Cosmic Mama at Park Rock

Hubby's new band has a name, at last: Cosmic Mama.

And they will be playing Park Rock Fest, in September.

And I will be tie-dying and silk-screening t-shirts, to sell at Park Rock Fest.

And you will all come.

That is all.

Come out and see ACME this Saturday, with me!

Hubby and I will be at the Country Store in Leonardtown this Saturday night, to see ACME Blues Company. Ya gotta go. It'll be great. TRUST me. Have I ever steered you wrong?

And, in more exciting band news, Hubby's band seems to be solidifying. He's at practice as we speak.

They even have a tentative gig scheduled for October.

No name yet, but I'll let you know when they pick one. Woo! Hubby's gonna be back on stage! I can't wait!

Fun Molly Hatchet show, last night

I'm travelin' down that lonesome road.
Feel like I'm dragging a heavy load.
Yeah! I've tried to turn my head away,
Feels about the same most every day.

I've been tagged! (yes, I begged for it)

So, thanks to ALF, here are 8 of my habits:

I check my email obsessively, and am so hooked on AIM that I carry my laptop all over the house so I can talk with my friends while I clean.

I like being weighed down, while I sleep. So, I often pile pillows on top of myself, in bed. It's cozy.

I swear more than I should. I swear less than I do in my head, though, so cut me some slack.

I have to clean the kitchen before I cook. Dinner takes a while, around here.

When I'm upset, I listen to really loud music, while cleaning. If you smell furniture polish, assume the worst.

Every year or so, when we drive to Florida, I have to stop at South of the Border to buy Blenheim's Diet Ginger Ale. I let myself have a bottle maybe twice a week, until they run out.

If you talk through the movie, I will hate you.

I can't shop with other people, because I tend to buy what THEY like, and hate it when I get it home.

Oh, and Andrea, Kerry, Kim, Nancy, Carol: TAG, you're IT!

I've gotta call Dad

This morning, my mother called to inform me that I needed to Save the Date in October, because she has reserved a table for us at a "vintage wedding gown fashion show and tea" at her church. My sister will be modeling my great-aunt's wedding gown.

"DOESN'T THAT SOUND FUN?"

"Well, not really, no."

"Women LOVE going to teas. It'll be lovely."

Oh, holy mother of God.

Those of you who knew me (way back in the way back of 1988) will remember that for my own wedding, I was leaning towards running off to the justice of the peace, and having my best buddies meet us for nachos, afterwards (Yes, Andrea, that means you!) To keep the peace, I pretty much agreed to anything and everything my mother wanted, for my wedding. I was just glad to live through it.

And those of you who know me now, know that I'd sooner have dental surgery without anesthesia than sit for tea. Chug iced tea while screaming and jumping up and down in front of my favorite bands, yes. Eat cucumber sandwiches with my mother's church friends while Mom pretends my sister is getting married? No.

I will either have to enlist Dad in the "explaining to Mom that Christine would rather strap weasels to her face than go" effort, or I will have to fake catastrophic, contagious illness on the day of the event.

OK, readers, I have less than 3 months. Can you give me some tips on how to feign something really gruesome and communicable? Gimme your best shot.

'Cause Mom, Dad, and Denise share a phone.

A Jolly Rancher is Not a Sprinkle, Sir!

We just got back from the Happy Boondocks Horrible Theater. The Simpsons Movie is hysterical. We all loved it. People were clapping, in the theater. And then we just had to walk down to the 7-11 to get Simpsons tie-in junk food.

If you have any inclination at all to see this movie, GO, I tell you. Yes, there were a few shocking moments (gotta earn that PG-13) but it was the best movie I've seen in ages.

The worst part of Hubby's Band Cycle

I love it when Hubby is in a band. He's having a blast, I go to all his shows, I get to take pictures and dance and have a good time, and between sets we hang out. It's great.

