sunny side up

a stout-hearted man

In no way do I endorse theft, but I can understand why this guy would want 180 kegs of Guinness.  But who in their right minds steals Budweiser?

sheer madness

I won't give in.  I won't!  Nude pantyhose will forever creep me the hell out.

why are there so many songs about rainbows?

Each week Jade brings home school work and tests from the previous week.  We look over them before they go into the abyss her files.  There are always a couple of papers dealing with reading comprehension, in which the teacher reads aloud and then the students have to complete a worksheet of questions about the story.  The worksheet concludes with a question asking the students to apply the lesson to themselves.  Here's one that managed not only to warm the cockles of our (mine and Bell's) small dark hearts, but also to cause these vital organs to expand to thrice their original size:

Question: "Do you believe that 'when we wonder, we can make things begin to happen'?  Explain." (Ed. note: I think maybe there were sparkles around the question, and it appeared in a cartoon bubble above the head of a unicorn, but I can't recall off the top of my head.)

Jade's Answer: "No. I do, however, believe that if you want to make a difference you have to get up and actually do it.  You cannot make a difference by wondering because all you're doing is sitting there thinking."

So come on, you idle dreamers!  Don't just stand there, DO SOMETHING!

america's most hottest tile guy

The other night as I was waiting for Bell to watch "just the beginning" of "Surf's Up," (he ended up watching the whole thing), I turned on the boob tube and flipped around the channels.  I came upon a reality show called "America's Most Smartest Model," which began with seven women and seven men of above-average attractiveness competing for a modeling gig worth X amount of money.  The contestants compete in teams by using their brains for different challenges, but there's also some runway angle thrown in as well.  The ubiquitous Ben Stein is one of the judges. 

The competition on this particular evening required each team to cut out six designated shapes (rhombus, trapezoid, circle, triangle, rectangle, square) using measurements that had been written on the whiteboard.  (Believe it or not, many flubbed this portion of the challenge!  Most smart, indeed.)  As the pairs worked on their shapes, occasionally the TV would show one of the team members speaking in a little inset, reflecting on how things had gone down.  They kept showing one guy who looked vaguely familiar, but I thought it must be because he looked like a cross between a dark-haired Matt Damon and a friend of ours from San Francisco.

But no, that wasn't it. 

Then I realized it was the guy who tiled our sunroom last year, the one who was working meat counter at Albertson's when he wasn't moonlighting as a tile guy.

"Hey! It's the tile guy!" I yelled at Bell and the TV.

"Hunh?" Bell asked.

"That's our tile guy. The guy who tiled the sunroom. What was his name?"

"The guy who tiled our sunroom was VJ, but that's not him."

Just then, as the guy spoke, the chiron bearing the name "VJ" came on the screen.

"That's him! That's the tile guy! Look!"

Bell looked.  "The tile guy's name was VJ, but I don't remember thinking he was a pretty boy. Do you?"*

I reflected back a year ago to that dude with the radiant smile who worked long hours in the evening summer heat, till the sweat glistened off his delts.  You know, the one whose sixpack abs could be seen through the tight wifebeater shirt?  Did I think he was a pretty boy?

Uhhhhhhhhhh......

It doesn't matter now does it?  Let's just say that Bell, himself quite the pretty boy of similar physique (only taller!) to whom few can hold a candle in my eyes, he has dabbled in tile-and-grout work around the house.  And to me, TomBell is America's Most Hottest (and Most Smartest) Tile Guy.

_______

*Was that a trick question requiring spousal discretion?

Once, after Bell had met my college friends for the first time, I mentioned one of the friends in passing.  "Which one was she?" he asked.

"The one with the big boobs," I replied (and at the time, she was the only one with the big boobs).

He appeared genuinely confused and shook his head. "I have no idea who you're talking about."

Well played, sir.

i won't hold it against you

Bell and I were discussing a recent post by his co-blogger Glen on the Carrie Underwood song, "Before He Cheats."  I said that when I read the lyrics in the post (I wasn't familiar with the song), my first thought was "That chick is psycho."  In fact, while Glen went on to discuss the signaling function of the psycho chick's conduct, all I could think of was "That chick is psycho.  The only thing she was signaling was that she is psycho." 

