Controversial Opinion of the Day

I don't care how many times I hear otherwise.

Krispy Kreme donuts are absolute crap.

Dunkin Donuts ROCK.

Don't get me started on the "hot donuts" sign. A Dunkin Donut is good days later. Still damn good. Still better than your Krispy Kreme thing, on its best day.

There, I said it.

the most terrifying bird of prey in the Western Hemisphere

While cooling my heels in the dining room at the Robert Trent Jones Golf Course (Son #3 was in the men's locker room, getting his finger taped), I noticed this logo. I can't believe I've been coming here for at least a decade, and never saw it before.

I can hear his squawky voice, now, raining terror from above.

"IF BEAK NOT SCARE YOU.

IF TALONS NOT SCARE YOU.

ME HAVE TWO GOLF CLUBS.

YOU DIE NOW!"

I'd like to see the islamofascists deal with some of THAT.

Honestly, though, lunch was yummy and, as I have stated before, the place is packed with relaxed orthopedists, so it's a great setting for a little post-prandial football injury.

Rawrk!

Did I hear what I think I heard?

Yesterday the Sons had some friends over. People they don't see very often. But nice, well-behaved kids. Quiet, respectful, church-attending kids who work hard at school and excel at sports and participate in community service projects.

There are no airsoft battles, lately, because 2 of the Sons are on the injured reserve bench. But they got to talking about a previous get-together. That day, there had been a LOT of kids over, from all over town. Most of them didn't know each other, but they all got along. It was nice.

One of the boys who was over yesterday asked a question about one of the other boys who had been here, that day a few months ago. But he couldn't remember the kid's name.

"You know, the one with the really short, fuzzy hair."

"Colin?"

no.

"Connor?"

Son #1 was going through his list of friends, most of whom have the long, silky hair that is popular these days. Pony hair. So, you know, he had no idea who his friend was asking about.

"You know, the one who's a ni..."

I think that yesterday I heard a teenager start to call a fellow teenager a nigger, in my own home. He caught himself, I think because of the reaction he was getting from Son #1. But holy shit. What is up with that? I had no idea.

Equally bizarre: he LIKES this other kid. He was not hurling anger, or hate. He was not criticizing Son #1 for befriending a kid whose mother is of African descent. He was just...describing him, so my son would know who he was talking about, while they rehashed the fun parts of a previous get together. Describing a kid whose name he couldn't remember.

As a nigger.

Jesus help us.

Also yesterday: a friend's developmentally disabled son got the tar beaten out of him by some kids in the neighborhood. He has cuts and bruises and a split lip and possibly a broken finger, I guess because he was trying to be "one of the guys" but can't quite master the mysteries of being a teenage boy. Can't quite see it coming, when the shit hits the fan.

The hospital called the police.

How bad do you have to look, before the hospital calls the police?

How bad do you have to BE, to gang up on a sweet kid with developmental problems and brain cancer?

Elvin Bishop had it right.

"People, people, what the hell is going on?"

I've been tagged by a non-tagger

ALF tagged me. And so, here are 7 things about me:

1-I hate forwarded emails, but I love blog tag. Go figure. I think it is because I am completely self-absorbed, and want people to want to know pointless crap about me.

2-I am the Queen of MySpace, when it comes to Southern Maryland nightlife photography. That is a mighty miniscule kingdom, I know, but every time I see my photos up on someone's MySpace page, I am thrilled. So much more fun than the photos I take for work. So far I have photos up with: ACME Blues Company, Riptide, Don Dirkin, Wave & Wolf's Blues Jams, and Baker's Boys. Kudos to Wave, because he credits me on his pages. Just another reason to love that man.

3-I love cilantro.

4-I have no sense of direction, and a lousy memory. So, I often get lost, even going places I have been a dozen times. I got a GPS for Christmas. This shall give me back thousands of hours of future driving time, enabling me to write the great American novel and cure cancer.

