Just Call Me Trashy

The boy and I were out running errands over the weekend, and we ran into Belk to buy a Father's Day gift for Dan/Daddy.
If you aren't from the South, you may not be familiar with the Belk.  It's a department store that has been around since the dawn of time.  Well, maybe it hasn't been around that long, but I remember my teeny tiny small hometown having a Belk store before we had much of anything else.  Even McDonald's.

The checkout lines in our Belk men's department were a mile long, so we found a half-mile long line in the women's department.  We also apparently got in line in front of the Fashion Police from 1937.

A group of 4 senior ladies behind us began to chat about the long lines.

"I remember back when you went to a department store, you had one sales person all to yourself.  They brought you clothes to try on, and they knew what looked nice."

Another one chimed in,
"I'll bet that salesgirl was dressed up, too.  They knew how to dress up for work back then."

Then the next one piped up,
"I can't get over how these young folks dress these days.  Especially in church!  They don't even wear pantyhose anymore!"

Now remember, I have a 14 year-old boy standing with me.  At this point in their conversation, we had stopped talking to each other and completely tuned in to them.

Grandma #4 joined in,
"I'm just glad they are coming to church, even if they don't have on pantyhose."

"Well I remember my mama saying a lady always wears pantyhose.  Not wearing pantyhose was just trashy."

At this point, I said a silent prayer of thanks that pantyhose aren't the standard anymore.   I'm always thankful to avoid that nylon prison of torture... especially in Summer.

The commentary continued.
"People just don't know what looks nice anymore."

"It's hard to find anything that looks decent."

"And then you have to stand in a long line to pay for it."

When it was finally our turn to pay, the boy was purple from holding in his laughter.  I wasn't far behind him.  We paid, and left the 4 Grannies to solve the rest of the fashion world's problems.

Only in the South can four total strangers bond over the trashy lack of pantyhose in our society.

I only hope they don't see me on Sunday morning... without my pantyhose.

73 Days

Hey there!   Remember me? 

I was driving home a few days ago, and I was thinking about the old blog here.  I was considering shutting it down.  I wasn't sure if anyone really "blogged" anymore, and I wasn't sure if I was just writing for myself. (Which really isn't a bad thing.)
Then, out of the blue, my friend "L" mentioned she was waiting on me to post.  Really?

So to the 5 of you who visit here,  I'm sorry.  To myself (who finds this therapeutic),  I'm sorry.
A lot of things have happened since April 2nd.  "A lot" is an understatement.  73 days worth of stuff has happened.
Hold on tight... here we go.

In the past 2 and a half months...

1.  We ate, slept, and breathed soccer.  The boy and his school team placed 3rd in the playoffs, and the rec season ended with a pool party.

 

Now my car is mud-free.

 

2.  We celebrated Mother's Day.

 

3.  The school year ended.  Hallelujah.  We trudged through those last few weeks like zombies.  The kids had standardized testing, Yearbook Signing Day, Field Day, Awards Day, and 2 field trips to Nashville.

 

One of the field trips was to present a project, and the other was to tour the capitol building and the Legislative Plaza.  During the tour, a certain student saw a photo of the famous Tennessean, Ida B. Wells.  He asked if it was Paula Deen.  I won't tell you who that student was, but I will tell you our family obviously watch way more Food Network than the History Channel.

 

4.  Winter/Spring finally left us, and Summer arrived.  In case you don't know me, I was sad to see the cooler temps go.  Now we are mowing the grass and weed-eating the weeds.

And my neighbor found a baby snake.

Good times.

 

5.  We put in a pool.  I wish.  Our house is a rental, and I don't think the homeowners would approve.  Instead, we bought a kiddie pool.  It's fun to goof off in, and it beats the heat.  We also get a kick out of holding our puppy in the water and watching her doggie-paddle.

 

6.  We ended the AWANA year at our church.  The boy earned his book award, and the leaders had about 392 water balloons thrown at us.  I will not post the pictures of me, sopping wet and begging for mercy.

 

7.  We've slept past 5:30 am on as many days as possible.

 

8.  We've been to the movies, invited friends to the movies, watched movies at home, and planned the movies we want to see in the next 60 days.  We like movies.

 

9.  We went strawberry picking, put strawberries in the freezer, and ate enough strawberries to give ourselves hives.

 

10.  We just finished Vacation Bible School at church for the youth, and (late last night) the boy finished a week at soccer camp.  My car was mud-free for .8 seconds.  Now he's considering playing on one of the travel soccer teams.  I love having mud in my car.

 

I think I'm going to need a summer break to recover from summer break.  And now I'm tired from all that catching up.  Maybe I won't neglect things around here again.  Maybe. 

 

Stay cool, friends.

Happy Birthdays To The Boy

In typical fashion for our family, we have celebrated the boy's birthday 4 times.  We have 2 more "parties" to go.  Whew.  We can drag out a birthday.
In sanity's defense, they haven't all been real honest-to-goodness parties.  One celebration was dinner with grandparents; another was doughnuts at school.

