I had a big foot sighting.
It was right here in my own home.
I saw it’s hairy extension propped motionless atop a California King mattress. I stood outside the entrance to where this Big Foot was resting it’s size 13 in silence, hoping not to awaken the beast. I haven’t done any research on Big Foot and their nocturnal habits and why they find themselves sleeping until noon throughout their Teen years. I thought about grabbing an artifact from this Big Foot’s Den and poking him to arouse this body that has been Facebooking friends and streaming movies into the dawn.
I decided to approach this non- erectus Homo Sapien from another portal and cut through the adjacent bathroom to get a closer look at this Big Foot. I waded through the natural habitat left behind by this boy beast , Yet I was afraid he might awaken from his stupor and throw harried statements at me. I’d hate to have to Quash that Sass.
I tried to divert my attention to the relics covering his domain and in doing so, I managed to trip over a snowboard washed up on a wave of dirty laundry. It appears this Abominable snowboy is oblivious to the hazards that surround him and does not fear the fungus atop his half eaten sandwich lying on the night stand. This wild boy has many manifestations growing about his man cave. One might attempt to upset the atrocious smelling applecart by, say, grabbing a weapon of mass disinfectant and spraying the underbrush of his prideful dust collection into smithereens. This might cause an unruly effect as this Hairy Hominoid defends his territory from intruders by placing land mines of stray shoes disguised as trip wires upon crossing the threshold of his sleeping lair. This teen -wolf is the boss of his woods.
( Once I tried to move a blockade of unread school books to higher ground where they stood a chance to be saved and returned at the end of the year intact, but I was met with snarls and shouts that could force one to the ground, declaring me to:
“Leave his stuff alone”……. I want them there”.
I am disinclined to acquiesce to his request and overlook his adverbial particle of speech dangling like his lengthy arms…
I retreated from this Skellring of firing words and the Big Foot’s bedroom unscathed by any free-floating bacteria , only to returned at a later time after the boy beast stuffed his Big foot into his designer DC’s and left for school ).
My curiosity climbed as I drew closer to this nocturnal Neanderthal enigma, and wandered to the head that is attached to this Big Foot. I slowly circled the foot of the bedrock and noticed this distinctly human Big Foot with phenomenally long toes that would unconsciously spread while he slumbered. It took great restraint for me not to grab those giant digits and have a round of; ” This little Wookie goes to market…”, but I knew better than to startle the beast with childhood ploys. An action like that would bring this bipedal to his Big Feet screeching his mantra……..”MOOOMMM GET OUTTA MY ROOOOOM!”.
Quietly I reached the head of the beast and witnessed a tuft of stiff black bristle protruding from his shaggy chin. I noted his swarthy matted hair had taken an unusual form from lack of AXE hair products, and the odor penetrating the environment screamed of over usage of cologne the day before.
……..YOWIE.…….he needed a bath.
I did not hover too closely in fear of disturbing the Big Foot. I realized this developing inhabitant likes his tranquil rest and to provoke him would result in this Great Teen Bear to rise and KIKOMBA my ass….outta his room. This Big foot desires solitude from pestiferous parents lurking about their den of perennial inequity. A sleeping hairy big foot does not like to be encumbered with early risings and packing their goods for college.
Well…I’ll show him whose boss of these woods….I’m not gunna take it no MO-MO…..
Never underestimate the power of a MOM and her Cannon sure shot……..right SKOOKUMS???
spread the humor.
Last night I watched the opening ceremony for the Olympic’s held in London.
Last night I sat in front of the big screen with grave anticipation of a show stopper to knock my socks off, if I were wearing any.
Last night I gathered my children and duct tape them to the couch to witness an event that captures the world’s hearts every four years, instead of them indulging in an episode of Xbox or Sims.
Last night before the viewing of the Grand Dame of the Motherland, I filled my children in on Beijing’s production that had my heart pounding out of my chest along with their lightening drums.
Last night I heard the name Danny Boyle over and over again in commendation for the London festivities.
Last night I poured myself a class of bubbly and directed the rolling eyes and sighs of my teens towards the “telly” to witness something they will never see again until another four years.
Last night I listened to Matt Lauer and Meredith Viera assert Plug-ins where the show flat- lined.