But that is not the point of this post.  The point is that Bell then mentioned that the song was a catchy ditty, and he could understand how it would be a good karaoke song.

"You've heard it?" I asked, because it's not like he listens to country music.

And that is when, gentle readers, I learned something at once new and shocking about this man I've loved for nearly 20 years:  he will, on occasion, listen to country music on his car radio.  Country music!*  Who knew?  I mean, I guess I should have known, seein' that he spent his formative years in Missouri and Kansas. But. I did not know this.  I am shocked.  Shocked.  It's as if he's been sneaking cigarettes in the garage for a couple decades and I finally stumbled on the discarded butts.

We discussed my utter shock for a while, which led us to note that it was strange to think of Glen listening to country music (but then we remembered he originates from Texas, so we attributed it to that.  Still--weird.).  And then I started thinking of allllll the people I know who have surprised me over the years by admitting that they listen to country music--people who don't even live out in the country or go to hoedowns or those two-step dance place thingies.  And then it occurred to me, when I concentrated on the bigger picture, that an awful lot of people out there might be listening to country music right now, and that I am possibly in the minority with my musical preferences.  I'm thinking, in fact, that many of you reading this listen to country music. And you never even told me!  

It's high time you come clean, people.  Here and now.  I promise I won't mock you. I just need to know so that I can recalibrate my world view.

________

*Not that there's anything wrong with it, exactly. To each his own and all that.  It's just...not my thing.  In fact, country music rather grates on me unless it's Willie Nelson or Patsy Cline.  If it's pop/country, you can bet I'm wretching. 

tooth, or consequences

Jade lost her first tooth right about the time she turned six. It was a very big deal because she was going to be skipping a grade, and it made her look older than she actually was.  Many of her friends didn't loose their first teeth until after they turned seven.  Losing the first tooth is one of those landmark events in a child's life.  Jade wiggled and played with hers but refused to let anyone pull it out, despite the fact that she could twist it every way to Sunday and it appeared to move to the center of her top gumline. She kinda resembled an old man hobo.  Every time she opened her mouth I wanted to yell and point, "Hey, look over there!" to distract her enough that I could yank the dang thing out.

When at last the deed was done (meaning it fell out, not that I pulled it out) Jade was clear about her expectations on compensation.   Instead of money, she preferred some little treat-like thing. And since she didn't believe in the Tooth Fairy, she called the magical persons who compensated her for her loss "my sponsors."  That first time, and for many a tooth loss after that, I drafted a little poem with clues as to where a little prize might be, and I placed this fine literary work in the pocket of her tooth fairy pillow. In exchange, I took the tooth with its dried-up blood.  It was always so exciting, waiting for her to awaken and begin the next morning's hunt for the prize. 

For a while there she stopped losing teeth or she'd lose one here and there.   Then suddenly, in the last six months or so, she began losing teeth like there was no tomorrow, and without much warning.  It wasn't quite like that recurring dream when your teeth fall out or in the cartoons when they  plink plink plink out of a character's mouth.  But it did seem to be a far cry from the days when her teeth would hang on until they were eventually pushed out by a larger, more aggressive and permanent version of themselves.  Under this latter scenario, I always had sufficient warning to buy up little prizes and keep them at the ready for the tooth fairy pillow.

Recently, however, I began to suspect her of performing oral surgery in her bedroom just so she can get more prizes.  Or perhaps her chosen method was to tie a string to her tooth on one end and the doorknob on the other, then to slam the door?   She denied everything.  In fact, she claims she "didn't know" these teeth were coming out until they happened to appear in her hand. Does that sound to you like the way molars behave?   One minute Jade was playing the clarinet, the next she was telling me to talk to the sponsors.