I could celebrate every day for this kid.

Happy 14th Birthday to the most awesome son a mom (and dad) could ever have!  Your kindness, goofiness, humor, and honesty make us so proud.  Rock on, kid!  We love you!!

Springing A Break

The first day of the boy's Spring Break looked like this:

That's my non-glamorous back yard.  All covered in snow.

Day 2 of Spring Break looked like this:

 

That's my non-glamorous doggie frolicking on the snow-covered deck.  And those are my legs in my snowman pajamas, striped socks, and orange Crocs... very glamorous.

 

Now it's Day 4 of Spring Break, and this is what we're doing:

 

 

We've had our fair share of Old Man Winter.  The sun shone for a few hours, and the temperature rose to 57 degrees, and we thought it was July.

All Things Soccer

Soccer season has cranked up again, and it may kill me.
Since the boy was about 6 years old, I've spent countless hours on the sidelines and driving back and forth from games and practices. 
This year, in addition to the Recreation league he plays on, he tried out for the Middle School team.
He made the team (Go, E!), but being on 2 teams translates to a lot more hours on the sidelines and in the car.
He has at least 2 practices a week, and there are times he has 3 games in one week.  That is a lot of back and forth in the car.
I'm tired from just typing it out.

Two of last week's school games were played in sub-zero temperatures with a little rain/sleet thrown in for good measure.  The parents all huddled on the sidelines and contemplated lighting a fire in a big metal trashcan.  The players' lips were blue.
Even when we got home, I was afraid to take off my boots for fear my toes would break off and stay in the boot.  Brrr.
 I've vacuumed mud out of my car seats about 14 times. There's even mud on the dashboard.

One of the weirdest things about teenage soccer players is their ability to sweat in 36 degree weather.
When your sweet little 6 year-old soccer player turns into a 6-foot soccer player, the smell is just as large.
Who knew shin guards could stink?  How much can a shin sweat?
I make the boy hang his shin guards in the garage.  When he takes them off, he sprays them with both Lysol and Febreze.  And they still stink.  The shoes are another story altogether.
In the last few weeks, Winter has decided to dig in and not leave; it's been COLD.
But I am riding home from practices with my windows down and my shirt pulled up over my nose to try and keep my gag reflex in check.

Good times.

All the hours in the car and all the hard work in bitter cold practices must be paying off...
The boy's rec team has won both of their games, and the school team has won all 3 of theirs.
I want a trophy for all my hard work, too.
It can be inscribed:

"For your driving around,

Sitting in the cold and sitting

in your car,

Cheering loudly when you can't feel your face,

And enduring the smell

of a thousand stinky shins"





More than likely, it will be 97 degrees in two weeks.  I just think those shin guards stink now.
I'll trade my windburn for sunburn, and I'll still be driving all over town for games and practices, but I will be sweating as well.
It's a good thing I love the boy.

In other news, it's the first day of Spring Break, and our yard is covered in snow.  More snow is in the forecast for tonight.  I'm one of the rare people who enjoys the Winter season and its companion, snow.  But now?

Dear Snow,
Why did you wait until Spring Break to pay us a visit?  Where were you on that sleepy Monday morning back in January?  We could have used you then.  We would have loved you more then.  Now, you are a cold nuisance.
Love,
Me

I'm waiting for my phone to ring and one of the coaches to tell me we have an impromptu practice... because it's snowing. 

The Day The Elderly Abused Me

I love senior citizens. I practically am one.
I love their ability to be blunt in every situation.  If your hair looks bad, they tell you.  If you have bad breath, they will tell you.  If you whisper in church, they'll turn around to shush you. If you've gained a few pounds, they'll tell you.  They are like toddlers with more money and more life experience.
And... if you let them, they will steal a shopping cart right out from under you.

Yesterday, I had to run into the Mart.  Sadly, it was pouring rain, so all the carts were soaking wet.
I tried, unsuccessfully, to loosen a cart from the jammed up cart pile for about 5 minutes.  When I finally got one free, I pulled it over to the side and wiped it off with an old Kleenex I found in my pocket.  Then I spied a roll of paper towels near the cart wipes.  (The "cart keepers" of the Mart were looking out for us.)  So I grabbed a few paper towels and kept on drying.
That's when the elderly man started stealing my cart.
He grabbed the front of the cart and was rolling it away with my purse in it.  For a grandpa, he was fast.  I had to jog a tiny bit to catch him.  Laughing as I ran, I finally grabbed the handle and said,
"You're stealing my cart!"

He said, "Oh.... I thought you worked here."

Well. 
I took my dry cart back and started my shopping.