Last night I joined my children in the eyerolling and sighs as I watched the works of this Danny Boyle. Who is Danny Boyle? Is he related to Susan Boyle? Is he a remnant of Britain’s Got Talent?
Oh Danny Boy….your pipes your pipes aren’t calling…..
Last night I apologized to my children for having them sit through this barrage of ….of……balderdash, bollocks, bombast, buncombe, hogwash, horse-feathers, hot air, tommy rot, tripe, & twaddle…….
If it wasn’t for Mr. Bean & the current James Bond, I may have exploded like the lights of Beijing. Some things just torch me the wrong way..
Right Then….I’ll just jog on….Cheerio.
I could manage to watch Beckham add some spice and bend it for hours…oohhh pish-Posh.
Spread the humor(?)
My Grandfather had a tool shed and in it he stored his shovel, hoe, rake, axe, hammers, and the likes of any tool displayed at a local hardware store. He had many tools because his family owned a hardware store. When I was young and would visit my grandparents on my father’s side, I loved being out in the garden and was fascinated by my Grandfather’s Tool Shed. I think that is where I learned a lot about different tools and their purpose in life.
I carried that TOOL knowledge into my adulthood as I love to garden and perform yard work. I found I utilized Tools in my career as well. When I worked in the operating room and assisted in orthopedic surgery I grew efficient in operating pneumatic 3M drills and saws. It was there that I had the gift of memorizing drill bit sizes and millimeters of screw lengths. I never realized how TOOL knowledge could come in handy.
My father was a lawyer yet, he too had Tools other than the hammer of justice. His Tool Shed lived indoors and had it’s own private section in the garage. My father liked to tinker with tools. On what spare time he had he would build things with the assistance of a table saw that snarled at me whenever I entered the garage. I use to study the sawdust dangling from the teeth of that giant blade. His Tool Shed consisted of drawers full of nails, levels, wrenches, along with the latest power tools displayed on the wall like a specialized department at ACE Hardware.
When my son was young I bought him his first Tools. It was a Junior set from Home Depot. We never really built him a Tool Shed, because our lives were far too busy to bother. Like my father and Grandfather, my son enjoyed building with his tools. His Tool Box contained a mini hammer, a screw driver , a needle -nose pliers, a few non traumatic nails, and a retractable measuring tape, all of which carried the bright orange Logo representing the hardware giant.
I use to love seeing my son don his software apron loaded with his hardware as he would venture out into the garage and find something he could take apart and put back together again. He would remove his sisters roller blade wheels and nail them to a 2 by 4 remnant and adhere a large cardboard box on top and explain to me how he was going to use this on the road in the neighborhood.
I watched as he towed his Indy 500 Box down the driveway drag strip and pushed off and jumped in to race down the block. I watched a headless brown carton sail past me as he was on the down low.…..riding dirty…..because the box he emptied was the one I emptied my yard waste into………
Now my son has grown into an 18 year old young man and he has long since dumped his Tool box by the roadside and replaced it with a new and improved TOOL SHED that is up to his speed. A TOOL shed his Grandfather and Great Grandfather are now rolling over in their graves with
And please note the AXES in the front row……………minus the Hoe’s…
spread the humor. another generational mishap..
I like the sound of my house in the morning. It begins with a serene calmness surrounded by an abundance of quiet, and ends with a clamor of energies erupting from a mixture of tyrannical teens, a traveling husband, and a wayward dog.
I fancy the stillness to inspire me to write…or…er..scribble down thoughts, however, the only thing materializing in my brain is “still” trying to transpire. I need a muse. Maybe the sound of music might amuse me and become museful to help with motivation which could ignite and spark a plethora of musettes to clear the cobwebs visiting my minds museum.
Too much quiet seems to have a Sesame Street affect on me and it’s forcing me to spew an assortment of M’s & more M’s. Might as well face it I’m addicted to love of alliteration. It’s a nasty habit, but it’s really just for the pun of it.
For the new year I was trying to get a blog in edgewise at least once a week, but I would find myself sitting and staring at the computer hoping that the keyboard would miraculously take it’s alphabet and form an idea or two….
