The Sky is Crying...or at least it is, in blogland

Today I found out that yet another blogger I check in with daily is calling it quits. The third in a week!

Hey, not that any of them should keep at it for MY benefit, but I'm sad to see them go. Sad, also, to think that they feel that blogging got to be unpleasant for them, or too much work, or too fighty. Ugh.

Well, to all of you, do whatcha gotta do. And please check back with me now and then, OK?

Calling All Locals: Ya Gotta Plan Ahead

Thursday is Blues Jam at the Country Store. Saturday is the ACME Blues Company show, also at the Country Store. I don't have to embed links because it's all over there----------------> in the sidebar.

I will be there (you know this like you know your own name). YOU should be there.

We are nearly a month into the smoking ban, so you nonsmokers have no excuse. On the bright side, that also means that if you don't show up I'll finally realize that the smoke was just an excuse, and I'll stop telling you that you should come out with me.

It made sense at the time

Son #1: "Why are you kicking me?"

Son #4: "I don't know."

A Classic Mother-in-Law Moment

Son #3 turned 13 today. He just called his grandmother to thank her for his birthday check, which arrived yesterday.

"Happy Birthday! I'd love to see you, but I just got this new cable package that gives you free movies."

Makes your heart just SING, doesn't it? Good thing Son #3 has a sense of humor.

UPDATE:
She called later today and met us for dinner. So, you know, she apparently realized that she can watch movies Whenever, but only have birthday dinner with her grandson on his birthday...All Is Well.

A Request for My Higher Power

God, grant me the eBay traffic to sell the crap that's cluttering my house
The compassion to keep my husband's treasures
And the wisdom to know the difference.

(Curious? You can see my latest eBay auctions if you look for chipsmommyfreelance.)

Girly Crap

Have I mentioned this before? Although I am a pretty low-maintenance person by nature, I do have my girly moments. When I do, you'll find me here.

Are you a member? It is fun for the thrifty/girly types, but you do have to be willing to, you know, mail stuff to people and accept their stuff in return. It's a great chance to try things out without spending a lot of money, or to get rid of things you Were Sure You Needed but now realize you can't stand.

Look for me, ok? I swap as "cebasham"

My Parents Are Coming

Son #3's birthday, and my parents' wedding anniversary, are both this Sunday. Since Son #3 is having a sleepover tomorrow, my parents have decided to come down tonight, for dinner and presents.

It is time to prepare.

I have to clean everything, like everyone does when the parents descend. But I have a list of other things I need to do, too.

Must get the mail before Mom empties my mail box, flipping through each envelope and asking about it (and perhaps opening one or two, if they pique her interest). If the mail lady brings an actual BOX to the door, while my parents are around, I have no chance of opening it in private. None.

Must hide my desk calendar, because she will note all events over the next month or two and invite herself along. "1:00, Copsey's Seafood, what is that? We'd love to come."

Must stash all my medications, because at this point she does not know that I have a few manageable health conditions and I do not want to spend the next 25 years listening to advice about them.

Must finish writing the article that's due today, because if I'm still writing when she gets here she will stand in the narrow path between my desk chair and the wall, to read over my shoulder and make "Hmmmm. Huh!" noises and ask when I'm going to write something about my sister.

Must stash my bag of "stuff to sell on eBay", because I am not allowed to get rid of ANYTHING.

Must get rid of the recycling, because it's got mail and scrap paper in there and she will look through it.

Must encourage Son #2 to finish assembling the complicated furniture she bought for his room (that he does not want).

Must discourage Son #1 from sharing too many Colorful Stories about life in high school.

Must remove blue nail polish.

Is that it? I think so. My day is planned for me, huh?

We need more restaurants in the Happy Boondocks

Hubby and I went out for Thai food for lunch. Very nice. And we planned to go for MORE Thai food, for dinner. (Thai people eat Thai food all day, every day, so why not?)

The Thai place was packed.
The Mexican place was packed.
The Vietnamese place wasn't packed, but it has Health Department Issues and featured a loudly screaming baby.
The seafood place was packed.
We drove past several other places and they were all packed.

We picked up Mr Brooks at Blockbuster, and takeout from Taco Bell. We let the Sons completely trash the kitchen, while we ate junky fast food and watched a movie.

Eh, it is not, perhaps, the most glamorous Valentine's Day celebration, but it was very much ours. And I now have a giant, heart-shaped box of candy and a teddy bear holding a heart to keep me company at my desk. So, can't beat that.

Mr Brooks, though predictable and full of holes, was an enjoyable movie. Someone recommended it to me...I have no idea whom.

The Warden has officially changed careers

Let me tell you a story.

When I was a teen, I was especially quiet and bookish. I did not smoke or drink. I didn't even drive, until I went to college. I was completely under the parental thumb--to the extent that I could barely even tell that it was so.

My parents insisted I attend church every Sunday, and religious education during the week. I went to Catholic high school.

I was not allowed to wear a bikini. Anything the least bit revealing or clingy was met with "No Child of Mine Is Going To Leave the House in That."

If I got in trouble, I was grounded BY THE SEMESTER. So, yes, that time I went to a party, in 9th grade, and there was alcohol served (because some of the guests were 18) but I didn't drink any? And the guy next to me tripped over a cat and spilled his wine on my pants? Yup. Christine did not leave the house for anything other than school or church for THE NEXT FOUR MONTHS.

My friends all called my father The Warden (but never to his face, because dear GOD, they probably never would have seen me again).