5-I was "Chris" until I met my husband. He decided that "Chris" was a man's name, and started calling me "Christine", like my parents do. We've been married nearly 20 years and "Christine" still seems pretentious. But "Chris" just sounds odd. If you call me Chris, we've known each other since at least 1985.

6-I rode a motorscooter (sidesaddle, no less)to the hospital to give birth to Son #1. I highly recommend it, as you can jump off and walk during contractions.

7-I make really good fried rice. This was harder for me to learn than I expected. I threw out a lot of bad fried rice, at first.

And in honor of ALF, I shall not tag anyone. But feel free to self-tag. Because if you read my blog, I absolutely want to know seven things about you. More than that, even.

Lessons Learned at 40: Life's Too Short

I've been 40 all of 2 months, and so I am ready to pontificate.

Life is too short to sit through bad music. If the band is bad, give 'em three songs to change your mind, and then get the hell out.

Life is probably too short to do a lot of other stuff, but tonight that's all I've got. If you're sitting at the bar thinking, "I should be scrubbing toilets," it's time to call a cab.

Breaktime's over!

Hubby's last words to me, last night:

"I don't have to get in to work too early, tomorrow."

So, this morning, I slept in. I moseyed down the hall and made his coffee. I checked my email. I poured the coffee. And I brought it to him, about an hour and a half after he normally would have been up and getting ready for work.

"Sweetie, it's almost 8:00. I brought you coffee."

I could practically see the Disney birds swirling around my head. I let him sleep in! I brought him coffee! I woke him sweetly! Aren't I amazing?

Hubby's first word to me, this morning:

"Why?"

I think he's going to be late for work.

Freecycle Day

Today, after taking stock of the Christmas giftage, I am Freecycling a bunch of our old, useable, but no longer great stuff. The coffeepot. The George Foreman Grill.

And a couple of new gifts, too, that I don't have receipts for. Merry Christmas, fellow bargain hunters! I wonder if someone else is going to offer things I want. Could be. If not, though, I'll just be happy to get rid of this stuff.

ACMEEEEEEE! Wammy Nominees AGAIN!

That Band Christine Won't Shut Up About just was nominated for Best Blues Band, and Wave, the singer/harp player is up for Best Vocalist.

WOOOO! They are awesome, they deserve it, and I am psyched on their behalf.

So, that just means you have ONE MORE REASON to drop everything and come see them, next time they're in town.

What's better than a late-night trip to the ER?

TWO late-night trips to the ER!

Ohhhhh, YEAH!

Christmas Eve, after returning from Mom-in-Law's festivities and hanging our stockings by the chimney with care, we opened the traditional One Early Present. Then, Hubby and the Sons watched TV while I sacked out. Because, you know, I like my sleep. It was only 9pm, but something told me I would really need it.

And at 10, I found out what I'd need it for.

Son #4, in a Christmas Eve frenzy (and who could blame him? So far, all he's received is 2 articles of clothing and a jumbo package of Swedish Fish) ran down the hall for a blanket and snagged a nail that had popped out of the paneling.

With his arm.

So, I took him to the ER while Hubby sent the rest of the Sons to bed and went back downstairs to continue Christmas Prep.

You know, when you slash your arm, the wound pulls open and you can see all the globby bits of fat, puffing out. It's not as cool as you'd think, when it's on your own arm. Or on your son's.

We were, again, amazed at the speed and efficiency of the new, improved triage center at St Mary's Hospital. I, personally, was glad just not to recognize any of the staff.

Once the anesthesia kicked in and the repair work commenced, Son #4 asked what any 11-year-old House fan would ask.

"So, Dr. Esterhay, have you ever treated a CIPA patient?"

Unfortunately, being a real ER surgeon, and not a dedicated House fan, Dr. Esterhay had not, in fact, ever treated a CIPA patient. He was not even familiar with the term. He was kind, though, and quick, and I think the scar will be of the "cool, not horrific" variety.

