I sincerely hope you click over, get to know TikiTiki, and weigh in on our search for perfection, and what keeps us from loving who we are, the way we are.
Thank you for all your love and support.
It means so much to me.
Happy Thursday!
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COMMENTS CLOSED. Hope to see you at TikiTiki. !! xo
I wish I could tell you that throughout my life, I have made only wise, non impulsive, emotionally free decisions.
Ha!
There have been decisions made where I had no other choice, where life decided for me, or where I did the best I could do at that time.
And there have been the decisions where, having once made them, we can call ourselves graduates in the school of hard knocks. Lessons Learned The Hard Way 101.
Nothing brings these technicolor flashes of memory of some of the things I've done to the forefront of my mind quicker than a blast from the past burst of a song on the radio.
While driving my three children from one place to the next earlier this week, with the car radio on good and loud in celebration of summer, Funky Cold Medinasnuck on and slapped me between the ears like a wet fish.
Oh my precious of all things precious, I just began shaking and trying to stifle my laughter at that awesome three-beat-intro, because I did not want my three baby boys in the car to ask, "Mom? What's so funny?"
Because then I'd have to tell them the story of when I decided to try and get the The Most Handsome Man in Milwaukee, to like me.
Which, of course, is what ended up happening; him liking me, and me telling them this story:
One night, while in college, as I was busy waitressing at the beer and sandwich place on campus, I looked up from my tables, to see what the buzzbuzzbuzz was that I heard going on over at the front bar.
There was a group of people -- mostly tittering females -- gathered around someone. I found an excuse to work my way up toward the front, and that's when I saw one of the cutest boys I had ever seen. Heart-ache cute like this:
Mr. DDG (drop dead gorgeous)
It still hurts to look at this.
Indulge me a bit longer? Thank you. He was dressed in his monkey suit, exacto as the picture above, just getting off of work from wherever they were lucky enough to have this angel from heaven bartend. This pretty boy came complete with the cigarette barely hanging onto his fabulous lower lip.
*sigh* Anyway, the story: I had just turned 21, so I was legally able to tap a beer, and felt pretty unstoppable in my role behind the bar. Ever seen how guys go crazy over a young co-ed expertly top a beer? It's a sight to behold, and a very powerful feeling, indeed.
This guy was causing dilated pupils all over the place, and I knew I had just a window of time to get his attention. So I drew him a perfect beer. Beautifully capped with one inch of foam, and in an iced glass.
I set the frosty Pilsner glass in front of him, and walked away.
With someone this gifted in the looks department, I knew the less in your face adulation he had, the more intrigued he'd be.
I made sure I stayed too busy the rest of the night to come back again.
My evil genius plan worked, and DropDeadGorgeous waited around for me until closing time.
The end of the night at a bar/sandwich place is move-'em-out mode. Everyone is pushed out the door, the place gets wiped down, you count your money, get your tables set for the morning shift; and then you can sit around with your crew, feet up, nurse a rum and coke or brew and swap stories from the night.
Mr. Handsome stayed, it turned out he was our lead bartender's new roommate. All that coquettish work for nothing, I would've been seeing him over and over again anyway ... which I'd find out soon enough.
As our after-hours party wound down, the lead bartender leaned in close to me, so close that I could smell his Drakkar Noir, and whispered, "my roommate wants to talk to you." Bingo! I had just won the lottery.
Someone this fine, and I mean his face was a pleasure to all the senses, had to be the coolest person to know. I had instant fantasies of all the cool things we'd do on our cool dates together.
Do you know those times in your life, where things change too quickly -- right in front of you -- before your brain has a chance to think about what just happened?
It's important that you try and conjure up that feeling again, so you get what I'm about to tell you.
The night is young (bartime young) and we're all the bold, the young, and the beautiful, happy to be who we are and it's a weekend. It's good to have times like these in your life, so happy and without a thought ... and ... then life plays its sense of humor. Hands you a situation just.for.you. Custom made because you're so special and you'll blog about it 50 years from now.
I'm feeling good, relaxed, content, flattered, celebrate me! And, then, Tone Loc busts out on the jukebox with "Funky Cold Medina." Everyone loves this song, and some of us more than others.