Cue the Bob Dylan:

Come gather 'round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You'll be drenched to the bone.
If your time to you
Is worth savin'
Then you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin'.

Today my parents' Valentine's Day box for the Sons arrived. Son #1 (16) and Son #2 (14) each received a pair of silk PLAYBOY BOXER SHORTS.

I am floored.

I feel surprisingly feminine

Went to the gym, where I spent an hour making GRRR faces while lifting weights. Came home and of course I had to check my email before I got in the shower. Son #4 came up behind me and gave me a big hug and kiss on the cheek.

So I asked him.

"Don't I STINK?"

"Not really, but you don't smell like peaches, like you usually do."

Peaches! Wow! That kid is gonna be a terrifyingly effective lady killer.

SEVEN! Seven of us!

The primary results are in. Seven people in my county voted for my presidential candidate.

I am the ONLY person at my polling place to have done so. I feel so...special! Like, I wish I could identify the other 6 and invite them all out for nachos.

The Republican Death March, and a Meme

I voted. For the first time in my life, I voted a total, don't-care-that-it-won't-matter, PROTEST vote. Made the whole thing a little more palatable.

And so, back to dumb stuff. Here's a meme, lifted from Avitable

1. If your doctor told you TODAY that you were pregnant, what would you say?
IT'S A MIRACLE! No, really, ya gotta run that test again.

2. Do you trust all of your friends?
Let's just say I'm friends with the people I actually trust.

3. Would you move to another state or country to be with the one you love?
Been there, done that. Would do it again in a heartbeat.

4. Do you believe that everything happens for a reason?
Sometimes.

5. Can you make a dollar in change right now?
Well, I'd have to walk down the hall...

6. Which one of your friends do you think would make the best doctor?
Kate. Scientific mind, very observant.

7. Are you afraid of falling in love?
Nah. Rejection, THAT scares me.

9. Is there someone who pops into your mind at random times?
Yup.

10. What’s your favorite scar?
On my left thumb. Caught a piece of broken glass, on purpose. Because, you know, shearing off my thumb was somehow preferable to having the glass hit the floor.

11. When was the last time you flew in a plane?
Summer of 06--coming home from Grand Junction, Colorado

12. What did the last text message you sent say?
Gravel? You voted for the nutjob?

13. What features do you find most attractive in the preferred sex?
Tall, strong jaw, and slightly scruffy.

14. Fill in the blank. I love ________.
sorry...still thinking about tall, strong jaw, and slightly scruffy.

15. What is a goal you would like to accomplish in the near future?
publication in Maryland Life Magazine (I queried today)

16. If you were to wake up from being in a coma for an extended time who would you call?
Hubby.

17. How many kids do you want to have?
Four.

18. Would you make a good parent?
Well, I think I was good when they were small. Jury's still out, on the teen years

19. Where was your favorite picture taken?
lying on a bench outside of Jurassic Park at Universal Studios, Florida

20. What’s your middle name?
Elizabeth

21. Honestly, what’s on your mind right now?
Why does he need my business card?

22. If you could go back in time and change something, what would it be?
I take the 5th.

23. Who was or will be the maid of honor/ best man in your wedding?
My sister.

24. What are you wearing right now?
The sweat-soaked clothes I had on for my spinning class. Had to check my email before I hit the showers.

25. Righty or Lefty?
righty. Both physically and by political inclination

26. Best place to eat?
The Country Store--because the food is good and I'm watching some of my favorite musicians, every time I'm there.

27. Favorite jeans?
Low-rise, boot-cut, dark wash things from Old Navy.

28. Favorite Animal?
Cats

29. Favorite juice?
anything in smoothie form

30. Have you had the chicken pox?
Yup.

31. Have you had a sore throat?
Who hasn't? Is this a trick question?

32. Ever had a bar fight?
No, but only because my friends pulled me out of there in time.

33. Who knows you the best?
Hubby and Kate

34. Shoe size?
7.5

35. Do you wear contact lenses or glasses?
Contacts

36. Ever been in a fight with your pet?
Yes. I almost killed that damn dog.

37. Been to Mexico?
Tijuana! Twice!

38. Did you buy something today?
Not yet. The night is young.

39. Did you get sick today?
Nope.

40. Do you miss someone today?
I usually do.

41. Did you get in a fight with someone today?
I have four children. Two are teenagers. One will be a teenager next week. Yes, I fight every day.

42. When is the last time you had a massage?
16 years ago, in Thailand.

43. Last person to lie in your bed?
Son #3

44. Last person to see you cry?
Some stranger in the next lane on the highway.

45. Who made you cry?
Me. Nobody else can make me cry, I think.

46. What was the last TV show you watched?
Beach Patrol: Panama City Beach (I am married, ok? I have no control over the remote)

47. What are your plans for the weekend?
My parents are visiting. Then my son is having a sleepover. I will be cleaning and telling people to be quiet.

48. Who do you think will repost this?
No clue

49. Who was the last person you hung out with?
Hubby (remember? Beach Patrol?)

50. If your significant other asked you to marry them TODAY, what would you say?
We're goin' ta Vegas, Baby!

It will make you feel like you're participating

Tomorrow I get to vote in my primary.

Hee. The REPUBLICAN primary.

In a decidedly BLUE state.

In a year in which John McCain would basically have to murder a puppy on live television to not get the nomination.

The Sons keep asking who I'll vote for. And I keep hemming and hawing. I will have to hold my nose and pick one, I guess. Not that it will matter. Because my primary is late (so my candidate dropped out ages ago), and my state will go Democrat no matter what I do.

