It's Official: I've Become My Mother

It all started when I dismissed some policy I didn't agree with by saying, "Well, that's just stupid." Dan called me on it immediately, since that's one of Mom's famous catch phrases.

Then, fast forward to Friday night at the birthday bash. Mom and I were both talking about the quality of the pizza. We bought the "3 medium for $15" deal and were disappointed with the results. They use a different crust to be able to sell it for that price.

Mom and I looked at each other and said, (in unison, in stereo, completely in sync with each other without even trying),"I like the Pan Pizza better."

We laughed at our "Jinx, buy me a Coke," moment and then made it worse by adding (also in stereo), "Because it's greasier." We even made the exact same hand gesture to indicate the greasiness of the pie. Let me tell you, it was an eerie moment for both of us.

This morning it really hit home how much I'm turning into my mom. For the first two weeks we stayed at Mom's house, I kept missing the trash can when I'd throw something away in the bathroom because Mom's waste basket is to the right of the toilet. At home we keep the trash can to the left of the toilet. Today, at my own house, I dropped a tissue on the floor. To the right of the toilet. Missing the waste basket entirely.

AAAAHHHHHH! I've become brainwashed.

But, since my Mom is one of the best people I know, that's not entirely a bad thing.

Boy Party

Tonight Grama was kind enough to let Ten, pardon me, Eleven, invite a couple of his new friends over to her house to celebrate his birthday with him.

Digression #1: If you ever invite S over to your house, do NOT let him eat hot dogs first. Dear Lord in Heaven, that child can fart. At least Mom won't need to buy any roach killer for the next few weeks. S took care of the fumigating for her.

They sprayed each other with insect repellent and explored the woods. J found a whip and tried to swing from a branch á la Indiana Jones. They picked berries and grass and added creek water to make "secret magic potions" in little jars. They swung in the hammock as if it were some kind of challenge course on Wipeout and tried to get each other to fall off the side. They talked too loud, ran through the house like bulls in a china shop, and generally wreaked havoc wherever they went.

You know...little boy stuff.

So here we were with a stack of pizzas and a house full of sweaty little testosterone-laden fart machines.

Digression #2: Pizza has the same effect on S as hot dogs.

Digression #3: Pizza also has that effect on my dog when little boys and their Grama feed her pizza. Trust me on this.

It was time for Eleven to open his presents and Mom suggested that perhaps she should open them and keep them for herself.

Eleven said, "No way, Grama. You're too old."

We all laughed and reacted with varying degrees of "Oh no he di'int!"

Then Eleven dug the grave a little deeper and said, "Well, I guess you could have a present, but only if it was something like a cushion."

At this point we're not sure if he'll make to to be Twelve.

Too Quiet

If only I could speak freely on my own blog about my own life. Not politics--I don't want to shock anyone else with my rampant conservative views. :-)

No, I'm talking about my job. Or NOT talking actually.

Oh, the things I would say if only I could. I'm dying to go off on a full-blown rant, but I can't say anything. Since this blog address is my own name (why did I do that anyway?) my tongue has to remain tied. Too many people who shouldn't know what I really think might stumble on this and I'd be toast. I can't come here when I have a bad day and tell you all about it. Those of you who know me IRL know that silence is not my thing, so you know how much this is killing me.

But just know that...if I could talk? There would be blisters all over your screen right now.

Seriously.

Grrr...

Wii Are the Champions

If downhill human avalanche was an Olymic sport, I'd be a gold medalist. Bonus points for each broken bone? I'd have two dozen.

Dan and the boys and I went to our dear friends' house Saturday night to play with their Wii system. Oh. My. Gosh. We must have one. Soon. I've never had so much fun feeling completely awkward and making a total fool of myself.

I'm pretty sure I pulled an abdominal muscle laughing my you-know-what off watching Dan get pummeled by panda heads in the soccer game. I tried it too, but I couldn't stop laughing long enough to concentrate on the cleats and panda heads hitting me in the face.

We had a cut-throat game of bowling, too. Due to a career-ending bug in the eye injury, I came in last place, but it was a respectable showing. Grace and Brian were kicking our booties, but a good time was had by all.

