It IS Summer

Hair TODAY. THONG Tomorrow.

I am off to a 'laser' appointment with promises of 'thongs and going commando' in my future. (As if I have ever needed a reason.)

Better than waxing.
Better than ignoring.
Better than shaving.
Better than electrolysis.
Better than denying.
Better than tweezing.
Better than shearing.
Better than granny pantying.
Better than alcohol. Probably not.
Better than chocolate. Doubt it.

Chocolate, alcohol and thongs. NOW, that's GOOD!

Spell check does not work in real life

On Monday morning, the teacher greets the classroom of twenty-four eager, happy students.

"I have the new first grade spelling list for this week. Ten fabulous new words and two bonus words. Let's introduce the new words!"

1. have - I have a new dog.

"Who would like to volunteer to spell the word 'have'?" asks the teacher.

"h-a-v-e", Brian confidently spells.

The teacher writes the word on the board and praises Brian.

2. funny - I laughed at his funny joke.

"Any volunteers?" questions the teacher. "Go ahead, Jake."

"f-u-c-k", Jake innocently spells.

The teacher ceases writing midstream f-u-.... and hides her face (creative, new, and very funny).

"Well, not exactly. Actually, there are five letters in this word. But ... Jake can I see you a moment. Class, please continue working on your reading handout."

Thank God the other twenty-three first-graders have not been weaned on the F-Word.

Going on a Fieldtrip

Heading out on a field trip to the local park, the teacher asks the children to imagine what they might encounter. Remember this park has a pond.

"Grass!" shouts Hyllary.

"Ducks!" announces Wyatt.

"Geese!" bellows Carter.

"Squirrels!" yells Aliya.

"Bugs and other yucky things!" insists Betsy and Windy.

"Good job, students! I love all of your answers. When we return to the classroom, we will record our findings in our journal," states the teacher. "And ..." an interruption occurs ...

"FLAMINGOS!" shouts Vanessa, who has obviously never been to a park in Texas!













(Photo courtesy of flickr.com and marymactavish)

beauty has a price

AND, beauty definitely has an element of PAIN.

Botox, Restylane, Face lift, Lipo, SmartLipo, Abdominoplasty (Tummy and mini-tummy tuck), Breast implants, Breast reduction, Breast lift, Butt lift, Butt implants, Cheek implants, Rhinoplasty (nose), Blepharoplasty (eyelids), and the list goes on.

I have friends that began Botox and/or Restylane Injections when they celebrated their 3oth birthday. But, my question is... what happens when they turn 40? Will the need (not desire) for cosmetic surgery accelerate to a face lift at 40? or 50? For example, because the 30 year old decided to accelerate the 'anti-aging' process, will she desperately need a face lift? Will her face be 'older' than the average 40 year old because she chose injections over hydrating creams and SPF sunscreens?

I am definitely a plastic-surgery virgin... but there are a lot of women (18 and up) who have had more surgeries than I have had boyfriends. Breast implants are quite popular among the high school crowd. Boyfriends, Drinking and Boobs before college! Oh My!

The mommy mafia majority have all had Abdominoplasty! (Because they all got their boobs at 18, tummy tucks are IN for the thirtysomethings!) And for my age group, the fortysomethings, ANY and ALL plastic surgery is IN!

The thought of elected surgeries fill my senses with extreme pain. But... is it something I could consider, with highly effective post-operative pain MEDS?

MAYBE. MAYBE NOT.

PROBABLY NOT.

Considering my eyes well with tears at the "India Salon" - the new place in town to get beautifully arched eyebrows, I think elective, plastic, painful surgery is NOT in my future.

Eyebrow threading.

My four year old daughter innocently questions, "It is just string, how bad can that hurt?" IT hurts like HELL.

Here's to Fathers!

Bonkers Baby,
Cuckoo Cat,
Doo Doo Doggy,
How 'bout that?

Goofy Girly,
Lazy Lad,
Madcap Mommy,
Where is Dad?

Swimming? Golfing? Snoozing? Fishing? Lazing? Procrastinating? Running? Building? Well, where ever he has disappeared to ... we hope he is enjoying HIS day!

Something to consider...

Fire drills are necessary. Children practice drills at school. But what about an emergency planning of a fire drill at home?