Sometimes I rest my hands on the keys in the typewriter formation that I learned in eighth grade from a teacher who was missing three fingers, and I would sit in a trance awaiting an idea to hit that compels my fingers to vibrate across the raised letters like a divining tool over a Ouija Board.
Sometimes I find myself sitting at the desk with my head in my hands closing my eyes with all my might in hopes that an anecdote will squeeze out from the darkness. The only things that appear to pop through from that ritual are new wrinkles in the corners of my eyes from clamping my lids shut.
Sometimes I walk around the house looking for anything to stimulate a brainstorm , but, usually I end up facing a few messy rooms that look as though they weathered a storm and curse at the dirty laundry that is multiplying faster than bunnies.
Sometimes I jump into my mom uniform and take the crazy dog out for a walk in the “hood” hoping to grab some outdoor information that could trigger some hyperboles of life. My dog was my original muse when I started this blog adventure, but now we both just walk amongst ourselves in silence soaking in scenery and leftover urine floating atop the grass. Even my dog carries the “No Vacancy” aura atop is pea brain. Lately it feels like I’m taking Eeyore for an apathetic walk…
Sometimes I check my email and witness an assortment of blogger’s have been busy at blogging. I admire the folks that are able to write once a day and even sometimes twice a day. Sometimes I find my Inbox is inundated weekly with subscriptions that I am too caught up in reading and I find I have left no time to formulate my own mental material. I wish I had the time to blog every day or even every week. I tried once, on January 1st of each year since the onset of this blog, I tried with all my mighty imagination to transcribe daily. A day turned into two days….then three days….then a week….then a month….then I found myself caught up in living life instead of attempting to write about it.
Sometimes I load my brain cells with caffeine to try and jump start a synapse. I step and fetch myself a warm cappuccino thinking the lovely aroma of my Italian espresso blend will activate an afflatus. All it seems to produce is a mild movement towards a quiet ladies room. I never afflatus in public.
Sometimes I just want to stop all this blogsense and quit. Maybe free up my stagnant legs that hide under the desk while the varicosities await their first thrombosis. Maybe give the chair cushion a break and let the micro-foam have a breather and work the dent out. Maybe give my eyes a break from the vibrant glare on my screen….oh…wait…I have transition lenses. I utilize the Hunter S. Thompson technique….minus the cigarette.
Yes, I like the sound of my house in the morning that harbors a unique calmness before it’s inundated with the walking dead teens and a tumbling dog chasing a husband who checks in and out and leaves his keys at the front desk.
The desk that shelters the immobile legs and supports the bent elbows that hold the hands that clasp the head which contains the brain that is trying to channel amusements blogged by a jack of all trades…….
spread the humor.
My high school son announced the other day that he was getting a tattoo.
I told him: “That’s nice, and when you leave for your INK appointment make sure you take extra clothes with you”.
He stated back: ” Why? Do they make you change your clothes?”.
“No”. I smiled back at him….” You’ll be needing something to wear when you find yourself no longer living in this house for doing something stupid”.
“My friend Jordan got one”….He mocks back. “It’s scripture, written under his arm”.
“Well”, I breath out between gritted teeth, “I’m sure God will be pleased to know that his word is being spread through Jordan’s armpit”.
He carries on: “You know I turn 18 soon, and I don’t need your permission. That’s what Jordan did”.
I hate that sense of entitlement and the continual referencing of the legal age of consent being thrown at me. Just four years prior I had to defend against the dark art of over usage of that illegal statement by my daughter. (That’s right..I call it an Illegal statement because teens tend to use it before they are deemed legal).
I smiled that smile you may have seen painted across the Mona Lisa’s face; the one that smirks: I’m not that innocent…..
I shot back: ” Son, you are right, you don’t need my permission, nor my money, nor a roof over your head, nor the car you drive, nor the snowboard and all the equipment that goes with it, nor the food in the fridge, nor the education I provided, nor the pants that hang below the boxer line, nor the straight teeth, nor the numerous Doctor visits to cure your acne, nor…”
“Mom”…he tries to chime in, interrupting my total recall as I tally his bill and prepare an invoice for Mom Services Rendered.
“Moooom, stop already..I get it”.