My beautiful handsome roomie man TAKES to the dance floor, on HIS OWN, and busts moves that I have never seen on this planet since. His arms are swirling, and he is doing things that are usually reserved for those with single dollar bills in hand. I don't know where he just came from, but I am seeing gyrations like he is trying out for a Chippendale Rescue Ranger. All I can think is how much I feel like I am watching a documentary from my Soc Class called, "The Mystery of The Devil," Part I.
Sweet heaven above, more fervent prayers from anyone's lips have never been whispered as those leaving mine at that moment. "Please let him keep his shirt on, please let him keep his shirt on." The horror of dress shirt buttons flying everywhere should this whirling dervish completely engulf himself in himself, were making my chest pound. Where to look, where to look, eye contact was NOT an option.
types of dervish:
whirling dervish, whirler (noun) - a dervish whose actions include ecstatic dancing and whirling
The dancing wasn't enough, the hands running through his OWN hair not enough, nonononono. He had to start singing: in my direction.
I've been lucky enough to gain some new readers this past month, thank you so much to all of you for visits here. Last year, I began "Baby E" post day, on Mondays, where I give our youngest, "Baby E," his space here on the blog. We call him Baby E, because he is the Baby Emperor, and we do all adore this youngest one. He's a good little brother, and a wonderful youngest son.
It's a grey and overcast day here in Wisconsin, it might rain later this afternoon - a perfect day, for a Baby E post. Here's hoping he makes you smile, and reminds you what it's like, to be a kid in the summer.
I told my mom that I want to do a post on what kids want to do in the summer, because the wrong stuff happens to us.
This is my favorite thing to do:
Me and my brothers having lunch outside
I like to be in the backyard, playing in the stuff we have: like what my mom calls "the slip-n-die," and with our dragon water sprinkler, and with our water guns, and to be in our tent, and then have our mom bring us lunch outside. That is my favorite thing to.
When it's hot and sunny that is what I like to do.
But when it's cold outside, like today, I like it when my mom plans stuff. Like the museum, or the art museum, or the zoo, or a movie, or my favorite thing! Our "summer reading basket" shopping.
But on the cold days only.
I told her I only like "family outings" on cold days.
Not on summer days.
She told me she has to plan ahead and she can't plan the weather but I think she should just plan ahead to do our family outings on cold days only.
She also makes us do stuff: in the summer, we still have to read chapter books, and tell her about the book, we still have to work inside and outside of the house, we still have to do the family bike ride! and we still have to take classes.
My mom says these things are good, and I do like them after I start them. Right now, I am taking a "make your own instrument" class, soccer school, and "Outdoor Art Classroom."
Those classes turned out nice.
I do like to do other stuff. I do like to go places. But on nice days, I want to be home and play.
What I don't like to do in the summer, is take classes where they make you dress up like Old-Time Paper Boys and do plays:
Like this.
Stuff like, where I don't get when my mom says, "This is good for you!"
She loves this picture. She is laughing right now. I am kinda getting mad but feel like laughing right now, too.
OK. Now I am laughing.
She says this is good because it's good memories and now I can say I was in a play.
It is so awesome!! And I want to give a card out for Barnes & Noble for your kids to use to start their Summer Reading Baskets and my mom says I can! I hope they buy the books I tell them, too.
Stephanie, of DramaMama, asks: "If there was a movie made of your life, what would be the movie, and who would play you and why?"
The answer is the 2008 Lifetime Original Movie, "Through the Eyes of the World: The Greatest Singer in the World: Celine Dion!!!" (and you do need the 3 exclamation marks when speaking of Celine!!!)
Sad to say, as much as I'd like/beg for it to be Sophia Loren to play my life, as Nives Mongolini, in The River Girl, 1955, where she was the steamy hot sultry temptress of a small Italian village, I couldn't give that answer -- not with a clear conscience.
Nope. All evidence points to me having to be played by Celine Dion, and end that sentence complete with a deep hand flourishing gravity defying bow, beginning at the forehead and ending at the knees.
