Ok, somehow, someway, my family has started calling me "Gypsy." I think it started when Thing 1 saw "Borat" and thought it was the funniest thing
and somehow TheManTheMyth, as well as Thing 1's posse of cronies, followed his lead and now everyone calls me "Gypsy" and I'm asked if I have my tambourine. Ha. Ha.
So now the running/inside joke in our family, which includes Thing 1's cronies who I love like they're my own kids only I didn't have to give birth to them and toilet train them and I can kick them out if they piss me off, is if I mess something up, I'm told to take my tambourine and go back to my Gypsy Wagon
Well, take a gander at a different kind of Gypsy Wagons:
Can you believe all that chrome? Seriously, these Gypsy Caravans are incredible! But wait! The interiors are to DIE for!
These are not your regular RV's. Oh no. They're full of chrome and cut glass and etched mirrors and gilding and more chrome and they are so kitschy and tacky they're FABULOUS!
That's the type of Gypsy Wagon I'm talking about! I would be more than happy to be sent to my Gypsy Wagon if it were one of those. As long as I didn't have to polish all that chrome.
This morning, while driving my darling daughter, Kaylyn, aka "Thing 2" aka "Little Mama" aka "Her.") to school this morning, I happened to mention to her that I found out that I had blog readers who read my blog every day but don't "follow" me on Google so I want to give a Shout Out to Natalie, Gabby, Deja and everyone else at Nancy Corzine.
Anyway, I told Thing 2 this and she mentioned that she hadn't read my blog in several weeks because, and this is SO Her, I didn't talk about Her so she (Who? Her. Huh.) saw no reason to read her own mother's blog. What?!?!? I risked my life to give birth to Her (breech birth, placenta previa, blah blah blah) and she can't be bothered to read my blog because I haven't mentioned Her? Fine, I said. I'll mention you, I said. I'll be more than happy to tell everyone, including everyone at Nancy Corzine who all know and love Her (just ask Her, she'll tell you that), that She (Who? Her. Huh.) will NOT be participating in the Spring Season of Hockey because SOMEONE (Who? Her. Huh.) is getting a big fat PHAIL in one class, which has brought her GPA down below 3.0, which is the requirement for both of my offspring to participate in their chosen sport.
She (Who? Her. Huh.) has been playing hockey since her brother tied pillows to her legs, plopped a helmet on her head and stuck her in goal in the garage.
That was the start of her promising hockey career and she moved up through the ranks
and even made it to the Coast Cup Championships several times, although she's never had the privilege of actually hoisting the Cup as a Champion. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride:
This is the first time she will be sitting out a season but hey, SOMEONE has become a bit of slacker in her freshman year and now She must pay the piper.
Now the drawback to Her not playing hockey is keeping her occupied for the next three months. And by "occupied" I don't mean sitting in her cave of a room playing video games and watching all those skanky teen dramas on the CW. That's what caused her to slack off on homework and receive that big ol' "F" which does NOT stand for "Fantastic" on her mid-quarter progress report.
So all you faithful followers over at Nancy Corzine, I'm sure you'll be graced with Her presence when she goes on Spring Break. No sleeping in until noon for Her. And if anyone has suggestions on how else to keep her occupied and hopping while she is benched from hockey, let me know.
All suggestions will be considered.
St. Patrick's Day. A day where everyone pretends they're Irish and the wearin' o' the green is mandatory unless you want to get pinched, HARD.
Back in elementary school, my sisters and I were Campfire Girls. Being a Campfire Girl was fun. Once a month, (or was it once a week? I don't remember) you had your meeting and did crafts and sang songs and talked about how many Honor beads you earned and how to earn new Honor Beads and during the summer you went to Campfire Camp and oh! it was a lot of fun being a Campfire Girl.
Except for one day a year. Every year, on the birthday of the Campfire Girls, you were required to wear your "Service Costume," that's what the uniform was called, to school. And that day was March 17. That's right, St. Patrick's Day. A day you risked life and limb if you were not wearing green.