We even let the kids play a few games. Because we're givers.

Happy Birthday, Eleven

To my ELEVEN-year-old:

I cannot believe you're eleven years old. It seems like just ten minutes ago that you were trying your level best to make sure that I never slept for more than ten minutes at a time. Ever. That's not really an exaggeration. When you were a baby, I drove and drove and drove around town because the only time you ever slept was in a moving vehicle. I even took a nap in the Kroger parking lot once. You logged a lot of frequent flier miles sleeping in your swing next to the couch so I could catch a few Zs.

I spent the first three years of your life wandering around in a sleepy fog. I enrolled you in Mother's Day Out when you were two, just so I could get a nap. You'd wake up at 5:00 every morning, raring to go. Then I'd put you in the car to drive to MDO (which started at 9:00) and you'd fall asleep in the car on the way there. I'd turn around and drive back home, figuring that you'd have a really bad day if I woke you up to go to school, only to have you wake up on the transfer from the car seat to the house. You'd be ready to party and I'd be yawning my head off. Then I'd turn around and drive back to school to drop your butt off.

I finally got to the point where you'd fall asleep in the car and I'd pull into the garage, leave you asleep in the car, and leave the door to the house open so I'd hear you when you woke up. Which you always did--way too soon.

Now that you're eleven, you still avoid sleep whenever possible. You hit the ground running first thing in the morning and keep going until you fall down late into the evening. Daddy and I call you the Energizer Bunny. It's often exhausting to spend time with you, but we're insanely jealous of your energy level.

You're one of the smartest, sweetest, funniest, most talented and kind-hearted kids I know and I'm so proud to call you my son.

Happy Birthday, Eleven.

Politics, Schmolitics: let's talk about shoes

Sorry I haven't posted anything in a couple of days. My mouse is broken and that makes it very hard to use my computer. I'm going to Target to get a new one later because I can't write lesson plans without a mouse.

Wow, who knew that my lil ol' blog could launch such vitriol? Hee hee. Honestly, I hate election years. I hate negative ads. I hate most politicians because, if you're in a position to run for a national office, there have to be more than a few skeletions in your closet and greased palms in your past because that's how people get to the national level. There's not an honest politician out there anywhere, so I end up picking the lesser of two evils in every election. Every time. I hate the whole mess. Plus Dan and Mom are hogging the TV to watch this stuff when I'd rather just watch decorating shows on HGTV. Deep as a parking lot puddle, that's me.

Hey, if you're looking for deep, philosophical, political debate then, sadly, you've come to the wrong place. Usually I just talk about shoes, desserts, kids, dogs, and fart jokes. But every once in a while something will set me off (cough, Heather Mallick, cough) and I'll have to talk about it. Not in an MSNBC/Fox News sort of way, but more of an online journal these are my opinions and they're not worth crap to anyone but me kind of way. If we want to get down and dirty and debate, that's fine too, but be brave enough to leave your name instead of an anonymous comment. I'm 99% certain that anyone commenting on this blog is a friend of mine, (otherwise why would you be here?) so I won't attack the anonymous person. I think I know who it is and I love her, no matter which political party she sides with. I'll just say: if you're going to put your big girl opinion out there, attach your name to it. Love you. Bless your heart.

More later when I'm not mouse-impaired.

Tiny Political Rant

Just a few thoughts for a Thursday night:

My vice presidential candidate is hotter than your VP.

(So I guess you know I'm not talking about Joe Biden. )

Heather Mallick is a big old skanky 'ho. She should have her press card shredded and stuffed down her big fat throat. She's a pig who should keep her very biased and partisan opinion to her skanky 'ho self. At least she doesn't generalize an entire state as "a bunch of drunks and crazy people." Oh, no wait. She did. Stupid tramp.

Sarah Palin is Tina Fey's long lost twin. Only Palin's a tiny bit feistier.

Hey, Martha Stewart! Her name is Sarah, not Sharon. Duh.

Okay, I'm done now. For the moment, anyway. The last time we had an election this crazy I was pregnant.

I heart Sarah and John.