Is it just me?

Anyone else out there feeling a little overwhelmed? I mean, what with the volcanoes, flooding, oil spills, and the regular household "It's Always Something" crap that tends to pile up... yeah, I'm feeling it. And it's freaking distracting.

I know, I still owe you an IOM post. But when I get overwhelmed, there's not much writing that gets done, so I'll leave it to the professionals and give you the link to our fifteen minutes of fame. Yes, we had a REPORTER there!


Cool, huh? It's good to know my grocery store cake decorating skills haven't gone to waste. Oh, it was quite the Big Hairy Deal. Such a big deal, in fact, that I came home six pounds heavier. Most of it went away, but not all.

(Oh yeah, you can add that to the FML list.)

I do kinda wish the article had included a link to my blog, but then I would just feel more guilty for not writing.

Speaking of which, one excuse reason I haven't written is that every time I try, I end up whining. Somehow, despite my best intentions, I have found myself AGAIN in the position of having a complicated (but not serious) medical problem that will, one way or another, require multiple visits and twelves of dollars to manage.

So... should I indulge myself? Have you had enough of my whining about shoulders and scalps (although that wasn't mine) and proCEEdures? Should I just STFU and wait until the dust clears? Or should I just let 'er rip?
 

Whoa!

After a whirlwind IoM, I got back to work on Tuesday only to be hit immediately with a mail server problem I was completely unequipped to handle. I tell you, nothing build one's confidence quite like mucking about randomly in the company's mail server in hopes of accidentally hitting the switch that will make everything all better. As usual, after flailing around for a day or two my elbow hit something and the problem ceased. Better lucky than smart, every time.

It didn't help that I had a Class I travel hangover. Have I mentioned that I am a real pussy when it comes to air travel? On any given descent, I have about a 50% change of being able to clear my ears, my ankles swell (thanks, Mema!) and jet lag kicks my ass every time. Yeah, I'm a real treat as a traveling companion. But the swelling has finally subsided (hello, anklebones!) along with most of the whining. Now that I'm starting to think clearly again, I can start thinking about filing a proper trip report next week. Trust me, it will be worth the wait.

In the meantime, rest assured that we had a wonderful visit Back East with Evil Twin and Co. and we rocked the IoM of the Century in style. Wait until you see the pix!
 

Beware the Ides!

It's a month late, but we're leaving TOMORROW to go Back East to celebrate the 25th Anniversary (more or less) of the Ides of Meatloaf with Evil Twin and Co. It's the first time in probably 20 years we've celebrated it together so it will be extra-special.

You can read the back story through the link above, but in short, it's our paen to Mid-century convenience foods, a celebration of Mid-century, Middle American cuisine in all its dehydrated, canned, and gelled glory. We remember fondly the era when plastic was king, Tang was a healthy beverage, and green Jello with pears counted as a vegetable. The centerpiece of the celebration -- the glorious Meatcake -- is a tribute to the meatloaves of our youth.

Here are the wrap-ups from 2008 and 2009. This year, ET has contacted the food editor from her local newspaper, so who knows what might happen? It might even become news!

What are we bringing this year, for this most momentous celebration? Mr. B insists on a classic family recipe from his youth, the iceberg wedge with Thousand Island dressing, complete with hard-boiled egg. It was Dwight Eisenhower's favorite, you know. I was drawing a blank until I remembered my MIL's recipe for Spamburgers, a delicacy made of Spam, Velveeta, and hard-boiled eggs run through a meat grinder then bound with mayo. Or Miracle Whip, if you want to be authentic. The concoction is spread on the bottom of a (white, soft) hamburger bun and broiled. I think it will be the perfect appetizer. We could even cut them into little shapes!

I suspect that I will have a full (burp!) report next week, complete with photos. Costumes aren't a part of the original tradition, but the East Coast Chapter instituted an apron contest a few years back and I think it's a grand idea. Wait until you see the apron I bought off etsy - it's gorgeous! And Mr. B will be rocking his brand new 100% acrylic argyle vest. With a short-sleeved white shirt, of course.