Son #4 now has a 2-inch long, crescent-shaped wound with tons of bitchin' stitches and a story to tell. I swear, lately these boys will do ANYTHING to earn mention on the blog.

After we open presents this morning, I'm going to make the other two Sons flip a coin.

And the Golden Foot Goes to:

Me & Son #3.

Every time we visit my inlaws, I put my foot in my mouth. I say something so completely wrong it just stops conversation. This time, I lucked out. I get to share the award with my dear son.

Yes, the same one who broke his finger, 2 days ago, while visiting the same side of the family.

Today, we went to my mother-in-law's annual Christmas Eve party. There was some tension in the air, because she had asked me what the boys wanted for Christmas and I told her...the truth.

"They would love new airsoft guns and masks. And they'd each really appreciate a black hoodie, because everyone their age wears them all the time."

Mother-in-law took one look at my email (which did, in all fairness, include many other shopping options) and called Hubby (aka The Son Who Can Do Nothing Right).

"ARE THEY PLANNING ANOTHER COLUMBINE? BLACK, HOODED SWEATSHIRTS AND GUNS? HOW ARE YOU RAISING THESE BOYS?"

It went on for quite a while. I could hear her through the phone and across the room.

Can I just say that they are, for the most part, peace-loving, gentlemanly young people? That they stage airsoft battles in the yard, with their friends, using plastic pellets and low-power, clear plastic guns, and everyone is required to wear masks, and it is all in fun?

And may I further state that hoodies are warm? And that black is just a manly color? And that the Columbine guys wore TRENCHCOATS, anyway?

And may I postulate that when she was raising 4 sons of her own, back in the 50s and 60s, before Hubby came along, I will lay you whatever odds you like that those young men were allowed to play cops & robbers & cowboys & Indians & whatnot?

And that none of our boys has ever been hurt playing with airsoft rifles, but one just broke his finger, playing football?

All that was by way of background information, by the way.

So, anyway, we get there, and after much waiting and Sonly gnashing of teeth, and the munching of the Christmas lunch, it turns out that Grandma had indeed given each Son a black, zippered hoodie. They immediately put them on. They loved them, because, after all, ever since the black hoodie trend took hold in our house they can't get enough of them. They thanked their grandmother.

And in the spirit of "find something specific to say, to compliment the gift you received," Son #3 turns to the crowd of relatives and says,

"Yep, once you go Black, you never go back!"

Soooo much wrapping paper

I have spent every spare minute, the past 2 days, wrapping presents.

This has severely cut into my gym attendance, grapefruit consumption, and other enjoyable pasttimes. I am pasty, flabby, and disoriented, and I just peeled a piece of skin off of my thumb because I thought it was tape.

It has, however, greatly increased the incidents of "boys hovering outside Mom's bedroom door, beatboxing, because Mom is 'rapping'". This is hilarious. (Ask anyone. We are, as a family, whiter than bleached sheets.)

I realized, this evening, that several gifts we ordered have not arrived. We'll need to GIVE those gifts to relatives, tomorrow. We'll be on the road by 11am. If the gifts have not arrived by 10 tomorrow, they will be too late. So, I need to repurchase, either late tonight or early tomorrow.

I'm thinking I will curl up with a good book and rise early, instead of walking around Target, etc., like a zombie, tonight.

Speaking of which, we saw I Am Legend, today. We all enjoyed it.

I think it's just a different way of dealing with stuff

I don't drink coffee, but I need a few minutes to myself, in the morning. Quiet time without anyone talking to me or asking me to do stuff. I check my email, read my daily blogs, pick the first couple of things I need to tackle. It kind of helps me get a grip on my day. Sometimes, like today, I KNOW I need that time, so I haul myself out of bed when I still think I really want another hour of sleep.

I woke up this morning and decided that after I checked my email I would fold the 5 loads of laundry, and then wrap presents. That was all I could wrap my head around. "Internet. Breakfast. Laundry. Wrapping. Re-cap Later."

