This is the actual transcript from a text conversation between me and my 17 year old son, Thing 1 on a Friday night:
You'll need a hankie or two, it's THAT touching. Oh, and for that extra special touch, try and imagine the voices of Howard and Ma Wolowitz from "Big Bang Theory."
Thing 1: I'm staying at Wyatt's tonight (Note: Wyatt's house is Thing 1's 2nd home. He has his own bedroom there fercryinoutloud).
Me: But I'll miss you! (Note: I always say this when he leaves the house, even if he's going out to the garage because I know it bugs the crap outta him. And it's a mother's duty to annoy her teenage son.)
T1: Call of Duty is more important.
Me: Of course. I know where I fit in the scheme of things in your life: the bottom.
T1: Luey (Note: this is an all-purpose answer he gives. And "Luey" is what everyone calls Lucy, our Lab. If Lucy/Luey had a voice, she'd sound like Forrest Gump. This has nothing to do with anything but I thought I'd toss that bit of info in).
Me: I think she rates higher than me.
T1: Nope, she's fat. (Note: Yeah, she is. But she's a Good Girl!)
Me: But according to Jake (One of Thing 1's cronies. He's a hoot.) I'm a Ginger and I don't have a soul (Note: anyone get the South Park reference?)
T1: Well I'm playing Call of Duty and I can't multi-task.
Me: Fine. Don't worry about your poor soulless mother. I'll be fine, just fine.
T1: Ok.
Me: No, really. You don't have to worry or be concerned about me. It'll be hard, I know but you'll just have to try.
T1: Ok.
Me: Ok now you're just getting out of hand with concern. I'm touched, really I am.
T1: Ok.
Me: That's so sweet of you to think of your mommy. You're such a caring son. Your friends should be jealous of what a good son you are.
T1: I know.
Me: My heart is filled with joy that you want to come home and keep me company but I insist you hang out with your friends.
T1: Ok.
Me: No, no; don't argue.
T1: Ok, I won't.
Me: Please, my son. I'm getting all teary-eyed at your devotion to your mommy.
T1: I bet.
Me: No, really. I need a tissue.
T1: My phone's dying and I'm playing Call of Duty (I think he's lying but has to save face in front of his friends. SUCH a giver my son is).
Me: Love you bye.
T1: Loveyoutoobye.
Think he'll need therapy in the future? Yeah, me too.
It's Friday the 13th and you know what that means, don't you? It means Beware of Men Wearing Hockey Goalie Masks:
Or THIS could happen to you
Oh, that Patrick. I used to love him. LOVE. HIM. I was DEVASTATED when he retired. But Patrick has not been behaving nicely since his retirement from the NHL so I had to end our relationship. And I've moved on to George Parros, whom I love and adore
Anyway. It's Friday the 13th, the day when everyone's superstitions come out to play. My Gramma had all sorts of superstitions. Hats and shoes placed on the bed was bad luck. Opening an umbrella in the house was bad luck. When you moved into a new house, you were supposed to carry a cat into all the rooms of the house and then put the cat outside through a window. The cat would then take all the bad luck with it out the window. She made my parents do this when they bought their first house, the house I was born in. She also believed that if you walked out one door and didn't go back in the same door, you would have unwelcome or unwanted guests. Palm itching? Gramma believed it meant you would be getting money.
I'm not superstitious. Much. I know that stepping on a crack will not break my Momma's back. I don't toss salt over my shoulder if I happen to spill some. Yes, I knock on wood but I don't really BELIEVE it. It's just a habit. No, I don't walk under ladders but not because I believe it's bad luck. I don't believe rabbits have magical feet. It certainly wasn't good luck for a rabbit to lose his poor paw. I don't believe if you break a mirror you'll have seven years of bad luck although I've never put that one to the test and quite frankly I don't intent to.
I don't believe that if you whistle while passing a cemetery, the dead will rise up and haunt you. Recently I put that one to the test. I was at a local cemetery and was walking through basement of the mausoleum
which is a pretty spooky place because it's not just quiet in there, it's like deathly quiet. Very, very still. Very, very eerie. So I started to whistle, not loud but after a few bars I had to stop because I'll admit it, I got creeped out.
