Here You Go Again

When I told lap and akk I was moving my blog, yet again, I thought for a moment that they were going to smack me.

But then maybe it was just me feeling silly for moving my blog, yet again.

kitschinlogic dot wordpress dot com

Same blog. Same me. Differnt spellin.

Remember to change your links and read feeders.

Where’s My Pole?

Before I left for Iowa, which by the way, I love. I love Iowa. There. I said it. It’s full of corn and I love corn. And my friend Dan lives there and I love my friend Dan.

Who, by the way, has brought me down to the level where I’m admitting my love for Iowa so now, I don’t think I like Dan so much anymore. I’m from Minnesota. I was born to dislike Iowa.

Remember when Field of Dreams first came out? Guess who called me to quote that damn line, “Is this heaven?” “No. It’s Iowa”. Which was actually 2 lines in the movie. And I believe, because I’ve been told, those same two lines were said twice. Because the first time, who’d believe it, so they just used it again.

You know. I’m not sure that those lines were said twice. Ricky Nugget said they were so I’m relying on his intellect. Any Field of Dreams officionados in the house?

Dan used to call me in the fall when the Hawkeyes beat the Gophers in some  football game. He never seemed to get around to calling me when the Gophers beat the Hawkeyes. I used to know the game was on, over actually, when the phone would ring and Dan would say “How ’bout them Hawkeyes?” in his southern drawl. Which just cracked me up because Iowa is not Texas why are you talking like that? But after my first visit to Iowa I understood why Dan talked that way. Country music. That’s all they’ve got down there. Well, practically.

I never knew if the game was on unless the Hawkeyes won. I missed the game entirely the other years. Dan quit calling me after the games a few years back. I don’t recall when that stopped. Perhaps the Gophers have won for several years now.

I think it’s time that annual event got renewed. And this fall, when the Gophers win, I’ll be calling Dan.

***

Did I mention to you that I’ve decided it’s time for me to go back to work? I don’t think I want to go back to work full time. Unless I find something full time that is so exciting, working full time wouldn’t be a bother. I don’t like to be bothered. And god forbid I should suffer with the bother.

But it’s time I got busy. And so this fall I’m going back to school.

Secretarial School.

I have just gone back in time. To about the year 1955. When girls graduating from high school that wanted to further their education went on to teachers colleges, nursing school or secretarial school.

I’ve been a secretary. Even got retitled for many years to administrative assistant, office manager, and executive administrative assistant.

But I want to go back to simpler times and be a secretary. Call me what they want, I want to be a Secretary.

And I’m going back to school to learn how to be one after actually being one for over a decade.

I figured I wanted to fine-tune my fine secretarial skills so I’m looking into one-year programs for medical office assistant and medical transcription. And then, hopefully, find me a little part-time job in a clinic or perhaps land me back at home transcribing medical whatever it is they transcribe. I don’t know. Haven’t signed up for classes yet.

There’s a Secretarial School right near my home that’s got a 12 month program for just that very thing. It’s not really a secretarial school but that’s how I’m going to refer to it.

Now all I need to do is get my secretarial ass over there and discuss the financials. I may have to strip to get the money I need but I hear that stripping money is really good these days.

Class enrollment starts mid-August. I’m going to sign up as quickly as possible so I can get my Secretarial Gym Class of choice!

Is This Heaven? No, It’s Iowa!

Google Maps said it’s a 3 hour and 40 minute drive from Bloomington, Minnesota to Ankeny, Iowa. But if you factor in the weak bladder of a 50 year old woman and summer construction it was actually 3 hours and 10 minutes there, 3 hours and 30 minutes back.

I drive like a mofo. Were I younger with a stronger bladder and it were fall, past construction time, I’d get there before I left!

Interstate 35 is almost a totally straight drive from Bloomington to Des Moines. I could have almost closed my eyes and made it. Were there bumpers and no other drivers.

Ricky Nugget was going with me, until the last minute, when I told him to get out of the car and he did. You see, Ricky Nugget has been neglect in keeping his meds current and when one of his meds runs out, so does Ricky Nugget’s level of tolerance toward his wife. And when his level of tolerance toward his wife is low or gone, his wife’s level of willingness to take him along to Des Moines is also gone.

He figured out his meds while I was gone and I got a king-sized bed all to myself.

Couple of things about Iowa from the central north to the central center…

1) It’s very flat. You can see the corn growing a few counties away.

2) Those giant wind generator things are scary as hell.  One on it’s own is eerie. But a farm of 60 of them is downright creepy. On the way home, I passed three trucks hauling three of the whirlygig doohickies that spin and scare me. They’re even scarier when they’re detached and right next to you. I try to  make them less frightening by calling them whirlygig doohickies, which is probably how the durigible got it’s name, too. (just not from me)

Another thing about Iowa…

3) B-Bop’s has got to be the shittiest hamburger I have ever eaten. Also? They’ve got this weird drive-thru pay-window thing going on and I ended up following the guy in front of me and having to pay through the passenger-side window. And there was an arrow on the path that said we were going in the right direction. What the hell. That is not a question. That is a statement saying that that is some stupid stuff. And your hamburgers suck. Making Sonic’s burgers look juicy. Which they are not.

I took the back roads to Allison’s funeral. Got to go through Dan’s growing up hometown. That made me tear up. Reminded me of when Dan and I were in college and I stole his high school sweatshirt for a period of time to wear for my own, just because I wanted to, until one day he finally just gave the damn thing to me. Which was after he’d left college and his bassett hound, Otis, ate most of the sweatshirt.

What a perfect little Iowa small town. Big old grain elevator. Everyone driving 25 mph. Take a right and you’ll get to the next small town where they’ve got a very old Maid Rite store. Wish I would have stayed longer for a Maid Rite. I haven’t had a loose meat sandwich in a long time. (By the way, it wasn’t snowing when I was there. It’s July. Duh. But this is the actual store from an internet photo, so there you have it.)

Allison’s Visitation (which I call it as I was a Catholic) at the Lutheran church was packed. As was her funeral. Which is no surprise. Allison was nice. Which makes me realize that if this is the only gauge of number of attendees at a funeral, mine will be very not-attended. I should give that a little time to sink in before I open my mouth next time.

Oh hell. Nah. I can’t. Allison was sweet. I am feisty. Amen.

By the way? This is the first lutheran funeral I’ve gone to in a long time that didn’t include the pastor calling us sinners. What a frickin’ relief. I was starting to feel paranoid. That pastors used that just because I was in the audience. But there I was, in the pews today and he was a very nice pastor who just did nice funeral-type stuff without alienating the people who need to be there the most. I, being #1 on the Most Wanted at Church hit list.