I have been told more times than I can possibly recount, from strangers in the check out line at supermarkets to my son's open jawed science teacher, "do you now you look EXACTLY like Celine Dion ??" And not as in, "wow, you are so beautiful, you look just like Celine", nor as in "oh, you are so tall, you look like Celine," but as in "wow...your face is so long, you look like Celine," and "your mouth and chin and lips are really weird, like CelineDion."
The eery similarities between us, continue:
We begin with the uncanny similar facial structure that Celine and I both share: looooong faces, generous chins, and a pretty good jawline for a woman. We move on to both Celine and I, at age 12, when we'd both stand in front of any mirror, holding a hairbrush for a microphone, pretending to sing, and calling out,"maman! It's me...on the radio!" ala Celine, and commence to belt out a haunting, long, drawn out dramatic dirge. I was forever holding diva concerts in the bathroom, the more heartwrenching and painful the song, the better I felt.
Celine's life and mine paralleled each other's throughout high school, also. Like Celine, I was often "without the shoes and always losing the boyfriends." The boys would tell me, as they told her, "but you are too skinny, and flat," but I, like her, knew I was beautiful. I, like her, "felt the beauty I had ...here...inside..." And we'd both beat our chests with our fists whilst we stared out into the distance, slightly focused to the left, with a ferocity in this declaration (not to be confused with delusion).
Like Celine, you can make me cry -- like that! Snap! "And the tears...they come to my eyes." Just to hear my son say, "maman! and I am in tears." It is too hauntingly beautiful, the name...the name! of maman!
I conclude, with these undeniable identical occurrences in Celine's, and my, life:
*Celine's husband paid for her braces, mine paid for my retainers
.
*Celine often publicly states that her life, her life, it is like a dream!! I often find myself feeling the same way: walking through my life in a foggy dreamlike state.
*In the 80's, I had been known to wear my tuxedo dress backwards.
*My eggs are old enough to be in wheelchairs, too. I think my last one dropped sometime last summer.
*I am really skinny and look like stretched out Silly Putty.
* I want to be Canadian, please.
*Celine has hit the longest, highest note on record. My neighborhood has heard me hit some pretty good ones over here, too, when the windows are open for the summer.
*Celine has been known to burst into tears, at the thought of the happiness that surrounds her. I, too, have been known to burst into tears when I look around and see what surrounds me.
And, finally, like Celine, my children will tell you that I am "here, there, wherEVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR they are...I, will be there with them, too................" -- seeing what they're up to, what mess has to be swept up, finding out who is eating in their bedrooms....
Because, I.Am. Celine Dion, ! the greatest mother! in the world!
Patton Oswalt is a stand-up comedian, writer and actor. He is best known for voicing Remy from the film Ratatouille and Thrasher from the Cartoon Network original series Robotomy.
This is a short 1:25 sec snippet that is clean, and very funny, about what YouTube has done to us.
I've blogged many times about how one of the great things about all this blogging business is the feeling of belonging.
When I first began doing this posting, visiting, commenting, meeting of bloggers, one of the blogs I followed over from a comment on another site, was SluiterNation.
I followed Kate home because the comment she had left was smart, I could tell she had read the post, and there was a humorous quippy tone to her voice.
She was someone I could see myself being friends with.
SluiterNation, written by Kate Sluiter, is that type of blog: you feel you would be welcome anytime. She has that way about her posts: you feel part of something.
I was flattered and eager to contribute a guest post to SluiterNation, when Kate invited me to her site.
The topic she chose for me?
Belonging.
What a perfect post choice for a blog like SluiterNation.
This past May, I was humbled and blessed by an amazing opportunity to read before more than 350 people as part of the Listen To Your Mother Show in Madison, Wisconsin, created and directed by Ann Imig.
I had never read before an audience before. EV-ER.
But I wasn't nervous, or scared, or quivering.
I was calm, excited, thrilled, eager.
Because of all of you: your acceptance and support for me, for this blog, have transformed me into a woman who has grown wings, and learned how to fly.
You all did this for me, and I take nothing for granted: not your loyalty, your kindness, your visits.
I know I'm lucky, not one night goes by that I don't end my day by closing my eyes and whispering a prayer of thanks for the way I've been welcomed and loved in this community.
