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The tell-tale t-shirt

24 Jul

So last week I went to girls camp with DynaGirl.  It was all great, fine, whatever.  The details are not important because the only thing I can think about right now is the t-shirt that got left behind.

Quite possibly the most awesome t-shirt that ever was or ever will be.

I realized Friday evening as I was sorting my laundry that my sweats and favorite tee did not make it home.  I must have left them in the bathroom that last morning.  I tracked down the lady who came home with the lost and found box and recovered my sweats, but my t-shirt was nowhere to be found.  I’m assuming since the sweats and tee were last seen together, someone must have “accidentally” decided to take my favorite t-shirt home.

In an effort to cope with this great loss, I have decided that whoever made off with my shirt of awesomeness must have been in desperate need of constant self-affirmation.  So every day he or she will put on my t-shirt and look in the mirror and be able to go on living.  I have decided my t-shirt is saving a life.  Hopefully any guilt this person may feel over having acquired the life-saving t-shirt ill-gottenly will not weigh too heavily on their conscience, slowly driving them into the depths of insanity and despair.  That would be an unfortunate turn of events.  Most unfortunate indeed.

And now I’m going to take a valium and lie down for an indefinite period of time.

*Treasured friend and giver of the tee, please know that I cherished the time I had with this token of your affection and I will miss it forever.  And ever.

Times like these

25 Oct

Yesterday afternoon, just about the time I was pulling in the driveway after picking Mr. T up from school, three boys from his high school were in a car accident.  The driver was killed, another was critically injured.  The third boy will likely make a full recovery, physically—he is Goose’s 4th grade teacher’s son.

Who ever sends their kid to school thinking that will be the last time they will ever see him?

Last Friday, I was rear-ended on my way to BigHugs’ field trip at the pumpkin patch.  Luckily, I was alone in the car—the kids had taken the bus and the parents were following in their own vehicles.  The damage to our van is pretty extensive, but I walked away with just a stiff and sore neck and back.  The couple who hit me were very nice and thankfully insured.  Their insurance company is coming out today to assess the damage. 

People keep asking me about these details.  Who was driving?  What color was the car?  Did you see them coming?  How bad was the jolt?  Did your head snap back?  I don’t remember anything.  One minute I was sitting at a stoplight, and the next I was picking up pieces of my car off the road.

Mr. T is starting driver’s ed in a couple of weeks.  He’ll start behind the wheel training a week after that.  I don’t know if I’m ready for this.

So this middle aged thing…

13 Jul

A couple of weeks ago, as I was helping the kids get ready for bed, I suddenly caught a glimpse of my hand and thought, “Whose hand is that?” Actually, it was more like, “Good frick! Whose old lady hand is that?!” It was wrinkly and veiny and…old. I had a momentary freakout. And when I say freakout, I mean there was a loud display of shock and dismay and just general irrational freakoutedness. My family laughed at me, but I was having a seriously intense moment of middle age crisis. BigHugs came down for a drink of water later that night, and as she hugged me goodnight again she said, “I’m sorry your hands got old.”

Every 4th of July, my brother and sister-in-law throw a huge Independence Day bash for my husband’s side of the family.  There’s a different theme every year.  Last year was the Amazing Race.  This year it was Minute to Win It, based on a television game show where contestants have a minute to perform various random tasks.  I did surprisingly well, making it into the final round of competition (there were just four of the original forty left).  The final task was called paper dragon (follow the link for a video demonstration), in which each player had to un-spool two large rolls of party streamers with a continuous windmill motion of the arms.  I made a valiant effort, but in the end was outdone by a 15 and 10 year old.  The next morning, I could not move my shoulders without excruciating pain.  The pain settled into a throbbing ache by the end of day two, and by day four I was able to wield my hair dryer without wanting to cry.  I kept thinking I was just too old for this crap.

