Month: November 2011 (page 1 of 3)

This week should have come with a warning label.

Monday: I pulled Julia’s bowl of hot CoCo Wheats out of the microwave with a smidge too much enthusiasm and ending up feeding it to my cleavage instead of my daughter.

Tuesday: The stoneware insert for my Crock Pot slipped out of my soapy dishpan hands and crashed into the sink (damaging the porcelain enamel!) and shattered, as did my heart. Oh, Crockett. We discovered loaded potato soup together! I’ll think of you every time I make it in my new Cro- Shhhhh. Never you mind that last part. R.I.P. Crockett.

Wednesday: A combination of wintry precipitation, leaves, impractical footwear and clumsiness took my feet out from under me and brought me crashing down on my ass out in front of my house, of course, as a car drove by. Somehow, I injured my left knee and my right elbow. And everywhere else.

I’m afraid to even think about Thursday.

I’m not sure if this is becoming less true because I’m less successful or I’m stepping out of my comfort zone more.

I have a habit
of doing just things I know
I can succeed at

Gift-Giving Anxiety: Where Mine Began

I was rushing to my bus line when he stepped in front of me. “Hey,” he said shoving a gift-wrapped tube at me. “This is for you.” And he took off down the hallway.

I studied the glossy red paper covered with Santas and Ho Ho Hos and the blue bow stuck precariously to the top during what was the longest bus ride of my life. I wondered, Did he wrap it himself? Nah, it’s too neat. Maybe his mom did it for him. If she did, they must have talked about me. What did they say? Did he call me his girlfriend? Whose idea was it to give me a present? His? Hers? Either way, things are looking pretty serious.

I ran all the way home from the bus stop and straight into my room. I threw my book bag on the bed and tore open the package. It was a Whitesnake poster. Whitesnake. Not my favorite band, but still a cool band. Definitely cool. Very cool. This is, without a doubt, an awesomely cool present.

I scrambled up on my headboard and carefully rose to my feet. I stood face to face with a smoldering Jon Bon Jovi and pushed myself against him as I stretched up on tiptoe to reach the pushpins at the top corners. “Sorry Jon,” I said out loud and replaced him with the Whitesake poster. Jon would hang over my desk. The boyfriend gift deserved the prominent spot above my bed.

I stood at then end of my bed and admired the view while my head swam in he-likes-me!s. There was actual proof, right above my bed! But wait. Okay, so I guess this means I need to give him a present, right? I guess in sixth grade, the boyfriend-girlfriend relationship evolves to the gift-giving stage. So, what do I get him?

By the time my mom got home from work, I’d worked myself into quite a little frenzy. I jumped at her from the bottom stair I’d been rocking back and forth on and shouted, “I need to buy a Christmas present! Can we go NOW!!?!?”

Of course we couldn’t. But later we did. And after a great deal of discussion and agonizing over the boys toys aisles and my meager budget, I’d settled on a Madball. It seemed like the best option for a kid that once wrote me a love poem that included the word “schizophrenic” in it.

I took the gift to school the next day. I desperately wanted to unload it on him, but I waited until the end of the day, like he did, as he clearly was more clued in to the “going together” code than I was. By the time the last bell rang, that Madball felt like it weighed a ton. I drug it in my hand behind me as I quickened my pace to catch up with him in the hall. I tugged on his backpack. “Hey,” I said shoving it into his hand. “This is for you.”

He stopped, made a huge grin and his eyes got wild-looking. “Yeah?” And he started to open it.

My cheeks got hot. My heart was racing. I started sweating and felt like I might fart. “Uh huh.”

“Huh,” he grunted, his smile faded a bit, then he laughed. He laughed! And said, “Yeah, thanks.” Then ran down the hall.

After Christmas, we broke up. I am certain it’s because I gave him the wrong gift.

You haven’t heard number 3.

I drove Dave’s car today which means A) I did not have the kids with me and B) I had access to a CD player. This is what I listened to as loud as I felt like:

  1. Break on Through (to the other side) by The Doors
  2. Santeria by Sublime
  3. Just That Kind of Day by The New Main Street Singers (from A Mighty Wind)
  4. Barracuda by Heart
  5. Loser by Beck

I tried to listen to Van Halen, but the disc kept skipping as did my Cool Beaner Mix CD (which included such hits as I Want You Back by The Jackson 5 and 99 Luftballoons by Nena).

What do you listen to when you’re alone in your car?