Needless to say, these teeth have been jumping out of her cakehole faster than I can buy gifts and compose witty poems because, well, I have a life.  Most recently an previously upstanding molar  fell out of her mouth without prior notice, during a time of much busy-ness in our lives.  First days, then weeks, passed before I could exchange the tooth for a little gift.  Jade has been patient about my delinquency, but she still kept checking her tooth fairy pillow.  When I walked into her room the other day and saw her white board, the message could not have been more clear:

I knew then that I just needed to get to the root of the problem or it would never go away.

one man's trash is a national treasure

Thank you Kristi, formerly of the high school drama and debate club, for making my day.  This collection of old photos found in the dumpster of a famous photographer is wicked awesome.  I haven't wet my pants like this since that time in the sandbox when I thought it would be fun to bury my new plaid sneakers and then spent an hour (or maybe 5 minutes--life was slower then) digging everywhere trying to find them, but all the grains of sand looked the same, and boy was my mom pissed.  Only this time, it was not distraction and anxiety about uncovering my shoes that caused my reaction.  (I never did find those shoes.)

Please: do yourself a favor and view this collection and the comments.  And if you don't laugh at least once, this is the end of our beautiful friendship.

i didn't get the yolk

This week marks an annual rite of passage for schools all over America.  You know-- Homecoming.  Every year at this time I am reminded of a dark secret from my past, a secret so foreboding and shameful that I've never quite felt comfortable speaking its name.  But today, here in this post, I shall emerge from my hidey hole to own my secret shame.  Mostly because whenever this time of year rolls around I am reminded of a funny story relating to my secret, and it is that story I want to share with you.  I cannot do so without revealing a deeply embarrassing fact about myself.

And it is this.

*

*[feeling nervous]

*

* [starting to sweat]

*

*[oh god, when will this be over?]

*

*[shit!]

I was the Homecoming Queen, Class of '81.

Unless you knew me back then or are a member of my inner circle, I know what you're asking yourselves: "Did she attend a school for the blind?"  Or "Was she homeschooled?"  Surprisingly, the answers are no and no.  In fact, I attended a standard issue, mediocre guv'ment school with a  graduating class of over 700.  And the majority of them (okay, of those voting) voted for me. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! OMG it still kills me to think of it.

Now please: don't hate me because I'm  so very beautiful.  I'm not (except on the inside, where I am a very beautiful person), and I wasn't 26 years ago.  That's why I find it so funny that I, a very short, non-blonde person completely uninvolved with student government and cheerleading was able to snatch victory from all the cute girls.

I think it has something to do with a stroke of dumb luck that has followed me around most of  my life.  This was nowhere more apparent than on Homecoming Day.  That Friday afternoon before the Big Dance, the Dance at which the King and Queen would be announced, the Homecoming nominees had to shuffle aboard a float.  The theme was "Sail On," based on that Commodores song.  (This was before Lionel Richie went all solo on his band members).  At half time, cheerleaders and the dance team performed their antics while We of the Royal Court paraded around the track on our float.  There was cheering, of course, and much yelling.  I and my royal peers waved to adoring fans.  This was the big time, baby.

We were halfway around the track when, for some reason I cannot now recall, I leaned forward to pick up something off the floor of the float--maybe something to eat?  Just as I did, someone from the stands threw eggs our way.  Consistent with the Homecoming theme, they "sailed on" past me, one of them nailing the girl next to me right smack in the cheek (the facial cheek).  I heard high-pitched girlscreams worthy of Ned Flanders just as I was getting up from my bent-over position.  I was oblivious until I saw that the girl to my right had raw egg yolk dripping down her face and onto her pretty shirt.  Hoooooo-wheee, she was pissed. Meanwhile, the other girls were making disgusted faces and holding their hands up while clear sticky stuff dripped off of them.  There was much commotion, but the float continued on its path.  It would have been tacky for me to laugh right then and there, especially since I got off clean.  Instead, I smiled and gave the Queen's wave.  Because I am a professional.

I've often wondered what really happened--who threw those eggs, and for whom were they intended?  Is there an Abraham Zapruder out there, someone who could provide us with frame-by-frame footage from the event that we could use to solve this mystery?  To date, no one has ever come forward with information about this assault of one of America's noblest traditions.  No student government commission has ever been formed to investigate.  I don't know why I should care after all this time, but I think about it every year.  And when I do, I get embarrassed all over again.  As if I had been the one with egg on my face.