Their oldest daughter eulogized Allison which had the congregation sobbing, sniffling and hiccuping (that was me. lost control while trying to not sob uncontrollably). What an incredible daughter. If I were nicer perhaps my children would also be this incredible. But I am not. Nor are they. Well, my kids are fine but the bar is forever raised about what children can aspire to be. Did I mention that their kids are also gorgeous? Whatever, good people. You just enjoy your lovely selves. As will I because you are in my life. Whether you volunteer or not.

Dan was incredible under all the stress of the loss of his wife. Of course he was. That’s Dan. I told you, I don’t have rotten friends. Anymore.

Allison would have been very proud of her own funeral. Even the part where her old daughter confessed that she didn’t like the jacket that Allison picked out for her last outfit.

“When she showed it to me, I said ‘No!’ but mom made that jacket look good” she said.

And they buried Allison with an empty box from Tiffany’s. “She told us that she liked the box better than the bracelet that came in it”.

I love that. And every time I walk past the Tiffany’s here, watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s or see a Tiffany’s box, I’ll think of Allison.

It makes you wonder about what you’d want buried with you (or in my case, fried up in the oven with me).

I’d want cake. And Ricky Nugget. If he were off his meds. And gouda. Plus some pinot grigio. And milk chocolate. Kettle corn. A good hamburger from not B-Bop.

I’m hungry.

Probably Should Just Wear a Muzzle

Terry was right. Cosmic didn’t have much time left.

And the only thing I can think to say is Fuck. Fuckity fuckity fuck fuck.

Which is why I’m rarely the person people look to when writing a proper eulogy.

But  hey, we’ve all got our personal styles of grieving.  I just happen to become one with my inner-tourette’s.

As I head to Iowa for my friend Allison’s funeral, it would be in everyone’s best interest were I to get my mouth under control.

Fuckity fuckity fuckity fuck fuck fuck fuck.

And amen.

Allison

When I took the dog for our evening stroll last night there was this beautiful sky. Rain clouds with the most glorious rays of sunshine poking through. It was so incredible that I had to pause. And I thought, “Oh dear. Could this beautiful sky be for Cosmic?” (a blogging friend who is near the end)

Less than two hours ago, I missed a phone call from my college buddy Dan. Dan’s wife, Allison, and their two daughters and I have become friends as thick as my friendship with Dan. They live outside of DesMoines, but I never let that get in the way of my liking them.

Those girls of theirs. How I want them to be my daughters in law (well, once my older son gets fixed)

I returned Dan’s phone call.

Allison died this morning.

A decade and a half of one battle with cancer followed by another battle with cancer. And another fucking battle with fucking cancer.

I have not been able to figure out how Allison could keep such a positive outlook on each and every damn battle. In a phone conversation last year, she let me know that sometimes she gets a little mad about it all.

People. The grace of Allison.

I told Dan this morning that I could just never get over how amazing Allison was with her graceful battle. “Hell” I said, “Were it me, I’d be the biggest damn stomping baby in all the land”.

“Yes you would!” he agreed.

“You didn’t deserve her!” I said.

“I can’t argue with you there” he replied. And we laughed for a second because we know there wasn’t anyone better for Allison than my friend Dan.

I am not friends this long with people who don’t deserve wonderful people in their lives, like Allison. The amazing people she created out of those girls of hers. She didn’t do that alone.

Dan. I am always here for you. And those wonderful girls.

Even if it means a run for chicken wings at Hooters.

I am truly blessed to have known Allison.

The Power of Suggestion

The dog wrote her own entry this morning. In case you needed to read a dog-written entry. Who doesn’t?

Stupid dog.

My first dog. My last dog.

If my first child had been like my first dog, I’d never had a second child. And if I never had a second child, I wouldn’t laugh so damn hard.

Damn kid.

Cracks me the hell up.

Last night he wanted to drive his girlfriend home. I was worried he’d be a little nervous and I was also worried that he hadn’t driven on busy roads. And the last thing  I needed was him to get in an accident, with his girlfriend in the car, and having to smooth that over with her parents.

But he did great. He has a confidence that amazes me.

“I love driving!” he said, after we’d dropped off his girlfriend.

***

I went and got a pedicure yesterday. Rosie said I had to. Well, she didn’t command me to get a pedicure. She suggested it. And I am such a pushover that I went and got one. My first pedicure of the season.

I walked into a local place and they sat me immediately in one of those massaging chairs with the little bathtub for my feet. And then I sat there for a good 45 minutes because they didn’t have enough staff to keep up with the demand of old broads getting their hoofs painted.

It’s a newer nail salon so the massage chairs are also new, and very nice. I want me one of those. With the little foot tub.

I’d had a good book along so I didn’t mind waiting. I was not thrilled that I got a man to do my pedicure. Not as bad as having a man give you a massage, but still awkward. I made the best out of an awkward situation and kept my face in my book. But really, it’s just weird to have a guy putting nailpolish on your toes.

I survived the horror and walked out with some awfully pretty feet. Thanks for planting that idea in my head, Rosie!

Today’s suggestion by someone else comes from Thing 2, who wants a batch of Velveeta Fudge. I’ve never made Velveeta Fudge in the summer, it’s pretty much a Christmas thing. But hey, homeboy deserves a batch.

Cosmic

Since 2001 I’ve been a Cosmic fan. So it breaks my heart to read her husband Terry’s entry in her blog today.

I’m going to hope for a miracle but I understand that our little boobless fighter wants nothing to do with a ventilator.

Remember, long time Cosmic readers, when she had her breasts removed to prevent breast cancer and people sent her tube tops?

And her book? I own her book. Love her book. Love the character of the woman who lived it and wrote it.

My best to Karen and Terry and the kids and the grandkids.

One Day In Your Life

This is my favorite Michael Jackson song.

So very sad.

Get Yourself Up Dust Yourself Off Remove Wallpaper Paste

Rather than sitting around and driving myself crazy with parental worrying, I’m going to finish removing the wallpaper paste from the first floor walls, while listening to talk radio. And then I’m going to start peeling off the rest of the wallpaper from the stairway up and into and all around the second floor hallway. And if time permits, I’m going to start painting.

I’m doubting that time will permit.

But I  need to get this wallpaper crap behind me. Our home remodelling/redecorating has been at a standstill for a long time now. Kind of died about the same time we caught onto our son’s tomfoolery. What, two years now?

I was kind of  hoping Ricky Nugget would get back to it and thereby motivate me to get back to it. But Ricky Nugget is as stuck as I am. Hell, I can’t even get him to swap out a toilet seat or put up some new outdoor lights I purchased this week. He actually asked me to return them so they wouldn’t be looming at him, causing him to feel overwhelmed.

That was the straw.