Then Hubby came down the hall with the big running list of stuff he's going to do today, and the stuff I need to do, and all the driving he's going to have to do over the holiday, and wanting the update on Son #3's finger, and needing me to help him with some stuff, and to remind him of the last few people we need to shop for, and he gave me the latest round of Christmas receipts to file, and he was checking the light bulbs he just bought (bright FLICKER dim FLICKER "maybe I'll return them I don't know")and he's walking back and forth down the hall to the bedroom, which we're keeping locked because it is heaped with presents for the Sons, so every time he goes in there he asks me to unlock it for him, so I had to follow him down the hall 4 times this morning (5th time, he unlocked it himself).

I've been up for an hour and 15 minutes and haven't had my quiet moment. Instead, I feel completely stressed out. And I realized, just now: Hubby is not trying to pile onto me. He is not trying to boss me around. He is not jerking me around, this morning. Chatting about what he's got to do today wraps his head around it all. That's the way HE plans. So, there is no point in me feeling like he has handed me the running list and I need to tackle everything on it--that was not his intention and I know he has no idea that I am stressed, right now.

So, I am back to square one. I will have some breakfast and wrap presents and fold laundry and that is ALL I will contemplate, for now. I'll admit, though, my shoulders are pretty darn hunchy around the ears, right now.

It's not a holiday without a trip to the emergency room

While playing football with Hubby's side of the family, Son #3 was tackled. His pinky assumed a jaunty angle.

Back inside the country club, Hubby asked if there was a doctor in the room. Five hands shot up.

They buddy taped the finger, we drove back home, and Son #3 and I hit the emergency room. Xrays confirm it is broken, so it is now in a fiberglass splint until we can get to his orthopedist, the day after Christmas.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

What look are we going for, Mom?

Son #1, upon being reminded that he CANNOT wear studded pants and a Rolling Stone hoodie to the country club for lunch today:

"What look are we going for, Mom? "Loser" or "Suck-up"? Because I'm all out of "Loser", but I have a hell of a lot of "Suck-up""

The word you're looking for is "Distinguished"

Hubby just noticed, this morning, that he has a few grey hairs.

Let us all hold cyberhands and pray that Hubby has the good sense to know that a man can look damn good, with a few grey hairs. Or even a lot of them. Dying your hair is for women--women prissier than Christine. If he starts covering HIS grey, I just may have to do the same, in order to not look like his aunt, or something.

I just don't know I have the energy for all that maintenance.

I am tempted to point out every sexy grey-haired man I see, but I think maybe that would come across less as encouragement for him to Embrace His Sexy Middle Years and more as "Gee, Christine sure does spend a lot of time checking out other men."

There is no future in that.

So, let me just state for the record that grey is not a dealbreaker. Grey can be The Hotness. There's plenty of play for Mr. Grey. OK? Now come on over here, baby, and give Auntie Christine a kiss...

Grapefruit junkies unite!

For the past few weeks, I have been overwhelmed by a craving for grapefruit. I cannot let them run out. I go to the store as soon as I eat the last grapefruit, and buy a new bag.

As you can see, I eat them at my desk. Every couple of days, I have to Windex my laptop, because it is sticky.

The grapefruit is delicious. I cannot get enough. Son #4 thinks this is hilarious. But, yeah, even I think it is kinda funny. I am going through a 3 lb bag of grapefruit about every 36 hours.

Which basically means that I am, accidentally and with no plan, kinda doing the Grapefruit Diet. Let's see if all this grapefruity goodness pays off on the scale, when I weigh in in a couple of days.

But even if it doesn't, I swear they cannot MAKE enough grapefruit for the Christine.

I have my reasons

It was the DARK chocolate kind.
I had just vacuumed, Saturday morning.
I had to pick it up, anyway.
I never buy them.
I have no other sweets in the house.

