Eight years strong...

We celebrated 8 years by dining with my parents, catching up on all The Office episodes, running to WalMart and then King Soopers at midnight, and sleeping in this morning. It was just like old times except this time I was in the motorized cart at WalMart and he was walking.

I tried to tell her but she just didn't get it.

The other day I swallowed hard and began the conversation I had been putting off.

"Hey Bogda, I keep meaning to tell you you're famous," I said.

"I know. Everyone in Castle Rock knows me because they see me walking," she was matter of fact.

"No, I mean you are internationally* famous."

"Why?" She sat back and rested her arms atop her ample bosoms, interested to hear my explanation. I have tried to sit contentedly like that, but my bosoms are not of the arm supporting caliber.

"Well it all started with your pickle soup..." I took a bite of the chicken soup she had just served me even though I had told her I wasn't hungry. Trying to explain a blog to someone who doesn't know how to use a mouse, let alone turn on a computer was more difficult than I expected.

"It's like a diary or journal that you can share with all your friends and family. I mentioned you and your pickle soup and now everyone wants to meet you."

I explained how Blake and Lindsay both asked about her in their recent visit from North Carolina.

"North Carolina? They should go find Barbara (her sister-in-law who, coincidentally, lives there) she will give them pickle soup. But wait. I think they are on vacation, and she tries to cook healthy anyway. Never mind."


*I would like to thank Trixie for putting my blog into the "international" category.

Happy Birthday Sweet Mouses

I can't believe it has been six years already...

Day 1

One Year

Two (we started him learning to do a stripper dance early).

Three

Four

Five

Six-ish

Like Father Like Son...

I wish I had more pictures of Jared to illustrate my point... You will just have to believe me when I say he enjoys adding hats and eccentric accessories to complete his look. His latest has been in the form of various types of facial hair... but that is for another post.

Typical

The coonskin hat...

He doesn't need glasses

He sleeps with a bandana every night.


John has been wearing this bandana for the past 24 hours, including sleep

Do you think it's genetic?

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!

Another random rant

Ok, so here it is...

I am not a professional dancer. The closest thing to "technique" for me is if the ballerina has pointed toes and good posture. I do, however, find myself watching all of these dancing shows, and I don't really know why.

While watching So You Think You Can Dance this evening I found myself asking this question:

If the choreography tells a story, why then do you have to tell it to me in words first? And why does the choreography have to tell a story?

I am a big believer that if you are trying to tell a story through a dance you should let the dance tell the story and communicate the meaning for you (but NOT by acting out the meaning of the songs words like touching your eyes for the word "see").

Instead it's like, "this dance is about a couple who has been fighting for the past 6 months and they are on the verge of divorce when his mother comes to live with them and their daughter develops a rare disease. The family is forced to struggle through this difficult time despite the wife's alcoholism and the husband's torrid affair."

Then you watch the dance and think to yourself:

Hmmm... that looked like a robot freak show to me.

I feel the same way about "themes" in decorating-- don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good theme like the rest of them, but I don't think every single room needs a theme (unless, of course, the theme is "jumbled mess" for obvious reasons). I don't know how to explain this without hurting anyone who has a theme room/house feelings. So I won't really try.

Suffice it to say I like subtlety. You shouldn't have to tell me how cool you are-- if you were really cool I would have figured it out on my own. Get it?

Summer Break part 2

I am finally off my crutches and can hobble around for the most part. I am still catching up on housework-- but at least I got to vacuum. That was one thing I regretted almost instantaneously after my sprain. "Why didn't I vacuum this morning, oh why?" So with the floors vacuumed I can finally move on to bigger and better things, like the kitchen.

Last week I took my kids to WalMart for some groceries and a sprinkler. Before we left I knew what this outing meant-- I would have to swallow my pride and get a motorized cart. Everything went well, we got the cart, the kids took turns riding on my lap and we got everything accomplished. I felt confident and reassured that I could do it again if needed.

A few days later I decided to try Target. This time I didn't have my kids but I felt confident I could pull off the cart again. I didn't anticipate that the Target cart was going to be quite a bit smaller. I plopped myself down and backed out of the parking space. The reverse signal (beep...beep...beep) was loud and jarring. Everyone around me stopped and looked. I totally felt like the "wide load" joke.

