Thursday, August 24, 2006


Ah ha! I finally have real, unarguable proof that I'm not as dorky as my kids think I am. I am really and truly cool.

This is how I know I'm cool. During one of my recent myriad doctor's waiting room camp-outs, I sat perusing a copy of People magazine. And this wasn't any old 1998 copy either - it was from August, 2006. And there - right there in People magazine, in color no less! - was a photo of Julia Roberts, star of stage & screen, wearing a pair of the very same sandals as mine. Seriously!! How cool is that?!

I would post the photo of her and one of me side by side, but I'm afraid you wouldn't be able to tell us apart, and that would be terribly unfair to Julia, because then you'd be going to her movies and thinking you were seeing TC and raving, "Isn't she just the coolest?" and poor Julia would get an inferiority complex and then she'd have to start copying my purses, too, and then the world would be filled with "Tarzan & Jane" knock-off bags and then my daughter would just have to lay down and die of embarrassment. And I have first dibs on dying in this family, so that won't work.

I guess you'll just have to take my word for it. I'm cool, and even Julia Roberts knows it.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Tick tock

God bless my husband. I love the man, but sometimes he drives me crazy. Well, crazier than I usually am.

Last night he had to take Sasquatch to hockey practice, which started at 7:00 pm at a rink one hour from our house. I did some quick mental math (homeschooling is good for parents, too!) and figured they needed to leave home around 5:30. This was the timeline of events as they actually happened.

4:30 - I start dinner preparations.

4:50 - I announce that dinner will be on the table in 10 minutes.

4:51 - Husband announces that he needs to "service the vehicles." In other words, he's going to change the oil and oil filter, check the tire pressure, & check other engine fluids, in not just one, but two cars. (NOTE: After 20 years of marriage, I know that "servicing" one car will take a minimum of 45 minutes and the assistance of both sons.)

4:51:30- My eyebrows begin to smoke.

5:00 - Dinner is served.

5:15 - Dinner is nearing room temperature.

5:16- My hair is smoldering.

5:20 - The first car is still up on lifts when I send my daughter out to tell Sasquatch he MUST come in to eat.

5:29 - My entire head is this close to bursting into flame.

5:35 - Husband comes in the house after finishing the first car. I ask, "Do you know what time it is?" and he says, "Time to leave."

5:36 - Husband leisurely strolls to the bathroom for a shower.

5:37 - I spontaneously combust.

Really, the guy has no sense of TIME. I, on the other hand, can pretty much plan any activity down to the minute, because I have a finely honed sense of how long everything takes.

For instance, when I enter the 20 Items or less check-out line at StuffMart with 4 things in my cart and only one woman ahead of me, I will spend 28 minutes in said line while waiting for the cashiers to change shifts and count the money in their drawers, the woman to sort her coupons, and another clerk to walk to the back of the store to the pet food aisle for a price check on Lizard Chow.

And if I have 57 items in my cart and desperately want to spend a few minutes in line reading that tabloid magazine article about Tom Cruise's mystery child who was actually conceived in an alien laboratory using the late L.Ron Hubbard's DNA, the checker will be ready for me in 3.2 seconds flat.

I know that there is no such thing as a "quick stop" in the post office. No matter when I get there, the guy from the Buster's Pool Supply and Winery will be there ahead of me with his weekly mass mailing that needs to be hand stamped. Twenty two minutes, at least.

Video store - I need 20 minutes just to look at all the new titles and complain that Hollywood isn't making good movies any more. Then I spend another ten minutes arguing with my son, Mr. Trigger Finger, about the moral value of video games that involve shooting other living beings, even if they do have 2 heads and spit fireballs. Twenty minutes later, I might end up with a movie, only to get home and find out my husband rented it the week before.

Today, in my doctor's office, I found out time actually stands still when I got hit with the one-two punch of "malignant" and "We probably got it early."

And a bit later, while wandering aimlessly through a craft store with the chilling words still ringing in my ears, I found out that it takes only two seconds for tears to start streaming down my face when I realize that I will never have enough time with my family, that this life is unbearably short, and that I'll absolutely never get those d*mn scrapbooks done.

Tick tock.

"But as for me, I trust in Thee, O Lord. I say, "Thou art my God. My times are in Thy hand." Ps. 31:14-15

Thursday, August 17, 2006

It's good to be home.

Yep, I'm back from vacation. In a day or two, I'll write about our beach cabin, "Pirate's Nook," which was only five stars short of 5-star accomodations; the day I wrecked my dad's luxury car; my foundation undergarment disaster at my high school reunion; and why one should not leave family reunion details to one's mother with significant short-term memory loss.

But I'm too busy to write much right now. Besides doing laundry and searching the pockets of my suitcases for hidden liquids, gels, and lip glosses, I have to reintegrate my children into the home environment. Ever since we've returned, they've expected me to come through the living room with a beverage cart and complimentary headphones, and yesterday I found my son, the consummate beach bum, wandering around the yard, looking for the campground shuffleboard court and that cute Canadian girl he met at the pool.

On second thought, maybe I should let him continue in his search for young Miss Canada. He's finally expressed an interest in learning a foreign language.

I'm uncertain, though, how knowing French is going to further his career at the Taco Bell 24-hour drive-through.

Friday, August 4, 2006

Just send money.

One of our fellow homeschool bloggers, Underdog, who just happens to be a dad, has a brilliant idea. Read all about it here, then send sponsorship money. At the very least, he needs an HSB shirt to wear during the event.

Underdog also has some pretty funny pictures on his blog. Be sure to scroll down through some of his posts. Gosh, homeschooling parents are really a strange breed.

Take this email I recently received from a homeschooling mom who lives around the corner from me. She has 4 very young children, which explains both her resourcefulness and her desperation:

"We weren't able to attend _____ Camp this year, but we are having cooking lessons at home (I'm trying to work myself out of a job). We don't have chefs' hats, so we're wearing white underwear on our heads."

I suppose there's a good Fruit of the Loom joke in there somewhere.

Thursday, August 3, 2006

What a bunch of comedians.

I knew I shouldn't have asked for opinions about my hip bag from all you beige-lovers (thanks, Junosmom, my kindred spirit in all things outrageous). I can tell you've all been reading that mean JenIG's blog for far too long.

For your information, I decided to take my hip bag on vacation. I carried it through airport security and the screening guys only snickered a little. I might even add some tassels and sequins to it and carry to the next homeschooling conference. Neener neener.

And get this - my next purse project is going to be made from an old pair of denim shorts and a red western belt. There, let that give you nightmares for the next few weeks.

So anyway, I'm on vacation in Pennsylvania, in my parents' house without air conditioning due to the Groundhog Incident. This afternoon I am going to seek out an ice cream shop where I will consume 4.5 gallons of ice cream in an attempt to bring my body temperature down below 150 degrees. I may even slather a little mint chip right on my neck.

Next week we're going to Cape May & Wildwood Crest, New Jersey, to spend a few days relaxing in the Atlantic Ocean. One summer of my childhood, we were at the beach and found a few $20 bills washing up on shore. (Probably from a sunken drug-running ship. It was the 70's, after all. Peace, love, cannibis, and all that.) After hearing that story, my fifteen year old son is convinced he is going to find enough money there to buy a skim board, a PSP, and a Corvette. The boy dreams big.

So if any of you happen to be at WC next week and see a pudgy lady in a bright pink swimsuit (hey, I don't do subdued), carrying a hip jungle print bag and accompanied by a teenage boy digging furiously for buried treasure -- run away. Far, far away.