When Hubby's not in a band, that's OK, too. He's bored, so we go out to listen to other bands, or so he can join open mic nights. Again, I get to take pictures, dance, have a good time, and hang out.

Today, however, we are in that in-between stage: he is practicing with a new band, but they are not yet ready to play out. So he's busy, he's tired, he's heard enough music lately, he doesn't want to go out. Tonight is the regular blues open mic we've been attending all summer--him to play, me to watch & listen. Tonight is also practice night, for the new band he's joining. So, he's not really expecting to want to go out.

But me? I want some live music! Darn.

We'll see what happens....

Terrorist attack attempt? Could be.

Hubby works on a Navy base. This is the email he received today. Great googly moogly.

Yesterday we got briefed by NCIS on an incident that occurred out in
town that directly affected the security of our base.

Around 1700 Monday, 23 July, a truck driver of Middle Eastern decent
approached a Hispanic man in the San Souci parking lot area offering
him
$200 to drive his trailer truck on base. The Hispanic man turned him
away and then reported it to the authorities. No one knows what was
in
the trailer truck nor did the trailer truck attempt to gain access to
the base. The Security group wants to spread the word so everyone can
be very vigilant and report any suspicious activities to the
authorities. They are asking that if anyone notices anything to please
call 911 and identify their location and what they have seen. Local
authorities are aware and are on the lookout for this individual or any
other suspicious activities.

Please disseminate this information to your groups, the more awareness
we have, the better.

Respectfully,
V.M.
NAWC Anti-Terrorism Officer

Nothin' like a new pair of jeans

Yesterday, I'll admit, was one of those massively crappy days. I should not have gotten out of bed, I think, except to go to the gym.

Son #1 also managed to have one of those days. It's a hormonal harmonic convergence. So, I took him to Walmart to buy more black jeans and t-shirts, since he lives in them and school starts in less than a month.

While I was there, I tried on the next-size-down jeans. And they fit. Perfectly. So I bought 2 pair, and I am wearing them now, and I feel ever so much better.

I may be completely messed up in the head, but I am at least getting back in shape.

Hi! How are you?

So far today, I've been to the high school, the bank, the grocery store, the newspaper office, and a fast food restaurant.

9 people have asked me how I was. Each time, I smiled and told them I was Great! and asked how they were. They, if they bothered to respond, were also Great! Even the guy with two broken fingers on his dominant hand.

Nine times, today, I felt like the only real response would have been "Shitty! But, hey, thanks for askin'!"

Boys and Men, Redux

We've been back for 2 days.

The night we returned, the Sons spent with their best friends. Great for them, great for the friends, great for me and Hubby because we could enjoy a silent house.

Son #1 puts on his swim trunks, and his friend takes one look, and says:

"Where'd you get that suit? The Gay Store?"

Son #1 knew exactly what to say.

"Why, Jack? Are you attracted to me?"

Open Mic in Indian Rocks Beach, FL

We spent most of yesterday with Hubby's cousin and his wife. Great couple, lots of fun. Plus, they brought the world's largest tub of fudge stripe ice cream, so the boys will be happy for the rest of the week.

Then we went to an Open Mic at a bar down the street. Hubby played bass and drums.

He was, as always, awesome.

The regular, standing drummer really kinda stank. But, hey, it was his drum set, so what can you do?

If you are Hubby, and hear the guy completely butchering song after song, there will come a point where you will take off the bass you've borrowed, and insist that its owner learn Little Wing right there, instead of letting you play it on her bass. You will then run around behind the drum kit, and tell the crap drummer that you ARE going to play that song, because you KNOW it. You will then take the sticks right out of his hands, and proceed to tear the place UP.

Then, you will feel a little sheepish, and offer to help the guy carry his equipment. But he's not going to let you.

More proof that men are just bigger, meatier boys

Went to my brother-in-law's for a barbecue, yesterday. Brother-in-law takes one look at Hubby in his stylin', Hawaiian print swim trunks, and asks,

"Where'd you get that suit? The Gay Store?"