While we were visiting with family this past week I had the lovely opportunity to see the latest Twilight movie with six of my sisters-in-law and two teenage nieces. I’ve decided that these movies must be seen in groups, but if you’re bringing teenagers along be prepared to duck and cover when the screaming starts. After the movie, there was the obligatory discussion of who was hotter—a discussion I always have a difficult time participating in because these are young men. Like, young men.  And we’ve already established that I am no longer a young woman.  I think I brought up the cougar factor, which led to a discussion of what constitutes a cougar.  Some in our group thought you would have to be at least 40 to be granted cougar status, but I said if I’m old enough to be their mother then that did it for me.  I am thoroughly creeped out by the idea of someone my age finding my teenage son sexually attractive.  Thoroughly.

So now I find myself thinking, if I put any stock in that old you’re only as old as you feel bit, I am royally screwed.

 

Potty humor

9 Nov

Last month on our trip to the pumpkin patch, DynaGirl insisted I take a picture of this:

IMG_2535

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A closer look:

IMG_2536

 

That’s all I have to say about that.

You can skip this one, Susan

8 Jun

So awhile back I posted one of those lame “How well do you know me?” Facebook quizzes.  One of the questions was:

My biggest fears in order from greatest to least are ____________.
a) spiders, public restrooms, dirty dishes.
b) public restrooms, dirty dishes, spiders.
c) dirty dishes, spiders, public restrooms.

Most people got this question wrong.

This morning as I was folding laundry on the couch, I picked up a towel—a big, white, fluffy, beautiful towel—only to find that a spider—a big, black, creepy, ugly spider—was lurking within its folds. I dropped the towel like it had a spider on it (because it did!) and screamed. But I dropped the towel on the couch. No way was I going to live with the idea that a big, black, creepy, ugly eight-legged beastie was inhabiting the inner recesses of my loveseat, so I picked up a corner of the towel and flung it on the ground away from the couch.  I thought maybe it would crawl out of the towel so I (actually, I was hoping I could talk Mr. T into doing the dirty work) could properly attack it with the business end of my husband’s hiking boot, but it didn’t.  The towel was silent.  Eerily silent.  And still.  Eerily still.

The towel and spider were now in the middle of my floor, trapping Mr. T in the kitchen and preventing me from carrying out the rest of my morning motherly duties of lunch making and laundry folding and floor sweeping and all that other crap.  I bravely walked up to the towel and lifted up one corner.

Me, to Mr. T:  Is it there?

Mr. T:  I don’t see it.

Me, trying to flip around another corner of the towel:  Do you see it?

Mr. T:  No.

Me:  Did you see it when I flung it onto the floor.  It’s in the towel, right?  It’s not still on the couch, right?!  Please don’t let it still be on the couch!

I thought about just smashing the crap out of that towel in such a way as to ensure that nothing could have survived, but it was one of my good white bath towels.  I haven’t had them very long and they were kind of pricey.  I went into the kitchen and started digging around in the drawers.

Mr. T:  What are you looking for?

Me:  The tongs.  The good ones.

I couldn’t find the good ones.  I could only find the flimsy ones that were a good 1 1/2 inches shorter than the good ones, but I was desperate.  I went over to the vicinity of the towel and leaned over as far as my arm would stretch and tried to pick up the towel with the tongs.  I couldn’t.  They weren’t strong enough to hold 30×56″ of fine loop Egyptian cotton goodness.  Darn those flimsy tongs! 

Mr. T, searching the kitchen in earnest:  Where are those good tongs?!

He couldn’t find them, but worked up the courage to spread the towel out the rest of the way.  There was nothing there.  There was nothing there!  Do you know what’s worse than having a spider on one of your best bath towels?  Having a spider on one of your best bath towels and then not having a spider on one of your best bath towels with no earthly idea of what happened to the damn thing in between those two states of being!  It could be anywhere!

Mr. T:  You probably flung it off the towel when you threw it off the couch.

Me:  But where?  Where would I have flung it to?

We looked around and then Mr. T spotted it on the dining room wall, a good twelve feet away.

Mr. T:  That thing’s huge!