I can't think of you, and not thank you, without my eyes brimming with tears.
Thank you, for your love, and encouragement: the people that come here are the best on the planet.
Thank you!
*After viewing my piece here, "The Reach of a Small Moment," try to squeeze in a few more minutes and see the other incredible pieces read that day by equally incredible women.
I don't want to be accused, or have it be whispered, that there is favoritism, or, worse yet: that only curly headed bloggers are picked. I am NOT like that. I love all hair headed people: even if they're straight and swingy (the hair or them.)
But, this one.. this one? Things got messy--she got me.
I just want to sit next to her on the sofa and hold her hand, and try to stroke her curly massed head, and share trials and tribulations, with some gin and tonics thrown back...<oh, look at me, trying to be cool. Who am I trying to kid? I can't throw back G&T's...I get the jello legs.>
I have 2 beautiful boys: Child 1 is 9 and has autism. Child 2 is 5 and OMGDOESN'T. I have this blog because lots of random shit goes through my head throughout the normal course of a day and I need a place to put it. Mostly I just ramble incoherently about nothing. I also curse a lot. Sorry, Mom.
Just my type. EXACTLY my type. Who can explain chemistry or the siren's call of a like minded soul?
@Jillsmo is someone to follow on twitter, only if you hope to always find a friend who can make you laugh that messy snortle guffaw:
I've got some blogging buddies who have been bugging the shit out of me to make a vlog (video blog). Yeah, that is so not gonna happen, sisters. I've got a face that's perfect for radio and anonymous blogging, no damn way any of you are gonna see it. (I can't help but notice that the one person who has been bugging me the most is really effin' hot. Don't think I didn't notice that about you, Jess).
Okay, so Saturday night I was drunk (I KNOW, right?????) and decided to make a video of me playing Rock Band. There's no bass part in this song so hubs held the camera. Before you watch it, though, some disclaimers: Did I mention I was (READ MORE HERE) ***********************************
Jillsmo writes with the treasure of an ability of making you feel understood. As though you've weathered something together, that binds you.
We visit, once again, Becky the Blogger, our "How To Live With A Blogger" heroine. Last month, Becky turned to us with her long suffering indecision as to whether or not to succumb to the suburbs. Here's what we told her, as she confided, "When You're Having Problems in the Suburbs...." ****************************
Becky was having trouble falling asleep.
Strangely, she was also having trouble waking up.
She couldn't go to bed, yet she couldn't get out of it, either.
Becky was feeling depressed.
Things weren't going well in the playgroups she was attending.
She had missed so much of the "Mommy and Me" gym class that there was talk of suspending her punch card.
Becky felt out of control: she was talking too much at gatherings with the neighborhood women. She was beginning to argue with the other moms at the community pool, sometimes even with the post office workers at the small office in town.
There were problems at the morning cardiopump class, and she didn't know where the next unpleasant situation would occur.
She didn't know what to do to stop all this.
It was starting to affect her home life, her meal planning, her ability to read a book with full concentration, not to mention her sense of well being.
Maybe you feel like Becky.
You're having trouble living where you live, and you don't know how you got yourself in this bind.
It is a confusing time: will things get better? Or will they get worse?
My dear Becky: they can get BETTER.
Here are a few ideas that may help you figure out what is going on, and what to do about it:
1. Figure out where things began to go awry:
Think back. When did the anger and frustration and acting out start? When did you begin to feel and realize that you weren't part of the clan? When did you begin to try too hard? When did you allow it to bother you? Try your best to recreate the early days, recapture who you were before you began to censor yourself. Take some time to think about your life and reflect on the things that have led you away from who you really are.
2. Ask for guidance from someone who looks like they've chosen the Road Less Traveled
You've seen them. The ones that have survived life in the burbs. Watch for the clues: tie dyed shirts, pants that are cut from a different cloth than the rest, earrings larger than a seed pearl. Tune up the radar, you'll spot them. Seek them out, and they'll take you under their wing. They've blazed the suburban trail before, and they've got the map. Come up with a simple list of small changes to bring yourself back: perhaps reintroduce the red bandana around your head that you used to love to wear. Break out the big oyster shell earrings again.