“Oh sorry son, sometimes my Stepford brain wiring runs amok with phrases pertaining to child rearing chores…”
I continue; ” It triggers a signal when a teen gives me eye rolling attitude and it can fly out of control when such teen harbors intense entitlement followed by contemptible demands that are rooted and enhanced by Jordan’s freshly stamped armpit”.
How is it that I give birth to two different children of two different genders four years apart, yet I am met with similar situations at roughly the same time intervals? How…
My daughter once came to me at the same age and roughly the same time with the same demand: I’m getting a tattoo. Why do they pick a tattoo. Why not a new spiral notebook or a matching pair of High GPA’s. If they are looking to instill the shock value, getting high scores might do it for me…..
As far as I can tell, I quashed the tattoo dilemma with my daughter the same way I managed to hold off any piercings in areas where they don’t belong. When my daughter was five she wanted her ears pierced. Her reasoning at the time was:
“Because her friend Emily is getting her ears pierced”.
I wasn’t going to get into the family accolade of my mother’s comeback to anything I wanted to do in benefit of someone else, that being: “Well would you jump off a bridge if so-n-so jumped off a bridge?”.
In which I always responded with: “Possibly… it depends on the weather”. Or some ending that would throw her a curve ball and cause her Stepford Brain to re-route…
I brought my daughter to a local mall to get her ears pierced as she petitioned. As we stood next in line, the first piercing victim was a four year old girl stepping up to a high stool minus any arm support. We watched as the ear-piercing attendant approached her with a giant gun that shoots studs into her delicate lobes. My daughter witnessed an unbearable Ear Piercing scream from the cute little waif and grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the exit doors.
The next piercing conversation that came up was in her teens when the rave was attaching a gold hoop through your navel, nose, tongue, and any other not for prime time area of the body. I merely discussed with her that should she attempt to pierce anything but the lobe of her ears, I will personally shop her down and remove the piercing my self….no anesthesia required…..
My first born’s inclinations for obtaining an underage tattoo came about later ,nearing her high school graduation. She, too, offered up the proverbial ” Household Teen Amendment” of: “When I’m eighteen………..”.
It was then I took the medical approach to describe in pain staking detail to my daughter the artistry of Tattooing, knowing full well of the intense fear she has of needles. I know this first hand from the early years of her receiving inoculations by the Pediatrician. My daughter required a Swat team to steady her limbs…..
I continued my diatribe of the long term effect of hosting a tattoo. I calmly explained that depending upon the physical location of this desired Ink Splotch, she will wake up one morning with that cute little butterfly she posted on the lower 40 anatomy and discover its collagen wings collapsed and fell into a fatty fold. And in another thirty years or so she will experience the butterfly defect of The Girl with the Dragging tattoo….
For all you fresh parents out there who shelter tiny tots and elementary dumplings who can’t imagine ever being confronted with issues outside of Gerber, Lego, and little league; hold onto your diaper bags when you hit that bump in the stroller. There will come a time when one has to confront the battle of the almost legal teen who proudly injects their unprincipled Bill of Rights onto your List of Wrongs.
Just make sure you don your under armor and prepare for the battle of parental injustice as they cry foul play when you take their hand in yours and guide them down that road of teenage wasteland to take a sneak peek under their armpit nation…….
spread the humor. This one’s for you Karen…
I have been doing time as a quasi- stay- at -home parent for..let’s say…..22.5 years. I believe I have met the necessary requirements and demands that became the imprisoned criteria throughout those years in order to obtain freedom from: boring PTA meetings, exhaustible Fund Raisers, Mad Max Sports Chauffeur, 24 hour on call chef , Personal Shopper, Emotional Referee, and in-house psychiatrist…..All this parental jurisprudence under one leaky roof to allow freedom while enforcing order among family chaos….
I have enjoyed my time in this institution of parenting through each and every stage of child development. All the way from directing developing girls into their first wonder bra, to underdeveloped boys figuring out how to un-hook them.
It seems like only yesterday that my daughter was putting her toddler feet into my size 8 Charles Jourdan’s teetering and shuffling through the house while leaving a trail of scratch marks on the hardwoods. Now she is grown and shuffles her Knock-off collection between college and home via the trunk of a car, and still teeters and stumbles in her stiletto’s on the hardwoods.