So if you have a notion this weekend, whip up a meatloaf and a Jello mold, or some other prized quick-n-dirty comfort food from your youth, and raise a glass to the Ides of Meatloaf. And tell me what you made, ok?
 

Look at that!

Over there, in the left sidebar! See it? The picture of the pretty, pretty girl? Yes, the one under the heading FACEBOOK MOMS GONE WRONG. That one.

That's Lovely Daughter! I have humiliated her (again) by setting up a Facebook fan page for her and forcing recruiting all my friends, including ones I haven't seen for thirty years, to be fans.

Why all the mock-publicity? The majority of my twelves of readers are friends so you already know about this because I have been talking about it on Facebook non-stop for weeks, but I'll repeat it anyway: Lovely Daughter is going to be ON THE TEEVEE today and tomorrow, on As The World Turns.

Yes, that show is still on, as it has been since -- get this -- 1956! It's even older than me.

If you don't want to take vacation time from work to stay home and watch (although I recommend it -- her thirty seconds of glory would be well worth it) the episodes are posted to the show's website after airing so I'll have links for you soon.

And if you want to witness first hand how a young actor with over $50K in grad school debt struggles to get a freakin' break in the big city, head on over to Facebook and fan the Following Caitlin Clouthier page. I'll be posting info about her upcoming shows and events, and even about recent auditions, if I can get her to call me and tell me about them. I have a stash of high school photos set aside to post for that express purpose.

It's the next best thing to moving to NYC to play stage mom.

(I bet Lovely Daughter just crapped her pants, reading that.)
:)
 

Initial conditions

Chatting with Sister today:

S: "What did you decide about the name thing?"

L: "Oh, I'm just going with Mr. B's. I was tired last week and decided that writing out both last names was just too much hassle. Besides, if I stick with his name, my initials will be E.A.T. How can I pass that up?"

S: "That's priceless! Too bad you're not a medical examiner."

L: "Why?"

S: "Then you'd be E.A.T., M.E."

Oh yeah.
:)

In 48 hours I'll be en route to Las Vegas. I'll be out all next week, but will probably poke my head in here to post something for you.

In the meantime, have fun with it!
 

When it rains...

Look, a missive from Evil Twin! And it's a good one, too.

Hubby’s high school reunion was weekend before last. I am a dutiful wife, so when he asked me to go with him, I agreed. It’s always a good thing to get extra wife points.

He went to a private school which bears a remarkable resemblance to Hogwarts School of Wizardry.

The weather forecast for the weekend was grim. Temperatures in the low 40s with high winds and 2 inches of rain predicted. I packed accordingly. Saturday morning was just miserable. We left the hotel for the school to attend all the stuff Hubby signed up for. Which was everything.

We began to run into members of his old crowd, and after lunch, we all headed to the homecoming game. Fortunately, there was a break in the rain, but it was still cold and windy. The football field was behind the school, up a winding road through the woods at the top of a hill. It was a ten-minute walk, but they had provided shuttle buses for the old and infirm, which I guess we are, now.

We found seats in the bleachers, and Hubby kept bringing me large cups of coffee to keep me warm. Of course, after an hour, nature was calling my name, and it was beginning to rain again. There were two port-a-potties at the end of the field, with long lines. The thought of resting my ass on cold plastic, with my coat bunched up around my middle, and then not being able to wash my hands was all it took for me to hail a shuttle going down to the school.

"Take me to the closest ladies’ room, if you please," I said to the driver, and she did.

I found it down a long, dark hallway. When I got inside, I locked the door. It was the handicapped toilet – a one-seater. My coat was wet, and I don’t pee very well while wearing a coat, so I took it off. There was no place to hang it. No hook, nothing. So, carefully placing the wet side down, I draped it across the sink. I was seriously running out of time, and ran over to the john to do my thing.