3. Find a new route
With your new off the beaten path friend in arms, you can take on the suburban army messin' with your mind. Create your own map, you don't have to be exactly alike once you decide that for yourself. Choose a new route, one that feels like the way home to you. Not one that carries you further from yourself.
4. Steady as she goes
Once you've chosen and committed to steer true to yourself, stay the course. Lock on to the way to live in the suburbs without giving in to the pressure of being like everyone else for fear you won't be included. Figure out how you are going to make your way back to who you are. Do you still have that Psychedelic Furs CD you'd blare every morning once upon a time? Throw it back in the car. Play it.
5. Keep your eyes on the prize
Look to your new future: brighter and clearer now. You know who you are, and don't be fooled into thinking you must change and fit in to find happiness. Better alone and with yourself, than in the company of many, and not with yourself. (old Spanish proverb) Even though you have chosen to make changes in your life, this doesn't mean that the world around you has made the same choice.
Keep this in mind, and stick to your map.
************************************ Update: It's been 28 days since we last chatted with Becky, and gave her our advice.
Here's what Becky has to say now, "Though I didn't let anybody know, I felt really bad about failing at living in the suburbs. After talking to you last month and finding my suburban drop out mentor at the coffee shop, I was able to make up the painful last few years I suffered through. Now I'm winning at life! and feel good about myself again!"
You're welcome, Becky, we are so happy to have been able to help.
Rock on.
************************* In unrelated news: I have a post up for consideration as BlogHer Voice Of The Year. I'd love to be able to read it at BlogHer, it's from my series, "When You Love A Blogger." If you would, please, click here and vote for me. Voting closes in one week. THANK YOU!
A much kinder, softer form of attention that I'm grateful to have.
Mommyshorts was sweet enough to hand over the Hot Seat at Jessica's place to me, and I had a great time answering your questions. Who in the world doesn't love a few moments of self absorption? I won't say no to that.
Please click over to see me in The Hot Seat at Four Plus An Angel , where I'll be answering questions like "Who's your daddy," and "Did anyone ever tell you you look just like Sofia Vergara?"
Naaah... I kid, I kid. But, still, some awesome Q and A over there today. PLUS, come see who's up for The Hot Seat next...
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COMMENTS CLOSED. Please come join the fun, and find out more about me, like what I'd grab if the house were on fire, at fourplusanangel.
I have worked since I was 15 years old, at so many kinds of jobs. One of the part time jobs I had when I was a teenager, was as an aide in nursing homes. A resident named Mary lived in one of these nursing homes. I still remember her. That was over 30 years ago, but I can still see Mary with the long, single silver braid down her back. Sometimes it doesn't seem that far away in time. This post is for Mary.
I woke up this morning to Baby E's arms tangled up in my hair. He is in our bed. I remember falling asleep to a thunderstorm last night, nothing too noticeable for me, but it must've been for him. Whenever I wake up to his warm body so close to mine, I am grateful for his human touch. Mary often comes to my mind in moments like these--a vision from my past. I hear her voice, "Please? I just want to touch someone! Will you come in here? Please?"
I usually began my shift at the nursing home by catching up on what the last shift had not been able to finish. On this particular day, I had so much work to do that I was starting to feel a little panicked. I had tried to sneak past Mary's room--as I always did when I was rushed-- but it was too late. She had caught sight of my white uniform running past her door. Mary would sit right at the threshold of her room, with the door wide open, in hopes of catching someone to just hug. They didn't even have to hug her back, she'd do it all.
"Be right there, Mary, here I come, just let me put this down," I called out to her.I set down the laundry I had been carrying, and leaned down into her bent form, molded into her chair. She'd hold me in her bird like frame. I could feel her sigh so deeply, with such relief, it would shake her small body. "Bless you, bless you, bless you!" she'd whisper to my cheek. "My pleasure, Mary, you know I love your hugs," I'd smile and gently try to pull away. I'd always try to not look straight into her eyes. I was always caught off guard by the quick way they'd fill with tears.