I searched for a weapon.  Mr. T brought out the big, rubber mallet from the kitchen.

Me:  We can’t use that, we’ll put a hole in the wall.

The spider dropped to the floor, so I knew I had to act fast—any further delay and I’d risk losing him in my house.  In my house!  I finally settled on some rolled up newspapers, covered my eyes with one hand and brought down my other with the full force of all my fear and fury.  I got him. 

Me, handing Mr. T a stack of napkins:  Could you get rid of him please?

Mr. T:  With napkins?!

Me:  Well, what do you want to use?

Mr. T:  Something stiffer?

We debated for a few minutes until finally I took matters into my own hands—well, not my hands (shudder, shudder, shudder!)—and scooped it up with the cardboard wrapping from the last of the pineapple snack cups.  I carried it across the dining room and tossed it out the back slider door, all the while hoping that spiders didn’t play possum and chanting, “Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up.”

Needless to say, it was a most traumatic and distressing way to start my day.  It’s like when you narrowly miss getting in a car accident and your heart is palpitating for several minutes following the near death experience.

So here is my rationale behind the biggest fears:

I’d rather do dishes than take care of any kind of business in a public restroom.  And I’d certainly much rather take care of all kinds of business in a public restroom than have to deal with a spider.

I’m not sure how long it will be before I can use that towel again, let alone hang it up in my bathroom.  Or put it in the linen closet.  Or fold it.  Or pick it up off the floor.

I was wrong!

20 Nov

We survived the pictures!  I can hardly believe it.  If anything, they went too well as I had a most difficult time deciding which poses not to buy.  She just looked so darn cute in all of them that I could hardly bear the thought of them not being admired by someone.  Anyone.  Well, not some creepy person.  Do you ever have guilt over allowing a perfectly delightful image of your precious child to be thrown away?  I almost feel like I’m abandoning them.  And the sales girls totally know it and use it against me.  Manipulative benches.

But the pictures are done!  And now I can breathe easy.  Well, not quite yet, I guess.  There is still the possibility they will get lost.  That happened to me once before with Mr. T.  We had had the most perfect photo session in the history of cheesy department store photo sessions, and two days before I was to pick up the finished prints, they called to tell me they had lost them and I would need to come in to have them retaken.  I cannot even begin to describe the trauma of that event.  It. Was. Ugly.  Given that experience, I guess I won’t claim the victory until I have the pictures in my hot little hands.  It’s going to be a long, anxiety-riddled 10 days.

But enough about me.  Anything stressing you out lately?

Prove me wrong, Universe! and a special comment

19 Nov

Yesterday I made an appointment to have BigHugs’ picture taken.  So you know what that means—some time in the next 24 hours she will either come down with a cold, a raging case of pinkeye or have some other kind of face-maiming accident.  She hasn’t had a professional picture taken in over 2 years.  Can you guess why?  It seems almost irresponsible of me to risk my child’s health and safety this way with an actual scheduled appointment, but for some reason I felt it must be done.  I’m hoping this time the universe will prove me wrong.  Prove me wrong, Universe!  Prove me wrong!

And now, on a more serious note: a Bythelbs special comment. 

Yesterday something else happened that turned my world upside down.  Black is no longer black.  White is no longer white.  Everything is just a big fat puddle of muddled gray.  And just when I was thinking that things might be starting to calm down—that maybe we’re getting ready to move past all of this election drama and settle into our new reality.  But now I’m not so sure we’re ready to move on together.  It seems that we’re as divided as ever. 

I consider myself to be a very open-minded, reasonably non-judgmental person.  I like to think of our little blogging community here at Bythelbsia as a safe place for people of all persuasions, walks of life, values and ideas, but even I’m having difficulty reconciling my affection for dear friends with their individual beliefs and opinions.  No, I am confident I can get past this.  It may not be today or even tomorrow.  But the day will come again when I can see you all as the good, good people that you truly are regardless of your Cheetos-density preference.  It will come.  I must believe it.