I am just all hopped up on patriotism and civic duty, this morning. Whee, doggie!

Ya want quirky? I'll GIVE ya quirky!

I have joined Shamelessly Sassy's quirkiness meme, but am too cheap to pay the $5/year to have the meme widget on my blog. So, you know, go enjoy the beauty of the widget over there.

1 Ever since Hubby lost the hearing in one ear, I can only stand on the right side of people. I stand on your right and turn my head toward you, and we can speak. If I am on your left, I just...can't...stand it.

2 I find cold, condensed soup out of the can to be a very satisfying meal. I am prepared to be a homeless person, so long as I have a can opener.

3 I can't sleep in an unmade bed. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and can only get back to sleep if I smooth the blankets and square everything off.

4 I can remember all the lyrics, but almost none of the names of songs or the artists who made them famous. This drives my children nuts and makes me look like an idiot among my musician friends. Just, you know, start the song and I'll sing along.

5 I hate talking on the phone. This would shock and amaze my parents, who had to put in a second line, while I was in high school.

7 About every 10 years, I am so absolutely furious that I need a cigarette. I smoke one, and feel better. Aside from that, I do not smoke. Apparently, if I am not choking back the urge to kill, tobacco holds no charm for me.

8 Love the beach, hate the water.

9 Love to dance, am completely uncoordinated. (Oh, you really SHOULD come out with me.)

10 I almost never can identify voices. Perhaps this is a factor in my hating the phone...

You can tell a lot about a person, from what they buy at the grocery store

Today Hubby went to the store. He came home with roses (lovely, and smelly, too). Java Chip ice cream (one of my favorites). A frozen Indian entree (I love Indian food. He hates it).

Yup, he's been reading one of those true-crime books about a woman who murdered her husband, again.

Overheard From My Basement on a Saturday Morning

"Hey, I'm SLEEPING. Get OUT of here!"

"Hey, we're playing a game. Why don't you SLEEP IN YOUR OWN BEDROOM?"

Yup, Son #1 may act like he rules the world, but Son #4 will put him right back in his place.

Even Better than a Bar Bathroom

The Lobster Claw Machine!
The Country Store used to have one of these--put in $2 in quarters and take your chance on bringing home a live lobster. But, they wouldn't COOK it for you, so you had to carry Pinchy home, yourself. It was not a big moneymaker, so they got rid of it before I had a chance to take a picture. Much sorrow and regret ensued.

Last night I was there for Blues Open Mic and the lobsters are back! This has got to be the most hilarious thing, ever.

What A Woman Needs

Bling so blingy, it's a little embarrassing


A Chance to Cut Loose (that's me, on the left)


An Interest Other People Don't Care About (this would be my beloved ACME, although if you heard them you would love them, too)


A Healthy Habit


Someone Intimidating (In this case, brother-in-law's fiancee)


An Animal (this, by the way, is Jake)


A Vice


Serious, take-no-prisoners, FM shoes (yes, that IS a pair of 8-inch platforms, in the back)


The Big Closet

And, of course, girlfriends to keep her from totally losing it.

Hubby's Headline of the Day

Hubby sent me this. It is the kind of thing that makes me wish I were a headline writer, so I could take credit.

"They think of you as a MOM"

I straighten my hair. I wear foundation and mascara and lipstick. I have started wearing eyeliner. This is a big deal, for the Fresh Faced. But I like it.

At first, I only wore it to go out. Now, though, I often craft a fairly subdued smokey eye for everyday.

The Sons saw me putting on my eyeliner yesterday and the three youngest each asked, "Where are you going? What's the occasion? Why are you so fancy?"

I am just a hair's breadth away from the no-makeup look. Really, without the eyeliner it probably DOES look like I have nothing on my face. So I asked Son #1, aka Arbiter of Female Fashion (because he spends so much time checking out the ladies ;) if it looked bad.

"No, no. It looks GOOD. Keep it up! It's just...they think of you as a Mom, not as the kind of person who...does stuff."

So do I say anything? Who do I call?

I know the 14-year-old who was found unconscious on his bathroom floor: cocaine.
I know the 14-year-old who sold it to him.
He's still buying drugs, though not cocaine, today.

These kids used to be friends with one of the Sons, but then we pulled the Sons out of the local public school for a while and they lost touch. So I have a soft spot for both families, and an accompanying "thank God the boys lost touch--what if it were MY boy getting involved in this crap?". Used to be friends with one of the parents. Still run into the other set, from time to time.

Do I call the drug dealer's mom, in case she doesn't know? She probably wouldn't believe me.
Should I call the drug user's mom, in case she doesn't know he's still buying drugs?
Should I call the school, since these transactions are going on on the school bus?
Should I call the sheriff's anonymous tip line?

A low point in parenting and basic judgement

Our little crappy theater doesn't show movies unless they are Guaranteed to Make Money, so we often have to wait for the DVD. This time, though, 4 girls they know from school invited the two oldest Sons to a theater in Annapolis.

I didn't want a seventeen-year-old girl, distracted by the mighty mojo of the Sons, driving them an hour and 45 minutes each way. (Yes, the theater is actually that far.)

So, the Sons checked. The girls weren't driving--a mom was. Fully reassured, I gave the go-ahead.

OK, so I'm new to this High School thing. I don't know most of their new friends. They meet people at school, do much of their socializing at the school, and so it all remains mysterious to me. But when a woman pulls up to take my kids for the next seven hours, I figure I should go out and introduce myself. Let her know I'm a reasonable person she can call if, for instance, the Sons act the fool, or her car breaks down. My parents live minutes from the theater to which they're heading.

