Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
She's not the only one with high dating standards around here either. Everyone's got 'em. I once teased my Laurel's president that she needed a boyfriend and she scolded me for going against the proper authorities and trying to lead her down a path of destruction.
That's when I realized how much she really did need a boyfriend.
But we can't blame the teenagers. They're just doing what we say, and not what we did. And I think they're just saying what we say too.
On the bright side, we are teaching them how to wear the necessary masks and use the necessary rhetoric to face what lies ahead of them. Or should I say, to dodge what lies ahead of them.
Anyways, my 15-year-old has a girlfriend. But not the kind that goes against the proper authorities because he never actually uses the word girlfriend--he can't call a spade a spade. (Neither can my 13-year-old.)
His friends call her his "chica"--at least that's how they introduced me to her behind his back and against his will and without his consent while he was in the locker room after a recent basketball game.
I like her. She's nice. And cute. And she calls me Debbie. I'm not sure how to break it to her that my name is Dummy, but usually people figure that out on their own.
Over the weekend my son mentioned to us that he told his "chica" we are weird. Sooo weird is the way he phrased it, I believe.
"That's great," said my hub to me later as I was climbing into bed trying to pinpoint what evidence our son has against us. "I'm glad he told her."
That's all my hub could say. As if it was a compliment! As if he was genuinely thrilled that we are out of the closet.
My hub has no energy for masks. And rhetoric shmetoric. To him a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
(Granted, he doesn't have the most developed sense of smell. I mean to him weird smells the same as cool. As does odd, peculiar and strange.)
I tried to take my hub's approach, but I eventually got up enough gumption to tiptoe into my son's room while he was sleeping and confront him.
"Why do you think I'm weird? Huh? Huh? Huh?" I said. "I mean, I get why you might mistake your dad for a looney toon, but what about me? Is it because I don't read your texts or stalk you on Facebook? Is it because I don't give you a curfew? Just tell me if it is because I can give you a curfew. Don't think I can't. It's just that you're always home before midnight and . . ."
"Let him be," called my hub from the other room. "It's great he thinks we're weird."
"Is it because I carried you around inside me for 9 months then gave you life? That was a little strange, I confess. Or is it because I spend several hours a day cleaning your house and cooking your food and doing your laundry and driving you around and watching your basketball games and filming your basketball games? Or is it because I buy my own sweaters back from D.I. so I'll have enough money to buy your Nike socks? Is it? Is it? Is it? Huh? Huh? Huh?"
The more I talked, the clearer it became that he was right. I am off my rocker.
"No," he finally grunted. "It's because you leave the cap off the toothpaste."
"That's not weird," I told him. "That's gross." And then I loosened his neck from the headlock and went back to bed.
See what I mean? Kids these days don't know how to call a spade a spade.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
Four words: Whatchu talkin' bout Phyllis!?
I didn't see that one coming. Granted I wasn't looking, but I really didn't see that one coming!
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Friday, January 6, 2012
(Dang! Is it just me or does my pidgin sound kinda rusty?)
And in case you were wondering, NO, this video did not make me homesick AT all!
But it did make me sad that I'm no longer YW Prez because now I have no one to show it off to while pointing and shouting, "oooh! I know her!" ooooh! oooooh! oooooh! I know him. oooh! been there. oooh done that!"
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
Do you think he ever thought to himself, dang my life would be pert near perfect if only I wasn't so bloated.
And if only I hadn't accidentally bought my son Madden 12 for the Wii instead of for the Xbox 360.
And if only I hadn't grabbed two left shoes when I bought him his new Vans.
And don't even get me started about the briefs instead of boxers.
In my last post I told you that this year I was going to wrap up the things my kids didn't do and put them under the tree, like bags of leaves they didn't rake, and boxes of dirty dishes they didn't put away, etc, etc, etc, but what goes around comes around, you know. I ended up wrapping a few of the things I didn't do as well, like check to make sure the Madden 12 was for the Xbox 360 and the Vans had one of each foot, and the briefs were actually boxers instead of briefs.
Do you think Thomas Kinkade ever forgot to do things like that while he was roasting his chestnuts on his open fire?
Prob not, because these are the things that can threaten an otherwise happy cottage on Christmas morning.
But they are also the things that can teach our children important lessons about life.
If you think about it, we all come into this world with gifts, right? Special gifts. Maybe they aren't exactly what we asked for, like the wrong gaming system, or two left feet, or briefs instead of boxers, but it's what we do with our special gifts that counts.
At least that's what I told my son before I told him DEAL WITH IT, dude!
I'm pretty sure that's what the big guy upstairs would have told me if I was pouting over my special gifts. You don't see me whining because I'm dumb. No, I embrace it. I celebrate it. Just the other day I bought a sweater at D.I. that happened to be the same sweater I donated to D.I. two months ago. Did I cry? Of course not. No sense crying over recycled sweaters. That's what I always say. Even if you have to pay for them. Twice.
I look at my gift as a mutation. Some mutants can read minds, or spit fire, or walk through walls. I attract sweaters into my life that didn't work for me the first time. And I pay for them.
What my son decided to do with his special gifts was have me return them, which just goes to show that some people would rather wear boxers than learn about life.
Other than that my Christmas was great. My favorite special gift of the season was from my neighbor, Myken who brought me this clock:
I know I made a New Years resolution that this year I am going to change my personal word from Whatever to Improve, but I haven't started improving yet. Mostly because I've been so busy not improving. But I will start improving . . . tomorrow.
It's just that I can't believe how much you can get done when you're not improving. The amount of addictions you can pick up over the holidays alone is breathtaking. Sleeping in, for instance. And watching movies. And eating leftovers. And not doing laundry. Not doing laundry is like the crack cocaine of domestic don't do's.
It's too bad they don't make paper clothes like they make paper plates.
Thanks to my children I'm also addicted to American Pickers and Storage Wars and Pawn Stars and Finding Bigfoot and Gold Rush and, of course, Celebrity Ghost Stories.
Btw, have you ever noticed that celebrities have better ghost stories than the rest of us? Why is that? Ghosts seem to reveal themselves to celebrities, while the rest of us have to settle for a cold chill and a case of the heebie jeebies. Celebrities, they get choked by their ghosts or levitated. Their ghosts text them and play their pianos. But the only attention we get from our ghosts is an occasional bout of nausea or a footstep across a creaky stair.
My latest and greatest addiction of the season is Just Dance 3 on the Kinnect. Not the dancing part, but the watching my hub dancing part. Let's just say I've lost control of at least one bodily function while ROTFLMHeadO.
He could go viral peeps. I'm telling you, HE. COULD. GO. VIRAL. And I have the video to prove it. If I didn't respect his dignity and privacy so darn much I would upload it faster than you could say ex. ploy. tation.