I think of Mary on this morning, as my youngest lays so close to me. His skin is as smooth as cool water. I think of how she needed touch as much as she needed to eat, be taken care of, be covered with an extra blanket at night. I remember the Sociology 101 Experiment we all read about as freshmen in college. The experiment where infants were separated from their mothers to see if a reduction in human contact stopped the spread of disease. It did, and it did much more than that, too. 75% of the infants separated from their mothers died. This was the beginning of what we now call, "failure to thrive."
There is a pastor in our small town, who stands outside of his church every Sunday morning, giving out hugs to every single person who walks into his service that day. After months of driving past there on a Sunday morning, and seeing this, I decided to call him. Could I come in, I wondered, and ask him why he was so intent on giving everyone who walked past him, a hug? Did he know the entire town called him "the hugging pastor"? I was curious, how did it start?
I told him I'd see some people laugh and try to outmaneuver his hugs. I'd also see see the elderly, or the lonely, just melt into his arms. When I spoke with him, and asked about the reason for his determination to give his hugs out like chocolate kisses, he answered me, "I began doing this on an occasional basis, then one day, an older woman said to me, "you know, pastor, this is the first time someone has touched me all week." My heart went back to "Mary" when he told me this, "just like Mary," I thought.
I remember how my grandmother would comb my curls, singing to me while she took her time curling each strand around her finger, slowly, as if I was the only thing that mattered in her world at that moment. I can still feel her soft hands smoothing my hair, and hear her soft voice singing me her song. The gift of human touch.
To my child that allows me quick grabs of hugs, I take them, to the other two that still bless me with longer, more luxurious basking in their arms, I do. When I run into a friend, or someone from work, I will try to work in a shoulder touch, or a quick rub on the back, or place my hand to rest on their arm for a second. It all matters.
I think of how very fortunate I am, that in my life, in my house, I can hug and be hugged at any time. I have but to step just a few feet in any direction, and I am able to find the human contact I need. I can barely stand the thought of ever reaching a point in my life, where I haven't been touched in a week, haven't felt a soft warm little body on my lap, or had no one in their too quickly growing body laugh and try to out dodge one of my hugs. I cannot imagine a life like that, I am so incredibly lucky to have the life I have now. I welcome every hug, the stickier, the better. I am not one to say, "your hands are dirty, and you might get a spot on my white shirt ," or "I just fixed my hair and you might mess it up."
I remember sitting on a blanket at a soccer game, and my then 3 year old son reaching up to hug me with his blue cotton candy hands, a friend sitting with us cautioned him, "you'll get your mommy's shirt all sticky!" The confident answer that flew out of his mouth made my heart swell, "she loves my hugs, especially when they're blue and sticky!"
Finding Baby E in our bed this morning takes my thoughts back to Mary. I hear her voice, "Please? I just want to touch someone." "Yes, Mary, I'm right here. Let me have one of your hugs, Mary."
*************************************************
On Sundays, I've been running old posts from the first months of my blogging here. This one ran early April 2010. I still think of Mary, and how lucky I am to have more hugs than I can count in a day.
I told you homeboy u can't touch this
Yeah that's how we're livin' and you know u can't touch this
Look in my eyes man u can't touch this
You know let me bust the funky lyrics u can't touch this -----You Can't Touch This/MC Hammer
I had these harem pants. I thought I was a flygirl..no...I knew I was a freak-a-leek cutie.
I can't believe I wore them, wore them and did them right, with the flattest, pointiest, longest most wicked witch of the west shoes. Like these:
I wore these shoes with these pants and had the nerve to walk down the street with my head held high. I can't tell you how many times I'd trip over the pointy toe of these shoes. Picture walking with a pair of swimming flippers. It was just like that.
My top looked like this:
More brass than a military ball.
How my hair survived the daily crimping iron, well... I still need to sit under a heatlamp for 30 mins with a tube of VO5 dumped on it. Weekly. 30 years later and I think I've finally coaxed it back to life.
Then...THEN...I had the nerve to put these on my ears:
Oh, yes, I did.
Recognize them? Reese Witherspoon hung from them in Water For Elephants.
Do you have this visual? And, there I was, bustin' a move, arms flapping out like a chicken, popping those knees in and out, all the while swaying side to side.
I meant it when I danced to it, "Can't touch this.."