Finished, straightening my clothes, zipping zippers, tucking things in, I sashay over to the sink to find my wool-lined raincoat filling up with water. The goddamned sink had a motion detector, and the coat had set it off. The entire basin, lined with the raincoat, was full, and now, water was pouring onto the floor. CRAP! CrapCrapCrapCrap! The only way to stop it was to remove the coat. About two gallons of water poured out of my coat onto the floor. My pockets were full. The cuffs were full. The woolen lining was completely soaked. The damn coat now weighs 20 pounds.

Rattle. Rattlerattle. Someone is at the door, and wants to use the bathroom. "I guess it’s locked," says one woman to another. "Excuse us, is anyone in there?" I froze, keeping my mouth shut. "I guess this one is closed off. I know where another one is." And they left.

I surveyed the damage. There was about half an inch of water on the floor, with no floor drain. My coat was sopping wet. I began pumping the paper towel dispenser. You know the kind where you push down on the knob, and it dispenses about 12 inches of paper. Yep, that one. Pump. Pump, pumppump. Pumpumpumpumpumpumpumpumpumpumpump!!

I threw the paper on the floor, and the only thing that happened was I ended up with 15 feet of sodden paper floating in a sea of bathroom water. I was going to have to cut my losses. I scooped up the paper, threw it in the trash bin, and carefully unlocked the door. I peeked my head out and saw the coast was clear. I grabbed the 20-pound coat and dashed down the hallway, leaving a trail of water. Once I got outside, I was safe, because no one could follow the trail of water since it was raining. I ran the two blocks to the parking lot, and got into our car. I was freezing and wet, my hair plastered against my head, my makeup gone.

I spent the next hour trying to warm up and get dry. The inside of the car fogged up.

My phone rang. Hubby asks, "Where ARE you?"

"I’m in the car trying to get warmed up."

"What happened?"

"It’s a long story."

"Well the reception is beginning in the main hall, and everyone is asking where you are."

And so I went.

Could there possibly be enough Wife Points in the world to make that all better? I'm guessing she enjoyed an adult beverage or two at the reception. What do you think?
 

So authentic!

Evil Twin files this report about a recent family visit.

Click the forward arrow near the center of the bar below to move through the slideshow.


What? You don't create Powerpoint presentations of your family photos and send them to your friends to blog about? Well, maybe you should.
 

IoM 2009 Wrap-up

We finally did it! We celebrated our belated Ides of Meatloaf 2009 last Saturday. ET definitely wins the prize for Most Authentic Menu; ours was a pale imitation at best. In my defense, it's hard to pull out all the stops when feeding only the three of us. One can only eat so many French Fried Onions, you know.

This year I employed a new traditional element: canned crescent rolls. They performed beautifully, burning on the bottom just as I remember from childhood. As I set them on the table I realized that Young Son had never had canned biscuits! They all disappeared, burned bottoms and all. We lost major points as our other side dishes (stir fried asparagus, roasted baby carrots) were completely inauthentic, although they were tasty.

For dessert, I stole J's (ET's daughter) idea from their 2008 celebration: a Twinkie Jello mold. I decorated with a can of Redi Whip and, may I say, it was awesome. I think it's going to become a staple. The one pic I took came out badly and by the time I got it adjusted it looked just like a bad photo from a 70s women's magazine. Score!

I swear, I'm embarrassed to post my meatcake pic. Just so you know, this is what happens when one starts dinner too late and is too lazy to get out the decorating tools. The worst part was it didn't even taste good! I tried a new recipe -- big mistake. ET's cake looked amazing, as usual. Gee, guess which of us used to get paid as a cake decorator? Hint: It wasn't the one who made the beautiful meatcake.

Mark your calendars for 15 March 2010, OK? I'd love to have y'all play along. It's a wonderful excuse to eat badly, and we all need more of those.

Besides, Twinkie Jello! C'mon, how could that be wrong?
 

Beware the ides

I missed it! Somehow I managed to blow right past March 15th without celebrating the Ides of Meatloaf.

Evil Twin, ever the pious one, celebrated in fine style this past weekend and sent this recap:

We had so much more fun this year! We eliminated the people who didn't "get it" (many of my sister's friends), and we had a blast.