With my knees up to my elbows I sped away. As I was zooming down the main aisle I came up to a family going the same direction as I was. They maintained the same stride as my cart's speed. For some reason that bothered me, why wouldn't they slow down or speed up so I didn't feel like we were in a race? So I faked left and went right down the next aisle just to avoid them. I picked the wrong aisle, it was one with a support beam. I tried to slow down and came to an abrupt halt. Because I didn't want to back up again I slowly squeezed the cart through the narrow passage. By this point I was stressed out and feeling a little less confident.

I finally got everything I needed (without having to back up), and returned the cart to its charging station. I think the difference is that in WalMart it was crowded, I wasn't the only one in a motor cart, and I had my kids. At Target it was quiet, everyone could hear me coming and therefore, turned to look, and I didn't even fit in the cart itself.

So... lesson learned, I can handle WalMart in this one instance better than Target. At WalMart no one cares about your differences because there's such a variety of people anyway. If you are different, or freakish in some way, don't go to Target.

The next toddler to wear a tiara.

Kitty's recital was on Saturday. She did a tap dance to Good Ship Lollipop (think simple, NOT quite Shirley Temple). She did a great job when she wasn't trying to tell the girl next to her that she was on the wrong mark.

The best (or worst) part of the dance was the very end when the girls each picked up a REAL lollipop that they got to keep. They had practiced for months, never with the real thing. Kitty was so excited about the real lollipop that would be there for her performance. Unfortunately, the props people miscounted and Katherine did not have a lollipop in front of her to pick up. As any good dancer would do, she faked it but she was betrayed by her expression. She was the saddest, most disappointed sailor up there. As they were led off the stage I saw her immediately try to tell them that she did not get a lollipop. Luckily they had it waiting for her just off stage and the world was right again.

I thought she looked so cute in her little sequins and flesh colored tights. But I realize there is a fine line between "cute" and "toddler pageant cute"... all we have to do now is wait for her "flipper" and we'll be in the circuit.

Too much TV

The other day I was waiting for the 11 am news to come on (really I was) and I caught the end of The View. Lionel Richie was performing his classic "Dancing on the Ceiling". It was like a bad accident-- I couldn't turn away. I sat engrossed and embarrassed. Is this really what the '80s were all about? Meaningless pop lyrics? And why, oh why, was the entire audience on their feet screaming? I don't know anyone who loves that song-- why not sing "Say You, Say Me", "Hello", or "Three Times a Lady"?

Worse still-- I can't get that stupid song out of my head, I woke up in the night with it echoing through my mind. What does dancing on the ceiling really mean? Is it a song about drugs? I always wonder that when I don't understand something. It must be about drugs.

Random thoughts

I get bored when I don't post for a while. Here are a few things I've thought about posting but then the trek downstairs got the better of me. (Never, ever buy a split-level house if you think you might ever need crutches.)

1. Imagine my joy when I looked at the DVR list and saw that a new episode of Pushing Daisies showed up! I like the clever dialogue and dream of living in the world in which it takes place, kind of a mid-century modern metropolis. I love how the pies are in wooden slide-top boxes. I love the two aunts, especially the one with the eye-patch. I love the costumes, I love Emerson Cod, and I love the narrator. There is nothing else like it on TV. I was relieved to see that it was brought out of cancellation during these summer months when all there is left to watch is So You Think You Can Dance?
   
   
2. Jared is a slave to his tools. He constantly needs a better tool to accomplish anything. Last night he was making instant pudding and was wondering why we didn't have an old fashioned egg beater so he could stir the pudding. If he didn't want the pudding so badly he would have dropped everything just to go buy one. I am discovering that this is partly why so many projects go unfinished.
   
3. Bogda is a slave to her tools as well. Except she won't get any that might make her job easier or more efficient. She put up crown molding with a miter box and a hand saw. But that's not what I was going to say. I read on the school supply list that her kids need to have two USB thumb drives for their classes. This means that she is going to have to figure out how to actually turn on her computer very soon. And I can guarantee that she won't be happy about it...
   
   

4. Mo Rocca now has a regular spot as a commentator on CBS News Sunday Morning-- a new reason to tune into your parent's favorite Sunday morning show.

That's enough for now. So much to say about nothing...