So I go out to their car, and the mom rolls her window down, and she has only shards, where her front teeth should be. She has an odd look on her face--a little glassy-eyed, and confrontational and distracted, at the same time. I am...distinctly uncomfortable.

"That looks like meth mouth," I think.

And then, I think again.

"I have a false tooth. If Hubby were not a good provider, I would have a gap in my mouth. Maybe she's just broke. And maybe having people judge her by her lack of teeth puts her in a crappy mood, so she hates meeting people who look like they just decided she's not capable of driving their precious darlings to the movies. And the flu is going around."

In a moment of Kumbaya Spirit, I smiled and went back in the house, where, I'll admit, I worried. The boys had a great time at the movies, and I decided I was a bigot for having thought anything about that poor woman's teeth.

Yesterday those Sons were invited to 2 different events, at people's homes. And then Son #1 mentioned the mom who had driven them, last week.

"Her mom is CRAZY. She was driving all over the road. I thought she was going to crash, seven times. And the first thing she said, when she pulled out of the driveway, was 'You motherfuckers better not spill anything in my car!' She was screaming curse words at us the whole time. I was glad you let us go, but I was REALLY glad we made it home."

So, yesterday, I went in. I chatted. I got to know Trevor's mom, and Hilary's mom and dad. I felt better.

I think they felt better, too. As it turns out, "I'm new to this whole high school thing, and still getting used to the idea that I don't know their friends," is a great ice-breaker.

Honesty, I guess, is still a good policy.

And now for something Completely Different: Cat in Dryer

This morning one of the Sons needed something from the dryer. Naturally, that did not lead them to EMPTY the dryer and move the stuff from the washer into it. They just took what they wanted and left the dryer open.

Ellie moved in.


And yes, in the foreground you can see my beloved Cabbages & Condoms shorts, with the happy penis in the condom.

I like happy penises.

First against the wall, when the Revolution comes

The other day I read this, and I thought, "Yeah, there is a lot of intolerance and hair-trigger hate, going around these days. Where is the 'kumbayah' I was expecting to have shown up, by the time I was 40?"

I commented on Nexy's blog. I like Nexy.

It's frustrating, especially, to hear the Sons' stories from school. These are the people who are going to be running things, when I am dependent on THEM. I'm a bit nervous. I know they're not adults, yet, they're still figuring out who they are, but at this point so much of high school cultchah seems nasty, brutish, intolerant, devoted to the most self-destructive of momentary pleasures, and unwilling to listen to opinions other than those they've already chosen.

Heck, I know, that was the case when I was in school, and things are better, among adults, I think. But still--it bugs me more than I let on, to the Sons.

And then yesterday Son #1 (aka "Jewfro", at school, because he has hair even curlier than mine) brought a photo of the family to school. People had been asking to see his family, and for myriad teen reasons he'd rather bring in a picture, than take them home to meet his actual family in the flesh.

"YOUR MOM IS SO JEWISH! And you look JUST LIKE HER! You are a JEW! JEW! JEW! JEWFRO is a JEW! WOW! And your Dad looks almost as Jewish as your Mom does! Wow! JEW!"

Son #1 tried to explain that his mother's, um, Mediterranean appearance is due to her half-Italian heritage, and that actually his FATHER (of the straight, glossy hair and straight, moderate nose) is 1/4 Jewish, but the crowd would have nothing of it. He is JEWFRO. He and his mother are JEWS. It is obvious, from the dark, curly hair and Mom's big nose.

"JEW! JEW! YOU'RE A JEW!"

This just seemed a little...well, a little scary to me.

I remember in college being good friends with a blonde, blue-eyed woman. Blanche and I went everywhere together, and people knew that one of us was Jewish. And, yes, almost always, people assumed that I was the Jewish one. We found it amusing. But the thing was, people were not POINTING and LAUGHING and SHOUTING at us.

(If you're out there, Blanche Brotman, I still think of you.)

"God's Chosen People" must get damn sick of having a target painted on their heads, all these thousands of years later.

It's not what they say, it's what they do

The Sons love my car. They call it The Powerful Mom Five (cartoon lovers of a certain age will know that is a nod to Speed Racer).

There is only one thing about it that they don't love. The musical selection.

Oh, don't get me wrong. They know ALL the words to ALL the songs on my beloved ACME Blues Company CD. They enjoy the one radio station my car still picks up. They are willing to give at least a passing nod to whatever other CD I happen to have on hand. But, you know, they have a tendency to complain about the, um, limited nature of the playlist.

"Why don't you have any Green Day CDs in the car? You have Red Hot Chili Peppers in the dining room, why don't you ever take them in the car? You have WAR? Why are we not listening to WAR? Why are you listening to this old weird stuff?"

(that would be Best of the Ventures, my friend, and I am not giving up Pipeline for anyone)

Son #1 just walked by, with his iPod. He will not admit it to anyone, but he is listening to Pipeline, by the Ventures, on his walk to school.

Ha! Musical victory, for Mom!

Don't Choke Your Brother, Your Hands Are Too Small

Last night, after taking Hubby out for Birthday Dinner, The Boy lectured Hubby and me on our complete cluelessness, as parents, because we had had the nerve to tell his brother "Don't feel bad. If you didn't promise that girl anything, she's not going to be mad at you for saying you're not sure you want to be more than friends yet."