We can’t sit here and wait for everything to get right anymore.  We need to get up, dust ourselves off and finish this mothertrucking remodelling and redecorating. At least that way, when we decide to run away from our children, the house will be market-ready!

***

Thing 1 has a Driving Jones. That kid came to me last night at 9:30 and said “let’s drive!” And so we drove for an  hour. I took him over to an office park with lots of parking lots and a little quiet road between. Then that little mofo took off out of the parking lots and little quiet road, onto the regular streets and into a Burger King drive-thru. Most interesting drive-thru window pull-up ever. Even the Burger King employee was cracking up.

I had to trick him out of the driver’s seat so I could finally go home. That kid does not like to drive in a straight line. He likes to turn and turn and turn some more. I was starting to feel sick to my stomach. Near-menopausal women cannot go in circles. There’s something that starts after the birth of their child, throwing strong stomachs off-kilter. It begins with the swingset. Swinging is no longer fun, it’s sickening. And by the time they approach menopause, spinning in circles is over.

Or maybe it’s just me.

***

I have a horseradish Jones. I started Weight Watchers (again) and am in need of new and exciting food that will fill me and help me lose the fat. I picked up some light white bread (don’t lecture me, I love the white bread), some deli meats and a little bottle of smoky horseradish sauce.

I’ve never eaten horseradish sauce. But I thought, hey, I like wasabi, how’s about I try some horseradish and some roast beef?

Loved it so much that I had a sandwich for lunch and a sandwich for dinner and then another sandwich for breakfast.

I suspect that I will repeat this process until I’m damn sick of it, at which time I will hope to have a replacement low-fat food obsession.

***

The girlfriend trip to Atlanta has been postponed. We’re working on a fall date. Which makes a lot more sense, if you ask me. Who goes to Atlanta in July on purpose?

But don’t you worry about me not having a good girlfriend getaway. Plans are in the workings for a few days in New York.

I can handle summer in New York! I can handle just about any weather in New York!

Here’s What I Don’t Like

I had a rough day yesterday. Just ask my friend Buzz, who happened to call me after getting a scope put up her butt. She thought she had it rough? Big, colon-cleaned baby. I’m kind of hoping she was still drugged up because I’d rather she didn’t recall all the swear words I used in our conversation.

I woke up way too early yesterday. I did not need more awake hours to a very bad day.

And I certainly didn’t need my dog to misbehave so badly that I spent an hour’s drive running through a conversation I was going to have later on with the dog rescue people, who I was planning on returning the damn dog to.

No. I didn’t return her. But that doesn’t mean it won’t happen.

Stupid damn dog.

I spent the day trying to figure out how in the hell we’re going to deal with the possible return of our older son. And then I spent more time trying to figure out how I’m going to deal with people who make comments about what I should do and how wimpy a parent I am. Insinuating I have no house rules.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I have house rules.  What would make you think that someone like me wouldn’t have fucking house rules? That makes me worry about your comprehension skills.

And if it were easy to just turn my back on my son, I’d do it. But it’s not easy. It’s a fucking nightmare. And how’s about when and if your child goes through this, you turn your back on them and then you tell me how you could live with yourself.

There are other options to try first. You’re not helping me. You’re making it more difficult for me. Stop it.

That would be a Comment Rule.

Hells bells, I’ve got Comment Rules. How do I not have House Fucking Rules?*

*I think somebody needs to have some fun today. Don’t you?

One and Two

Seeing as how I messed up the first kid so bad, I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. So the other night when my son said “I don’t want to learn how to drive!” I said, “Huh. Innerestin’. Alls I want is 10 minutes. You have to give me 10 minutes. And then you’re free to go about your business”. I never pushed the first one to drive. Much. Well, I did kind of push him but you can only push a kid as far as his buried feet will alow. Thing 2 is much easier to push around.

“Fine” stomp stomp stomp.

I drove us over to a local middle school/elementary school with a large parking lot.

“All I want you to do tonight is get a feel for the gas and the brake. That’s it”.

“Fine” stomp stomp stomp. “Which one is the gas?”

Cripes. Do these kids never watch? He’s been riding in my car for 17 years now. You’d think that for one second he might have looked to see what my feet were doing. But from the moment that kid was able to sit in the front seat he’s been working the radio or his iPod.

He got the brake and the gas quickly. And then he could not stop parking. Wanting only  to center the car perfectly in a parking space.

“Could you please just drive a little instead of driving five feet and parking, getting out of the car to see how well you parked, getting back in, driving five feet and parking, getting out of the car to see how well you parked, getting back in. Please?”

“This is fun!” Drive. Park. Drive. Park. Check text messages. Drive. Park. Drive. Park. Check text messages. Drive. Park.

“I bet you think this is boring, don’t you?” he asked.

“God. Yes. Just drive without parking for a minutes, puh-leeeeeeez?!!!!”

I good almost a solid hour out of the kid. Few more visits to the parking lot and I’ll have him over for his behind the wheel. Let that guy have some fun with my kid.

Note: 2nd part of this entry has been removed because I really don’t want to deal with unsolicited suggestions. Unless you’re walking in my Chuck Taylors, you just can’t know. And I think I have enough on my plate without having to weed through suggestions.

Between the Laughter

I heard a quote on the radio today “Keep doing what you’re doing and you’ll keep getting what you’re getting”.

Ain’t that the damn truth. And, how many facets of your life does this apply to? I’m too embarrassed to tell you my answer to that one.

***

Ricky Nugget and I watched that movie “Rachel Getting Married” this weekend.

“What’s this about?” Ricky Nugget asked.

“Somebody’s sister is getting married and hilarity ensues” I answered. Without really knowing the whole answer. I just wanted to watch a movie for escape from our way too quiet house.

Okay then. I was only partly right afterall. Anne Hathaway plays the drug addict of a sister who’s getting married about two days after she gets out of about 9 months of rehab. The movie depicts the self-absorption of the addict and the family’s altered lives due to the addict’s shenanigans. To put it lightly.

“That was fun” I said, after the movie was over.

I’m going to need a movie palate-cleanser to get over that one. Maybe a little Napoleon Dynamite or something foreign, like Amelie. I could use a good dose of ridiculousness or a foreign film that has a pair of Red Chuck Taylors play a key role in the plot.

***

It’s going to be a hot mofo for a few days this week. I guess it’s good training for me seeing as how I’m going to Atlanta in mid-July. Which is about as bright as the time I went to Orlando in June.

I’m not the brightest travel planner. Then again, this trip to Atlanta in July is not my idea. I’d have planned for a fall trip or a mid-winter trip. But hey, the invitation was given for a good time with good girlfriends and I can’t pass it up. No matter how miserable I’m going to be. Between the laughter.

