Sep
23
Psychos Like Us
by Leslie
Dinner was over. I was packing up the leftovers and getting anxious and screamy because the girls were getting up to a bunch of no-good. Since Dave and I have an agreement that only one of us can be a jerk at a time, he intervened to change the trajectory of our downward spiral.
“Who wants to see a magic trick?” he called and motioned for everyone to join him at the dining room table. “Mommy, I’m gonna need your help.”
“A magic trick?” I asked.
“Yes, the magic trick.” He winked.
“Oh, THE magic trick. Oh! Yeah! Sure!” I hurried in and sat down at the table.
“I bet you didn’t know that I can read Mommy’s mind,” he told the girls.
“It’s true,” I confirmed.
“I used to do this magic trick with my mom. She could read minds, too.”
“It’s probably genetic,” I added.
“Julia, pick a number and tell it to Mommy. I’ll go in the kitchen to be sure I don’t hear. Let me know when you’re ready.”
Dave left. The girls and I huddled together and Julia whispered, “Four,” then shouted, “We’re ready!”
Dave returned and moved behind me, placed his fingers on my temples and began rubbing gently. “I think I’m getting something…” he stalled as the “magic” flowed from me to him.
The girls stood quiet, carefully studying us for evidence of trickery.
“Oh, this’ll help,” he said placing a pinky finger in each of my ears. I grimaced. The girls giggled. “I’ve got it!” he shouted, making us all jump. “The number is….four.”
I raised my eyebrows in a “whattaya think of that?” fashion as the astonishment washed over our little crowd of spectators. They bounced, they squealed, they clapped their hands with delight.
Lucy scrambled up into the seat beside me, drew in close and placed a chubby hand at the corner of her mouth to shield the word, “Seven” as it passed softly from her lips to my ears.
“Okay, Daddy,” I said hoisting Phoebe into my lap. “Let’s give this one a try.”
We restarted our charade and then Dave revealed, “The number is….seven.”
Again, shock and awe.
“Alright,” Julia huffed. “Try this one.” We repeated the whole thing with the number nine. Julia, finally convinced of our power, decided that since she couldn’t beat us, she’d join us. “Okay, It’s my turn now. I’m going to the kitchen, Daddy give Mommy a number.”
Dave held up three fingers. I nodded and called Julia back.
Julia took her place behind my chair, carefully rubbed her hands together and jammed her pinky fingers in my ears.
I sat. I waited. I closed my eyes. I pictured the number three as if it were the number of the day on Sesame Street. And then finally she came out with it. “Three!” she exclaimed.
After a moment of stunned silence, Dave and I congratulated her on a job well done. And because we refused to be upstaged, we demanded she do it again. The second try was a bust, but the third try brought her another success.
“Two out of three, Julia. That ain’t bad,” I offered. “Even Meatloaf says so.”
Dave started to sing, “Now, don’t be sad….’cause two out of three ain’t bad…”
“That means you’re about 66.6% psychic.”
“Really?” she marveled, reveling in her obvious inheritance of the telepathic trait.
“Alright, bath time,” I announced.
Julia bounded up the stairs and bumped into her grandma at the top. “Guess what, Grandma? Guess what? Mommy says I’m psycho! Just like her and Daddy!”
Psychic. Psycho. Either way, she’s probably right.
Sep
22
A Bad Trip on the Psychedelic Groovebus
by Leslie
My van’s “Door Ajar” dashboard light and the corresponding “Ding!” along with the automatic locks and interior lights have started going on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off for a reason I cannot discern. It started yesterday on the way to take Julia to school. I spent the trip there and back stopping periodically to get out and run around the van slamming all the doors. This did nothing but exacerbate my annoyance. And entertain the kids.
“Mommy, your face is all red!”
“Yeah, what were you yelling out there?”
“Nevermind. How about some music?”
We turned up Billboard’s Top Hits of 1969, particularly this. We discussed going The Partridge Family route and painting the van in a Mondrian inspired pattern and heading to Caesar’s Palace. But then everything started looking a little warped and curved, Lucy zoned out, Phoebe passed out and Julia started seeing sound as color.
I think I’ll just schedule Vanessa for some maintenance instead.
Sep
21
Yesterday, my mom turned 54.
(This would be the perfect place to include a photo of my mom on her birthday.)
She doesn’t look it, though. And because 1) she doesn’t look old, 2) my dad is rarely seen by anyone outside our home and 3) my mom and I are together a lot, we’ve been mistaken for a) sisters, b) sister wives and c) a lesbian couple. We are, actually, simply, I) mother and daughter and II) the best of friends.
(Here’s another great place for a photo. Oooh, one of mom and me, maybe laughing and looking at each other would be good.)
She is my constant. And I love her more than just about anything.
(Next year, my goal is to have some pictures to prove it.)
Sep
20
Sundays are for softball.
by Leslie
Dave joined a co-ed double-header softball league for Fall. He plays on Sundays near work.
Here’s the thing about Sundays: Dave is either coming off a 12 hour shift at work or getting ready to start one.
Here’s the thing about work: It’s about an hour or more away from our house.
You’d think Dave would prefer to rest on Sunday. He does not. Dave prefers softball. Always and forever. The End. I prefer to watch Dave play softball. The day we met, I watched him play softball. And since we’ve been married, I can count on one hand the games I’ve missed watching him play. So on Sunday, after working 12 hours, Dave was doing this:
And I was doing this:
(I’m taking his picture (in case that wasn’t clear). I’m not actually IN the picture. That’d be crazy.)
After the game, because he can’t get enough softball EVER, he had the girls get their gloves out to play a little more.
“Hey Dave, you haven’t slept in, like, 24 hours. Wanna head home?”
“Sleep!!?!? Who needs sleep? Let’s run some bases, girls!”
Eh, softball. At least he doesn’t have a mistress.
Sep
19
Relatively Speaking
by Leslie
Of my three girls, Phoebe is the shyest.
This says a lot about the timidity of the other two.
Maybe “less outgoing” is a better description. “Shy” isn’t exactly part of our family vocabulary.
Stuff I Do
-
Stuff You Should Do
You know, Stuff.