After explaining that everything we know about relationships between the sexes has been wrong for the past 30 years (yes, apparently I was already working on outdated dating info when I was ten years old and had not yet discovered boys) he moved on to Human Nature. Apparently, we don't know anything about that, either.

Religion: we are clueless and naive.

Parenting: we are coddling the brothers so they will never be able to make it in the chalkdust jungle that is high school.

Drug use and law enforcement: Ha! It's amazing we are allowed to walk the streets, we are so pitiably misinformed.

In the spirit of The Beatings Will Continue Until Morale Improves, The Boy talked and talked until Hubby and I were ready to send him to reform school on Mars, two of his brothers had exiled themselves to distant rooms in a failed search for peace and quiet, and one of his brothers was driven to tears.

"He's complaining about the exact stuff HE does to US, all day long!"

Longtime readers will remember that he did the same thing on MY birthday.

Around 6 this morning, while we were still asleep, he let himself into our bedroom, turned on the light, and did something in the master bathroom, and then let himself out. Did I mention we were both naked? Because, you know, we were in our own bedroom with the door locked, and asleep? Thank God I was under the blankets.

This morning, while I was battling nausea/soreness/chills/exhaustion/general wishes that death would come swiftly, The Boy insisted that I help him straighten his hair.

"Look. I did it for you yesterday. It isn't hard. You can do this. I'll talk you through it," I said. "I guarantee, every girl at school with straightened hair does it HERSELF. None of THEM has their mom do it. And I am DOING STUFF, OK? It's YOUR hair. I'm not even going to straighten my OWN hair, today."

Much whining ensued, but he did manage, with only fleeting assistance from me.

He had a dentist's appointment this afternoon, and spent so much time dicking around while I stood in the doorway, yelling, "WE NEED TO GET IN THE CAR, NOW," that we had to reschedule.

He then spent a good hour on the phone--the landline, even though we bought him a cell phone for Christmas. He worked in a dig at his brother, and told his friend that his entire family is crazy, while I stood inches away.

And he asked me to find him a photo, because he didn't want to bother taking a new one, even though, again, we bought him a digital camera for Christmas.

He then took the last bottle of my special, fantabulous soda which I can only get once a year on a trip down to Florida, drank a few sips and complained about the unpleasant "aftertaste".

His room is a mess, his possessions are strewn throughout the house, he's alienating his brothers and seems hellbent on driving me to find that dusty pack of cigarettes I have stashed around here, somewhere.

See that? That's my last nerve, right there.

I'm just a little bit freaked out

Because I have been outed.

Hubby's birthday was yesterday. He spent some time on the phone with his brothers, getting the traditional congratulations that come with being the baby of the family (he is 44, but his youngest brother is 58, so Hubby looks like a mere babe, and shall continue to do so, forever. While I, 4 years older than my sister, am the Older One, and therefore have one foot in the grave).

Hubby mentioned to Jesus Bill, about whom I have blogged, that Hubby has a blog of his own. Jesus Bill will probably check it out. And when he does, he will probably notice that there is a link to MY blog.

"What? Christine has a blog?"

I am counting on my generally dull reputation to discourage any and all familial scrolling of the Total Waste of Time Archives. Because, you know, the very thought of Actual Relatives reading some of this stuff is about enough to give me hives.

So, if you're reading this, Welcome, Jesus Bill. Love ya. And if the subject comes up, all you need to say is, "Christine has a really boring blog."

Well, thank God THAT's over

Hubby is a bass player (sometimes a drummer, too, and occasionally a guitarist, as circumstances merit). He is actually pretty damn good. The man can PLAY, OK? And I love to listen, love to watch him play.

Sometimes, he's in a band. Other times, he just jams with friends, hangs out at open mic nights, stuff like that. A part of me really misses it when he's not in a band, and I know he misses it, too. But then again.

BAND MEMBERSHIP=BAND DRAMA

He joined his latest band a few months ago, and I can honestly say I was AGAINST IT FROM THE START. "That one guy is a jackass," I thought, just on the basis of what Hubby reported to me about the audition. "I have a bad feeling about this whole thing."

Yes, I am such a tremendous judge of character that I can suss you out, even sight unseen. Trust this.

Last weekend Hubby's band performed somewhere, and it was...it was...well, let's just say it rhymes with Mustard Duck. So awful that the band disbanded that night.

One of the contributing factors? The BIGGEST factor, if you ask me? Yup. "That one guy is a jackass". For months, we have heard it from all over town, from people who used to be in a band with That One Guy. The music scene in the Happy Boondocks is incestuous, at best, so everyone knows everyone else, at least by reputation.

And I have tried as hard as I could not to Yoko Ono/Janine Pettibone myself into the situation. I constantly reminded myself I am Just A Fan and a Wife and a Chick Who Loves to Dance. I am Not a Musician and I Should Keep My Mouth Shut.

I have failed, miserably, as this blog entry attests. I TOLD him so, and after a while I couldn't STOP telling him so. I am embarrassed to tell it, but this blog is all about tellin' it like it is, so there ya go. Christine went a little overboard, on the nagging front, when it came to Hubby's latest band's Obvious, and Incontrovertible, Faults.

Anyway, the great thing about it is, Hubby is already working on forming a new band. Hubby on bass. Guitarist he knows and likes. Singer who kicks ass in a major way. And...a drummer, tbd.

They will be getting together later this week, to start ironing out the kinks. I am at least as psyched as Hubby is. I cannot WAIT to see what happens with THIS band. It is much more the band I had been hoping for, when he got suckered into The Band Whose Name Shall Not Be Repeated on My Blog Again.