Hubby immediately fires back, "Why, Bob, are you attracted to me?"

If you give a moose a muffin...

If at 5:30, you suggest you'll go cook dinner....

Hubby will suggest you go out to eat, instead.

If you agree to go out to eat...

Hubby will insist he drive around looking for good places to go, first.

If he finds some great places...

He'll decide he'd rather go there tomorrow, and grill tonight.

If you agree to grill...

He'll decide he'd rather have steaks, than the seafood you have in the house.

If you tell him you don't want to be doing dishes at 10pm...

He'll swear it'll just take him a minute to get steaks.

If it in fact takes more than an hour...

you'll be sitting here blogging, at 9pm, waiting for Hubby to come home with the steaks you are too tired to eat.

That's what I get for trying to be cute

We're on vacation. For the Sons, that means "only wear the bear minimum of clothing Mom requires". For Hubby, that generally means "no office clothes". For me, thinking of all the time I won't be spending scrubbing toilets and scooping dog poop, vacation is a chance to wear the cute clothes.

Today, I pulled out my favorite, crisp, white shirt. It is great, any time, but just fantastic, with a little bit of a tan. So I woke up, put it on, and instantly felt beachy-glamorous.

Floating on vacation waves, I went downstairs to make the Sons and their cousin Belgian waffles. And that was my big mistake. The Belgian waffle maker was less than clean, and it left several greasy smears on my shirt.

I pretreated it, I washed it, the smears were still there. So I pretreated it again, and washed it again, with the next load of laundry. I just pulled that out, and my fabulous white shirt is now covered in blue dye, from, I think, a beach towel.

I just put it in the wash for the third time today, with all the bleach I think it can stand, all by itself. My hopes are not high.

I should just wear crap clothes, like I do at home. Who's looking at me, down here, anyway?

Well, you can tell I'm on vacation

...because I am dropping F-bombs, on my blog. So sorry, to those of you with delicate eyeballs.

But, I guess you're not too delicate, or you'd be looking elsewhere. So, if I want to say it, I'm gonna say it.

One Word Meme

I stole this off of Curly Girl's blog. Check her out.
One word meme

1. Where is your cell phone? bedroom

2. Relationship? steady

3. Your hair? tangled

4. Work? fun!

5. Your sister? tall

6. Your favorite thing? quiet

7. Your dream last night? private

8. Your favorite drink? tea

9. Your dream car? motorcycle

10. The room you’re in? dining

11. Your shoes? thongs

12. Your fears? stagnation

13. What do you want to be in 10 years? sexy

14. Who did you hang out with this weekend? family

15. What are you not good at? discipline

16. Muffin? buttery

17. One of your wish list items? band

18. Where you grew up? Maryland

19. Last thing you did? journal

20. What are you wearing? jeans

21. What aren’t you wearing? makeup

22. Your pet? multitudinous

23. Your computer? portable

24. Your life? busy

25. Your mood? torn

26. Missing? waist

27. What are you thinking about right now? Shutterfly

28. Your car? cluttered

29. Your kitchen? crammed

30. Your summer? relaxing

31. Your favorite color? teal

32. Last time you laughed? sunrise

33. Last time you cried? writing

34. School? life

35. Love? writing

The Police

We saw The Police last night.

We'd been told by several people that they SUCK, this time around. Some people complained that they "can't jam...they only played things exactly like on the record. Why go see them, if you can listen to them at home and it sounds the same?" We'd also been told, by other people, obviously, "they didn't play ANYTHING the way it was on the CD. It was all re-mixy and weird."

So, Hubby and I kind of went into last night's concert expecting The Police to find some way to really disappoint.

We also were told that the seats we had were some of the worst seats in the St Pete Times Forum. That, basically, ANY seats would have been better than the ones we blew outrageous sums of money on. So, we figured, "Well, if they suck, at least we won't have to look at them."