My Dead Dad

Like I said in a recent entry, I have boxes and boxes and boxes of photos. They need to be organized or tossed out. But a few photos have made it into photo albums for unknown reasons. I’m guessing I was drunk when I put them in photo albums because they make no sense in the albums where they currently reside.

Seeing as how it’s Father’s Day, I would like to pay tribute to my Dead Dad with photos. My pops was a crazy photographer. So crazy that there was a period in his life that he  had a dark room and all the equipment a guy would need to start his own photo development booth. Were kiosks the thing back in the 40s. That’s my dad, ahead of his time with nowhere to market. One day I’ll tell you again about his Pik-R-Stik invention and how it would save limbs of young farmhands, but the patent office rejected it because there was a washing machine agitator that was kind of similar to it. We still can’t figure out how a washing machine agitator stopped my father from getting rich with a farm machine implement that saved limbs. But hey, that’s the government in the early days. I’m sure things are much improved with the government now.

I thought this morning about what photos to use in this photo essay that seems to have more words than essay, so far. My dad was a writer. Short stories, long stories, published stories, letters to the editors, stories that made me feel sleepy as I typed them for him.

Should I use a gorgeous photo of him from his younger days? His happier days? The days before he met my mom and had us kids? That doesn’t have much to do with father’s day but is awfully generous for me to do in honor of a man’s pride.

Dad wrote on this photo “NORTH OF FAIRBANKS, ALASKA – 1949″. I’m sure he didn’t meant to yell at us with all the caps. He just wasn’t prepared for how his capitalizing of letters would look in 2009. Lordy Gordy (for that was his name – Gordy, not Lordy) This was 60 years ago this very year! He looks different now but I’m guessing that North of Fairbanks, Alaska, looks pretty much the same.

Should I use a photo that my father had staged? In this photo I am the photographer. Dad was the mastermind behind the Family Band photo. These are things he did when my mother’s mother would show up, with a daughter-in-law and a cousin, and my Great Aunt Effie. I’m sure he made many duplicate copies of this photo and sent it all over the United States of America plus Norway. My dad had a thing for goofiness, and musical instruments. He liked to sit on the front steps and play his ukelele. (my dog has fleas, tuning that damn ukelele ditty comes back to mind right now)  And harmonica. And jaws harp. And banjo. My dad played the banjo. Oh, the shame. And he did it for all the neighborhood to see. And he wore white shoes. My childhood fiance, Peter, thought we were rich because my dad wore white shoes. I don’t know why we had drum sticks, as we had no drum kit. The electric guitar belonged to my older brother. Thankfully my dad didn’t take it and an amp, and play it from the front steps. The thought probably didn’t occur to him before the guitar was gone. Had he thought of it before the guitar went away, he’d have done it.

p.s. That’s my sister, top-left. Note how much taller she is than our Grandma (standing, red turtleneck, redwhite&blue pantsuit) My sister is almost 5′5″. Grandma was about 4′10″ then. Before she shrunk away. Also note that my mother is laying on the ground, in her nightgown. Apparently she wasn’t aware that family was coming for a visit that morning. This was a pretty regular tradition. Grandma and Grandpa would drop in, bring more relatives, and my mother was always surprised. You’d think that after 20 years or more of this happening every weekend, she’d catch on.

Should I pay tribute to my father with a photo of him doing something he loved to do alot? This is a photo I’m pretty sure I took when we went on a CB (Citizen’s Band) convoy to southern Minnesota to a park for a picnic of people who only knew each other over the radio. (Pre-blogging days. It’s in my blood, people. Talking to strangers not face-to-face.)  People. My dad made me ride in a convoy. And I talked on the CB. Probably said “Good Buddy” more than once. My CB handle was “Gumalost Kid” (stinky Norwegian cheese. my dad named me) His handle was “Senile Stud” Why did I go everywhere with him? He had 3 other children. Why did they not go everywhere with  him?

I would like you to take special note of my dad’s pants pockets. They were full of who knows what. Always full of who knows what. Polyester stretched alot. Kind of like a snake swallowing a large rat.

Did I just use the work “snake” when writing about my father’s pants? I need to take a shower.

I could use either one of these photos of dad. For someone who got MS and was labled “disabled” he got around alot more than alot of people I know. That damn scooter. What a pain in the ass that thing was. Before he got his handicapped van with the lift, who do you think had to load that mofo into the back of his pinto? That would be the kid who went everywhere with him. Or any stranger off of the street. My dad was not shy. “Hey you! Grandma! Could you help a guy out here?”

That thing weighed a ton. Hell, the battery alone weighed a ton. And back in those days, they didn’t come apart for easy car transport as the scooters of today do. “Back in my day, my Amigo had little tiny wheels that couldn’t roll over a penny, and a battery that didn’t even last to the back of the grocery store!”

I’ll have you notice that in this second scooter photo? You can see a radio antenna of some sort. That would be my dad’s hand-held HAM radio. In case he needed to call out an SOS. And? I do believe I got my skinny legs from him.

Speaking of HAM radio, no photo essay for my dad would be complete without showing you his gear. That dude was crazy about his HAM radio gear. He even started buying old gear, revamping it and giving it away to handicapped kids for some HANDI-HAM thing he was involved in. He drove his family nuts with the HAM radio obsession. He’d be up all night long CQing here and CQing there (HAM’ese for Seek You…lonely HAM radio operators in search of other lonely HAM radio operators who’d hook up via the airwaves and talk about the weather). I couldn’t bring home a guy from college without the poor guy being dragged into dad’s HAM Radio room (he had a room just for the CQing of lonely farts on radio frequencies all over the damn world who needed to know how the weather was in Panama at any given time).

Dad might want me to show a photo of him that he’d taken of himself. While holding a flower. Because he is a dork and loved to do dork things.

Were dad alive today, divorced from my mother, and looking for love on oldgeezershookup dot com, this would probably be the photo he’d use in his profile. Taken via webcam.

The ladies would be running to The Gordon. I just know it.

Unfortunately for my dad, and for all of us who miss him dearly, he is not here to control what photo would go in his love seeking profile. I get to be in charge of what photos go around the world.

So I leave you with this photo of my dad that would make him want to kill me and have him laughing at the same time. I am, afterall, very much his child. The one who went everywhere with him, followed his every move, and adopted a whole bunch of his character. And caricature.

You should haven’t named my CB handle after some stinky cheese, you old fluff!

Happy Father’s Day to my Dead Dad. I miss you a thousand times a year.

Just Another Conversation Between the Love Birds

“I’m going to 1) finish removing the hallway wallpaper and paint it this summer, 2) paint the two upstairs bedrooms this summer, 3) paint that outdoor furniture this summer” I said.

“I’m going to start jogging 20 miles a day so I’ll be ready after I sign up with NASA to be an astronaut!” Ricky Nugget said.