But I doubt I was followed home by a vengeful spook when I left because that would just be silly to be believe that sort of thing I say as I knock on the closest piece of wood.
Part of my daily routine is reading my favorite blogs. I'm always amazed and impressed at the bloggers who manage to come up with something interesting and/or amusing EVERY SINGLE DAY! Because lately, I'm lucky to come up with something to write about once a week. Every morning, I sit and stare at the blank "New Entry" page and end up feeling like Patrick Star when he's trying to think and nothing happens.
Several times throughout the day, I'll think of something, start writing it in my head but as soon as I sit down at the computer, my train of thought leaves the station without me on board.
It's like trying to keep a diary or daily journal. After reading "The Diary of Anne Frank" in elementary school, I was inspired to try to keep a diary. Except I was lousy at it. I had one of those 5 year diaries that came with a locking cover to keep out prying eyes unless they had a paperclip because a paperclip would open that cheap lock so quick your eyes would spin. The 5 year diary would have a whopping 4 lines per day so that all there was room to write was what you had for breakfast, lunch and dinner with maybe some space for the time you woke up and the time you went to bed. But there was no way you could write anything of substance in those 4 lines.
Years ago, the therapist/counselor I was seeing for marriage and personal problems recommended I keep a journal. A couple of years ago I found it in a box up in the far corners of my closet. I sat down and read it and absolutely HOWLED at how stilted and formal it was, as if I was trying to sound like someone in a Jane Austen novel. What was in my head and what transferred into the written word were two entirely different things. And it wasn't pretty.
And, there's some things that you really shouldn't put into writing for someone to read. It's one thing to say something like, "I sure would love to see Brad Paisley
on my bed wearing nothin' but his cowboy hat and a grin" because THAT'S never gonna happen to me but it's a whole 'nuther thing to write down, "I can't BELIEVE I'm having an affair with Michael Kelso! He's only 17 and I'm such a Mrs. Robinson and I know it's wrong but I can't wait to get naked with him in his van again!" or "I hate my kids! Why didn't I get that abortion!" because nobody needs to read that stuff and just like that sex tape people make thinking nobody will ever see it (hardy har har) somebody, usually the wrong somebody, will find that diary or watch your sex tape and the next thing you know you've been dethroned as Miss California.
And on that note, I leave you with this lovely photo I took of Lucy today:
That's my dawg!
I just read an article in one of my favoritest magazines where several different writers did a little write-up about their favorite time of the day. And I said to myself, "Self, I must ponder this." And ponder I did.
Despite not being one of those people who jump out of bed all bright-eyed and bushy tailed at the butt-crack of dawn and singing glory to the morning, first thing in the morning is my favorite time of the day, especially when everyone else is still asleep.
It's my quiet time, just me and the morning paper. If and when the Long Beach Blab ever ceases publication and goes straight to a web edition only, I will be very, very sad. There's just something about the quiet of the morning, when the kids and dog are still slumbering away and it's just me and my paper.
The last few mornings it's been really foggy and when I go outside to get the paper, it's all misty and still and quiet. This morning, I decided to take a photo of the view from my front porch and the picture came out all weird:
Huh, I said to myself. That's weird. So I cleaned the lens and took another shot:
Same thing only worse. Thinking there was something wrong with my camera, I grabbed my BlackBerry and took another photo.
I don't know what was wrong with my camera because as soon as I came inside, I took a photo and the picture came out sharp and clear. Maybe I just have a very sensitive camera that captured the water in the air. Or, and I like this reason better just because, maybe my camera picked up spirit orbs and based on how many are in the photo, I've got a shitload of spirit orbs hanging around my front porch.
Anyways. That's my favorite time of the day before I have to get Thing 2 up for school, pour cereal down her gullet, get Lucy fed and give her her insulin shot, make lunches and drag Thing 2 out to the car so I can get her to school on time. Luckily, Thing 1 has become pretty self-sufficient, getting himself up and out of the door at 5:45am for Surf Team. Thing 2 is a whole 'nuther story. Morning person and self-sufficient she ain't. Once I drag her out of the depths of slumber at 6:45am, my quiet morning is a thing of the past.
But for that hour or so in the morning, all is peaceful and quiet in my world.