This year's contributions:

Appetizers:

• Large bag Ruffles potato chips with big tub of french onion dip


• Little wieners in grape jelly/yellow mustard sauce


• Wispride cheese ball

First course:

• Tomato soup (Campbell's condensed) w/oyster crackers

Main event:

• Meat Cake


• Green bean casserole


• Mashed potatoes


• Macaroni and cheese


• Pear/lime jello salad


• Biscuits in a tube

Dessert:

• Carrot cake


• Boston Cream pie


• Peanut butter pie (THIS was awesome!)

The men got to watch basketball, the ladies got to kvetch, and a good time was had by all.

Oh. We had Hubby mix Manhattans for all. Some couldn't dump them into the sink fast enough, but one attendee had three. We didn't make the mistake we made last year, though, when we served Mateus rosé. No one could drink that shit. It was awful!

I have been well and truly shamed. I'd best dig out my cake decorating tools -- looks like I'm making meatcake this weekend. I'll probably pass on the wieners in jelly-mustard sauce, although I'm sure they're (gulp!) delicious.

ET sent some pix, but I'm holding them to post with pix of my offerings next week. Don't lie -- you know you'll be back to check! In the meantime, here's last year's recap to whet your appetites.

Mmmmm... meatcake!

JFC!

The Ex, a civil service employee, sends this in to be filed under the heading of "You have got to be friggin' kidding me!"

He received this e-mail, somewhat redacted for your protection, in the course of government business:

I have received the fax.

Thank you,

Ms xxxxxxx
Payroll Customer Service Rep.
Code: xxxxx
Bld: xxxxx
Phone: xxxxx xxx xxxx
Fax: xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Email: xxxxxxxx@xxxxxxxxxx

FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY - PRIVACY SENSITIVE - Any misuse 
or unauthorized disclosure (blah blah blah...)

(Now, wait for it...
.
.
.
wa-a-a-ait for it....
.
.
.
Whammo!)

"A woman's heart should be so hidden in Christ
that a man should have to seek Him first to find her."

Uh... well, OK then.

The Ex (who, BTW, is much closer to being a christian that I ever was) writes:

Jes$# H. Chr#$t what is this? Who would put something like this at the end of a work email? What is she, a payroll clerk or Mother Theresa?

To all you folks out there that put little ditties like this on your e-mail: Be advised someone like me is making fun of you on a grand scale, on the you tubes and world wide webs and such.

And that's a no-shitter - he totally is.

I wonder if she dates much?
 

More fun at work

Not one to miss an opportunity to one-up Mr B, Evil Twin sent this recollection of an event that occurred a few months after 9/11 at her workplace (another Federal agency).

Once I opened a document in the mailroom that dispersed a large cloud of particulate matter. The phone call went something like this:

"State HAZMAT team. What is your emergency?"

"I just opened a large envelope. It had white powder in it, and now the powder is on the floor!"

"Yes, ma'am. Are you alone in the room?"

"No. I grabbed a co-worker, and asked her whether she thought I should call you! She did."

"Do you have an evacuation plan in your building?"

"Uh, I don't think so . . "

"Go to your fire alarm, and pull it. Get all of the people out of the building. Close the doors to the room you are in, and get undressed."

"Wha-a?"

"You and the co-worker who is also contaminated, must strip down, and get ready for the HAZMAT team, which is on the way. You will be taken to an outside shower for decontamination."

"I'm not getting naked!" (Cue co-worker to go ape-shit)

"Ma'am! You must do this for your own protection! If you have large packing tape, use it to seal off the bottom of the doors."

Well, don't you know that we taped off the bottom of those doors, but we did not get naked -- even if it was going to kill us. No one else in the office knew what was going on, because the fire alarm had sent them outside.

Suddenly the HAZMAT team pulls up, puts on their little moon suits, and comes inside to find the two frightened, stunned federal employees that did their civic duty.

They banged on the door, and we let them in. They started doing their swiping and dusting and sweeping and swabbing while they ushered us outside into the nifty little shower they had set up.

