I have only one sibling who shares my blood. We have different fathers, but were for the most part raised in the same household by our mother and her second husband (my sister's father). I think, for the purpose of this post, that I will nickname my sister, Spaz. Spaz is about six years my junior and completely, totally, entirely different than I. After spending the day with her last week, I decided that I must devote a blog post to comparing and contrasting the two of us.
Spaz truly enjoys a good smoke now and again (or all the time). I mean both the legal and the illegal.
I have never tried the legal. Tried the illegal once. It was awful; I hated the whole damn experience, will never do it again.
Spaz can't go a day without discussing her bowel movements (in HORRIFIC detail) to anyone she happens to be around.
I don't discuss bowel movements. I close the door when I go in, I come out when I'm done. End of story.
Spaz is petite. She's like, a size 1. She walks like a damn HORSE!
I have struggled with my weight for my entire life. I have ranged between sizes 6 and 12. I do NOT walk like a horse.
Spaz (apparently) has a farting position. She shared this with me last week. Sometimes the gas needs assistance in getting out, so (for those of you interested) you should get on all fours, put your head and shoulders down, and stick your butt in the air. This gives the gas a clear path out through your back-end. I kid you not. She showed me the position.
I, if anything, have a hard time keeping the gas from coming out at embarrassing times.
Spaz will get out of the pool, drop trow in mom's back yard, squat, and relieve herself.
I will towel off and walk the ten feet to the house in order to use the restroom.
Spaz will order extra whipped cream on any dessert, ask for even more when it arrives, and proceed to shovel it into her mouth with a trowel. Half of it will end up hanging out of the corners of her mouth.
I generally go with the pre-determined amount of whipped topping, and take civilized bites.
Spaz will dip EVERYTHING in ranch dressing.
I don't really like ranch dressing.
Spaz knows a lot about wine and will spend fair amounts of money on good wine.
I know that inexpensive wines are frequently as good as the expensive stuff and stick to the cheap stuff unless Spaz is buying.
Spaz adds so much cream and sugar to her coffee that she ultimately drinks coffee flavored syrup.
I like cream and sugar in moderation, and will occasionally drink my java black.
Spaz will come into my home and plop down on my carpeted living room floor with every intention of trimming her toe nails.
I will yell at her for being gross and banish her to the bathroom, and when she emerges ask, "Did you clean up your mess?!" I will not trim my nails in someone else's home.
Spaz likes her men stocky with no necks.
I like my men trim, fit, and sexy in Levi's jeans.
Spaz likes Pugs.
I think if you're going to have a dog, it should be bigger than a cat.
Spaz is perfectly happy being a waitress. She makes good money, and enjoys her co-workers (several of them anyway).
I HATE waiting tables. I need the money. The hours are right. My co-workers are primarily a bunch of whine-asses with a lack of work-ethic. I'm counting down the days to when I no longer have to bring strangers their food.
Spaz can screw up even the most simple of art projects. Seriously, I didn't believe it until I saw it. It's unreal.
I live to be creative.
Spaz sowed her wild oats when she should have-during and right after high school.
I jumped into a committed relationship, got married, and divorced all before the age of 26-Wild oats still unsowed.
Spaz is perfectly content to go out into the world unshowered and run errands, visit, go out to eat or whatever else, all while being unbathed. (She's not a scum-bag or anything, she does shower)
I can't leave the house until I'm showered. I feel all icky and smelly.
Spaz would do anything in the world for me.
I would do the same for her.
Spaz loves me very much.
I feel the same about her.
I guess we're not entirely different.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Monday, July 24, 2006
'Vacation' Rant
The Good Guy received news the other day that his uncle had passed away. It wasn't entirely unexpected but was a shock none-the-less. In the interests of offering family solidarity, we made hurried plans and traveled to Baltimore in order to give our love and support to his grieving relatives. Unfortunately I never met the man, and will never have the pleasure of doing so.
