Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Pool Advice

Hannah went with some friends to their "membership only" pool yesterday and as she was getting ready she asked if I would rub some sunscreen on her back, since we all know she will burn like a lobster if sunscreen wasn't applied (I told you about her trip to King's Island a few weeks ago?  Were she burned her chest and left the mark of the necklace she was wearing on her neck?)

Anywho...Hannah is running out of the house in a bikini top and Daisy Duke-ish black swim shorts, rushing to meet her friends when David see's her and her two triangles and a strip of cloth swim top and FA-reaks out.  He was going all "You don't have enough clothes on"..."Where is the rest of your top"...on her.  She, in typical teenage fashion, rolls her eyes ignoring him and bends down to give him a kiss telling him goodbye.

I, too, receive a kiss and ask her to text us later.

As she walks out the door, David yells after her..."MAKE SURE YOU KEEP YOUR BOOBS IN YOUR TOP!"

Excellent advice, my friend.  Excellent advice.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Big Thank You to Hannah

Dear Hannah,

Thank you so much for making my job interview that much more special this afternoon.  Leaving me with a little piece of you, just made me feel so special.  

When I got home from my hour long aptitude test and took off my dress up clothes (black pants and a big girl top that wasn't too Garanimal-ly) I was so touched when I found that the reason my pants "felt funny" during the test and I was a little squirmy, was because your animal bedding was sticking out the back of my pants.  One of the bright blue strips of fleece your sugar gliders use to make their nest each night was such a sweet reminder that you wished me well on my new venture.

Here I thought brushing my teeth, combing my hair, wearing just the right amount of jewelry, ironing my clothes was all I needed for luck.  Little did I know that a royal strip of fleece hanging out the back of my waistband was something to look for.

I'm never going to get a job.  Get used to dry spaghetti sweetheart.

Love you, 


IQ 80

It is the end of the school year...only 7 more school days to go!  Woot!  And so the "what am I going to do with my life" inner turmoil begins again.  This coupled with the fact that the job economy for David currently isn't great, I applied for a job.  A real job.  A 40 hour a week, have to wear shoes and brush your hair every morning before work job.  You know, the real kind of job where you don't get paid by the hour, but by the year...gasp.

So I applied for a job last Saturday as I was surfing the net wondering what I want to be when I grow up, and low and behold...I got an interview.  Seriously.  They called on Monday and wanted to schedule an interview with little ole' me.  (This is where I either faint from relief that I am marketable at 41, or where I faint that I have to go and put on nice clothes and talk to someone and make it seem like my IQ hasn't dropped 50 points since I had kids.)

Before the interview, I had to take some online ethics test and a personality test.  Whatever.  Doesn't seem too weird.  Or hard.  Until...dun...dun...dun...they said the first step in the interview process is an aptitude test.  A what?  A...CRAP!  They sent over a few examples and I started giving it a little looksie.  Can I detect sequential patterns?  Uh...sure...that looks...um...ok...ay.  The next section measures spatial relationships.  Uh...crap.  I may have a problem with that.  The final section?  Math aptitude.  Crickets are chirping.  Math?  ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?  

Did you all know that I was an Art major?  Seriously.  NO MATH.  Zero.  So I read the first example:  In a certain company, 30 percent of the men and 20 percent of the women attend night school.  If 40 percent of all employees are men, what percent of all the employees attend night school?  

I take out my handy dandy pencil and start scratching out some answers.  Um...percentages...should be easy enough.  I am a pro a figuring percentages at the store.  No problems.  I scratch a few ideas out and finally my answer matches their provided example's answer.  Whew.  Okay.

Nine other sample questions prove to me that I still have no business doing math.  I manage to muddle through 2 or so, but who here remembers algebra?  (Besides David and David and Rob, I'm guessing).  So, the age old question...could YOU pass an algebra aptitude test?  I just got home from the test (what will be, will be) and am feeling very IQ 80.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

More Thank You's

Gosh, this "Thank You" note thing is really easy!  So many people...so little time...

Dear Platinum Blonde Jeep Driver,

Today as I was wondering how to get my father and his cane in and out of the restaurant at the Mall I so much appreciated how you skipped out to your Jeep in your stiletto's and jeggings and took your handicapped placard off your visor.  It was so helpful to see that you thought since you had all those shopping bags to carry, that you needed that rock star parking space for you and your big hair.  I just love how the blue in the handicapped placard picked up the blue in your eyes and sparkly rings.

I did question your need for the handicapped spot, but then when you drove out of the lot ahead of me I finally understood why you needed said spot, you are retarded.  Or visually impaired.  One of the two...since after I loaded my father and mother back into my car, you tried to run me off the road (do you check your mirrors?) as you decided to make a left turn from the right hand lane.