“I hate you” I said.

“Where are my jogging shoes?” he asked.

“I like how they made little sections out of their back yard” I said at a graduation party yesterday. “I want to do this to our yard”.

“I’m joining NASA!” he said.

“I hate you” I said.

He had no reply.

I won.

Halloween College Style

This is Spaz and me for Halloween 1978. We were kids. Siblings, to be precise. I believe Halloween costumes should have theme and character more than just an outfit.

We’d smeared chocolate all over our faces and had pretend fights at the party we went to.

That would be our poster of John Travolta on our dorm room wall. That was the craziest dorm room year of my life. We were wild party animals. I can’t believe we didn’t get kicked off of the floor. It was our 2nd year at college and I’d been dumped by Gerry. Not to worry. Lucius, who became my first husband, was waiting in the wings.

You know. In case you worried that I might be without a boyfriend for an hour or so.

The next year, when I was dating Lucius, before breaking up with Lucius later on that year, Spaz and I were Hawaiian tourists. She was my wife. I was a big man who wandered around the party that year taking fake photographs of partyers. I’d have Spaz pose with them. Tell them all how we were on a Milkman’s convention in Hawaii. Had extended our stay before getting back to the dairy farm. There are no photos of me. In my possession. Perhaps some other blogger out there has photos of me and writes about how he or she has no photos of themselves but perhaps some other blogger out there does.

Lucius is the sheik on the right. The greasers would be our South American/Central American friends, Nacho, Can’t Remember his Name, & Tito. That could maybe be Martin Boumansour, from Equador. Chile? Carlos from Brazil? Equador? No. Can’t remember my old latino pal in the latino greaser sandwich. I do know Nacho and Tito. Why, Nacho was just in our home here only 12 years ago!

Lucius and I broke up some time that next spring? We stayed broke up for a year or more while he dated some poor gal that I scared the poo out of every chance I got, and I dated Pretty Dumb Guy #2. Then we somehow got back together, got married, stay married for 4 years, got divorced, and became friends like we should have been from the beginning. The End. Nice love story, huh?

Pretty. Dumb.

I’m just going to keep scanning old photos until you guys scream “Uncle”. And then I’m still going to keep scanning old photos because nobody tells me what to do!

This week, when my cousin Kaja was in town (hi Kaja!) and we’d met at The Cheesecake Factory, so I could clog my arteries and go back to the cardiologist I’d just taken Mom to that morning, we’d got to talking about people we used to know. Particularly people we used to date.

I was talking about one guy in particular. I was talking about how she and I had a thing for smart men. Except for this one guy I’d dated. “He was pretty dumb but he was really pretty so I went out with him for alot longer than I should have”.

“Oh. Yeah. Gerry?” Kaja said.

“Okay. I dated two dumb guys who were really pretty”. I had a thing for really pretty guys who were pretty dumb, for a brief period of time, I guess.

Here’s pretty Gerry. (sounds like Gary, only it’s spelled wrong.) I don’t think I have any photos of pretty Dean to share with you.

I thought about photoshopping out that zit that’s about smack dab between my eyebrows. But I try to be open to you all so why remove my one flaw?

One flaw. Lordy. I crack myself up. Like you could even look at me with Gerry in the photo.

Kaja used to tell the story about how after I’d left college, she ran into Gerry, who worked stock at the grocery store in town. (Gerry was from the college town). Kaja would make her voice go all dumb, saying “Hi. Kaja. kachunk kachunk (that would be Gerry using his price labeller on the cans) How are you? kachunk kachunk“. That was pretty much all Kaja had to say about her conversations with Gerry. Which wasn’t much more than what Gerry and I had to say to each other.

Did we talk?

I don’t remember.

Who needed words?

Oh. Yeah. Probably me. I have a thing for words. Use them all the time.

According to recent google stalking, Gerry’s still in Mankato. I’d love to see him again. See how good the years have been to him.

See if he ever figured out how to button his shirt up.

Eyeglasses

I barely have a prescription in my glasses at all. What in the hell was up with these?

I will have you know that even though I quit hanging out with my little buddy Spaz, up front, and good old MaryAnn on the right,  some time after Ricky Nugget and I got married – I am still friends with Tammy (on the left) who was my best friend in high school and still one of my best friends to date.

I think this was my birthday, back in 1988 and we’d gone bowling. After drinking really big drinks at Red Lobster. Where all the good looking people with really cool eyeglasses hung out. Tammy had baked me a birthday cake and decorated it after just one cake decorating class.

I know I have a picture of Tammy and the cake somewhere around here. I’ll post it when I find it. I have boxes and boxes and boxes of old photos to go through.

Last time I saw MaryAnn, she’d moved from the city to the country where she was going to have 12 children, all named after Hank Williams Sr. somehow. But had just one. Not named Hank or Williams or Senior. She used to accuse me of thinking that every guy was after me.  Of course she wasn’t around when the guy at the bachelor party I crashed asked me to marry  him (see the last entry about Steve). But Ricky Nugget got to hear the guy at Steve’s wedding when the guy confessed to Ricky Nugget that he’d asked me to marry him. He may have thrown in a “man, was I loaded!” but I refused to pay attention long enough to make mental note of that. What is that guy’s name? I should know the names of every guy who was ever after me. In case I run into MaryAnn so I can give her a list.

Steve

When Thing 1 doesn’t have a shitload of teenagers packed into our house, like it’s a clown car, it’s awfully quiet around here these days. Just me and Ricky Nugget and that damned dog and those boring cats.

Ricky Nugget’s upstairs watching some high school movie with an early Zooey Deschanel and a whole bunch of other ragtag barely actors. I’m taking a bracelet making break and scanning some old photos.

This one is when my friend Spaz and I took our friend Steve out dive-bar hopping down in Mankato. About an hour and half from here. I had to make a poster. I couldn’t just go down to Mankato and go bar hopping. No. Note the “Sponsored by a Foundation for a Better Connie Francis”. I was fixated with Connie Francis. Still am. I cannot believe how frickin’ big my hair was that night. I have to wonder how much Aqua Net I used to keep it that high for the entire drive from Minneapolis to Mankato. I even think I stopped in a cornfield to pee. That is some strong damn hairspray. 

You made posters to go bar hopping, too. Right?

March 1987. I think I’d just split up with my first husband for about a whole 10 days or so. I do not sit around waiting to get old, people.

There was no 2nd annual Mankato Dive Tour. Actually, if I remember correctly, this dive tour ended early. When we hit the bar where our friend Steve’s brand  new girlfriend was. She didn’t like me much. I didn’t like her much either. I’m surprised I got invited to their wedding, actually.