Up is down, black is white, the election is coming

Fiddlin' Writer and I are at a loss. As the wildest Republican and most conservative hippie Democrat in existence, we have managed an uneasy truce on the political thing. Basically, we don't discuss it. No big deal, we have plenty of other stuff to discuss. She and I could talk allllllll day. And have.

During the last election, all we managed to say to each other on the political front was, "I am losing sleep, terrified that your candidate will win."

But this time, it is odd.

Her "rabid Republican" father is planning to vote for Hillary, "because it's about damn time we had a woman in the White House."

And my "crazy-liberal" mother-in-law supports Guiliani, because she is still amazed at the transformation he wreaked on her beloved hometown of NYC. "Everyone was polite. No one cursed. The streets were clean and there was no graffiti. I felt absolutely safe, wherever I went. It...just wasn't like home."

It is official. I have NO FLIPPIN' IDEA who will win. Heck, at this point, I am not even sure who's got MY vote.

Ugh. That stuff should come with a warning label

I saw some friends today, got some hugs. And that is great. But I got home a little while ago, and realized that that nauseated feeling I've been battling all afternoon is directly related to whomever it was who hugged me, while wearing Shalimar.

I know, I know, Shalimar is lovely and I am a clod for not loving it, but it makes me just want to hurl, ok?

In a perfect world, everyone who wears Shalimar would be required to wear a small warning label.

MOM! YOU HAVE TO SEE THE MANTAGE!

And, as usual, the Sons were correct.



They forgot, however, a few key mantage moments:
backing into a parking space!
stealing food from the dog's dish!
washing his hair with a bar of Ivory soap!
playing bass AND drums. With a broken leg!
laughing at fart jokes!
setting things on fire!

What's missing, ladies?

The Taller You Get, the Less Women Like You

Son #1 is explaining his irresistability to his brother (two years younger and about 4 inches taller) and best friend (also slightly taller than Son #1).

"The taller you get, the less women like you. They LOVE babies. They think toddlers are adorable. Little kids are cute. You get too tall, the women lose interest. Back me up, Mom--would you date an eight foot tall man?"

He has a point. And he does seem to be Catnip to the high school crowd. But, um, Hubby is over six feet tall, and I Ain't Complainin'.

Mr Backrub's Plan to Fix the World

Once I start mentioning you again and again, you earn Nickname Status on the blog. That way I can talk about you without worrying I'll embarrass you. So, here's to YOU, Mr Backrub. I bet you know who you are, even though I only devoted about 2 seconds to choosing your nickname...

Mr Backrub told me, the other night, of his great idea to eliminate the need for viagra, cialis, and all those other drugs.

"What we should work on is a pill that makes semen taste like chocolate. All the women in the world would say, 'Come to me, Willie Wonka!'"

I think that would probably go a long way towards establishing world peace, too.

For Jill: The Country Store

As you know, I love the Country Store. I get my blues fix there at least twice a month, and sometimes even more than that. There is plenty of grab-assing and dancing to be had. The food is awesome. And there is one more thing...

Though the men's room often has a long line, there is almost never a line, for the ladies' room.

Often, I will slide right in to the ladies', confident I can spend all the time I want reapplying my lip gloss because there's no one hopping from foot to foot outside the door.

If, however, you happen to be stuck in line, I have provided Entertainment. I made a couple of collages of my Blues Open Mic photos and hung them on the wall, across from the restrooms. Feel free to peruse, and loudly compliment them.

They also have a wide variety of nice liquid soaps, if you're into that.

Other than that, it's just a bar bathroom, but I know Jill is especially fond of those, so Here You Go, Jill.

Poky Redhead also will benefit from this particular post. SEE, I CAN INDEED wear a hat with a feather in it and not look like a pimp. Or one of those Red Hat people.

Sue Reviewed Me!

OK, this was just the thing I needed today. Sue reviewed my blog and actually made me sound OK :)

Her blog is a lot of fun, too. Check it out!

Heath Ledger and Fred Thompson

Yesterday, Heath Ledger died and Fred Thompson dropped out of the presidential primary. I have talked with a mess of people and everyone is upset about one of these events, but no one seems to be upset about both of them.

I guess my Heath-loving friends and my Thompson-loving friends have only myself in common.

My Office

Most of the time, my office is in a corner of the living room. Some day, I figure, I'll have A Real Office with Four Walls and a Door. But that has to wait until the Sons move out.

Today, the Sons have off of school. We'll get their haircuts, and two of them will visit the dentist. They also are going to clean their bedrooms, if it kills us all.

Which brings us to my office of the day.

I am sitting on the floor in the hall, between the open bedroom doors of Sons #2 and 3. I can write the article I need to submit today, while watching them clean their bedrooms. I feel like the Cleanliness Nazi, but it's getting done.

Unintended Moral Lesson #105

Last weekend, Sons #1 and 2 went to a movie with some friends. The movie was hosted by the friends' Catholic high school. They went. Had a good time.

But Son #1 spent a good bit of time laughing at the idea that his friend's religion teacher bootlegged The Bucket List to show it to a bunch of high school students.

Yes, for those who missed it the first time, the school had a religion teacher steal something, for the moral benefit of students.

Christine Doesn't Care

Everyone posts these beautiful blog entries about the things that matter to them. I think I will, instead, tell you the things that I couldn't care less about, that I get the impression I'm supposed to, somehow.

Seasons. I don't need 4 of 'em. Winter is for crap, I tell you. If we only had the other 3, I'd be pleased. Work on that, will you?