Hugs and sloppy kisses,


Thank You Notes

I am NOT a late night person.  Our family's routine is that the t.v., internet and phones go off around 9 most nights, then we get ready for bed and talk, do sudoku, read until we are asleep.

Let's face it.  We are the Boringtons.  But as you can tell from previous posts, we are snarkey.  So when I heard about Jimmy Fallon's new book "Thank You Notes" based on his late night segment...I was instantly smitten.  I saw this new book being plugged the other morning and about died laughing.

So...I think I should start my own segment of Thank You Notes.  Let me have a go...

Dear Blue Pickup Driver,

Thank you so much for trying to run me off the road with your scary empty trailer multiple times the other night.  The 10 hour driving trip I took last Sunday was made so much more pleasant by the fact that you were on the road with me during those "just twilight" hours when I was trying allow my eyes to adjust to the darkening skies.  

I really appreciated how you sped up to pass me then slowed down to cut me off, it really helped me stay alert and pass the hours. Over and over again.  Your dilapidated trailer was so interesting, and made me smile as it's flickering rear tail lights winked at me as they threatened to smack into my bumper. Repeatedly.  It was almost as if you didn't realize someone had attached this 15 foot extension of death to your truck.

Thanks, too, for driving down the middle of two lanes.  I appreciate how you left me a lane to weave in and out of.  I am so impressed by the driving and drivers in the great state of Kentucky, and had so many things to say about your skills.  Even my 74 year old mother had so many things to say about you.

I hope the next time I have to drive to and from my brother's house you will make another appearance!

Hugs and sloppy kisses,


Friday, May 20, 2011

Shopping with My Girl

Last night Hannah and I went out shopping because her game was cancelled, due to rain.  My 5'5" string bean with a size 10 shoe needed a few things.

We walked into TJ Maxx and started looking around.  Hannah saw a shirt she liked and in true Hannah fashion stripped her hoodie off and tried the shirt on over her cami in the middle of the aisle.  I'm rolling my eyes at modesty going on in the middle of the aisle.  

A few minutes later I see a dress I really like, and channeling my daughter, say "cover me" and proceed to try the dress on OVER my t-shirt and track pants in the middle of the dress aisle.  Hannah jumps in to help me with the zipper and a girl Hannah's age comes around the corner and sees the two of us struggling with the zipper.  The girl freezes and surveys the scene in the middle of the aisle and turns on her heel and leaves.

Hannah bursts out laughing and I hurriedly try to get the dress off without ripping it.

Yes, we're the two freaks trying stuff on over our clothes in the store.

Kick It Up A Notch

Tonight we decided to kick it up a notch at the soccer game.  David and I sat in the car and ate our picnic lunch...chicken salad sandwiches and chips...with....wait for it...cocktails.  Did you know that you can buy these frozen pouches of alcoholic drinks at Walmart???
David just reached in the freezer, grabbed a frozen pouch, ripped the top open and consumed his adult Margarita flavored freezer pop.

Did the 5% alcohol help our game banter?  No, but the kid on the other team with the craziest bowl haircut, think Moe, I've ever seen is now dubbed "George" after our favorite Mario Cart course, Mushroom Gorge.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

An Oldy, But A Goody

I was talking with my brother today and he mentioned that his daughter got her hair cut.  It's not  like this is any major milestone, but you should know my niece has long white blond hair (like mine when I was a kid) and hasn't had her hair drastically cut in a LONG time, so it was a bit of a big deal in their family.  With two older sons, my brother was a little worried about their reaction at the big reveal.

Matt and I were reliving the famous family story of my sister and her haircut some 25 or so years ago.  My brother and sister worked for our Dad at the time.  My sister worked in the front office, and had left the plant to go and get her hair cut at lunch.  

An hour or so later my Dad called an impromptu emergency crew meeting.  My Dad walks into the room with all his employees and says, "If any one of you says anything about Laura's hair...your fired," then turns and walks out of the room.

Aww...fatherly love.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

My Idol Boy

Today was the finale for the American Idol contest at Bubba's school.  Bubba and his buddy made it to the final 6...but we won't know the "winner" until the end of school.  I love my boy, and think he is the sun, the moon, the stars, but seriously?  I'm not holding my breath.

I'm stunned and impressed that he sang A cappella AND danced in front of the whole freaking school.  We had a few rough spots, like when Bubba came home and told us that for the final he was going to sing "It's Raining Men."  

Crickets chirping.  

Delicate conversation rehearsal going through my head...David butting in and bluntly telling Bubba that the song is gay.  

I jump in and delicately tell Bubba that as a finishing 5th grader he would be potentially committing social suicide (as an incoming middle schooler) and would forever be labeled as the kid who sung "It's Raining Men."

Today, after the end of the American Idol drama, Bubba announced that he was going to be singing "Eye of the Tiger" at the upcoming talent show.  

Do I need to stop letting my child watch Glee?