So on March 17, everyone in your school is wearing green in one form or another and everyone in your school is on the lookout for those who are NOT wearing green so that they could pinch them, HARD, because they were not wearing green and there I was, in my Red, White and Blue Campfire Girls Service Costume with nary a spot o' green anywhere on it.
So every year that I was an Elementary School Campfire Girl (I dropped out sometime around 5th grade) I dreaded having to go to school on March 17 because I would come home black and blue from being pinched, HARD, by all those green-wearing thugs at Hawaiian Elementary School.
One year I thought I'd be clever and pin a piece of green paper to the blouse of my Campfire Girl Service Costume but some little asshole thug said it didn't count and proceeded to pinch me, HARD. I like to think that that pinching thug is serving hard time at Pelican Bay while *I* am living a life of freedom as a blogger whose blog is read by less than two dozen people but he's probably a CEO of a some mega-corporation and is making millions while *I* am an self-employed (read: UN-employed) blogger whose blog is read by less than 2 dozen people and it's all because of friggin' Campfire Girls having their friggin' birthday on St. Patrick's Day.
I should have been a Girl Scout. THEY had green uniforms
and THEY wouldn't have been pinched, HARD, on St. Patrick's Day. Bitches.
Yep, we got hit with a 4.4 earthquake at, get this, 4:04am. 4.4 at 4:04, how weird is THAT? Ok, a 4.4 isn't all THAT big but it's an earthquake and it must be reported ad nauseum on the local morning news stations. I felt the bed shake but I just assumed it was Miss Gracie Lou scratching until TheManTheMyth spoke up and said, "We're having an earthquake" and then I was awake and could hear Thing 2's loft bed rattling away but she slept through it which is not unusual because she is a Professional Sleeper.
So even though it just felt like a mild rolling to us, there was that bit of fear that this would be The Big One and even though our house has survived every major earthquake, the Sylmar, the Whittier Narrows, the Landers, the Northridge quakes, etc. since the 1950's with nary a scratch, I'm still enough of a shicken to worry. A couple of months ago a good hard jolting quake hit during dinner and I scampered to the nearest doorway at lightning speed. I hate those jolting quakes, they feel like a train has hit the house.
When Thing 1 was one month old, I was up nursing him and the Landers quake hit at 4:31am. I was terrified because it was a good one and I just held him while we shook, rattled and rolled and he never even paused in his nursing. TheManTheMyth came running to make sure we were ok and then he had to go out of town. About 2 hours later, when I was nursing Thing 1 yet again (he was a frequent eater, around the clock. I slept in 2 hour increments for the first 6 months. It was brutal.) the SECOND Landers quake hit and this time, the the transformer on the power pole outside the house blew up and I thought a plane had crashed into the house and of course I'm all alone with a tiny baby because TheManTheMyth was on his way out of town for the weekend but our next door neighbor came running over to make sure I was ok. As soon as phones were working, TheManTheMyth managed to call and make sure we were ok. He had felt the quake on the road and knew it was a Big One.
Two years later, the Northridge quake hit in the wee small hours of the morning and I ran to snatch Thing 1 out of his crib. He was awake and standing up and said only, "Big Boom!"
When we were growing up, we had a Siamese cat, named "Siam" who seemed to sense earthquakes before they hit. He would start racing up and down the hallway in an agitated state and sure enough, we'd feel the shaking a short time later. When the Sylmar quake of '71 hit, he had been running up and down the hall and when the stuff on my dresser started to shake, I though he had jumped up there and was knocking stuff over until I heard my dad calling out, "Earthquake!" Of course, we thought it was all fun the way our beds were rolling around our room and we didn't have to go to school that day which made that day seem like a holiday.
Compared to the devastation of the Haiti and Chile quakes, our little 4.4 Pico Rivera quake ain't nuthin' but it gave me fodder for the blog and when one has a dry spell at coming up with topics, beggars can't be choosers.
