Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Boys Will Be Boys

LM just returned from camp a few days ago, only to start another day camp immediately after. This means he's had a lot of exposure to non-family members as of late. And I kid you not, I've had at least three people come up to me in the last 24-hours with some sort of variation of this statement: "Guess what I heard your son say!"

I always look forward to hearing these little tidbits. I'm rarely embarrassed by them anymore. But today.... Well, LM got me to blush a bit.

Our children's pastor at church happened to be LM's cabin leader last week, and when he saw me today he pulled me aside for a chat. I could tell he had an LM story.

"So, we were all hanging out in the cabin talking and joking, and suddenly LM announced to the group, 'Hey, we should stop talking about inappropriate things-- like boobs!' Only thing was, we hadn't been talking about boobs, but the boys' ears sure perked up at the new subject!"

LM was standing next to me during this recitation. And this is where it got...awkward.

"Yeah, I told them we shouldn't talk about these!" He then proceeded to point one finger of each hand at both of my ta-tas. But he wasn't finished. (Because there are even more parts on a lady you shouldn't talk about, of course.) A hand then snaked down, pointing just inches away from my crotch.

"Or this!" LM exclaimed.

Even fully dressed, I felt the need to use one arm to cover my chest and the other to hide my nether regions. I mean, where was this poor man supposed to look during this whole exchange? A person's eye is compelled to follow a pointing finger. But this gentleman was giggling so hard (doubled-over), that it saved us both from having to figure out the eye-to-finger logistics of the situation.

"Okaaaaaaaay!" I said quickly, shoving LM's fingers away from my bod squad. "That certainly is inappropriate buddy-- I'm sure glad you didn't speak with the boys about that stuff!"

Aye, aye, aye....

Monday, June 25, 2012


As you can see, I'm in the middle of revamping my blog. I'll keep you posted if I end up scrapping this one and starting fresh, or if the remodel is enough to suit my needs. Stay tuned! (And do tell me what you think, won't you?)

Tuesday, June 19, 2012


Love letters. When I was 18, 19, 20...apparently I wrote lots of 'em to hubby. I have no recollection of doing this, but I did. And I have proof-- I just found it the other day in a previously unexplored corner of the house. (A whole stack of proof, in fact.)

That's one of the advantages to living in your husband's former home; finding little pieces of history you didn't even know existed.

You know what another advantage is? Finding all the love letters the others wrote too. And oh, I found some juicy ones! In fact, I discovered many that made me wonder why on earth his mother chose to save them. (I mean, didn't they make her blush tomato red?) All in all, they made for a very interesting afternoon of reading.

But every now and then I couldn't hold it in....

"Hubby! What did Bambi mean when she said---?"

"Hubby! Why did Trixie tell you that---?"

"Hubby! I cannot believe you did/said/thought---!"

"Hubby! Did Candy really---?"

"So, Cherry was pretty hot then, eh?"

Pretty soon hubby came traipsing into the room, curiosity getting the better of him, only to find me surrounded by a pile of letters. Letters written on napkins, letters written on Hallmark cards, letters on paper towels, on notebook paper, letters with pictures, letters containing confetti, lipstick kisses, the remnants of old fragrance.... Letters proclaiming undying devotion, heartsickness over break-ups, letters pieced together from magazine clippings, memories of good times together (sometimes too "good", in all honesty).

"Where did you get those?" he asked, looking a bit sick.

"Your mom saved them. Did she read this one-- hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm?" I proffered one of the more interesting notes. He sputtered.

"Ugh! Throw them away!"

"Are you sure? They're your history!"

"They're evil."

"They're a lot like the ones I wrote," I said flatly.

"That's different...."

(You got that right, buster.) But, reluctantly, I did as he asked and threw them away. Sigh.

And the ones I wrote? Well, I kept those, as ridiculous as they were. (Who was that girl, anyway? Was I really that...insipid? Good grief, give me a pen and paper and see what kind of letter I can write now.)

As for hubby's fake I.D. I found...that's another story altogether. (Unfortunately, hubby got his hands on that one and shredded it too.) Oh, I just love treasure hunting in this house!

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Two Aspies Are Better Than One

Yesterday was my last day of mentoring for the current school year. And since LM is already out of school, I asked him if he wanted to come along with me-- you know, to help.

"Why?" He asked. He always asks such awesome questions.

"Because LPB has Asperger's just like you! And I thought you'd like to meet him-- he doesn't have very many friends."

This got LM to thinking. He's a champion of the underdog, after all, and I knew I'd reel him in with that little tidbit.


When we got to the school and caught sight of LPB, my little man walked right up to him. Shy is not a word in his vocabulary.

"Hi! My name's LM, what's your name?"

LPB didn't answer at first, but then reluctantly proffered his name. LM then stuck his hand out to shake (the wrong hand), and LPB took it (with the doubly wrong hand) and I smiled down at their awkward exchange. This was gonna be fun.

We sat down to play a game together and I marveled at these two boys. One would say something, the other would completely ignore it, and neither seemed offended by this trend. I thought to myself, "Sheesh-- why bother with conversation at all?" but for some reason unbeknownst to me, this style of communication was working for them.

The game soon morphed into a sort of imaginary scenario in which game pieces became bombs and all hell broke loose. I don't know when or how it happened-- but they were totally tracking with each other.

"Pretend this is their ship and they are going to attack the enemy."

"This one's army is about to bomb the bad guys!"

"I'm sending a spy to see what the enemy is doing."

Sometimes they'd listen and go along with the other one's idea, but more often than not, they played in a sort of parallel manner rather than actually intersecting. And yet, they managed just fine. (Neither of them talked to me one iota, by the way. I could have gone out for coffee and wouldn't have been missed.)

At the end of our hour, LM and I left, and you know what? He hasn't mentioned LPB since. And I'm pretty sure LPB hasn't given LM any thought either. Aspies....

Friday, June 8, 2012

Up Yours, Upchuck!

Puke makes me wanna puke. And I've been having to clean up the stuff a lot lately. Our dog, Carson, has been graciously providing me with oodles of opportunities to fight my gag reflex in the last week.  (I suspect it's all the cat-poop she's eating out in the yard-- or something else equally delicious. Whatever it is, it's brown, chunky, and contains bits of yard waste.) Huge yard + no fence = one giant doggie buffet.

But what I really want to know is; why do dogs always have to find a spot of carpet to puke on? Our upstairs is completely hardwood floors except for an area rug and a few foot-wiping mats by the doors. Yet she has managed to land 75% of her vomit on the aforementioned carpeting. Why, why WHY? The only time she's managed to spew on the hardwood is when I've seen it coming and tried to get her outside first-- but there's no doubt in my mind she was aiming for the rug. She just loves pukin' on that rug....

So, is it just my dog who prefers to make my clean-up job infinitely more difficult, or is it a universal canine trait? Just curious....

And don't worry, she appears to be doing just fine now. (Well, as fine as an ancient boxer can be, that is.)

Monday, June 4, 2012

Drink Up, Me Hearties!

Someone visiting my house might ask, "Why does your 9-year old son have a Stella Artois chalice on his desk?"

I have two answers for this:
1. Pirates need chalices. Duh.
2. His aunt procured it for him. Aunts do stuff like that.

And anyway, it was our little concession to him after refusing his request to have a shelf full of rum on display above his bed. ("I won't drink it!" he promised, but still....)

Now all he needs is a parrot named Paulie! (Don't even think about it.)