This was my first time meeting the extended paternal family, and it was indeed an experience. In general they were a very comfortable people. Strangely, many of his relatives seemed familiar to me. It was as if his family reminded me of people I knew, though no specific individuals came to mind. After a while I decided it was the openness they offered that made me feel comfortable and them familiar.
We accomplished a great deal in a very short period of time. I am going to share a specific incident. It is certainly NOT indicative of The Good Guy's family interactions with me, and in no way reflects the overall tone of the trip. The trip was very enjoyable (despite the reason for the journey). I am only offering this story as a source of entertainment because this is just the sort of thing that happens to me.
A little foreshadowing...I meet my fiance's extended family for the first time and get into an altercation with a drunken twenty-something. Only ME.
The story follows:
Background...We didn't attend the services because we simply couldn't plan, pay for, and execute our journey quickly enough to do so. Instead we joined the family the day after the funeral for a get-together at the abode of a family member. There was swimming, cajoling, eating, reminiscing, drinking, drinking, and more drinking. I didn't drink. I was in a new place with new people, the kids were there, and beer (for whatever reason) was totally unappealing to me that day. In hind-sight it's a damn good thing because I lose some of my ability to reason rationally with alcohol cruising through my system (weird-I KNOW).
The setting...The host of the get-together was another uncle (brother to The Good Guy's father, and brother to the uncle who passed away). Several people were sitting on the outside patio as the evening was winding down. The Good Guy was in the basement with his kids enjoying re-runs of The Pink Panther cartoon. I felt it was important for at least one of us to mingle at any given time, so I was hanging out on the patio with his parents, our host, our host's wife, a neighbor, and the future son-in-law of the host.
The Players...I'll call the future son-in-law L.C. (for Loose Cannon) as he is the villain in my story. He's one of those people that give you a bad-vibe from the get-go. I pride myself on my women's intuition. My intution told me he was an insincere poser, but, quite frankly I didn't think twice about it . To be totally honest, I simply dismissed him as someone who is irrelevant to me in almost every way, as I will probably never see him again, and if I do it will be brief and inconsequential. However, later, my intuition proved to be right-on, and any guilt I felt about judging a complete stranger dissipated.
The INCIDENT...As we were sitting around talking I noticed The Good Guy's swimming trunks laying on the ground in front of L.C. (who was seated next to me). The last I knew they had been draped over the chair on the other side of L.C. in order to dry.
Sidebar...I'm kind of anal-retentive. I need cabinet doors to be closed just-right, I need towels to be folded the correct way, I need curtains to be symmetrical, and I need the discard pile to be organized when playing cards. Otherwise it's like there's a buzzing mosquito flying around my ear. It's like this thing is annoying me and must be fixed in order for me to have peace. So, I didn't know how they got there, and I didn't care. Swim trunks should NOT be on the ground...they must.be.picked.up.
The INCIDENT, cont...Upon noticing the trunks on the ground I got up from my seat and bent over to pick them up and place them back on the chair. As I picked them up, without saying a word, L.C. violently grabbed them out of my hand and chucked them behind me and across the patio.
now, had I been drinking alcohol, the story may have gone as follows, "I then kicked him in the shin, LOUDLY called him a rotten bastard, and punched him in the face"
however...I had NOT been drinking, so, this is what happened:
I looked behind me (in the direction of said trunks), turned back (with eyes BULGING) gave L.C. the scariest stare I could muster, and in a voice that was raised but not yet screaming said,
"YOU are going to go pick those up, because they are MINE and that was RUDE!" Keep in mind that this was a watered down version of what I truly wanted to say (several expletives came to mind) since I was in the presence of strangers and my future parents-in-law.
Thankfully, I think my tone and the 'stare-o-DEATH' knocked some sense into the drunken L.C. because he looked at me for a moment (deer-in-the-headlights-like) and said, "I'll pick them up, ok?"
I then turned around, saw my future mother-in-law smile and wink at me and I said, "I can handle a drunk" as I sat back down. I was EXTREMELY grateful that she was communicating a distinct lack of anger at what I had done. It was one of those moments when I needed some form of back-up and she offered it to me in the best manner she could. She was silent, but I heard her loud and clear. "Good for you". She knew she didn't have to do a thing, I had it covered.