Hello? Is there anybody out* there?

comment on this post
and I will write a haiku
just for you, Cool Kid

*or in, Pink Floyd

Creepiest Thing Ever

I went up to the attic to get the Christmas decorations today and found the windows covered in flies, Amityville Horror style. I was very brave, however, and opened one of the windows to hang a wreath. The cold air swept in and they all fell to the ground like rain.

Freaky, right?

I want to be Dianne Wiest in “Dan in Real Life”

Matt Lauer said the SpongeBob balloon has been in the Macey’s Thanksgiving Day parade for seven years.

That’s how old Julia is.

Okay, that? The amount of time it took you to read that? That’s how fast seven years went. The next thing I know, it’ll be my grandchildren cuddled in a pile in footie pajamas in front of the fireplace. I hope.

What if my girls don’t come home for Thanksgiving when they’re grown?

As I combed Julia’s hair into a ponytail, I asked her, “So, when you’re all grown up and you live on your own, maybe you even have kids of your own…you’ll still come home for Thanksgiving, right?”

“Of course I will.”

“Good,” I told her. I wrapped my arms around her, drew her close and put my chin on her shoulder. “Will you promise? And maybe put it in writing?”

“Mom, you’re silly.”

“Actually, I’m pretty serious.”

I can’t bear the thought of being without my kids on the holidays. And I hope that once they grow up, whether they all come home, or Dave and I have to spend the whole day traveling around to wherever they are, that I’ll always be able to be with them for days like this. Is that too much for a turkey wishbone wish?

Singing is loving.

When I was a little girl, my dad used to sing to me, “L-E-S-L-I-E. Leslie is my girl, you see. Leeeeeslieeeee.” The tone of his voice was rich, soft and golden. It’d warm me up from the inside out, like I’d drunk a cup of sunlight.

Me and my dad

I get my heart-shaped face from my dad. My smile, too.

Now, he sings to my girls. He holds them close, cheek to cheek, rocks them gently and sings, “Heaven. I’m in heaven…

I love my dad, always. But those are the moments I love him best.

I want to hold you in parenthesis.*

The sock monkey business is BOOMING! (Not really.) (Well, relatively speaking. After a six month dry spell, two happy consumers became sock monkey owners courtesy of our Etsy shop in the span of just one week! This seems to be our sales trend. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, SALE! SALE! Nothing, nothing, nothing…you get the idea. I guess sock monkey season comes twice a year. Like a dental exam. But cuddlier!) Recently, I was taking a monkey-laden package (it glowed in the dark! (the monkey, not the package!) to the post office to send it along to a new home and this happened.

Complete (yet friendly!) stranger: “Mailin’ a sock monkey, eh?”

Me: “Yes, I am.”

CYFS: “Did you make it?”

Me: “Yep. My mother and I make them. We have an Etsy shop.”

CYFS: “On the internet?”

Me: “Yes.”

CYFS: “There’s another lady around here who makes stuff and sells it on the internet.”

Me: “Oh yeah?”

CYFS: “Maybe you know her.”

Me: “What’s her name?”

CYFS: “I’m not sure, but she’s always mailin’ the stuff she sells on the internet.”

Me: “What does she make?”

CYFS: “I don’t know. She sells it on the internet, though.”

Me: “Hmmm.”

CYFS: “You don’t know that lady?”

Me: “I don’t think I do.”

CYFS: “I thought you might.”

Me: “She doesn’t really sound familiar.”

CYFS: “I’ll have to ask her if she knows you.”

After I left, I realized I probably should have introduced myself, because the truth is, he didn’t know me either and his conversation with the other lady who makes stuff and sells it on the internet is likely to go the same way this one did and I probably just started a wormhole.

*Remember that song? 1991 was crazy, wasn’t it?

Hau’oli La Ho’omakika’i

I picked up the biggest turkey I could find last week, but it’s a smaller bird than I’m used to serving on Thanksgiving. I’m a little worried it won’t be enough. We’re big eaters, you know. What if there aren’t any leftovers? Leftovers are the best part of Thanksgiving eating! But what am I going to do, serve two turkeys? That’s just crazy. My little guy will have to do.

Today, as I slipped my fowl friend into his aromatic brine bath, I couldn’t help singing, Tiny turkey! In the brine! Makes me happy, makes me feel fine! to the tune of Tiny Bubbles and in the spirit of Don Ho.

That song is a real earworm…with a feelin’ that I’m gonna love you ’til the end of time.

*Edited to add: Dave thinks this post is confusing and it would help if I told you the title means “Happy Thanksgiving” in Hawaiian. It’s relevant because Don Ho is Hawaiian and I was singing a song inspired by Don Ho about my Thanksgiving turkey.

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