And my son, soon to approach high school graduation and walk towards that collegiate path where he will pick up the fork in the road and use it as a reminder of all the lovely over cooked meals mom made for him. I think he will enjoy his “leaving the nest” gift I constructed out of the equipment and attire that lays suffocating inside his sports bag gasping for a breath of fresh Febreze huddled in the garage for months on end….…..oh it just brings tears to my eyes……..
Yes, time flies when you’re raising kids. Sometimes too fast and in certain predicaments, sometimes not fast enough. Looking back for example: Potty training. My children had stubborn bottoms. There was no way in Hell that they were going to plant their tuschies on a porcelain stool containing water with a hole in it and “let loose”. They might fall in and who knows where that would lead to.
I invested in a lot of time and energy and “potty” reading material in order to get my kids trained in toiletry. I researched all the child experts and read their advice on bathroom training and the commode controversy. All that information just filtered an assortment of crap that drained me and I was left pooped for the day. Who has that kind of time to sit and read lengthy descriptive potty books to toddlers in hopes to encourage a movement.
When my kids did finally concede to try the pot located in a chamber adjacent to their rooms, they found themselves actually liking it and would sit for what seemed like hours. Once my son hopped off the pot to go grab a toy and return to the bathroom theater to reenact the “mummy” with Elmo wrapped in Ultra Soft.
My daughter took a more regal approach and dragged her Crayola markers to the throne as she mastered an imitation of a Calder painting onto the toilet tank.
Yes, those were the days that I didn’t mind if the hours raced on ahead…
Lately,I find myself caught in a web that spins in only two directions as my parenting comes down a home stretch creating a possibility for early parole….if you’ll Pardon the expression. There is a minor offensive feeling of freedom when you are about to face an empty nest. It’s sort of an unleashed guilty pleasure of retreating back to what was once designated as ” Me Time”; yet, at the same time, harboring a push-me-pull-you defense against “letting Go”.
Just as I came to grips with the realization that my household was soon to be down to basically Charly-dog and me, and I started to feel the content and joy of releasing most of the everyday tedium involved with indwelling kids. Just as my heart started to jump for joy as I unfastened the shackles of daily duties revolving around kid schedules and looking forward to…oh….I dunno………. perennial Spa time?……..
I received a phone call.
My son’s school called to ask if we could be an “emergency host family for a foreign exchange student from Holland who needed a place until graduation in June”.
This all came about before the holidays. I could not lie and tell my sons school that there was “no room at the inn”, so I took the little Dutch boy in.
Apparently Amsterdam Boy and my son are two tulips in a vase. They became best friends at the beginning of the school year. When Holland boy’s window of opportunity landed from Netherland into our home, I swear I had met my sons Doppleganger. They are the same size and shape. They laugh alike, they walk alike, and times they even talk alike.……….in different languages.
They are both carved out of the same Dutch Elm. Both their bedrooms resemble an aftermath of the Fourth Anglo-Dutch war. The shrapnel of clothing splinter out from the opened dresser drawers and wounded trousers lay lifeless on the floor from their nights frivolity. I gather up dirty laundry from two countries now. I find myself lost in the glory of scooping up the minor coins that strategically drop from loosened pockets throughout the house. I’ll hang onto the Euro’s from Dutch boy until the exchange rate drops to our level, then give him a buy back option…
I will conclude that hosting a foreign exchange student has actually turned out to be a pleasure. There are no major complications and the language barrier is minimal. He respects my professionalism I’ve acquired in the experience of teen behavior: Eye Rolling is International.
Yes, confronting the empty nest syndrome has had some effect on me. It caused me to confront the hollow spaces left behind where dirty laundry and missing History assignments use to congregate. I always thought when this time came, I would succumb to the sadness of a half empty house and wallow and wine as I second guess my parenting skills. Skills that did not include instructions from the onset. Skills that you obtained through trial and error and all the Dr. Spock books in the world could not prepare you for. Skills that have been handed down from generations nursing verbal acuity with four simple words:
“Because I said so….”