Then the host picked up the trunks and attempted to hand them to me when L.C. stopped him, took them, handed them to me and said, "I'm very sorry"
I responded "Apology accepted" You Jack-Ass.
Then the porch cleared out, I felt like a lepper, and our host made excuses about the boy being young and really upset about the death of his fiance's uncle.
Whatever. This guy's gonna marry your daughter, dude. You might wanna think about this. He apologized, which is great, and not always easy to do, so...I'll give him that.
Shortly thereafter The Good Guy appeared (totally unaware of what had taken place) and we did goodbyes, thank-yous, nice-to-meet-yous, sorry about your loss, etc.
As we walked to the car I told him what had happened and he expressed that he was proud of me and the manner in which I handled the situation. I needed to hear that, I was REALLY uncomfortable and had begun second-guessing my response to the situation.
I am a woman who can hold my own. I am also a woman with a temper. I must say, I'm proud of the decorum I used. I guess I am growing up!
*walks away to ice shoulder which now hurts from patting self on back*
Next Step to Self Improvement Goal: Work on Forgiving and Forgetting. (I think I've made this goal before-it's a hard one)
More about trip to Baltimore to come...the rest of the trip was wonderful. We stayed in a really nice hotel, the weather was great, and a whole lot of writing material was born from the experience. Stay Tuned.
This was my first time meeting the extended paternal family, and it was indeed an experience. In general they were a very comfortable people. Strangely, many of his relatives seemed familiar to me. It was as if his family reminded me of people I knew, though no specific individuals came to mind. After a while I decided it was the openness they offered that made me feel comfortable and them familiar.
We accomplished a great deal in a very short period of time. I am going to share a specific incident. It is certainly NOT indicative of The Good Guy's family interactions with me, and in no way reflects the overall tone of the trip. The trip was very enjoyable (despite the reason for the journey). I am only offering this story as a source of entertainment because this is just the sort of thing that happens to me.
A little foreshadowing...I meet my fiance's extended family for the first time and get into an altercation with a drunken twenty-something. Only ME.
The story follows:
Background...We didn't attend the services because we simply couldn't plan, pay for, and execute our journey quickly enough to do so. Instead we joined the family the day after the funeral for a get-together at the abode of a family member. There was swimming, cajoling, eating, reminiscing, drinking, drinking, and more drinking. I didn't drink. I was in a new place with new people, the kids were there, and beer (for whatever reason) was totally unappealing to me that day. In hind-sight it's a damn good thing because I lose some of my ability to reason rationally with alcohol cruising through my system (weird-I KNOW).
The setting...The host of the get-together was another uncle (brother to The Good Guy's father, and brother to the uncle who passed away). Several people were sitting on the outside patio as the evening was winding down. The Good Guy was in the basement with his kids enjoying re-runs of The Pink Panther cartoon. I felt it was important for at least one of us to mingle at any given time, so I was hanging out on the patio with his parents, our host, our host's wife, a neighbor, and the future son-in-law of the host.
The Players...I'll call the future son-in-law L.C. (for Loose Cannon) as he is the villain in my story. He's one of those people that give you a bad-vibe from the get-go. I pride myself on my women's intuition. My intution told me he was an insincere poser, but, quite frankly I didn't think twice about it . To be totally honest, I simply dismissed him as someone who is irrelevant to me in almost every way, as I will probably never see him again, and if I do it will be brief and inconsequential. However, later, my intuition proved to be right-on, and any guilt I felt about judging a complete stranger dissipated.
The INCIDENT...As we were sitting around talking I noticed The Good Guy's swimming trunks laying on the ground in front of L.C. (who was seated next to me). The last I knew they had been draped over the chair on the other side of L.C. in order to dry.