By this time, the fire department had shown up, and once they learned it was a possible hazardous exposure, they kind of kicked back and watched, since this was pretty new to all of us.

Outside, the entire office was standing around waiting to see what was going on, when we emerged from the building and were escorted to the white tent.

About an hour later, we came out of the shower tent, all pink and shiny and smelling faintly of fungicide. My, we had an audience.

So, the bottom line was, the HAZMAT team didn't find anything suspicious in that powder, but they got some valuable practice. The fire department got to spend an hour watching someone else do the hard work. The people in the office were happy to see someone else screw something up.

When the company that sent the document was called by the HAZMAT people, they replied: "Oh, yeah. We get that a lot. It's the talcum powder we use to keep static out of the binding process."

The only people REALLY pissed were the daycare people who found out when the little tykes said, "Mrs. Clancy! There's an alien in the parking lot!" I guess someone should have told them.

I learned to let the mailroom people do their job, and if someone tells you to take your clothes off, you don't HAVE to do it.

Wait. When someone on the phone tell you to take your clothes off, you don't have to do it?

Shit.
 

Fun at work

Mr B, a federal employee, forwarded this to me with this note:

I'll bet this hardly ever happens in your building.

He's right about that!

From: Someone
To: Everyone
Subject: URGENT: Full armor drill today
Importance: High

FULL BATTLE GEAR DRILL TODAY

[REDACTED] Building

Federal Protective Service will be in full armor today
with machine guns and all the battle gear to conduct a
DRILL on their readiness.

There will be plain clothes officers and additional
officers at both entrances and lobbies in full gear 
including weaponry TO INCLUDE MACHINE GUNS.   

We want to make sure you are aware of this exercise to 
minimize confusion.

THIS IS A DRILL FOR FEDERAL PROTECTIVE SERVICE ONLY

NO ACTION NECESSARY ON OUR PART

Please share this information with those that may not
have access to email.  We do not want to alarm anyone.  

Thank you for your patience during these few hours.

Designate Official, [REDACTED] Building

I particularly enjoyed the phrases in all caps. Very thoughtful.

AFTER ALL, WE WOULDN'T WANT ANYONE TO BE ALARMED BY THE MACHINE GUNS, WOULD WE?
 

It's not bad, it's just written that way

It's almost time for the Annual Receipt of the Letters of Obscene Oversharing!

I don't have any examples for you (yet), but I've been thinking about what makes a Christmas letter so bad it's good (read: hilarious.) After countless hours* of research and careful analysis, I've concluded it comes down to violating one or more of these two simple concepts:

1. Less Is More


2. Consider Your Audience

Face it, people write Christmas letters because they're too lazy to write customized letters tailored to each recipient. I know this because that is why I write them. Instead of considering the individual on the receiving end, they (read: I) put in every single piece of information that might possibly interest any one of the recipients. Holiday buckshot, if you will. Ding-dong-ditch with a flaming bag of poo.

Yeah, it works. Problem is, most people don't care. Most people don't care about your dog's wacky hijinks or the biopsy results of the polyps in your stomach. True, some might, but if they really cared you probably already told them when the news was fresh.

I hesitate to come down too hard on the Christmas letter offenders because I really do enjoy reading their efforts and I wouldn't want them all to come to their senses. That would be sad, indeed.

If you don't want to find your missive mocked** on a blog like this, just keep the two simple concepts in mind and you'll do fine. But if you get any good ones this year, send 'em in! I'll post the juiciest bits.

* I spent a whole 15 minutes thinking about this. That's a long time for someone with the attention span of a toothpick.

** Mocked with loving-kindness, but mocked nonetheless.
 

Somehow it's always my fault

Evil Twin sends this cautionary message:

Don't Let This Happen To You!



Be sure to check out this link, too -- the other headlines on the news page are priceless.

Take heart, my friends. In eight days it will all be over. And if something goes awry, you can rest easy knowing that somehow it is all my fault.

(The remarkable thing is that it sounds very much like my Protestant Ancestors. How'd they do that?)
 