We were told that parking was impossible.

We also were given about 6 different sets of directions, each of which had no connection to the others, so we pretty much assumed we'd miss half the show.

And then we got there. About 10 minutes before the Police came on. We breezed into a parking place. We settled into our seats, AND THEY HAD MOVED THE STAGE, so it was directly in front of us. We had some of the best seats in the house, except for those first couple rows on the floor.

And The Police, they ROCKED. They were flippin' awesome. They played just about everything we wanted to hear (though I could have used Murder by Numbers, and Hubby spent the whole night screaming "SYNCHRONICITY!!!!!!!" like Sting was going to look up, wave at him, nod, and say, "You know, man, you are absolutely right, we'll play that one next."

Some songs were very much like we remembered them from when I was a teenager and too young to attend concerts. Which was terrific.

Some songs were very UNlike those memories. They'd play a few notes, and then we'd realize, OH MY GOD! I LOVE THIS SONG! and it was a new, totally cool thing.

Sting was, well, Sting. Sting is great. There is a REASON he only needs the one name.

Stuart Copeland was fucking fantastic. Hubby said he was a little less energetic than twenty years ago, but honestly I couldn't stop watching him. Just terrific.

And Andy Summers? I admit, with a few notable exceptions, I usually don't notice guitarists. I am, as a rule, all about bass and drums. Perhaps that's why I loved The Police so much, as a teen, and still do---it's bass and drums, and, oh, yeah, they have a guitarist, too. And he was good, last night.

But, you know...

If you're going to be on the Jumbotron...

And they're going to zoom in on your hands, while you play leads...

And you're not 30 anymore...

Maybe you should wear a pair of gloves to cover up those liver spots.

We stayed long after the show ended, hanging out in the suite with my brother in law's friends. Fun guys, and I think they are going to come see Hubby play here in Indian Rocks Beach, later this week.

By the time we got out of the suite, all the vendors were packing up. Since they are just wage slaves, and none of them owns the company, they refused to sell us a t-shirt (and for $35, I want my t-shirt to come with Stuart Copeland IN it, not just his picture ON it, but that's a different story). They refused to sell us a poster. So we left.

You know, the elevator had posters, too. Free posters.

And so we went outside, looking for The Police, hoping they'd sign our poster. No sign of them. We did, however, find a member of Tampa's Finest. And he signed it for us.

Nothing beats a stolen poster, except maybe a stolen poster autographed by a cop.

We have escaped the Happy Boondocks

...for the week, at least. And in a stroke of genius, we have fed the children and are leaving in a minute for Dinner at a Decent Restaurant, Just the Two of Us.

People tell me I'll miss having children, but at this point I have to take their word for it. Because a dinner with just my husband, someplace that serves food my kids would rather starve than eat, sounds flippin' awesome.

Aaaah! Raogarnane! Gimme da one! Gah!

We are leaving the Happy Boondocks for a few days in the veritable Lap of Luxury. Today was pack day...which also included short trip to the ladies' clothing department, because I wanted to be stuffing my duffle with clothes I actually don't mind wearing.

So, I had the Sons evaluate my purchases. They are fairly happy with my choices, although there was some disagreement on a certain black, lacy, cap-sleeved thing. (Son #1 thought it looked Goth, and cool. Son #3 thought it looked Goth, and, um, not cool. But all the boys defer to the fashion sense of Son #1, who, after all, is the only kid in the house with strong fashion opinions, based on what he sees in the outside world).

We are also packing the obligatory "one fancy outfit, just in case". So, I pulled out my 2 fairly nice dresses. One got the immediate nod, from all and sundry, as they had seen me in it just a few weeks ago. The other required a quick view, before Son #1 was willing to vote.

"Sparkly dresses, well, they can look nice, but they can also make you look kinda fat. You don't want to look like the Crazy Cat Lady."

Son #1 put the kibosh on the dress.