Sidebar...I'm kind of anal-retentive. I need cabinet doors to be closed just-right, I need towels to be folded the correct way, I need curtains to be symmetrical, and I need the discard pile to be organized when playing cards. Otherwise it's like there's a buzzing mosquito flying around my ear. It's like this thing is annoying me and must be fixed in order for me to have peace. So, I didn't know how they got there, and I didn't care. Swim trunks should NOT be on the ground...they must.be.picked.up.
The INCIDENT, cont...Upon noticing the trunks on the ground I got up from my seat and bent over to pick them up and place them back on the chair. As I picked them up, without saying a word, L.C. violently grabbed them out of my hand and chucked them behind me and across the patio.
now, had I been drinking alcohol, the story may have gone as follows, "I then kicked him in the shin, LOUDLY called him a rotten bastard, and punched him in the face"
however...I had NOT been drinking, so, this is what happened:
I looked behind me (in the direction of said trunks), turned back (with eyes BULGING) gave L.C. the scariest stare I could muster, and in a voice that was raised but not yet screaming said,
"YOU are going to go pick those up, because they are MINE and that was RUDE!" Keep in mind that this was a watered down version of what I truly wanted to say (several expletives came to mind) since I was in the presence of strangers and my future parents-in-law.
Thankfully, I think my tone and the 'stare-o-DEATH' knocked some sense into the drunken L.C. because he looked at me for a moment (deer-in-the-headlights-like) and said, "I'll pick them up, ok?"
I then turned around, saw my future mother-in-law smile and wink at me and I said, "I can handle a drunk" as I sat back down. I was EXTREMELY grateful that she was communicating a distinct lack of anger at what I had done. It was one of those moments when I needed some form of back-up and she offered it to me in the best manner she could. She was silent, but I heard her loud and clear. "Good for you". She knew she didn't have to do a thing, I had it covered.
Then the host picked up the trunks and attempted to hand them to me when L.C. stopped him, took them, handed them to me and said, "I'm very sorry"
I responded "Apology accepted" You Jack-Ass.
Then the porch cleared out, I felt like a lepper, and our host made excuses about the boy being young and really upset about the death of his fiance's uncle.
Whatever. This guy's gonna marry your daughter, dude. You might wanna think about this. He apologized, which is great, and not always easy to do, so...I'll give him that.
Shortly thereafter The Good Guy appeared (totally unaware of what had taken place) and we did goodbyes, thank-yous, nice-to-meet-yous, sorry about your loss, etc.
As we walked to the car I told him what had happened and he expressed that he was proud of me and the manner in which I handled the situation. I needed to hear that, I was REALLY uncomfortable and had begun second-guessing my response to the situation.
I am a woman who can hold my own. I am also a woman with a temper. I must say, I'm proud of the decorum I used. I guess I am growing up!
*walks away to ice shoulder which now hurts from patting self on back*
Next Step to Self Improvement Goal: Work on Forgiving and Forgetting. (I think I've made this goal before-it's a hard one)
More about trip to Baltimore to come...the rest of the trip was wonderful. We stayed in a really nice hotel, the weather was great, and a whole lot of writing material was born from the experience. Stay Tuned.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Big News (brought to you in a humble manner)
It's been a while since I've posted. Sorry about that. Mom's been in the hospital (good results this time around), my birthday was the other day (this will be my last year as a twenty-something), and, well, this happened:
J and her kids were over. We had already eaten dinner and the kids were scattered throughout the apartment playing here and there as J and I cleaned up the kitchen. I noticed The Good Guy whispering something to The Girl but didn't think much of it (sometimes they do that).
Suddenly J and I had the sensation that we were being watched. We looked around and noticed we were surrounded by all of the children who were intently staring at us. We were both confused as The Good Guy started to speak from the other side of the partition that separates the living room from the kitchen.
"The kids and I have a question for you." He had that soft tone in his voice, that sorta nervous, and hoping that you understand this is serious tone.
I took a deep breath as he proceeded.
"Will you marry us?"
The girl took the box out from behind her back and handed it to me.