THAT is why I ate the M&M off the floor, just now. Stop looking at me like that!

The Best Thing About Our High School

Son #2 came home on Friday with a big smile on his face.

"You know the BEST THING about Great Mills High School? Best. Cheerleader. Uniforms. EVER. They are AWESOME."

Glad to know he's getting a treasured and lasting education.

Geno Didn't Mention and "Moose: a Three Strikes Story"

Last night I went to the Moose lodge to see my buddy Geno's band. They played a lot of old-school rock & roll, a couple of country tunes, Brick House, you know, fun stuff. Most of it was stuff the boys knew, too, so I noticed a couple of Sons singing along. I almost got a couple of them up on the dance floor, too, but...dancing with your mom is social death, and I wasn't going to push it.

I got to introduce the Sons to Geno, suitably transformed from "Christine's Fun Friend" to "Mr Mears Who Knows How To Act Around Children"--a transformation not every adult manages with grace.

The rest of the band was happy to talk music with Son #1, which was very cool. And the Sons shot pool. So the combination of pool and live music pretty much had us stoked, as a group. They even got along, mostly, which was a relief.

What Geno didn't mention, though, surprised me. Geno can sing.

He has been coming to Open Mic for months, playing great guitar, and keeping his lips zipped. But the man has a beautiful voice. GENO, NO MORE HOLDING OUT AT OPEN MIC.

And now, on to The Moose.

Years ago, when I was not even a teenager, I think, my father's boss insisted he join the Moose. And so he did. He ended up attending a lot of functions at the Moose lodge, because that's where his boss liked to do business, and Dad knew how the game was played.

The Moose, however, had a policy. "Moosettes", aka Wives of Moose Members, were only allowed in the front of the lodge. So, my mother could go sit around the bar with the other Second Class Moose Citizens, while Dad and his boss did Secret Moose Stuff in back, or she could stay home.

She chose, mostly, a third way, in which she taught me and my sister moose calls and a Secret Moose Handshake which we all used as my father left for his Moose meetings. It is very possible that the Moose has changed their policy on women, in the 25 or so years since Dad joined the Moose, but I don't know. When Dad's boss retired, Dad stopped going to the lodge. It wasn't all that fun, anyway, and Mom of course had us all Moose calling as a reflex.

Flash Forward to 1987...Christine, wearing a Cheap Trick t-shirt, most likely, brings Bash home for Thanksgiving weekend, and he proposes. My mother finally sees a use for the Moose: we can use their lodge for our wedding reception.

Except.

Two of my bridesmaids were not, apparently, suitable Moose guests. They were not eligible to enter the lodge, at all. Not the bar, where the wives cooled their heels, and certainly not the holy of holies which was the back room where receptions took place.

My dad officially quit the Moose, the day they told him he couldn't use the facility for my wedding reception because two of my bridesmaids were black. We all stopped Moose calling, and retired the secret handshake, and I for one was proud of Dad for taking a stand. Bigots. This was the late eighties, remember? As the Sons would say, "Cracker, pleeeease."

Again, it is very possible that the Moose have changed that policy, as well. I seem to remember a lawsuit, a few years back, that opened up the Moose for African-American members. But, you know, Two Strikes in my mind, against the Moose. Honestly, I never would have gone to a Moose lodge, if it were not Geno, and live music the Sons could hear.

And then, last night.

As I've said, Geno & band were great. We had a great time. Hubby came late, because he was auditioning a new lead guitarist for his own band. But about 10 minutes after Hubby arrived, they kicked me and the Sons out of the building. Apparently they noticed that they have a "no kids after 9" policy.

I think what they noticed was, I was a band Fan, not a band Wife. So all those kids shooting pool and bobbing their heads to the music were not there to support their dad, but instead were Breathing Moose Air Without Having Moose Cred. I will lay you odds, if Hubby had not shown up, they would have continued assuming I was there With Geno, instead of just To See Geno, if you know what I mean. And we would have seen the whole show.