Age of antiquity

Evil Twin recently received a stark reminder that one computer year is like ten human years. She writes:

I have been dealing with a distant contractor who will be reprinting a curriculum guide I designed about 10 years ago. The employee requesting the reprint wrote: "The contractor who will be working on this is requesting the original guide in Word be emailed to them. They would like you to send it at your earliest convenience."

Oh yes, I STILL have the original Word file on that document (are you shitting me?) Ten years ago, we were using WordStar for our word processing. Okay, so in 1998, I formatted the document, it went through several reviews, sections were changed and finally printed. I sent it to the printer on a Zip disk in its original PageMaker 6.5 format. He returned it to me when the job was done. I have it here in my hand. Got nuttin' to insert the disk into, and got no software that opens it, even if I could locate a Zip drive. That was three computers ago.

Fortunately, I also saved it using a newfangled software that was supposed to make it available to people that didn't have PageMaker. It was called "Acrobat". The contractor is able to pull the correct text off the PDF. Not a job I'd want, though.

It got me to thinking. When we were at the Center*, I bought PageMaker 1.0. It came on one floppy, and had a huge manual. My serial number was PM1.00000647.



And we were on the bleeding edge of technology!

Note: Not to scale. Yeah, the Mac was small, but not that small.

Those were the days, eh? Between installing software and making backup copies**, if I had a dollar for every time I had to swap 5.25" floppies (which, BTW, really were floppy) I wouldn't be sitting here today.

Anyone remember the 9" floppys? Or were they proprietary to the Wang word processor circa 1984?

* Where we (and Mr. B) met, some 20+ years ago.

** AutoCAD: 14 disks. I wish I was making that up.
 

You'll get used to it eventually

Evil Twin reports on the latest addition to their family:

We usually name our cars -- sort of like men naming their dicks. Hey, they're important to us! So now that Big Blue the Caravan has gone to pasture and we now have a Highlander, I thought we could name it Angus. Made sense to me.

While sitting around watching the Olympics (not beach volleyball), I asked Hubby "So what do you think of the name Angus for the new car?"

He turns to me, and switches his hearing aids from the TV switch to the annoying wife switch, and said (of course), "What?"

"What do you think about the name Angus for the new car?"

"Anus?"

Jeebus. As soon as my son heard this, he latched right on to it. "Great! Can we load up the Anus and take my stuff to school in it? Can we go on vacation in the Anus? Even better, can I take the Anus out on a date?"

I'm going to have to rethink this. Maybe Kirk.

Yeah, I'm thinking Kirk. But I'm also thinking that the matter may already be out of her hands.

You know, if you say 'Anus' enough times, you can say it without even hardly flinching.
 

No, thank YOU!

I just got the best thank-you note in the history of thank-you notes.

The card reads:

Dear Everyone,

Thank you for the money! You know how I love money....

This winning entry came from our Pet Mormon, Lovely Daughter's best bud from high school. PM lived with us for a brief time before going on his mission. (Yikes! Was it really 7 years ago?!?) He stayed in LD's room in the lower level of the house so we used to tell people we has a pet Mormon in the basement*. He's a great kid, great sense of humor, and a lot of fun.

PM really made himself part of the family. Literally. With Photoshop.
Anyway, he got all growed-up and moved on, but we still touch base occasionally**. He just got married and I rewarded them with some $$.

If I could be guaranteed thank-you notes that funny, I think I'd give away a lot more $$. I'm just that shallow, apparently.

Speaking of thank-you notes, a while back I received a thank-you note for some extremely rare act of niceness I perpetrated on someone. I opened it up, and the following conversation ensued:

Young Son, excitedly: Hey, you can put it on the Thank You Wall!

M: The huh?

YS: You know, the big board where you stick all your thank-you notes. Like Dad and Miss Fiance have.

I didn't think it prudent to point out to him that the thank-you note(s) resulting from my acts of generosity wouldn't cover an 8.5"x11" piece of paper, let alone a bulletin board.

Way to feel like a troll, Liz!

* I'm not Mormon. If I was, that wouldn't be very funny now, would it?