I was speachless. I knew this was coming, but I didn't know how, and I certianly didn't expect it that evening. When I had envisioned this moment I always figured I'd be reduced to tears, but I think I was too shocked. I went to The Good Guy and gave him a huge hug. The Girl followed me and wrapped us both in her arms, looking up at us with a huge smile on her face. Aloud she announced my first name with her surname and The Good Guy asked, "Is that a yes?"
Of COURSE it's a yes! Would I EVER let this wonderful man go?! Hell NO! Be his wife? Duh, YEAH!
The Boy was unmoved by the experience and as the three of us stood in an embrace, he and J's son stood at the door holding a kickball and asked, "Can we go outside?"
You gotta love little boys.
The girl started asking questions like, "What do I call you now?" I think she was perhaps more excited than I. It truly took me a couple of days to process it. I get teary in the telling of the tale, but I did not get teary in the moment. I seemed to have difficulty forming words (which doesn't happen often).
When deciding to write about this I thought about sharing more details, trying to get the descriptions just right, agonizing over how to explain the beauty of our relationship, but I decided this is it. Our love doesn't need adornment. It doesn't need jazzy descriptions and long winded explanations. I simply love this man to death, and he feels the same for me. Pretty words won't make this occasion any more special or meaningful, I simply want to spend the rest of my life loving him. What could possibly be better than that?
So, It's been a busy week. My mom's colon is whole again, I had a LOT of cake, and...I'm engaged!
J and her kids were over. We had already eaten dinner and the kids were scattered throughout the apartment playing here and there as J and I cleaned up the kitchen. I noticed The Good Guy whispering something to The Girl but didn't think much of it (sometimes they do that).
Suddenly J and I had the sensation that we were being watched. We looked around and noticed we were surrounded by all of the children who were intently staring at us. We were both confused as The Good Guy started to speak from the other side of the partition that separates the living room from the kitchen.
"The kids and I have a question for you." He had that soft tone in his voice, that sorta nervous, and hoping that you understand this is serious tone.
I took a deep breath as he proceeded.
"Will you marry us?"
The girl took the box out from behind her back and handed it to me.
I was speachless. I knew this was coming, but I didn't know how, and I certianly didn't expect it that evening. When I had envisioned this moment I always figured I'd be reduced to tears, but I think I was too shocked. I went to The Good Guy and gave him a huge hug. The Girl followed me and wrapped us both in her arms, looking up at us with a huge smile on her face. Aloud she announced my first name with her surname and The Good Guy asked, "Is that a yes?"
Of COURSE it's a yes! Would I EVER let this wonderful man go?! Hell NO! Be his wife? Duh, YEAH!
The Boy was unmoved by the experience and as the three of us stood in an embrace, he and J's son stood at the door holding a kickball and asked, "Can we go outside?"
You gotta love little boys.
The girl started asking questions like, "What do I call you now?" I think she was perhaps more excited than I. It truly took me a couple of days to process it. I get teary in the telling of the tale, but I did not get teary in the moment. I seemed to have difficulty forming words (which doesn't happen often).
When deciding to write about this I thought about sharing more details, trying to get the descriptions just right, agonizing over how to explain the beauty of our relationship, but I decided this is it. Our love doesn't need adornment. It doesn't need jazzy descriptions and long winded explanations. I simply love this man to death, and he feels the same for me. Pretty words won't make this occasion any more special or meaningful, I simply want to spend the rest of my life loving him. What could possibly be better than that?
So, It's been a busy week. My mom's colon is whole again, I had a LOT of cake, and...I'm engaged!
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Cake and Poo; A Day in the Life of a Parent
Apparently there is a seedy underbelly to this whole parenting thing that no one speaks of. I don't know that I am accomplished enough as a writer to do the events of this day justice, but I'm sure as hell going to try. J is anxiously anticipating the editorial following the events she witnessed today. She has more faith in my writing ability than I.
A while back I had this bright idea to have a bunch of kids over and make tie-dye shirts. I think it's important for the kids to make friends here, and I want to facilitate this. So, I got ambitious, invited a bunch of kids, begged J to stay and help, and let 7 urchins under the age of 9 loose in my apartment with permanent dye.