My friend Michelle joined us for the night. I have no idea what happened to Michelle. I lost touch with her some time after Ricky Nugget and I got married. That happened with alot of my old college friends. I blame it on Ricky Nugget. Or I thank Ricky Nugget for it. Depends on the friend.

I’m amazed that I’m sitting that close to Steve while he’s got a cigarette in his hand. I  must have been pretty damn drunk. I do not like cigarettes. Didn’t back then, either.

Here I am pretending to grab his balls, but I am not touching them. I am not! I do believe he is touching my ass, however. I’d gone down to crash his bachelor party. Lord, that was a boring bachelor party. When I got there and walked in the door, the guys were just sitting around playing cards while a Divine movie played on the t.v. That’s what happens when your gay friend, Arlo, throws you a bachelor party. The guys were happy to see me. Greeted me with “The Stripper’s Here!”

I did not strip. However, I did get asked by some guy I’d never met before, to marry him. I was already living with Ricky Nugget so I had to turn him down. Dang.

Ricky Nugget is always getting in the way.

Summer Nights and Non-Edible Bracelets

Summer is in full swing. I know this because I am very tired. Due to the fact that Thing 2 had 3 kids over until midnight. Which then went down to 2 kids until 4 in the morning. Then we were just down to our own plus his cousin.

I’d turned on the Vornado floor fan, I mean whole room air circulator, that Ricky Nugget purchased for me so couldn’t hear too much from the hooligans. Even the electric guitar plugged into the amp didn’t disturb me.

Damn kids. They were hopped up on sugar which I purchased for them. Which, in itself was kind of fun. They wanted snacks that we didn’t have, of course, so I made them all go to the grocery store with me and pick out exactly what it was they wanted. 65 dollars worth of snacks later, everyone was a winner except for our checking account.

I even bought a few things to throw into a package I was mailing to Thing 1. Hey. It’s how I roll. Heck, were he in prison I’d probably throw in some goldfish into a goodies from home package. Depending on the crime committed. I’m not that unconditional with my goodies packages. Like say, were I murdered by my own son, I probably wouldn’t mail him a goodies package. Something like that.

I sat at the kitchen table last night working on my new food-and-beverage themed jewelry. I was making a “Rootbeer Float” bracelet that turned into a “Cafe Au Lait” bracelet but now is officially a Cinnamon Streusel Coffeecake bracelet.

Can you see the difference?

Doesn’t that make you want a piece of coffeecake with a cup of coffee? Even on a hot June afternoon?

I’m working on a Blueberry Cream Pie bracelet this afternoon.

And a Pink Lemonade bracelet tonight.

“jewelry designed at my kitschin table” is my new jewelry tagline.  You like? I’ll let you know when the new food & beverage line gets posted. First I’m going to make Ricky Nugget redesign my website. I hope he doesn’t mind. I haven’t told him yet.

Tastes Like Yuck Chicken

I took my mom to the cardiologist yesterday. Her blood pressure is ridiculously high. She blames it on genetics.

Her genetic predisposition to eat poorly and not exercise.

After her appointment, I met my cousin at The Cheesecake Factory for lunch.

Hey, if my blood pressure goes sky high, I’m going to blame it on genetics. I was having lunch with my cousin!

My mother can justify her way out of anything. When the doctor told her to eat better and take walks, she told him she couldn’t walk because her neighbor, Lois, was always watching out the window and would want to go for a walk with her. “And Lois can’t walk at all!” Then threw in a “I don’t like chicken!”

I think the cardiologist is a saint because he not only didn’t slap her silly(er), he didn’t grab her by the throat and strangle her dead (like I was doing in my own head)

Overwhelmed with Kindness

Mothertrucker, I woke up sad today. I really need to find a job so that I have something to challenge my brain besides nothing. Something to keep me too busy for sad. Of course, were I not so sad this morning, I could just dive into everything that needs to get done around here. I’ve got enough busy in this house, just not enough happy energy to do it. I really don’t want to work if I don’t have to. Unless I can find something that I would love to do. I’m going to focus on finding that something. Dig around and see what I can find.

I’ll be okay. It’s just at this very moment the sadness has settled in. The current sadness is because of yesterday’s graduation party with a family we know because of Thing 1. And spending time with his ex-girlfriend. Also, I keep getting more information on some of the stuff my oldest son did that just breaks my heart. And, I have got to finish going through his stuff, boxing up what needs to be stored and donating the rest. Lordy, that’s just too sad to think about.

Our son really did a bunch of stupid shit and I worry about his future. I talked to him yesterday and I’m not getting a good vibe from him. I plan to not contact him for awhile, giving us as much distance as possible. I need it. And I need to accept the fact that his bottom is his bottom, and not mine too.

A special shout out thank you to Carolyn, who always seems to say the very thing I need to hear at the very time I need to hear it. And to everyone else who has reached out, I meant to reply to each and every one of you but then I ran out of gas and found myself feeling worse because your kindness was overwhelming. In a good way, of course, but it’s just awfully had for this stoic Norwegian to accept so much kindness. We Norwegians like to take care of ourselves, never wanting to be in need of other’s help.

Okay. Enough of this pity party. shake shake shake it off!

The Bipolar Rollercoaster

I want off of this bipolar rollercoaster. One minute I’m redecorating Thing 2’s bedroom, that was once Thing 1’s bedroom. Happy fun redecorating time. The next I’m just core-sad about my older son feeling the need to get the hell out of here.

But hey, this is a good thing, his being forced to see reality so I should be happy.

It’s just that we went to our second and third high school graduation parties today and when we face all those happy kids and all those happy families, it brings back last year’s sadness right back to the front.  How we had a graduation party and nobody came. Well, people came but it was a very scaled down gathering due to the fact that the graduate had made life pretty miserable for himself and his parents.

The graduate, one of the happiest kids I ever met, had the best guest list. All these kids and their families of people I’ve known for a long time. Even one of the fifth grade teachers was there. And my concert date, Eddie.

I got a big hug from Eddie. And the graduate. I also got a hug from Thing 1’s ex-girlfriend at party #2. I miss that girl. That awesome chucks-wearing girl who marches to her offbeat drummer. Lordy, I’d give a large sum to anyone who could fix my oldest son and then bring back that girlfriend for him. She is full of life and fun and adventure. And that’s what my oldest son needs. Freedom to enjoy life without the drug goggles.

Before the party hopping, I ran to Target to buy new sheets for Thing 2’s newtohim bedroom. That boy, he just lets me do what I want to do and he thanks me. And if he’s got a problem with it, he doesn’t tell me. I was so excited to get him some tan colored sheets to go with a tan colored quilt and then throw in a punch of aqua pillowcases. He even seemed pleased with the aqua punch. Why can’t all kids be this grateful?