** I <3 Facebook!
 

Almost-brush with greatness

So Lovely Daughter's trying hard to adjust to post-graduation life. She's going to auditions (mostly voice-over and commercials) and she just nailed a restaurant job. This was wonderful news, as she'd had a hard time finding likely prospects. Apparently August is not a good time to try to find a restaurant job in NYC.

I'd lost track of the various places she'd applied over the last month, so when she told me she got hired I wasn't really too focused on exactly where she was working.

I found out today that she's working at the Downtown Les Halles! I know, I couldn't believe it either! Now, Tony Bourdain worked at the Midtown restaurant, not the Downtown one, but, still! She is almost working at the same place Tony worked! And you know how I feel about Tony.

I mean, what if he stops by for a quick bite, LD waits on him, he's taken by her charms* and engages her in conversation and she mentions that her mom is a huge fan and has this blog**...

I'll be in my bunk.

* She's very cute and personable. This could totally happen.

** OK, probably not this. She doesn't even read my blog.
 

Teach your children well

Sister recently visited Lovely Daughter and her new digs, a small 4th floor walk-up in NYC shared with two roomies. One roomie is Gay Boyfriend, her best bud from grad school.

GB is a lovely young man and an x-tremely talented actor; 6-foot-something, dark curly hair, broad shoulders... you get the drill. He's that guy that when he opens his mouth, women sigh and think What a waste....

As the story goes, Sister and Lovely Daughter are surveying the mountains of boxes and crap from the moving ins-and-outs of roomies old and new. GB bursts through the door, cross and sweaty from the four-flight hike.

He sighs, pulls the fruits of his shopping trip from the LNS* bag, tosses the bag over his shoulder, and squeals "Look at my new BEDskirt!" He then rips his booty from the package and wraps himself in it, twirling with the delight and abandon of a toddler in a tutu.

Sister relayed that tale when she visited us the following weekend. I was tickled pink! Of course we immediately took to squealing BEDskirt! (with jazz hands) at random intervals for the rest of the weekend.

That's 'we', as in 'including Young Son'.

So here's the thing: I'm aglow with maternal pride, seeing that his sense of humor is developed enough to know that it's funny, even though he doesn't quite fully get why it's funny.

OTOH, as open-minded as I am, there is something unsettling about an 8 yo boy squealing BEDskirt! (with jazz hands).

I did caution him that this is one of those jokes he probably doesn't want to share at school**.

Poor kid.

* Linens 'n' Shit. What, you don't have those by you?

** It's not the first time I've done that. And it won't be the last.
 

When I think about you

Once again, Evil Twin causes me to aspirate my lunch. Damn her!

She writes:

My well-woman appointment was this morning. Since I moved last time I never got a GYN, just used the trusty family practitioner. Actually, this was not a sacrifice, since he's as cute as a spotted pup. Usual scene, waiting in the paper gown, making sure the mini-blinds are TOTALLY closed, humming along with the classic rock station -- "Hits of the Eighties, Nineties and TODAY!".

Dr. A and his trusty 50ish nurse enter and proceed to conduct the preliminaries, lung/heart/lymph/tongue check, it was time to *slide on down*. This is where I usually count the holes in the acoustic ceiling tiles.

Dr. A begins his routine, slippery goo tube in hand. Softly from the overhead speaker wafts...

I love myself I want you to love me...
(Oh-h-h no...)
When I feel down I want you above me...
(I don't believe this!)
I search myself I want you to find me...
I forget myself I want you to remind me...
I don't want anybody else
When I think about you I touch myself...

I look over at the nurse, and she looks me right in the eye. We tried, but there was no way we could deny what was happening. She cracked a smile, and I swear, I tried, but I snorked so loud that the speculum popped right out. Poor Dr. A was clueless. I guess he was still in med school in 1991, hopefully hitting the books too hard.

He looked at me. Was the goo too cold? Did I have the hiccups? The nurse pointed to the speaker, and he pauses for a moment and slowly turns the color of an eggplant.

Poor guy.

She has got to be more careful with that thing. She could'a put someone's eye out.