Yes, the bars will be lifted soon and I will be set free to roam about the cabin without tripping over size 13 shoes left in the middle of the kitchen floor; accompanied now with size 12 Faux Wooden clog slippers. Something tells me my nest won’t be empty for long and my parental ship will not be sailing into the sunset where freedom rings and Chianti flows rampant, and responsibility can take a back seat. Something out there is still lurking around and sniffing about my feet to fill the void that is soon to come…..
Oh..yea… I forgot………Charly-dog.
spread the humor
I love the holidays. I am sorry to see them go. I believe I could become one of those recluses who keeps their lights and tree up all year long just to keep the spirit alive, and have the home owners association fine me at the same time.
I love Christmas and all the festivities that accompany it. In the past I use to get annoyed at the fact that the retail businesses would set up Santa’s workshop in stores shortly after Labor Day, but now I love that the Holiday arrives earlier and earlier every year; It just means I get to revel in that carnival atmosphere a little longer.
Although they start the Christmas phantasm following the August back to school sales, I still love that I can retreat to the basement and sort through my recently added purchases from last years after Christmas sales. I don’t know what it is that triggers me to run to the nearest Target or K-mart and thumb through their empty shelves of the previous years leftovers. It is such a gratification to grab a box of netted multi lights for 75% off. Ohhh…. and hold me back from the singing Elvis ornaments…..I am so glad I didn’t weaken one day and fork out the full price for that…. yes, I am an ornament junkie.
I have been seen rifling through end caps located in a targeted area that offer ginormous bins loaded with discarded Christmas paraphernalia in hopes of finding that Lost Ark to add to my temple of doom & gloom that surrounds my house pre- Holiday.
I have had a a house full of people these last few weeks, and enjoyed every minute of it. I love the hustle -n-flow of the teens traipsing through my house leaving trails of candy cane pieces that had set up residence in the couch. And let’s not forget to mention the patches of dark residue embedded in the carpet fibers, which I mistook for “doggie surprises”, but later turned out to be traces of a Tootsie Roll…………Thank God it wasn’t the other way around.
I am going to miss wading knee deep in the aftermath of torn wrapping paper, and the sticky bows that adhere themselves onto my clothing and go unnoticed until the cashier at the return line in Macy*s peels it off my back like a piece of stinky lint.
My favorite Holiday episode is fighting with colorful tissue remnants stuck to my shoe. I hated the looks I received when I exited a Sear’s Ladies Room one day, when I was met with countless stares and titters as my Jimmy Choo waved a white flag from it’s three inch heel. As I hoofed it past the customer service line, I found myself conjuring up a soliloquy to numerous strangers giggling behind their basket of returns :
“No, really….it’s Christmas tissue……really.…it is...honest…I..I have proof, check the gummy outline on the sole from last years Scotch tape fiasco…”.
The part of Christmas I tend to wrestle the most with is the Tree. For most of my life we would always indulge in a Real Christmas tree. A Tree that you would stuff family members into a mini van and venture out to a far-a-way farm to spend hours in the cold choosing the right tree to fit the family room. I love the smell of Pine in the house and spending days trying to remove the pitch from my hands. I especially loved the endless upkeep involving never ending vacuuming of piled- up pine needles. Pine needles that continued to show up throughout the summer. In fact I think I found a needle from Y2K.
I know this because it was then that I switched to the fake trees. They are very life like and are all inclusive. No need to” just add water…..”. You take them out of a big box and they pop up and plug in. They have Pine Spray should you miss the scent of a wooded area. The problem is when it’s all over and stuffing that little faker back into its original box. I find myself in a half nelson with the branches as I roll the tree into the box and ask three people to sit on it until it settles down. And…I still find myself grabbing the vacuum to suck up Fake pine needles.
I have a friend who has a fake tree in its own Bag. Her Holiday regime is met with:
First: Open a bottle of wine and pour a glass …
Second: Open bag and raise slowly from the bottom up and lo and behold an instant tree with lights and ornaments.
Third: Bottoms Up! And sit and enjoy the sparkling Spruce while listening to your neighbors cursing at their Evergreens to “stand up straight”.
Yes I love the holidays. The beginning, middle, and end. I love the aftermath of de- Ornamenting the tree and placing them back into their bulbous home and dragging the Tubs to the basement to stow them in an area that is only reachable by a ladder. I love climbing back up the stairs to the bare space in the corner where a naked tree stands pointing it’s fabricated projections at me dangling two forgotten red balls…..