So I’m back and forth and up and down. Fine with my son being gone and a mess over losing him. It really is easier, in general, to have him out of the house. No more watching to see how trashed he is when he gets home. And the lack of eye contact. That really got to me. He’d come in, trying to be invisible, keeping his eyes to the floor. It was so obvious that he’d just come back from being up to no good, whether it was being high or drunk or sneaking out of the neighbor’s house or out somewhere doing something criminal.

That is just so sad. We don’t lead our lives like that. How can our son?

Okay. Now I’ve just bummed myself out more. Time to wrap it up and go find some chocolate.

Naked Torso Links

Hey kids! If you can work “naked torso” into an entry – let me know and I’ll link your entry here:

Carrie aka Queen of Rambles has a naked torso!
Golf Widow has her naked torso in her footnote. It’s like body parts are everywhere!

C’mon! You know you want to!

Help Me. I Cannot Stop Photographing My Bowls

Couple of business things: I started a cooking blog awhile back. It’s pretty empty but there are things there that you are going to want to know about. So check it out (link is over there on the right side, below the jewelry link). The other business thing? I cannot stop taking pictures of food on the big rimmed bowls.

Here’s my breakfast:

Made the recipe up all by myself. Toaster oven toated Vienna bread with scrambled eggs, leftover soft cheese from last night’s sandwiches, and smoked salmon. Lordy, that was delicious.

I have to use that cheese up. I cannot let it go bad. It was way too expensive to let it go bad. Don’t tell Ricky Nugget, but 9 oz. cost us $14.99. Wow! Thank goodness I got it at the gourmet grocery store where I get a 5% discount because my younger son works for them.

70 cents off. That cracks me up. Why bother?

Speaking of my younger son, I haven’t heard anything from my older son since he was in Missouri. I texted him on the day he moved away and he texted me back right away. The other mother who is now raising him (oh please, raise him to be a fine boy. I could not get him to listen.) had told me that they don’t have T-Mobile coverage in their town. Which is what our cellphone coverage is. So I’m going to pretend that he doesn’t contact me due to lack of coverage. Never mind that they have computer access, he brought his computer along, and he hasn’t replied to my facebook messages or e-mail. I’m going to also pretend that he’s too busy finding a job to have time to contact his mother.

Speaking of my older son, my younger son shared some ghiradelli chocolate with me when he got home from work last night. At this moment, that would make him my favorite son. If the other son somehow gets chocolate to me, he will be my favorite. Until the littler son gets me more.

It’s probably not the best way to parent your kids, having them compete via chocolate, but I never said I was a good parent. Just look at my record. Enough said.

***

I was outside this morning, taking photos of some new jewelry and I thought it was kind of cool how my naked torso looked better after I let her sit out on the porch for awhile. Kind of patina’ed with dirt. I’m sure my UPS buddy got a kick out of my naked torso whenever he dropped off a package.

I just wanted to say “my naked torso”. I dare you to figure out a way to use “my naked torso” in your blog entry!

‘wichcraft

You know how earlier today, I wrote that entry about plates and dishes and the psychology of for my new blog buddy, Elizabeth? (Poor Elizabeth, had no idea who she was getting involved with. She’s probably starting to worry, maybe she should be looking over her shoulder. I am known to bop in and out of New York at any moment for a little bit of purse shopping and a little bit of Italian food eating. And some Times Square cop hitting. Or some smack talking to subway singers).

But Elizabeth? I cannot stop thinking about my big pasta bowls now. For lunch I bought myself some sushi and then I transferred it to a bowl. I bought alot of sushi and even that big bowl didn’t make the sushi look miniscule. That was alot of sushi. And I ate every damn piece.

Now because most of my big pasta bowls are dirty and I have yet to wash the dishes, I couldn’t use one for dinner. Lordy, did I ever make a fantastic dinner, if I do say so myself. Even  my husband, Ricky Nugget (rhymes with new’gay) liked what I made, and, people? There was asparagus in tonight’s dinner. Ricky Nugget isn’t partial to healthy foods, but he helped himself to seconds and complimented what I’d made.

I’d made something totally new from a totally new to me cookbook that I’d just picked up last week…’wichcraft by Tom Colicchio of Top Chef fame and his own sous chef, sisha ortuzar.

Peoples. I did not know this until after I’d bought the book but Tom Colichio was genius enough to open a chain of  ‘wichcrafts. I wasn’t planning a purse excursion to New York but I think it’s time for another one. Complete with a stop in at a ‘wichcraft because if there sandwiches are half as good as the one I made for dinner tonight, I’m moving in.

Hell, the entire time I was eating my ‘wiches, I was telling Ricky  Nugget that we needed to franchise a ‘wichcraft right here in Minneapolis. Now. Tonight! Right away!

I wasn’t going to give you guys the recipe for tonight’s sandwich. I was going to show you the photos and then tell you to get  yourself to a store or and on-line location to purchase the book yourselves. And really, you should. Because lordgodalmighty, these are some mighty fine sandwiches and so easy, even a hotdish-minnesotan can make them!

Here you go:

roasted asparagus with red onions, basil, and vacherin*

*vacherin is a soft, raw milk, french cheese. my upscale gourmet store had none of it but had a great substitute. ask your cheese specialist.

1 small bunch pencil asparagus, bottoms trimmed
1 small red onion, sliced in 1/4 inch rings
2 tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tbsp. sherry vinegar
4 basil leaves, roughly chopped
4 slices rustic country bread
1 garlic clove, peeled
1/2 pound Vacherin cheese, sliced
1 sprig fresh thyme, leaves picked

On a platter, combine the asparagus and onion, and toss in the oil. Season with salt & pepper. Place the asparagus & onion on a grill or in a hot grill pan and cook until slightly charred, 5 to 10 minutes. Return to mixing bowl and toss in the vinegar and basil, set aside.

Grill the bread until golden brown on one side only. Remove and lightly rub the toasted side with the garlic. Top with asparagus & onion, and follow with the cheese. Place the open face sandwiches on the grill, cover, and remove when the cheese is just starting to melt. Garnish wtih thyme. Cut each sandwich in half and serve.

Throwing Down the Plates and the Dishes

Elizabeth over at About New York recently commented on my entry about that goofy dang Helena Bonham Carter and then she mentioned a blog throwdown, blogging challenge about plates and dishes:

ps on Friday quite a lot of us are blogging about the psychology –or some thing

of plates and dishes

and what they reveal…..

care to play?

Oh honey, I would love to play. I NEED to play. I just hope that by joining in, nobody will die.

Plates and Dishes, The Psychology Of, by Kitchen Logic

I’ve been collecting Fiestaware for many years now. Not enough years to justify the amount of Fiestaware I own. Which pretty much says that I am obsessive and compulsive and addicted to stoneware in a rainbow of colors.