For the record, I do not consider it an insult to be mistaken for an employee of the Mart.  But yesterday, there were some glaring differences.
I was drying off ONE cart... not the whole group.  The Mart employees are great, hard-working people... But none of them has ever dried off a shopping cart for me.
I was dressed up to meet Dan/Daddy for lunch.  By "dressed up," I mean "not stretchy pants and flip flops."  I had on a necklace and real shoes.  The employees at the Mart are nice, well-kept workers... But the sweater I had on was not "Mart blue." 
The Mart employee who stands at the door is friendly and chatty... But I wasn't even smiling.
So somehow, some way PeePaw thought I was a Mart cart wrangler.

My husband, my brother, my friend, and the boy all got the biggest laugh when I told them my story.
Dan/Daddy thought it was funny I had to run to catch the guy.
My brother told me he gets mistaken for a worker in stores all the time.
My friend said she didn't want to read about me abusing the elderly in the news.
The boy argued with me for at least 30 minutes about the color of my sweater.  He swears it was "Mart blue."  It's not.

When I paid for my things and left the Mart, PeePaw was walking out right in front of me. 
I laughed to myself, but I kept my eye on him.

Baby Jesus Goes To School

As a family, we don't usually celebrate Mardi Gras.  We don't live near one of those beautiful Deep South cities that holds a parade, and I can honestly say I've never shown any part of my body for a strand of beads.
We do, however, take any and every opportunity to expand our knowledge of the world around us eat cake.
We want the boy to know what other religions, cultures, and communities believe and how they celebrate.  If that includes food, then we're all a little happier.  And educated.  And fat.

So in honor of Fat Tuesday, I headed over to the local Publix to buy a King Cake.  The traditional King Cake has the baby Jesus baked inside, but in the Publix version, he comes taped to the lid.

My friend, M, went on a similar quest for a King Cake with a plastic Baby Jesus.  For some crazy reason, her cake box had no baby.  She sent her husband back to Publix for 3 more cakes.  None of them had a Baby Jesus.  Several people had theories, but I think someone went through those boxes and cleaned out the babies.  Sicko.

Before we ate our cake, I un-taped the plastic baby, flipped the cake over, and smashed him into the layers of sugar and cream cheese.  (The more I think about it, the more bizarre the entire ritual seems.)  We devoured the whole thing in about a day and a half, and the boy got the piece with the baby in it.  Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he stabbed into every area of the cake with a knife before he actually cut a slice.  (More and more bizarre by the minute.)

The plastic Baby Jesus hung out on the kitchen island for a few days, and then I saw him in the boy's bathroom... sitting on the counter.
Almost a week had gone by when I realized I hadn't seen him.  We were getting in the car, and the boy shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and said,

"Wheeeew!  I thought that was Baby Jesus in my pocket."

"Ummm.... why would Baby Jesus be in your pocket?  Where is he, by the way?" I said.

Without any hesitation, he said, "He's been going to school."

"He's been doing WHAT?" I asked.

"Going to school."  He said it like you might say, "I have a math test."  Or, "I need pencils."

"Just how many times has Baby Jesus been to school?"

"Lots.  Don't worry, though... He only comes out at lunch, because we don't want him to be taken away."

Truthfully, I wasn't worried about Baby Jesus being taken away.  I was worried about the phone call I might receive from the school office.  Or the school Security Officer... whose main station is the cafeteria. 

"What are you going to do if Officer B sees him?" I asked.

"Oh, he already has.  He came by our table, and we showed him Baby Jesus, and he even held him."

The boy rolled his eyes as I said, "Baby Jesus needs to come home."

"He can't right now," he said.  "I don't exactly have him."

"Who exactly has him?" I asked.

"My friend has him at his house,"  he said.  "He's making him some clothes.  We were feeling bad because he's naked."

"Well, as soon as he gets some clothes and comes back to school, I'd like you to bring him home."

He rolled his eyes again, protested, and tried to convince me the tiny plastic Baby Jesus would not get him into trouble.  He said something about Baby Jesus being the highlight of lunch, and he probably said something about me ruining all his fun.
I reminded him it's my job to ruin his fun, and I take it seriously.

It's been a few days since that conversation, so I asked the boy last night about Baby Jesus.  He is, apparently, still at the friend's house.  He's still naked, but I have a sneaky suspicion he has been back to school.  How do I even begin that phone call with another mom? 
"Hi!  I was wondering if our naked plastic Baby Jesus is at your house?  Could you send him home please?"

My poor friend, M, finally did get her Baby Jesus.  Another friend who knew of the missing Publix babies was at a (real) baby shower and stole a plastic baby from the centerpiece and brought it to her.  I guess it's not technically Baby Jesus, but my friend, M, was satisfied.

I may have to make a surprise appearance at lunch to confiscate Baby Jesus.  There's nothing like your mom walking into Middle School lunch to take away your plastic baby. 
While I'm there, I may take lunch to Officer B.  The man who is the first line of protection in the school took a few minutes to goof around with a table full of 7th grade boys.
And their mascot, Baby Jesus.