We have smoke alarms mounted in every corner of our home. Hopefully, someone in the household will hear one of them! Because IF I cannot awake to an alarm clock, or five, then I surely will not awake to a smoke alarm. I do not even hear them.

One night in my college dorm room, the fire alarm went off at three o'clock in the morning. My roommate insisted I get up. Sleepily, I rolled over and stated the obvious, "Hit SNOOZE". I think roommate pushed me out of the bunk. Because I eventually made it outside into the bitter temperature of twenty degrees. We cannot burn out here in a three foot snowbank.

We barely have an escape route planned for our home. I have told the children to just get outside. Jump out your windows. Luckily we reside in a one story. And IF you do not know where to go... go to the pool. The water will keep you safe until you are rescued.

My life flashes before my eyes - the good, the bad and the questionable. A fire. We will burn. I must plan an escape. I have some redeeming to do before 'that' day arrives.

I hear the searing of flames, the burning, ravaging fire offers its condolences:
STOP DROP AND ROLL WON'T WORK IN HELL!

A Movie Reference

My movie of the week is "Made of Honor" with Patrick Dempsey. I apologize because I am not sure what other actors are in it because I never get beyond the name "Patrick Dempsey".

I chauffeur my daughter every morning at 7:45 for soccer camp. She is finding the camp a bit boring due to the fact that it is all "Drills" and not so much "Soccer". I bring my chair, jug of water, book, sunscreen (because, yes, at 7:45 am it is already 95 degrees!), camera, cellphone and ipod.

Why do we stay to watch "camp"? I am not really sure. But all the other moms, dads, nannies, or grandparents are staying. So I stay, too.

I find the silver lining in soccer camp. I take photos. I take more photos. I wait for my daughter. I tell her to hurry and get in the car because I have some private news to share.

In the voice of an adult and all it's maturity, I gush, "Did you see TINY SHORTS?"

"MOM, shhhh!"

"I know, I know, but did you see TINY SHORTS?"

"It's just like our new favorite movie, 'Made of Honor', and TINY SHORTS playing basketball!"

I have captured TINY SHORTS in approximately twenty-six photos. We do not know TINY SHORTS therefore I will not add insult by posting his photo.

TINY SHORTS wears teeny shorts and knots his long t-shirt in the front (like Farrah Fawcett in the seventies!)

I laugh all the way home. I have more enthusiasm for soccer tomorrow. My daughter is gaining a bit more enthusiasm too. Too bad it is not for the 'right' reason.

Mommy Mafia

A group of "first grade" moms congregate on the same patch of grassy lawn as school is dismissed. The mafia of moms varies daily. The rich moms. The fit moms. The tan moms. The dowdy moms. The intellectually-challenged moms. The mis-fit moms. The mis-understood moms.

Today the conversation is dull, braggart, and nauseating. We all "pay" the same tuition. We all "wear" the same uniforms. We all "have" the same teacher. We are all "getting" the same education. WE ARE ALL THE SAME. Maybe. Maybe NOT. NOT. Definitely NOT.

Mom A announces, "My Sara is reading on a second grade level already". (Woo Hoo!) Mom B counteroffers, "Dillyn is so smart. She has been accepted in the Children's University for summer!" (Another Woo Hoo to YOU!) Mom C agonizes with her statement, "Lizbeth is reading on the seventh grade level according to the latest testing at ESU" (What is ESU?). Mom D admits, "Where is ESU? My Briella has straight A's". (An amazing feat considering the students do not receive letter grades until third grade!)

I listen without volunteering as the one-ups-man continues in full force. Mom E sighs, "I wish there were another program for the extremely gifted"! Mom F declares, "Yes, I would pay more IF there were only a 'special' extra program for our children"!

I finally interject with my off-kilter humor, "The children are SUPPOSED to be READING???"

Six moms stop and stare at me in shock. They are aghast. It is apparent on their faces. They are oblivious to my sarcasm. Inside I am giggling like a six year old. I am totally pleased with my banter.

Later on, I realize that the gossip has begun. I am its focal point. I am the reason their brilliant children are being "held back" in the classroom. I am the reason their children are just mediocre. BUT, I GET THE LAST LAUGH!!

Coneheads, Fisheyes, Wideangles, OH MY!