Amazingly, the tie-dying was the easiest part of the day.
Eating cake however, became very complicated.
Table manners are big in our house. Near as I can tell the kid's mother doesn't enforce the same rules as we do when it comes to table etiquette, but that's neither here nor there. The kids sometimes forget themselves. They will periodically turn into raving lunatics at the table and act as if their food is going to be taken away if they can't cram every last morsel in their pie holes within 2.4 seconds of the plate making contact with the table.
The Boy learned a lesson today (or so I hope). He learned that shoving an entire piece of cake into your mouth at one time leads to gagging, hinders breathing, and may cause death. That's right people, I almost Heimliched The Boy. The only thing that kept me from breaking a rib in a failed attempt to extract the cake from his wind pipe was J saying "No, he can breath, not yet!" I thought it was time to cash in on the knowledge gained from high school health class, but luckily for me, The Boy dislodged the cake on his own as I stood with my arms wrapped around him, ready to give him the bear-hug of all bear-hugs.
Then, he finished the cake in his mouth, ate the rest of his ice cream, and went outside to play. This of course left nobody to perform CPR on me (J got a phone call), as I began to experience heart attack symptoms from the aftermath of fear that I had killed the child of the man I love. My weapon of choice? Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. It seriously took me a good twenty minutes to stop shaking.
Then came the bowel situation. It was not The Boy's day. Nor mine for that matter.
After a few moments outside The Boy came running in claiming that he was going to change his clothes (which he had just done 10 minutes prior). I told him no friggin' way, the laundry stack is WAY to high for this crap to be taking place. Two outfits a day is the LIMIT.
The following is the conversation that took place between The Boy and me.
The Boy: "But I went to the bathroom in my pants"
Me: "Um, what? I mean, pee, right?"
The Boy: "No"
Me: "How did that happen?" (he's SEVEN!!!)
The Boy: "I thought I had to fart"
Me: Thinking, 'Oh, well the fart oops has happened to the best of us, no need to embarrass the boy', "Oh, okay, here's some clean underwear and a washcloth. The washcloth is for your butt, not your pants." (Because with kids you have to spell these things out)
The Boy: "Ok" He disappeared into the bathroom.
Meanwhile J was in hysterics as she watched this scene unfold. The look on my face must have been priceless. She loves that she can now share the horrors that come with parenting. She used to be in this boat alone. Now she has my company. Poop is not my thing. I'm the hold your hair and rub your back while you puke parent. The other end is The Good Guy's territory. The bastard (I mean that in the most loving way possible) was at work!
The Boy finally emerged from the bathroom with the offending undergarment and handed it to me.
The boxers were totally clean.
Now, pardon my frankness, but we're all familiar with the fart poop. They're runny, right? It's kind of like diarrhea that just sneaks up on you. It's messy, not a pretty thing. But The Boy's drawers were CLEAN. In my head I'm trying very hard to figure out what to say next.
Me: "Um, these are clean"
The Boy: "Yeah"
Me: "What happened to the poop?"
The Boy: "It fell out"
OH.MY.GOD. We're talking a full-on turd and it's M.I.A?!
Me: "Where?" (trying not to panic about the missing turd in my apartment)
The Boy: "It must have fallen out of the bottom of my boxers and then my shorts, like this" (He motions the trajectory of the stray poo from start to finish)
J (barely containing herself): "No bud, where is the poo now?"
The Boy: "Outside"
Me: "THANK YOU for losing it outside, now go play"
Later, all the extra children went home, I went to work, drank a crap-load (pardon the pun) of coffee to get through, and now I'm here, sharing my experience with my blogging friends. I hope you got as much of a laugh as J and I did. In hind-sight it's funny. At the time, not-so-much.
A while back I had this bright idea to have a bunch of kids over and make tie-dye shirts. I think it's important for the kids to make friends here, and I want to facilitate this. So, I got ambitious, invited a bunch of kids, begged J to stay and help, and let 7 urchins under the age of 9 loose in my apartment with permanent dye.