"You don't look fat, you don't look like the Crazy Cat lady, but the shoulders are...boring. They don't look like they go with the rest of the dress."

I may not have raised a son who will diaper my grandchildren or wash the dinner dishes, but my future daughter in law can rest assured that he will tell her exactly what he thinks, without making her feel like a sea cow.

I feel so...proud.

UPDATE! Because, the minutiae of my day is so important to y'all

Son #1 came home from the park this afternoon and told me that he had run into The Other Boy Who Might Have Been Under a Death Threat This Week.

Said Boy had no idea, of course. But his first response was not the "Holy crap!" one might expect. What did he say?

"AGAIN?"

Yup, apparently, this happens all the damn time.

Also, I found my keys. They were in the basement, in the middle of some sort of lego/Monopoly hotel/airsoft gun pellet village. So, my keys are safe, my car is safe, my sanity is no longer in question. It was The Boy, all along. Shoulda known.

And now, I can go do the stuff I've been wanting to do all afternoon, but have neglected in favor of looking at every surface in my house as if it would magically sprout keys.

Woooo!

Where are my KEYS, dammit?

A few days ago, I was driving around town running errands/mulling life/writing in my head, desperately trying to hold my thought long enough to get out of the car and to my desk to write it down.

As I entered the house with my armloads of groceries, all the Sons and the Hubby all started talking to me. Like, one after the other. This tends to shut my brain down.

I put my keys down, somewhere, and I have no idea where. I have been searching all over, to no avail. And today, was even doing the "look through all your dresser drawers" thing, which netted me a lot of stuff that can go to the thrift store, and a dresser and end table that no longer need dusting, but still no keys.

We now only have my husband's spare set. I am not liking this at all.

Read about it here, Part 2

So, this tiny teacher woman (she is not even five feet tall, sweet young thing) and I discussed the whole mess, quickly and quietly, in the hall. She suggested that Son #1 attend her second period class, so he would be out of class when the girl was there, in an unexpected place at a time he usually would be home, and so that he could get the classroom instruction he needs, without interruption. She also agreed with me that the next place to go, for me, was the police.

So I drove The Son to the state police barracks, and spoke with Officer Tyer. Officer Tyer took down all the details, and said that though he agrees that the school (and especially this particular high school) absolutely needs to report stuff to them that they generally choose instead to sweep under the proverbial rug, that until she actually brings a weapon into the building and starts shooting people, it is not a police matter. The school has jurisdiction, where threatening speech is concerned.

He also thought it was a bad decision not to let the teacher know what was going on, but since I had handled that part of it, he didn't need to.

He said he'd call the school, and make sure they were doing everything they needed to do on their end, including things like watching her enter the building, to ensure she wasn't wearing voluminous clothes and a giant satchel that would be good hiding places for weapons. He told me that he would call me if he felt they weren't handling things, but that if I didn't hear from the state police I could assume he had checked it out and decided it was not something I needed to worry about.

So Son #1 and I went out for breakfast. He ate an entire Subway restaurant. And then we swung home, to kill a little time until second period class was ready to start. And I re-checked my cell phone, looking for the message the assistant principal swears he left me on Tuesday afternoon. As I suspected, there was no message, because he is a lying, ass-covering weasel.

Then we went back to the school. As we pulled in, a few minutes before first period is scheduled to end, we see The Girl's dad, walking towards the school. And The Girl, walking away from the school, with a guidance counselor. We pulled out of the parking lot, and waited across the street at a convenience store until it looked like they were going to leave. The Girl and Her Dad left the school, and I walked Son #1 in to touch base with his teacher.

Apparently The Girl sat through the first third of class, like a stone, and then asked to be sent to the guidance office, where they did whatever they do, and she left. She will not be coming back tomorrow. When she comes in for the final exam, on Monday, her parents will be in the classroom with her.