Square Footage. Poky Redhead asked me yesterday, how big my house is. I can't remember. I could look it up, but who cares? It is cramped in here, now, and will feel palatial when the Sons are grown and gone. That's all I know.

Home Decor. Bah. Aside from an ill-advised foray into colorful walls (screw you very much, Sherwin Williams guy), I don't care. Hubby picked out the new carpet. He decided we needed blinds. If he wants new furniture, we get it. I love the stuff he chooses, and we have very similar tastes, in a furniture store, but I suspect that if I were living alone, I'd be sitting on the floor. Maybe I'm just lazy and cheap, but I don't understand how people can get all excited about choosing cabinetry and furniture and coordinating things, when they have perfectly good, useable stuff right there already.

What's On TV. I put the news on while I'm in the kitchen. But if the TV is otherwise on, Hubby or the Sons turned it on and chose the show. I sit through whatever they're watching, generally attempting to tune it out and listen to my own thoughts. If I can't, I aim to sleep. YES, there are shows I enjoy. But not enough to seek them out.

Hair Grows. The Sons are inching toward long hair. I don't care. I gather them up every once in a while for a trim, just so things look orderly, but if they all end up with rocker hair, I won't care. Just, you know, no product.

Gadgets. I have a ton of them, but I keep going back to: a knife, a saucepan, a skillet, a spoon. Maybe I just am tired of the additional noise of powered things. Maybe I miss the counter space under those gadgets.

Fancy Brands and Glamor Foods. I've had caviar and Brie. Ick. Those purses with the logos all over them look tacky as hell to me, too. I try exotic things, and I appreciate well-manufactured goods, but I am not going to buy anything to make a statement.

Being Fashionably Late. If I want to go, I want to be on time. Sometimes, in my eagerness, I even arrive EARLY.

I feel like a curmudgeon, so I think I'll stop here. If you all decided I was just a cranky bitch, well, I'd care about that.

We are hooked

On Rock Band.

We got it for Christmas, and it is FUN.

It's like Guitar Hero, but you can also play bass, and drums, and sing vocals. We've been playing a lot. It's a total riot. Here are a few things I've discovered:

I am the world's worst video game player. Although, I knew that.

Hubby is a bigger kid than all the Sons. It's kinda charming. Although, I knew that, too. Hubby is all about the boyish charm.

Son #1 is quick to "save" me, when I fail out. It's sweet.

Son #4 is a natural front man.

They spell it "s.a.p."

"Christine, can you show me the special way you crack the eggs so the shells come off?"

So I did. It's not brain surgery, folks!

"Mom, it's too cold for me to walk to the bus stop, because my hair is wet. And I can't wear that leather jacket you bought for me, even though it's below freezing."

So I drove them to the bus stop, which is all of .2 mile from the house.

I am a wife and mother. Spell it S.A.P.

ALF's archive meme

ALF, who swears she dislikes blog tag, has challenged us all to link to five specific blog posts in our archives.

Oh, yeah, THAT isn't going to take long.

So, here I go;

One about Family

One about Friends

One about Me

One about Something I Love

One random one of my choice

Are these my favorites? Well, not really. I'd be reading all day, to find them. But, they are a sampling, anyway.

Where everybody knows your name

And they're always glad you came...

Yup, Son #4 and I hit the ER again today. He woke up with the sensation of broken glass in his eye. It was red and teary and painful, and flushing it with saline at home didn't help.

Fortunately, the wait at the ER was so long that before he saw a doctor, it had resolved itself.

On the way out, he noticed the doctor who had sewn his arm up, on Christmas Eve.

"There's Dr. Esterhay! Can I go say hi?"

We are just toooo comfortable at the hospital.

2 am and they're as giggly as schoolgirls

The Sons have a couple of friends spending the night. Which means, just like it did when I was 12 and hosting half a dozen girls in the basement of my parents' place, they are Not Sleeping.

My parents were convinced that the "stay up all night and giggle" thing was a girl phenomenon. If they'd had boys, they wouldn't be dealing with that. It is to laugh.

At 1:30 this morning, the boys in the basement were talking so loud the dog (who sleeps in my bed) barked at them. Hubby tossed out a few of his Wallpapering Words and went back to sleep, good ear to the pillow. But me, well, once I'm up, I'm up.

So, in between telling the boys to CUT IT OUT, ALREADY, YOU'RE NOT FOOLING ANYONE WITH THAT STAGE WHISPER, I have been:

reading celebrity gossip web sites and National Review
eating ramen (needs cilantro, but I'm not shopping at 2 am)
watching that video of the tiger attacking an elephant on YouTube
considering cleaning (but that's even more pathetic than ramen and dlisted at 2 am)

I have also discovered who is rifling through my envelopes. Ellie, our cat, just tried to nest in there. It didn't work. Cats love a sheet of paper, so an entire stack of paper must have looked like Shangri-La to her, but...it is slidey, so she has returned to her favorite chair. I bet she tries it every night.

And the boys are mostly quiet, now. But they are clearly exhausted, and therefore giggly. I never would have believed that was possible, as a girl. All those middle school boys seemed so different from us. I guess I was just envisioning their future manliness. Because there is not a lot of Gary Cooper in my basement, right now, no matter what the girls think of those 6 young guys.

The moral of the story? It is good to be deaf in one ear.