But, hey, I have no problem with the "no kids around the bar after 9" concept, so we were out of there faster than I could even say goodbye to Geno.

(Goodbye, Geno!)

About 5 minutes later, I got a call on my cell phone from Hubby. He'd been kicked out of the lodge, too.

"ARE YOU A MOOSE MEMBER?"

Hubby explained that while he was not a Moose, he was with the band, and was going to join them on stage for a few songs. That cut no ice, with the Moose. Out on the street he went, after perhaps 15 minutes of Breathing Moose Air and Observing the Mighty Allure of the Moosettes.

Hubby and I, we are done with the Moose. But Geno, we love.

Gimme a "P!" Gimme an "M!" Gimme an "S!"

At this point, I can count on the fingers of one hand the people who have not jumped completely on my last nerve, in the past 24 hours:

*Hubby. Hubby is battin' a thousand, these days.

*Wave, who told me last night that I looked "Wonderful".

*Actually, everyone at the Country Store, last night, except that one guy who got on my nerves. Can that still count as just one finger? May I also stipulate that he wasn't TRYING to get on my nerves? And that I would probably not have minded him, if I were not preparing for The Most Wonderful Weeeeeeeeek of the Monnnnnnnth?

*Son #4

*A couple of girlfriends. Like Cyndie, who is talking me down on AIM, as I type.

OK, that is more than 5 people. I feel slightly better. But only slightly. Because I have PMS. And I KNOW I HAVE PMS. For the uninitiated, that means I am totally ready to rip you a new one, if you deserve it. The self-restraint I exhibit the rest of the month is Not Going to Help You Now, so Pour Some Sugar on THAT.

You have been warned.

Can you hear the F word under my breath?

Ugh.

The past few evenings, the Sons have been all up in each other's business. Much yelling, pestering, and tears. People stomping around. People Refusing to Get Out of the Car. It's a laugh a minute, over here. And of course they all have to talk to Mom about it, because it is all my fault that He Has It So Easy or He Is Such A Loser or He Is Being A Jerk or He Gets Away With Everything or He Is Trying To Get His Butt Kicked. They are all pointing the finger at each other, and all loaded for bear. I, apparently, am that bear.

By the time Hubby and I extricate ourselves from the turmoil that is 4 sons between the ages of 11 and 16, we are exhausted and bummed. Our evening is shot.

Tonight is Open Mic, and I WANT TO GO. I want Hubby to go. I want to have FUN, dammit! Away from bickering and yammering. And at this point, I don't know if we'll be able to go, because I don't know if we can leave the Sons at home unsupervised for 4 lousy hours. This makes me crazy.

Yesterday, Son #1 got dragged to a meeting wherein he was supposed to talk about his "First Gay Experience". An experience he has not had, because, of course, he was only at the Gay-Straight Alliance meeting because 2 hot girls had him by the hands and pulled him into the room. He and the other straight guy (also in the company of 2 hot girls) felt pressured to be something they are not. They were uncomfortable. And hearing about it last night made me uncomfortable, too.

Because, to me, talking about your sexual experiences is not for a group of random strangers and 2 hot girls you don't know well. Those conversations are for intimates. Like, your spouse. Your sex partner, or potential sex partner, if you need to warn them that you have a past. Maybe your best friend. But, of course, the school thinks that I am anti-sex, anti-gay, bigoted, etc, for wanting my son to keep his most private, personal thoughts and feelings and experiences in a private, personal place. I throw my hands in the air, I go nuts.

Today, Hubby asked me to fight with the dental insurance company. They won't pay for his crown, because they think he has had that tooth crowned already, less than 5 years ago. But they are wrong. The other crown was on an adjacent tooth. So I call, and get disconnected. And I call again, and they won't talk to me without Hubby's express authorization. So I will have to wait and call while Hubby is in the room, so I can hand him the phone. Which kind of makes me feel superfluous to the whole process.