Amazingly, the tie-dying was the easiest part of the day.
Eating cake however, became very complicated.
Table manners are big in our house. Near as I can tell the kid's mother doesn't enforce the same rules as we do when it comes to table etiquette, but that's neither here nor there. The kids sometimes forget themselves. They will periodically turn into raving lunatics at the table and act as if their food is going to be taken away if they can't cram every last morsel in their pie holes within 2.4 seconds of the plate making contact with the table.
The Boy learned a lesson today (or so I hope). He learned that shoving an entire piece of cake into your mouth at one time leads to gagging, hinders breathing, and may cause death. That's right people, I almost Heimliched The Boy. The only thing that kept me from breaking a rib in a failed attempt to extract the cake from his wind pipe was J saying "No, he can breath, not yet!" I thought it was time to cash in on the knowledge gained from high school health class, but luckily for me, The Boy dislodged the cake on his own as I stood with my arms wrapped around him, ready to give him the bear-hug of all bear-hugs.
Then, he finished the cake in his mouth, ate the rest of his ice cream, and went outside to play. This of course left nobody to perform CPR on me (J got a phone call), as I began to experience heart attack symptoms from the aftermath of fear that I had killed the child of the man I love. My weapon of choice? Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. It seriously took me a good twenty minutes to stop shaking.
Then came the bowel situation. It was not The Boy's day. Nor mine for that matter.
After a few moments outside The Boy came running in claiming that he was going to change his clothes (which he had just done 10 minutes prior). I told him no friggin' way, the laundry stack is WAY to high for this crap to be taking place. Two outfits a day is the LIMIT.
The following is the conversation that took place between The Boy and me.
The Boy: "But I went to the bathroom in my pants"
Me: "Um, what? I mean, pee, right?"
The Boy: "No"
Me: "How did that happen?" (he's SEVEN!!!)
The Boy: "I thought I had to fart"
Me: Thinking, 'Oh, well the fart oops has happened to the best of us, no need to embarrass the boy', "Oh, okay, here's some clean underwear and a washcloth. The washcloth is for your butt, not your pants." (Because with kids you have to spell these things out)
The Boy: "Ok" He disappeared into the bathroom.
Meanwhile J was in hysterics as she watched this scene unfold. The look on my face must have been priceless. She loves that she can now share the horrors that come with parenting. She used to be in this boat alone. Now she has my company. Poop is not my thing. I'm the hold your hair and rub your back while you puke parent. The other end is The Good Guy's territory. The bastard (I mean that in the most loving way possible) was at work!
The Boy finally emerged from the bathroom with the offending undergarment and handed it to me.
The boxers were totally clean.
Now, pardon my frankness, but we're all familiar with the fart poop. They're runny, right? It's kind of like diarrhea that just sneaks up on you. It's messy, not a pretty thing. But The Boy's drawers were CLEAN. In my head I'm trying very hard to figure out what to say next.
Me: "Um, these are clean"
The Boy: "Yeah"
Me: "What happened to the poop?"
The Boy: "It fell out"
OH.MY.GOD. We're talking a full-on turd and it's M.I.A?!
Me: "Where?" (trying not to panic about the missing turd in my apartment)
The Boy: "It must have fallen out of the bottom of my boxers and then my shorts, like this" (He motions the trajectory of the stray poo from start to finish)
J (barely containing herself): "No bud, where is the poo now?"
The Boy: "Outside"
Me: "THANK YOU for losing it outside, now go play"
Later, all the extra children went home, I went to work, drank a crap-load (pardon the pun) of coffee to get through, and now I'm here, sharing my experience with my blogging friends. I hope you got as much of a laugh as J and I did. In hind-sight it's funny. At the time, not-so-much.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Family on the Fourth
The day began with temperatures in the seventies and a cool breeze blowing through the trees. We lugged our gear of folding chairs, various pieces of sports equipment, water bottles, and a cooler to the park. The chosen location was very near the carousel. After shuffling of chairs, discussion and sighs as we debated who will sit next to whom and doling out of sandwiches and potato chips, our meal was consumed while we basked in the sunlight of a much deserved pleasant day. The music of the carousel became the tranquil soundtrack to our afternoon of relaxation.