Of all the plates and dishes by Fiestaware I own, the ones I love the most are neither plates nor dishes. They are bowls. Big rimmed pasta bowls. So big rimmed that there is more rim than bowl.

So big that they have to be stored in the cupboard over the fridge. Which makes them a pain to get to because I have to walk all the way across the family room to get a not swiveling chair. (Oh, the length I have to walk!) I have tried to use the swiveling chairs before but a) they are really  heavy, b) they are really swively. A person does not want to die by falling off a swively chair, having their head decapitated by a Fiestaware pasta bowl. Actually, that’d be a pretty cool way to go but I’d miss out on the after-story so will just use a non-swively chair and let somebody else die that way so I can talk about how cool a way that was to go.

I love to put small portions in my big bowls. Which gives me a great idea. Backwards Dieting. You know how all the educated nutritionists tell us that we should use smaller plates to keep our portions smaller, too? I’m enough of a rebel to give the big rimmed bowl a diet try. Hell, it’s not working the way I’m dieting right now and I love nothing better than to prove an educated nutritionist wrong, so I’m going to start The Big Rimmed Pasta Bowl by Fiestaware Diet today.

Never a Dull Lunch with Dick

So Dick and I, we hook up in the parking lot and head into the restaurant for lunch today. Ahead of us shuffles this very old man.

Tim Conwayesque.

 

And he flirted with the hostess and asked for a hug. She knew his name so I’m assuming he comes there frequently.

“There’ll be 3 of us today” he says.

Then he turns to Dick and says “You’re jealous!” The he shuffles off into the restaurant.

Dick and I finish up lunch when we see restaurant staff start running back and forth. And then a fire truck. A police car. All sorts of officers run to the table of the very old man, who I can see has passed out.

Until we see him removed, by gurney, with a sheet over his face.

“Gee Dick. Thanks for the lovely lunch” I say.

“I know how to entertain” he replies.

Harsh? Nah. The guy was happy as could be and was meeting friends for lunch in a place he liked to frequent.  Also?  He had to be almost 100 years old. He looked pretty pain-free. I can’t see a better way to go.

It’s Bacon!

Okay then. Really. I’m okay. Even better than okay.  So much better that I realized how not okay I’d been feeling. I’m gonna bet you that if I went to the doctor and got my vitals checked, my blood sugar would be out of the danger zone. As would my blood pressure. And that magically, the doctor’s scales would register me “skinny”!

Okay then. Maybe not. But I am 3 whole pounds lighter for over a period of a week. That makes it official.

I’ve got a lunch date with Dick today. Who doesn’t love Dick? I know I love Dick and I’m happy to be having lunch with Dick because it’s been awhile since I’ve seen Dick. Dick Dick Dick. You’d think he was a dirty bird with a name like Dick. But he’s not. Dick is a good Dick.

All the ladies love Dick.

Dick is a friend’s friend who became our realtor, against his will, and then our friend because we refused to let go. Besides, he’s got our DNA atomized into his left ear after the time Thing 2, age 3, put a piece of chewed gum into Dick’s ear. And then the DNA atomized was reversed back into our son when, after putting the gum in Dick’s ear, he put it back into his own mouth. So it’s kind of like we’re blood kin what with all the passing backward and forward of liquids via flexible objects.

Do you see how I am? How I am back? Putting words together that make no sense, pretending they make sense, thusly insisting they make sense to all of you? And you just nod your blog-reading heads and think “I totally get what k.lo is saying!”

Hey! I followed a car yesterday for awhile and I have to tell you about it. It was a PT Cruiser with vanity plates that said BACNTYM and I kept wondering if they really really really liked bacon, and should I make some with thyme next time I make some. It is Bacon Thyme!

No?

Back in Time?

Boring!

What do you expect from someone who fakes back in time with a PT Cruiser. If you really want to fake back in time, shouldn’t you do it with a for real old car instead of a synthesizer? I know that if I want to pretend I’m back in the disco days, I don’t put on a Beyonce disc covering Gloria Gaynor. No! I sleep around with lots of guys because that’s what we did back in the disco days!

What do you mean you didn’t do that?

I thought everyone did that?

That’s what the guys told me!

I Will Survive, On The Rocks

“Yeah. She’s fine. She’s walking in right now with her arms full of the booze she’s been hiding”.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked Ricky Nugget, who’d been on the phone for awhile.

“My mom”.

Who totally understands, even though we’ve kept her out of the loop for awhile. She’s been through kicking out a kid and having another one thrown in the brig. She knows that sometimes a mom’s got to hide her booze and sometimes a mom’s got to drink her booze.

Oh, and also? The jewelry making had gone awry. Tonight? A brand new design: The Apple Martini Dangle Bracelet. Coming soon to a jewelry website near you. After I sober up.

Here’s to Good Things

Ladies and Gentlemen, Thing 1 has left the building.

He wasn’t supposed to leave the building until tomorrow morning but surprised me with an early departure.

I am thankful for the broken garage door. Because were it not for the garage door breaking today, I wouldn’t have called Ricky Nugget to tell him about it. And had I not called Ricky Nugget about the broken door, he wouldn’t have run home at lunch time to take a look at it. Had he not come home at that exact time, I’d have been all by myself when our son decided he was leaving right then and there forever or forhoweverlongittakesuntilhecomeshomeagain.

Thing 1’s friend’s mom came in to meet me. Our kids have been friends throughout high school but because she lives out of state, I’d never met her and had no idea who was willing to take in my kid.

I liked her. And she’s happy that my son is coming along because she worried her son might be a little lonely all by himself, with just his working mom and her two jobs.

So my son has left the nest and we were able to keep our shit together so that he could leave on a positive note.

After I was able to pull myself together I realized I hadn’t eaten lunch. But didn’t want to make lunch. And trying to be the good little weight watcher that I am, I didn’t want to go get a burger, even though I really wanted a burger. But I figured it was about what I could handle at this fragile moment, a quick McDonald’s drive-thru. But when I got farther from the house, I felt stronger so was able to run into the grocery store and pick up what will forever be known as the first meal I had after my son moved away from home:

Sushi. Orange fruit slice candies. An itty bitty cantaloupe.

Lordy, I think I might actually be on the path to healthier things. Less drama in the house and better energy through less-greasy/lower-fatty foods.

I was worried about how I was going to be able to get through this last day of my son being at home. Going back and forth between staying away for the day or staying at home, in case he needs me just one last time. I stayed home. And he needed me for one more thing. Which makes me feel better. Wrong as that may be.

And now we can all let out a sigh of relief and release pretend balloons of real hope for good things for my Thing #1.

Also…now I can put away the safe, let my purse sit out on the counter and fill the refrigerator up with beer.