What happens to us? So confident and sure of ourselves back then, dressed up like that, and still able to sing, "Can't touch this.."
Is it life that knocks us down a few pegs? When did we start letting people other than ourselves determine our worth?
I can't tell you how it happened, but it did.
I can tell you that when "Can't Touch This" popped up on a commercial today, that I felt the old girl come back.
Happy Monday! It's Monday, which means Baby E Post Day. And he's been in a great mood. I am handing over the blog to him, he's ready to go: Thank you for your kindness in supporting and encouraging Baby E's posts. He does look forward to his turn on the blog. You're the best. **********************
Hi.
It's me, Baby E.
I didn't blog for awhile because I just was too busy. But it's quiet now and I'm done doing everything I wanted to do today, so now I will blog. I'm going to do my post now.
Well, today me and my dad were watching a basketball game on TV, and this big basketball player dude (wait...I can't stop laughing..OK..)
This big basketball player dude was about to make a shot and then this other big dude was about to block it.
And then the dude who was about to make the shot jumped up to shoot it and then the dude who was blocking it jumped up, too, and the guy who was shooting slammed into him and so the other dude who was blocking (I'm laughing again, wait...) he flew into this old man's lap who was watching the game and the old man was so surprised that the big dude fell on him so he started to fall and then he was hugging the player so he wouldn't fall down off his chair so they both fell over with the old man hugging the big dude who was so big and sweaty. It was so funny that they showed it during the rest of the game over and over. The player was all sweaty.
And you could see the old man wiping the sweat off his pants.
And the old man's cap was all crooked when they picked the big basketball player off of him. And he was like stunned. It was so funny.
I have this game called Bull's Eye Ball Game and when you start it up it goes dundundundundun BRAAAAAAAAAAWWWWLLLLLLLL!!!!! That sounds like a tiger barfing to me.
Everything is funny on some days, and a lot of funny stuff happens to me.
This is the stuff that makes me laugh: funny jokes. Funny comics. Funny shows like The Regular Show.( This show isn't for little kids, they say the word "crap" a lot. Like, they say, "oh, crap" and stuff.)
My dad plays cheap old songs on the radio that are really outdated. Like the "Dinosaur Rex" song, it goes "Dinosaur Rex, Dinosaur Rex" (NOTE FROM MOM: the song is actually Panama Red, 1973, by New Riders of the Purple Sage..and they sing "Panama Red, Panama Red," Baby E had me laughing on this one.)
If you want your kids to play educational games you can go to Kindersite or Cool Math Games.
Turtles are funny to me because they look like little old men.
We have a crazy cardinal bird in our yard that my mom is going to do a post about it.
He attacks our front door window every morning before 5:00 and it sounds like someone is knocking. I can't tell you more because my mom is going to do a post about it but he wakes us up every morning because it is loud like someone knocking on our door.
Oh, yeah, I saw a toad in our sandbox. This is funny because he moved and I screamed because it was a surprise.
I also think random cartoons are funny like when they combine real with the cartoon that is funny because it can't be like that really.
There's this one soccer team that I played and they were like mad because when I got a goal they didn't like it.
This is how I got the goals: when they try to trick me (mom, put this in parentheses: they TRY because I'm too smart for them ) they tap the ball and pass it lightly to one of their teammates but I'm smart and I know that as soon as they touch the ball the play starts and so I just run up and take the ball. And then they don't have very good defense and they're goalie usually plays pretty high up so there's like nobody in front of the goal and so I get goals.
Well, I think that's enough funny things that you can handle.
Well, one last thing.
My brothers make me laugh.
Especially when we do home videos and my brother sticks his face right in the camera and makes slurpy sounds and my dad gets mad and tries to turn the camera off before we do that. But sometimes we still get a chance to do it before he turns off the camera.
It's so funny.
This picture is my brother that does it. He can walk in this picture. He has crutches now.
My mom says to tell you that it's only for awhile, and he'll be OK soon.
For those of you that have come to know me and have read my posts, you know that I love blogging.
Blogging has changed my life and brought opportunities to me that I never dreamed possible for myself.
Since childhood, I have written and kept notebooks of the stories that have been my life. I don't know why, I remember feeling I just had to.