I am feeling frustrated and grumpy and totally on my last nerve.

Yesterday, Hubby had to sign four separate sympathy cards. Including one for an infant. I just found out we're going to that baby's funeral, today. And yes, that totally puts all my problems into something like perspective. I have four healthy sons who are driving each other nuts, and a husband with functional crowns. I have a kid who is willing to try just about anything, for a girl, except lying about having a more Interesting sex life than he really has. I think some people would gladly trade their problems for mine, today. Especially the parents of that poor baby.

Just...crap.

Let's pack the Moose lodge!

My friend Geno's band, Four of a Kind, is playing at the Mechanicsville Moose Lodge this Friday night. Geno is a great lead guitarist (I know this from Open Mic Night) and a lot of fun (I also know THAT from Open Mic Night).

The show is from 8-midnight, and YOU CAN BRING KIDS. So, I'm bringing Hubby & the Sons, and Fiddlin' Writer is probably coming, also, with her two.

Those of you who are residents of the Happy Boondocks must, by now, be absolutely vibrating with excitement. Christine! Hubby! FW! Six boys! Geno!

In short, Christine knows where the fun is. So, come with us. Have some fun.

Christmas Trees for the Girls, Bloody Arrowheads for the Boys

I've been making cookie dough and sticking it in the fridge for the past few days, and today I baked. Chocolate chip/peanut butter cookies. Chocolate chip cookies WITHOUT the dreaded peanut butter (Hubby can handle peanut butter in sandwich form, only). Rolled sugar cookies a la Simpson. Here they are, although the last of the peanut butter/chocolate chip cookies were still in the oven, when I took this shot.

And tomorrow, or soonish, I will break out my pizzelle iron. Woo! I haven't made them in a few years, but this year I am feeling up for it. Also, my parents are coming down, this weekend, and I'd like to be able to serve them pizzelle. The pizzelle iron belonged to my grandmother. My mom uses an electric one, but I Cannot Do That. It Would Be a Culinary Travesty.

Of course, my mother also makes them more frequently than I do, perhaps because it is not an Ordeal, but I don't care. I do them the way I do them.

I may or may not continue baking, after that. I mean, this looks like a heck of a lot of cookie, to me. But I know that the Sons will eat their way through them, so I am not Terrified of the Baked Goods. Not today, anyway.

The Magic Man Shoes: Update

I showed Fiddlin' Writer a photo of a man wearing the Magic Shoes that Make Men Irresistable.

"That's them? Um...Christine?"

"Ohhhhh, yeaaaaaaah. Look at him, ROCKIN' those shoes."

"Er, um...ok."

So, let's just say that "this myth is busted".

Or, at least, very Christine-specific. Which probably explains why every man in the free world isn't buying Magic Shoes.

You can USE it like a towel

The Sons subscribe to the "toss your used bath towels in a heap on the bedroom floor, so they get moldy and the dog pees on them and Mom has to wash towels all the time" philosophy. This means there is almost never a towel hanging in the bathroom, when one of them needs a towel.

Some of the Sons have learned to check for a towel, before they start their shower. But Son #4 almost always realizes he's towel-less, as he's standing in the tub.

This can require a mad dash to the linen closet. But this morning he was in the bath early, while the older Sons were still at home. So he called to Son #1 to hand him a towel.

Son #1 tossed him a shoe.

"A TOWEL, PLEASE."

Son #1 tossed him a pair of boxer shorts (clean, I know, because I can see that he fished them out of the depths of his clean clothes stack, in the living room).

"COME ON! Just give me a TOWEL."

"You can use it like a towel."

He then handed him a Christmas-themed dishtowel.

"UGH! PLEASE!"

At this point, Son #2 chimed in with his traditional words of wisdom.

"In future, you should get your own towel, before you go into the bathroom."

Fortunately, Son #2 serves up his snark with kindness. He handed him a towel.