As it stands, I guess The Girl is getting some help. The teacher is furious that the administration was ready to leave her completely in the dark about a potentially violent classroom situation. And Son #1 feels relieved, and ready to finish out the last couple hours of school.

And me? I am glad that it seems to be resolving itself. I am reassured, also, that This Fabulous School on the Richer Side of Town is really not any better than The Ghetto School My Kids Attend. And, I am all hopped up on adrenaline.

A big part of me, though, wishes I could go find The Girl and hug her, hard. And let her know that though I have ratted her out to the authorities (geez, repeatedly, now), I really wish her only the best. May she grow up and get better and graduate and get a job and a husband and children and a happy, productive life, and look back on these days with wonder at the girl she used to be.

Read about it here, but hopefully not in the newspapers

Son #1, who went back to public school after 4 years at home, missed the first quarter of the school year. Soooo, he ended up needing to take a semester of algebra, over summer school. This has been a pretty positive experience: his teacher is making the work easily understandable. He has 3 days left of class.

This Tuesday, That Girl Who Bit Him Last Year and Was Subsequently Committed passed him her phone number. Then she told him that she was going to check back into the mental health facility, this coming Monday, because she "had a nervous breakdown with her psychiatrist, and told him that she can't tell the difference between dreams and reality, and she wants to kill all her friends and herself."

Son #1 told me this in the car, on the way home from school.

Upon our arrival home, I made three phone calls. First, I called Hubby to tell him what was going on. Then I called the school, reminded them that this girl had been in and out of a mental institution last school year and that she had physically attacked my son in the past, and told them all about what she'd said that morning in class. The Assistant Principal in charge of summer school, Mr. Myers, assured me that they would investigate it, handle it, and report back to me.

Then I called the poor girl's mom, to let her know. She was very apologetic, and it was clear to me that the whole family is trying everything they can, to get this girl the help she needs. She said that they had thought she was getting better, and that she had not mentioned these kinds of thoughts or wishes. She said, "I guess she won't be going back to school, we'll have to take her back to the hospital."

Then it was July 4th, and I was all about going out for pizza and shooting off undocumented alien fireworks with Hubby and the Sons. But I figured the smart thing to do would be to escort Son #1, the boy who stole my heart, into the school building a little early, this morning, to talk with the assistant principal and get his assurance that this girl would not be in the building.

So, today I headed over to the school and asked to speak with Mr. Myers, the assistant principal, and he told me "we have handled it."

I asked what he meant, by "handled it": Did "handled it" mean "we know she will not be in school today, tomorrow, or Monday, because we know she's been committed"?

No.

"Handled it" meant, "we have done all we are going to do, and we are not going to tell you anything, to protect her privacy".

So I asked, "Is she going to be in the building, today? Because my son is not going to be in the building, if she is. He and one other student are the only ones who have, according to her parents, treated this girl with anything approaching kindness, so when she says she wants to kill her friends, MY SON IS ONE OF TWO PEOPLE SHE IS TALKING ABOUT."

The assistant principal and a woman who did not introduce herself, but whom I assume to be the school counselor, offered to let Son #1 take all his assigned work into the media center, and work on it alone, so he wouldn't have to be in class with this girl. But, um, the reason he's in school is to spend time with the teacher. And being all alone in a library is not exactly the same as being protected from a girl who has stated her intention to kill you.

So, I suggested that maybe I should talk with his teacher, and see what she thought was the right thing to do. Maybe Son #1 could meet with her privately, instead of during class time, to complete his last 3 days of school.

We ran into the teacher in the hall.

She had not been told about the threat.

The assistant principal had come to her classroom and asked her cryptic questions about the girl, but didn't tell her why, and didn't tell her where the investigation led. It was all news to her, and if I hadn't told her she wouldn't have known. So, I would say, that is about the most piss-poor version of "handled it" that I can imagine. Wouldn't telling the teacher be the first thing any reasonable administrator would do?


I have to run, but I will post Part Two of the Saga, later today.