Through the wonderful world of the internet, I am ecstatic to now be a regular contributor to TikiTikiBlog. Parenting magazine named the Tiki Tiki as one of the Must Read Mom Blogs of the year, August, 2010.
I am thrilled and honored.
My first regular feature is up today, entitled "Trading Lunches." Who remembers trading lunches? Good memories, bad? Or horrifying--like it can be when your Spanish Abuela sends you to school with papaya finger sandwiches.
Is it any wonder I am the way I am? Well, wonder no more.
I hope you click over, say hi, and enjoy these recountings of my life.
Me, here today? Happy smiles...at last, my stories have found a home.
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Thank you, to Carrie and all of TikiTiki blog, for the amazing opportunity you've gifted me with.
Oh! You want to know more about me? Really? That's awfully swell of you. I'm Shari and I'm a chronic Fabulous-chaser. Once I even confessed out loud that I wished I had Type A+ blood because A just wasn't good enough. Yes, I am exhausting. And exhausted. (But that might just be because I popped two babies in my 40's and now understand why the girls in Little-House-on-the-Prairie days had kids by the time they were 15.) I write this blog for all those moms I adore, the ones who can't give up the fight to be Fabulous and are slowly coming to terms with being Almost.
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It's Bring The Funny? She Can Thursdays here today. Where I share, since it's the only right thing to do, the fabulous talented, funny, pee in your pants hilarious, bloggers I have been lucky enough to find.
I followed Shari to her home, Earth Mother Just Means I'm Dusty, after reading one of her essays on the internet. Dang, the woman was funny.
It was snowy, cold, January here, and I sat, holding my coffee mug in my hands to try and make me think I was warm. Her post that day was on her morning: how at the buttcrack of dawn, the doorbell rings, on of her many baby pugs (she is a pug lover to the level of concern, IMHO) had gotten his blue collar tangled up in her fantastic red hair during the night (since, you know, she SLEEPS WITH HER DOGS) and PuggyBaby goes jumping out of bed to defend the castle taking her scalp along with him.
I was slapping my knee and just about needed my son's inhaler with all the wheezing and chortling I was doing at the visual she left me with.
I commented, she visited, I visited, she commented, and we have been that way ever since.
She was my first follower. And she accidentally made her MAMA ROSE my second follower.
Her posts? Like one of those people you know who is really funny but they don't know they're funny. Which is one of the best kinds of funny:
Shut Up and Get Me a Harvey Wallbanger
TOP FOUR DIFFERENCES BETWEEN MY PARENTS' RELATIONSHIP AND MY MARRIAGE: 1. I grew up in a suburb of Chicago in the 60's and 70's. My dad was a Chicago fireman and my mom was a hairdresser/waitress/belly dancer. DIFFERENCE: I am not a bellydancer. Thank God my husband doesn't stifle my creativity so badly that I rebel by wearing veils and a navel jewel. However, I do occasionally walk around with dollar bills stuffed into my bra. He likes that. 2. A sample dinner conversation between my parents generally went something like this: DON: "What the hell is this?" ROSE: "It's Chicken Kiev." DON: "What the hell is Chicken Kiev?" ROSE: "Can't you just try something new once in a while?" DON: "Shut up and get me a Harvey Wallbanger." DIFFERENCE: A sample dinner conversation between me and my husband generally goes something like this: HUSBAND: "What's this?" ME: "It's Walnut-Lentil Loaf, a tasty vegetarian alternative to meat loaf." HUSBAND: "So there's no actual meat in it." ME: "Right. That would be the 'vegetarian' aspect I just mentioned." HUSBAND: "So it's not really meat loaf." ME: "Right. That would be the 'alternative' aspect I just mentioned." HUSBAND: "Okay. Yum." 3. My father used to write the date with his finger on dusty shelves to [READ MORE HERE]*********
Dusty is more than I can tell you here. Witty, talented, so funny, and a good woman. In fact, jewels are being pounded into her crown as we speak.
Comments Closed here, so you'll pay Dusty a visit.
Further enticement? She read for the part of Molly Ringwald in Breakfast Club. Yeah, she's that kind of cute.
