Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Lenny Kravitz and me hanging out in 1992. And by "Lenny Kravitz" I totally mean "Merle Haggard."

I'm pretty sure Lenny wanted to hang out with me that night in Branson, Missouri, but he was sort of busy being married to Denise Huxtable just then and she was all, shall we say, "possessive," so he sadly, very sadly, had to stay home and work on their marital dreadlocks or whatever.

Fortunately, Merle had the good sense to recognize the absolute artistry of a good spiral perm with mall bangs and the fashion know-how it requires to pull off a v-neck floral tee.

I think he looks super psyched.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

And for a few brief moments, they forgot all about their mandatory summer reading list.

The little dudes had friends over for the afternoon this week and it was too hot to go swimming. Not too hot to swim, to hot to GO swimming. Apparently, the heat radiating off the two tree-lined blocks between our house and the pool was just too much to endure.

So they plopped themselves down in front of MTV. Which I totally don't allow, because if MTV wasn't invented when I had long boring summers, then there's no way I'll let my children enjoy it. I also make them walk uphill to school. Both ways. In patent leather maryjanes.

So they asked to Slip-n-Slide. Which Big Dude promptly shut down. It smashes the grass, doncha know. (Big Dude hails from a long line of Nebraska fluffygrass farmers. We have very fluffygrass.)

So they did the obvious thing that any child would immediately think of. They coated the trampoline in dishsoap and put the sprinkler under it. Instant waterpark, baby.


However, they learned that the sprinkler dissipates the dishsoap too quickly. Not their words. I put those words in there so that it would seem like I somehow turned their fun into a science lesson. Which I totally did not.  I wouldn't dare impart knowledge to them over the summer.

They solved their dilemma after much hypothesizing and experimentation. Okay, sorry. That's not true either. What happened was one flopping sopping giant middle schooler slipped (and slid!) through the house and retrieved the Mr. Bubble, while another disconnected the sprinkler, attached the sprayer, and bungee-corded the hose to the side of the trampoline.

It's like they're engineers. Water engineers. Forget it. I give up. They're just normal kids. Sigh.


Normal kids who dive like freakin' Superman!

 Nicely taking turns. Because we raised 'em right. Although this particular child isn't mine. So really, HIS parents raised him right.

Sideways turns. Technically more difficult, but you'll get a higher score from the Czech judge.

It's important to make sweet surfing faces whilst doing this.    Somewhere, someone is humming the theme to Hawaii 5-O right now. Oh, it's me. Whenever I hear the Theme to Hawaii 5-O, I always immediately think of Kojak. Because I wasn't allowed to watch either show. I was like 4 at the time. I then immediately think of Mannix, which I claimed to be my favorite show from age 3 to 9, even though every episode I'd ever watched was through the crack of my bedroom door. It came on at 9 o'clock, and that was bedtime in those parts.
Thumbs up for Mommy! (That's probably not what he was thinking at all. In reality he was thinking, "Mom, please do not put this on Facebook and tag me. I'm not wearing a shirt and all the little middle school girls will see it.") Don't worry, dude. It's not on Facebook. Not on Facebook at all.
Raised by children o' the 80s, my offspring are adept at the Robot and many other superfly dances.
Even in mid-air. I bet Bell Biv DeVoe is in his head right now. No, wait, that's me again.

Dude's got hops.

15 Style Points.
Ka-rah-tay.

They're completely itchy and I'm out of all liquid soap products, but there were no lawsuits, so I called it a good day. Hooray for summer.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

A compact tale, 13 or so years in the making.

On the solemn and momentous occasion of the thirtieth anniversary of my birth, my friend, herewithin these blogparts known as "Harvard Barbie," announced that we would celebrate by drinking wine and then visiting the Clinique counter for a makeover, because I was all grown up, apparently, and should stop wearing Bonne Bell. Which was not altogether accurate, because at the time, my beauty routine had graduated to the very sophisticated CoverGirl mascara and cherry chapstick, but whatevs.

So, I dropped off my newly-acquired husband with Harvard Barbie's sort of broken-in husband and their infant twins, a twelve pack of microbrew and off to the mall we went.

I may have mentioned my disdain for malls.

And shopping.

And all things girly.

And pretty much anything that has to do with malls or shopping or all things girly.

Proving how dearly I love Harvard Barbie.

Also, at the time, I had a little mantra going of "VPx33" or, VP by 33. I was on a fast track and was certain that if I did everything just so, right down to the eyeliner, I'd be a Vice President at the company I was working before turning 33 years old. I figured a night out with my oldest homegirl would be fun, and if I looked all professional and shit in the process, then BONUS, the only hazard would be I'd be VPx32. Which would suck because it doesn't rhyme but I was willing to take the risk.

In any case, HB and I had a fab evening at the mall, complete with appetizers and copious amounts of Merlot and then we made our way over to the white-coated ladies at May D&F for my official entre into grownupness.

I cannot be sure, but if I had to venture a guess the woman who denounced everything about my appearance was 22. She smelled like Marlboro Reds and TransAm seats. (But in a nice way.) She had acrylic fingernails and hoop earrings and was shocked - SHOCKED I tell you - that I didn't wear eye shadow.

It went something like this:

Clinique Girl: (in between chomps of Wrigley's Big Red) You have really great eyes. So, you like brown eye shadow, then?

Me: Ummm. Thanks, and I don't think so? I don't know. I mean, I don't wear eye shadow really much since like, um, prom.

Clinique Girl: Wow. Huh. That's like totally weird, because your eyelids are totally like sparkly and have like brown on them.

Me: Really? (Leaning into hand mirror) Oooooh. Yeah, that's smeared mascara. I was rubbing my eyes because my friend here and me just had like, beaucoup Merlot.

Clinique Girl: (empty stare)

Me: That's like francois for "buncha wine."

Clinique Girl: Ew. Whateverrrrr. (chews acrylic nail)

Me: So... would another color be better?

Harvard Barbie: What about this awesome lavender?

Me: Would it cover up smeared mascara?

Clinique Girl: Yeah, maybe.

Me: Sold.

Today, 13.4 years later, I was digging through my very grownup makeup bag looking for cherry chapstick and I find this.


No damned wonder I'm not a Vice President.

Monday, July 5, 2010

This might be why people in other countries think we're spoiled.

Behold my younger son. You may remember him from an earlier post where we had to staple his head shut.

We call him Pete, which is totally not his name, but it really fits him, so we go with it. Sometimes you just name your kid the wrong thing, that's all. This picture was taken four years ago, when he was six and on a golf team with a bunch of bigger kids. I was dropping him off for a tee time and he noticed this sign.

My older son, being of extremely ethical character like his father, would've seen this sign and been worried that he shouldn't play. My younger son, being of my character, thought it was awesome that we were breakin' the rules, man, and thought we should document it with a photo. This will probably not serve him well in life - I'm trying to teach him that it's generally better to hide the evidence - but for minor infractions that don't include incarceration and/or fines, I like to play along.

Last week, he played the same course where the photo was taken, but this time instead of just nine holes like he's used to, he played all 18 for the first time ever. It's a long course, and he was out there in 90+ degrees for about five hours.  Afterwards, we went to celebrate (because I always favor celebration over dinner making) at our local watering hole.

For your reading pleasure, the following conversation ensued.

Pete: I am STARVING.

Waiter Guy: You're not starving, Pete, you're hungry. Kids in Africa are starving.

Pete: Yeah? Well, did any kids in Africa play 18 holes of golf today? Well? Huh? That's right. I thought not.

At least he's not shy.

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