"But this is the last time."

The Boy Does Have a Point

And now, for something to make my female readers run screaming from their desks....

It's a lazy, weekend morning. Hubby wants to make a Hearty Breakfast, which requires a trip to buy bacon. Which means he needs a shower. Walking down the hall, he hears the sound of running water.

"Who's in the shower?"

All are accounted for, except for Son #2. But it turns out he wasn't in the shower, after all. He was going to the bathroom.

For a very long time.

"That's a mighty stream, my son has! Wow! No weak pee, for my boy! I am so proud! Listen to that!"

Son #1, standing in the hall, can't take it.

"SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP! Good GOD, Dad! Do you have to talk about him PEEING?"

As a mom, I hear the trigger phrase that pulls me into any familial conversation.

"HEY! Don't tell your Dad to shut up."

"Oh, come ON, Mom! Look me in the face and tell me you don't wish Dad would shut up, right now. Dad, you sure are lucky Mom loves you."

For the record, Son #2 was still peeing, throughout this entire exchange. Hubby is in awe.

Conflicting Study Habits...20 years after the Dorm

I have a pressing deadline. What I need is silence. Son #1 has homework. What he needs is music. This town ain't big enough for the two of us.

I think I'm going to chug lattes, so I can stay up after the Sons go to bed and write through the wee hours of the night.

Ugh.

I'm turning into my father

Back in college, when Hubby and I were just dating, he gave me a T-shirt from a band we both loved. He had even SEEN Cheap Trick, in concert. So of course I loved the shirt. It was Cheap Trick! and it was His. I came home from college one weekend and wore it.

My father went totally ballistic.

No daughter of his was going to wear a shirt that called her a Cheap Trick.

Well, um, I tried to explain to Dad that it was a BAND, and that it didn't mean anything, and that no one who read it would think anything other than "Cool shirt! I Want You To Want Me is great!" He would have nothing of it. Future-Hubby got the shirt back.

Ok, fast-forward 21 years. I am now the mother of a 16 year old who calls all good things....

"Pimpin'".

As in,

"Pimpin' cheeseburger, Mom! You rock!"

Saturday, while he enjoyed said cheeseburger, he, um, tried to explain to me that it didn't mean anything, and that no one who heard him would think anything other than "Great cheeseburger!"

I would have nothing of it. In MY house, cheeseburgers are "delicious". Not "pimpin'".

But, boy, do I feel old.

I (jingle bell) ROCK!

Poky Redhead's annual Christmas Prep Party was yesterday. A bunch of women who love her (PR has that effect on just about everyone) sit around eating and doing Christmas Crafts, in theory. In reality, mostly we sit around eating. And people who really feel ambitious might scrapbook (I did last year) or address Christmas cards.

So, yesterday I did all the cards.

YES, it is ridiculous to me that I need to drive nearly 2 hours, each way, to write my cards. But I did, and they are done, and they are IN THE MAILBOX NOW, with the flag up and everything.

I'm nowhere near done with the shopping, I am avoiding baking because baking leads to eating, and none of our decorations are up. But I have sent Holiday Cards (we have the occasional Jewish relative) to everyone.

IN YOUR FACE, MARTHA STEWART!

It's totally not fair that she's fitter than me

This morning I was on the elliptical machine. There were 2 women next to me doing the same thing, but they had come to the gym together and were talking to each other. One of them said,

"You know what would make the perfect gym, for me?"

And I was thinking, "Actually, I love this gym just the way it is. Lots of cardio machines, lots of weights, lots of classes, help if you need it but they leave you alone otherwise, 5 minutes from my house, decent music most days, and I never feel totally schlubby, even when the really buff people are there. Gee, I wonder what this woman would like to add?"

I was all ready to hear her tips. Some new class or piece of equipment that would ramp up my workout.

"If they had really dark, glossy, hardwood floors, and grey pads on the machines, and that really, really pale yellow on the walls. That would be great."