I love arguing with the wintered rose bushes that are holding the outdoor net lights hostage in their thorns. Every year I keep thinking I’ll return into the house unscathed, but, inevitably I always lose that war of the roses and end up looking like something the cat dragged in……carrying Christmas lights.
The one thing that was different this year was my daughter having to leave to return to school. The time seemed to fly by this holiday break and before I knew it she was packing her bags and loading them into the car for the trip back to Happy Valley. It seems like only yesterday she arrived with baskets of laundry and suitcases filled a mile high with clothing spewing down a mountainside of of unwashed unmentionables.
Oh..it is such a bittersweet moment when the Holidays end at my house. One is saddled with the leftovers of Christmas residuals and the minor deflation of the Spirit gone by the wayside until next year. I watched through the window of my daughters empty room as the car pulled down the driveway heading down the road back to her future , and I felt a pang of emptiness as I retreated from the window to start the year with some post Christmas cleaning. I turned around to head towards her closet and there was an unopened gift my daughter had left behind for me……………
The basket of dirty laundry…….ohhh…. Happy New Year…
Spread the Humor
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,300 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.
My teenage is son is trying to kill me. I believe it has been a slow ongoing scheme ever since he popped out of the birth canal and handed the Dr. the chili peppers I ate that caused the first contraction…..
My son is in his last year of doing time in his posh private school and now faces the drones of filling out college applications. His High School is aiding and abetting in this procedure and along with the paper chase , they advise the child to visit the colleges of choice to get a “feeling” for the environment and experience the “college” atmosphere. This is a little too touchy- feely for me.
My parents did not play a major role in our college adventure, unless one needed a phone call to a senator to help the child with the low GPA to get a “leg-up” onto the collegiate saddle. ( That wasn’t me). During my high school days, a student just filled out the ONE page application with a few recommendations , put a 10 cent stamp on it and held your breath until the rejection letter came…….OR until the acceptance packet arrived and your parents gleefully packed your belongings and shipped you off to your University in a foreign land where you would spend the next four years with a roommate from hell, while sleeping in a room that was built for munchkins.
Now the schools “suggest” you take your teen by the hand and “visit” the college they might be attending………..”making sure it’s a “good fit”.
My sons college choices were ( and I stress the word WERE) : The University of Hawaii and any College that offers snowboarding as a credit……
Right now I am trying to Turn over a new Leaf and not jump to unsolicited temperament and possibly reach for the key to the wine cabinet………..
I decided to take a disciplined approach and research the demographics of his chosen educational destiny. After careful consideration of calculating the costs of “visits” to Vermont, Colorado, Maine, and some outback in Michigan in order to obtain grounds for Mastering an SBA…(Snow Boarding Achievement),…………I opted to send him to his sister’s Apartment Dorm in the Pocono’s.
My daughters University is nestled near mountains, harbors over 40,000 students, and just made history last weekend with a Major Coach’s 409th Football win. Just the kind of weekend you want to send your teen son for a visit…….not.
The one thing I have learned in life is to take it one day at a time and if you are raising teenagers……….. take it Every minute of the time, or keep replenishing the wine glass……
Firstly: Never, Ever send a seventeen year old to a University located in a town called HAPPY VALLEY…….especially during the Halloween weekend. My mistake was instructing my coed daughter to show her brother the campus life, the town, the University, the Dean of Students, and possibly, the Admissions Office.
Oh, my son did witness and participate in what the campus had to offer via his hooded- Sister of the Pants that Traveled between Main street and Frat houses with my son in tow wearing a purple Morph-suit. He did happen to make one very important connection with some State dignitaries; a blue man group approached my sons six foot frame encased in spandex and asked him to join their Lycra Fraternity……..Tappa-New-a-Keg….along with their sub chapter…….I-Felta-Thigh…..
When my son returned home that late Sunday night from his fortuitous academic adventure, I greeted him with a warm smile and clenched teeth as I asked him how his College visit went:
“Awesome Mom, I’m going there!”
Oh lovely. I am so happy that this visit enhanced your educational choices for your future of academic success in order to meet the challenges that will mold you into the person you have deemed yourself to be.