Avon* was adopted from the humane society. One black ear, solid black tail, white body, pink ears, pink nose, very rat-like.




EARS?








Spunky* was also adopted. Two, for playmates. She is a quirky cat.

And what about her EARS?







In our very free time, we have this funny, odd habit of taking photographs with the cone lens. We can give everyone, and our cats, CONEHEADS.

We have also experimented with the FISHEYE lens.

I have started a therapy fund for our baby. She is going to need it. I wanted this photo to be our annual Christmas Card, but we didn't want to solicit any unwarranted sympathy (from those friends and family we only 'see' by mail).

GASBAG vs. AIRBAG, there is a difference!

My neighbor is a GASBAG. Or, is he an AIRBAG? Gas is definitely more toxic. So, most likely, GASBAG!

Everyone has at least one GASBAG in their life. And everyone has an AIRBAG!

He is excessively pumped up with helium so that he can drivel on for hours and hours. He talks incessantly without pause. He can yack about nothing and everything. If he does not let all his "gas" out, then he will offer a reprisal and continue droning on and on and on. If he was pumped with air, then he would deflate in a shorter amount of time. He is definitely inflated with GAS. He is colorless, odorless, and tasteless. He is monatomic.

It is a 104 degrees on the heat index scale at eight o'clock in the morning. And GASBAG neighbor selects this opportunity to detail his Sunday. By the half-hour, covering the entire twenty-four hours. His bike ride alone dragged on for 95 minutes. Miles per hour. Pedal turns per minute. Mileage. Ground covered. Route. Gears. Gears uphill. Gears downhill. Gears on level ground. Seat height. Spokes. Number of spokes. Handle bars. Tape. Cost of bike. Cost of new seat. Cost of aluminum. My mind is in neutral. My mind is on coast. Why did I have to get trapped by the GASBAG? I have nowhere to go but inside. I continue listening. I am wishing, at this moment, that GASBAG was an AIRBAG. He would surely be running out of air by now.

Hey, GASBAG, did YOU forget that I am a professional Bi-athlete? I get PAID to ride my bike!

A new line (that may or may not work) ...

I went out for a social fix -- to "Sam's". Not Sam's Club (although I may try that next). But "Sam's" as in a neighborhood pub. A spin off of 'Cheers'. "Sam's" as in the bartender Sam.

I did not have a current sponsor. So, I sat on a stool with my eyes focused on the television. A sporting event. What game? Don't know. What sport? Don't know. Don't care.

A well-dressed, blue-suited man approached my stool. He gazed upward so that our eyes would be fixated on the same program. I continued to sit in silence. He began to fidget. I am a top fidgeter so when someone else becomes the fidgetee, it gives me anxiety.

After what seemed an eternity, blue-suit smiled and commented on the game. My response was blank. Perhaps, I didn't hear him. So, blue-suit spoke louder, "Where are you from?"

"What makes you think I am from somewhere?" I retort.

"Well," he challenged, "you have a tan and people that live here don't go outside."

"First of all, it is not polite to comment on one's ethnicity or skin color. But to address your question, I just arrived from Tokyo." I informed blue-suit.

Blue-suit studied me and brilliantly proclaimed, "Is that SOUTH of here?"

I gasped. He was serious. Yet, (hopefully) intoxicated, thus, botching his intelligence quotient.

I tried to give blue-suit the benefit, perhaps, he was referring to TUCSON.

(In happily ever after, we married three years later)

CALM -- a very serious post, no funnies today.

The commercial advertisement mitigation act was introduced on 3 June 2008.

The act proposes that advertisements on television must be of average decibels. Currently, the decibel can be as loud as the loudest decibel heard on the program you are viewing. (Which, in my opinion, is quite loud.)

When the program cuts to a commercial, the volume is immediately elevated! The commercial's entirety can be heard in the loudest decibels. UGH.

That explains the "mute" button. Or the continuous lowering of the volume every ten minutes. (Especially if you are trying to record! Legally? Illegally?) Or the closed-caption button... commercials are rarely available in closed-caption!

Now if we can ONLY get relief from the LAUGH TRACK. (Do we really need a laugh track to guide us in laughter? What are we, imbeciles? defunctive laughers?)