We alternated between playing kickball (wherein the ghost runners did most of the jaunting between bases), frisbee (which only landed in the mucky fish pond once) and stole away for moments in the shade and swigs of water as the sun became more intense and the humidity kept our sweat glistening on skin instead of evaporating into the now dissipated breeze.
The leisure time was filled with delicious exercise, giggling children, cajoling with families passing by, and the occasional childhood drama resulting from a tumble in the grass.
It was a glorious afternoon. One for the books (or blogs).
We ventured into a restaurant for dinner at just the right moment. The sky had not indicated to us that it was about to open the flood gates, so when we looked out the window while waiting for our food to arrive, we realized that we had timed our meal just right.
When we emerged from the restaurant, the town had come alive. An hour before we entered the eatery the streets had been bare. Now the neighborhood was filled with mirth, bustling bodies, and crowds watching the remnants of an Independence Day parade. The sky had cleared once again.
As dusk set in we traversed the paths of the park and watched our serene sanctuary fill with the crowds that had earlier converged on the street for the parade. In the fountain, the two marble men sprayed water at each other, and we debated which was named Spit, and which was pegged Spat.
Finally we settled back into our chairs, tired from the day, but excitedly anticipating the fireworks display that was yet to come. The children became antsy (as children do when it is late, and they are tired), so a book was read aloud using the animated voices of pirates and adventurers.
At last, the sky was lit with explosions and color. The pyrotechnics did not disappoint even as they were forced to pause so that the accumulated smoke could fade.
The show was lengthy enough that the youngest child kept anxiously asking "Is this the grand finale?"
With the grand finale complete, the tired children packed into the car, and the traffic negotiated, we all settled in for a fitful night's sleep.
As I lay in bed, waiting for the dreams to take over, I thought to myself...'This is by far the best Fourth of July I have ever experienced.' Like a child on their birthday, I didn't want it to end.
We alternated between playing kickball (wherein the ghost runners did most of the jaunting between bases), frisbee (which only landed in the mucky fish pond once) and stole away for moments in the shade and swigs of water as the sun became more intense and the humidity kept our sweat glistening on skin instead of evaporating into the now dissipated breeze.
The leisure time was filled with delicious exercise, giggling children, cajoling with families passing by, and the occasional childhood drama resulting from a tumble in the grass.
It was a glorious afternoon. One for the books (or blogs).
We ventured into a restaurant for dinner at just the right moment. The sky had not indicated to us that it was about to open the flood gates, so when we looked out the window while waiting for our food to arrive, we realized that we had timed our meal just right.
When we emerged from the restaurant, the town had come alive. An hour before we entered the eatery the streets had been bare. Now the neighborhood was filled with mirth, bustling bodies, and crowds watching the remnants of an Independence Day parade. The sky had cleared once again.
As dusk set in we traversed the paths of the park and watched our serene sanctuary fill with the crowds that had earlier converged on the street for the parade. In the fountain, the two marble men sprayed water at each other, and we debated which was named Spit, and which was pegged Spat.
Finally we settled back into our chairs, tired from the day, but excitedly anticipating the fireworks display that was yet to come. The children became antsy (as children do when it is late, and they are tired), so a book was read aloud using the animated voices of pirates and adventurers.
At last, the sky was lit with explosions and color. The pyrotechnics did not disappoint even as they were forced to pause so that the accumulated smoke could fade.
The show was lengthy enough that the youngest child kept anxiously asking "Is this the grand finale?"
With the grand finale complete, the tired children packed into the car, and the traffic negotiated, we all settled in for a fitful night's sleep.
As I lay in bed, waiting for the dreams to take over, I thought to myself...'This is by far the best Fourth of July I have ever experienced.' Like a child on their birthday, I didn't want it to end.
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