Monday, May 16, 2011

Peanut Gallery

My husband and I are freaks.  We have been sitting (too lazy to get out) in the car to watch Bubba's soccer games lately.  Even when it's sunny and nice!  One of the reasons why we sit in the car is because my husband's mouth cannot be trusted.

To entertain ourselves we make fun of people.  I know it's wrong, oh well.

We make up names for kids on the opposing teams.  It all started last year when this boy with long reddish hair was trying to keep up with the big dogs on the field, making us feel sorry for him.  We started calling him "Cinnamon."  Go cinnamon!  Go cinnamon, go, go cinnamon!  

There has also been "nut sack" named by David because he took one in the nuts during a run in with another player.  "Look, nut sack just scored!  Way to go Nutsack! Way to rebound Nutsack!"

"Transitions" is the kids with the self darkening glasses that was trying to score on the Bubb-ster.  Did I tell you that Bubba has been playing goalie for half a game these days?

These pet names (even when the kid has his name written on the back of his jersey) are the brain child of David, because he always purposefully screws up names just to make us crazy.

Last weekend (during our 3 consecutive games) we had the windows down and were sitting in the car when my darling husband decides to start talking about one of the kids on OUR team.  I give him the "DO NOT TALK" crazy eyes and whisper through gritted teeth that the kid's Mom is sitting in the car next to us with her windows down.  David catches on and  rebounds by finishing his talk about this kid with a "he's doing such a great job and is making progress" mumbo-jumbo.  This woman HAD to know that he was full of crap after listening to our snarkey name calling.


I know.  I am a looser.  I am going to be/do better again.  Promise.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Cry Like A Baby

So I am sitting here watching my weekly does of Glee when all the sudden it goes to an ad and I start BAWLING like a baby over a commercial.  B A W L I N G.  Not my hormonal, girley, Hallmark commercial tear up, but an all out bawl.

The commercial?  An organizational called ItGetsBetter.org

Have you seen the commercial?  It is YouTube-like videos, notes, posts, that gay adults have posted on the above site.  The videos are so sweet.  Encouraging.  Lovely.  Showing teens (and adults) that sometimes people don't understand your life and how you feel, but soon LIFE WILL GET BETTER.    

Do you need to be gay to visit the site?  I would think not.  I applaud this site that tells people that although the stranger in the video does not know you, they love you and care about you.

Who on this planet couldn't use a little support and encouragement?  Who would have thought that technology could be used for good?

Sunday, May 1, 2011

My American President

One of my favorite movies ever is American President.  I LOVE Michael Douglas's president, and I am a sucker for Michael J. Fox.  There is a classic scene in the movie, one of many, that comes at the end when Michael Douglas interrupts a press conference and finally stands up for himself.  He answers all the false allegations and declares the opponent a dolt.

When I read the news article on MSNBC today about Obama and his monologue/bit at the White House Correspondence Dinner I thought "yeah baby, Obama's SO American President."  Obama RIPPED Donald Trump up and spit him out.  BRAVO Obama.  Bravo.

You Can Dress Me Up, But You Can't Take Me Anywhere

TMI alert.  Frankly I don't think it's that bad, but some of you are wimps and can't talk about feminine stuff.  Get over yourself.  Read on.

Today after church I *mentioned* that I was hungry and needed some BBQ.  We haven't eaten in a restaurant in a long time, and we hadn't been to City BBQ in ages, so EVERYONE jumped at the chance.

City BBQ, or "Shitty" as we loving call it, is a picnic table, paper towel rolls on the table, down home BBQ establishment.

We walked in the door right at 11 a.m. and ordered some Carolina sandwiches and corn pudding...mmmmm.  My mouth is watering just thinking about it.  The four of us sat down and dug right in.

During the meal I got up to get some more sauce to drown my BBQ sandwich in and a refill on my diet coke, and turned around to see David and Hannah staring at me, mouths open.  I immediately knew something was up and hazarded a wild guess that I had either sat in something, or let's face it I had an "accident".  Rather than helping me out, the two of them sat there and stared, mouths open.  (I talked to Hannah later about how she could have been a tad more helpful).

I made my way back to the table, surrounded by other filled tables, and confirmed that I did in fact have a spot on the back of my skirt.   I turned my skirt around (the beauty of the elastic waist skirt), grabbed my giant purse (another plus) and excused myself to the bathroom.  It was a one bun bathroom.  Great.  I locked the door and got to work.  I washed my skirt out, looked around and saw there was no air dryer and started to dry the skirt off with paper towels.  At this point someone was knocking on the door so she could use the restroom.  Great.  So I left the restroom with a wet spot on the front of my skirt, which was better than on the back.

As I am leaving the restroom, passing the waiting women, oblivious Bubba (across the room) says in the loudest stage whisper EVER, "You took a LONG time Mom, WERE YOU POOPING?"