two yearbooks. She was perfectly happy to take my word for it. Coolio. And then she added Goose’s and DynaGirl’s names to the list with the special notation “says she paid”. Um, excuse me. I didn’t “say” anything. I didn’t “pay”. I paid. It was all I could do to keep my mouth shut. I just kept thinking that now I would be That Woman. That Woman who “pays” for things. Next year I’ll walk into a room of PTA moms, introduce myself and then watch as they exchange knowing glances and under-the-breath, behind-the-hand mutterings. “Says she paid.” My reputation will forever be suspect.
And for what? The yearbooks suck. Worse than usual and at twice the price. I am such a chump.
So last night I watched Made of Honor. Have any of you seen this movie? It’s one of the stupidest movies I’ve seen in a long time. Of course, I did manage to watch the whole thing. But what bugged me most about it was that Tom, the Patrick Dempsey character, who plays the romantic lead and who you are supposed to be rooting for to get the girl, is really just a big fat jerk. He’s like a total man ho who doesn’t realize his dream girl is his best friend until she’s ready to marry someone else. And even then, he doesn’t really want to marry her himself, he just wants to keep her from marrying the other guy so he can still have her to hang out with. I understand that stories need flawed characters to make them more real and relatable and all that junk, but it really bugs when movies expect you to root for the jerks (spoiler alert!) and then be happy when they get their way. So lame. And I don’t know what they did to try to make Patrick Dempsey look younger in the college flashback, but it was really creeping me out. And don’t even get me started on the sophomoric humor. Plus Kevin McKidd didn’t get nearly enough screen time, and when he was there he was kind of a dork. Kevin McKidd is no dork. This movie was just wrong on so many levels.
And now I don’t have anything else to say. I guess all I really wanted to do was vent some frustration over the stupidity of this movie. And you know it’s bad when I’m complaining because when it comes to entertainment, I don’t have particularly high standards or expectations. Have you seen any good movies lately? Or stupid ones the rest of us should avoid? Can you spare us some of the “That was two hours of my life I’ll never get back!”s?
Dear Mr. T’s Social Studies Teacher,
I would just like to thank you for giving Mr. T the opportunity of repeating a homework assignment you somehow misplaced. It was totally cool of you to give him a chance to make up that assignment he had already completed. Unfortunately, Mr. T was so busy working on the major project you assigned for the last week of school, that he didn’t have time to do that other assignment. AGAIN. So I did it. So there. Pppbbbtt.
Sincerely,
Bythelbs (aka Big Fat Cheater Pants Mom)
Dear Yellow YMCA Shirt Lady,
No offense, but what kind of inconsiderate idiot chooses the elementary school drop-off lane to put sunscreen on her child and then spends the next several moments rubbing the excess sunscreen all over herself before getting back in her car and finally, mercifully driving away? It’s the fracking drop-off lane! Watch the hail!*
Sincerely,
Bythelbs (aka Big Fat Raging Pants Mom)
Dear BigHugs,
OK, I get that you find the image of me in my underwear disgustin’. You really don’t need to say so every time you see me in such a state of undress. I get it. Disgustin’. Totawee disgustin’. Message received. And noted.
Sincerely,
Mom (aka Big Fat Under Pants Mom)
Dear Gerard Butler,
I had the pleasure of watching your film P.S. I Love You last night, in which you were magically delicious. Thank you. For being delicious. Magically. So magically.
Sincerely,
Bythelbs (aka Not-so-very-Big-or-Fat Smokin’ Hot Mom…with pants. Hot pants. Well, not literally hot pants. Never mind.)
*Told you, Tawnya.
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