De do do do Girl

I was discussing the timeless meaning of The Police with Son #2, the other day. He thought "De do do do, De da da da" was stupid. Until, of course, I asked him if there was anyone who made him feel that way:

Don't think me unkind
Words are hard to find
They're only cheques I've left unsigned
From the banks of chaos in my mind
And when their eloquence escapes me
Their logic ties me up and rapes me

De do do do, de da da da
Is all I want to say to you
De do do do, de da da da
Their innocence will pull me through
De do do do, de da da da
Is all I want to say to you
De do do do, de da da da
They're meaningless and all that's true

And then it hit him. He does, indeed, have what he calls "De do do do Girl". He just found out she'll be on his field trip with him.

Battle of the Bulge Fitness Challenge: A belated carol

Oh, holy crap
My gym's having a connnnntest
And I signed up because I am a nut
Prizes are few
And I shall not win aaaaaany
But I press on, hoping to tone my butt
A class each day
These teachers are all fascists
But then again
They all are in great shape
Falllllllll on your kneeeeees
And giiiiiiive me forty puuuuuuush-ups
My triiiiiiiceps are shocked
But I keep coming back
I waaaaaant that iiiiiiiiiPod
Shuffle
And flatter abs

Not that I'm a fan, or anything, but...

They are sure making a big fuss over Hilary getting a little sniffy. I am starting to feel like the campaign process is a most unhelpful way to elect a president.

The Idle Americans

I saw these guys last night. They run the blues open mic I often rave about. This is from a show I missed, but beggars can't be choosers when it comes to scraping content off of YouTube.

Teachers: Classy, Sophisticated Professionals

Son #1 got some great stuff from Hot Topic for Christmas. The other day he wore one of his new shirts to school. He looked great. He thought he looked great. All the girls thought he looked great.

His teacher, however, did not. While insulting one of his regular targets, he managed to zing Son #1, as well.

"You're an idiot, but at least you don't look as gay as _____ does, in that shirt."

That's some enlightened public education, right there. Makes me proud to send my kids to school.

For the "Man Resume"

I have been teasing Hubby, for a while, that I am such a fabu wife that he needs to write me up a recommendation letter for Hubby #2. You know, should he decide he's tired of me, or whatever, I figure, with a good CV, I could just walk up to Mr Fabulous of My Choice and apply.

"I'm the woman you're looking for, and here's a notarized letter to that effect." Save all the bullshit.

So every once in a while, I'll mention it. Whenever I do something he truly appreciates, I say, "Don't thank me, just put it on the Man Resume while you still have it on your mind." I think he takes it in the right spirit. We chuckle.

This Christmas, Hubby had an extensive Wish List at Musician's Friend. It was fun buying stuff I knew he'd like. So much fun, that Musician's Friend has sent me a coupon toward my next purchase. They like me. I am spendy.

So I told him that could go on the Man Resume, too. "Just put a wish list on Musician's Friend, and she'll buy you whatever you like!"

Hubby nixed that one.

"Ohhhhh, no. I'm not writing THAT down. You'd attract alllll the wrong kind of people."

Takes a deadbeat musician to know one, I guess.

Calling all tattoo artists

Son #4 got his stitches out yesterday. He is taking antibiotics for an infection which has the whole thing kind of pink & puffy, but otherwise I guess we have a pretty good idea of what the scar will look like.

It is a crescent, with the ends pointing towards his wrist. I am thinking it would make a great shark mouth, should he ever decide he needs a tattoo.

Any great "incorporate the scar" tattoo ideas for my 11-year-old?

Hey! The Government Found Me!

A friend of mine writes the Thursday blog posts for Gov Gab, one of the Federal government's blogs. Nancy is great. She even has a pseudonym, on this blog. And today, she wrote about me!

Wooo, me! I am famous!

So run on over and check us out.

240-813-5221

Late last night, my cell phone started beeping. I'd missed a text message. But I was in bed, with Hubby, who is about the only person who ever texts my cell phone, so I knew it was not a real person. This morning, I checked the phone.

The message, from the above number, read:

"Pat McCarthy is someone you need to fuck up."

Sugar, I'm flattered, but I have got to tell you I am five feet, three inches tall. You are requesting thuggishness from someone who just...can't...help you.

Update on the Events of Christmas Week

I've been getting questions, so here are your answers.

Son #3's finger doesn't hurt. He is feelin' fine. He is also faithfully doing his exercises, because Dr Herring made it clear that the alternative was not cool in the least.

Son #4's arm doesn't hurt. The stitches look cool. He's working on a story to tell the ladies, in future. Something involving the Cong, I think.

My friend's son did not have a broken finger. He had a broken HAND. I am encouraging her to press charges, because thugs like that need to be labeled so the rest of us see them coming. HEAR ME, BLONDIE? POKE THE POLICE.

Son #1 had the same reaction to his friend's "the one who's a ni..." statement. "DID I JUST HEAR WHAT I THINK I HEARD?" I mentioned it to him after I blogged about it (because I AM interested in being factual, but...not necessarily enough to check things before I blog). And he scooted around with me for a while. "Mom, do you think he is...a RACIST? HIM? His whole FAMILY? Racist? REALLY?" And I left him with..."Well, all I can say is, I heard what I heard, and I can't imagine a situation where that word would cross your MIND, let alone your lips, so there it is."

NO, I am not sick of ACME Blues Company. They are awesome, and their CD will be in my car forever. No, I do not need more than one or two Non-ACME CDs in my car at any one time. If you don't like the rotation, bring your own CD. Better yet, tell the ACME guys to hurry up and release a second CD. What a ridiculous question. Geez. "sick of ACME yet." Where did that come from?

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."