things not made of cheese…

As we drove home tonight, the moon was round and large. The soft light shown on the roadway ahead of us and off the leaves and branches of the trees. Violet pointed to it, and I remembered the moon of my childhood. The Old Man on the Moon. I would look up at his face and wonder at his expression which seemed different every day; some days he was sad, on others he would be smiling ,but usually his expression was just benevolent. Sometimes when I was little, we would all take our blanket and pillows and sleep out in the yard. We’d stay up late and tell stories, try to find constellations, and look up at the face of the Man on the Moon. My mom would always sing this song, “I see the moon and the moon see’s me. God bless the moon, and God bless me…”


I love gullible people.

Today I walked to Safeway with a friend of mine who shall remain nameless due to her highly gullible nature.

We both bought bags of grapes, and she started eating hers as soon as we left the store.

“Don’t eat your grapes, they’re covered in pesticides!”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to wait till we get home–I’ll just rub them off.” She shrugged and began rubbing the grapes between her fingers and her shirt.

“You do know that doesn’t actually get the germs, off, right?”

“Yes it does, if you rub them the heat from the friction kills the germs.”

“Where on earth did you hear that?” I asked.

“This doctor told me and Holly that,” she retorted.

“What kind of a doctor, a quack doctor?”

“No, he’s not a quack doctor, he’s a real doctor, like a doctor doctor.”

Apparently, this doctor told my friend and her friend, that rubbing your hands together real fast kills germs. Aside from the obvious fact that rubbing hands together doesn’t address obvious areas like fingernails and skin creases…heat from friction? Really? He actually told them that this is why you see surgeons rubbing their hands together in movies before they put their gloves on.


of women and childbearing

I just got home from a barbecue and noticed a strange coincidence.  If you get women with small children or babies together, odds are that 75% of them will reference childbirth or labor at one point or another during their visit.

It’s not that they are creatively trying to find sick and twisted methods of population control, it’s just that when such a traumatic incident is still so fresh in your mind everything still relates to it.

“Exactly! Like when I was in labor with…”

or “Speaking of tired, after 17 hours of pushing…”

or (and best yet), “…and now I just can not seem to hold it in! I mean, I seriously have to go to the bathroom before I jump rope if I don’t want to wet my pants…”

I realize that I am very guilty of this, (not the wetting the pants part) but my excuse is that I’m trying to keep the trauma fresh in my mind for future reference. For women, labor stories are like a man’s fishing story of the one that got away. They always get more dramatic with the telling.

Side note: if you are a man, this does in no way give you leave to make less of your wife’s labor story. If you suspect she is exaggerating details, you must only sympathize more.

Other side note: if you are a woman and have never had a baby, I was just kidding about all that stuff–go ahead and have one, I’m sure everything will be just fine.


Did you ever know you were my hero…

Ok, so first off, this is not a story I should be telling you. Secondly, if you get grossed out easily, please stop reading–that way you can’t complain to me when you realize that you will never swim in lake goodwin again.

All the characters will remain nameless. So apparently this happened like last summer or something. No, I can’t…I shouldn’t. Okay, super short version:

Imagine you are treading water in Lake Goodwin on a perfect summer day. Then imagine you are surrounded by turds…lots of turds. Now imagine your desperation as you try to swim away from the poop which also happens to be your own because you were out jetskiing in the middle of the lake and you got stuck and had to go bad. Imagine your two friends on the jetski are desperately trying to get it away from you because your poop got caught by the current and floated up on the foot boards of the jetski. Eventually they give up and swim away on their own. Imagine your shock and surprise at not realizing that if you pooped in the water, your poop would float up to the top…where your face is. Imagine trying to doggy-paddle with your own poop bumping against your neck. I’m done. I’m also done with ever swimming in lake goodwin.

In other news…completely unrelated, Violet and AJ gave each other the hiccups. I’m not sure how, but they were chasing each other around the room just now and then they each got hiccups.

This was a nice day. Great weather. Great birthday…incidentally, for the lake pooper himself.


Hats Off!

Dear Auntie Showny,

Thank you for entertaining my daughter via “phone sitting” today so I could finish painting the downstairs. I know she’s too little to ever say anything back to you, but I can assure you that she was listening intently the whole time. I was too actually. I could hear you across the room because you were on speakerphone, and as time wore on I began to be progressively more and more amazed at your ability to talk to yourself for so long and have so much to talk about. You told stories, you read books, you sang songs about princesses and flowers (Violet played along on the piano). My personal favorite was the part where you gave her a science lesson, because “…science is your favorite subject.” Who knew that clouds actually weighed like 90 tons, or that cutting an earthworm in half made two worms? Certainly not my daughter. The most impressive part of this whole episode of “Phone Adventures with Auntie Showny” is that you never halted in your speech, but just kept constantly talking while flitting from one subject to the next…for 1 hour, 2 minutes, and 14 seconds. Wow.

Anyway, thanks for being so interesting–my downstairs looks great!

Love, your sister and little your niece.


Most Embarrassing Moment

Don’t worry, this isn’t my most most embarrassing moment. I have too many to pick a favorite.

I was reminded of this story the other day when I was looking through some of my brother’s pictures on facebook. I was 16, and a girl, which means pretty much anything can get filed under the “Most Embarrassing Moment” category. My mom and I had gone to Florida for his wedding, and at the airport we were picked up by my brother and his best man (i think that’s what he was). Anyway, he was totally cute, which meant I automatically had a major crush for the weekend. Plus, he was way older–bonus!

As the weekend progressed, I kept finding myself doing little stupid things in front of him; I giggled too much, got red too often, and once in the middle of telling him a story, I actually coughed and gagged on my own phlegm. Don’t make that face–you have phlegm too when you get a cold.

In the end, phlegm proved to be the lesser of the two evils. It was the last day, and we were all together sharing a brunch. I was just finishing a blueberry smoothie thing when it happened: He finally started noticing me! For the next half an hour, I flirted, I smiled, I laughed. I was getting a great response too, because he genuinely seemed to be smiling a lot, and watching me closely. I decided to withdraw to the ladies room to make sure I was looking gorgeous, but one look in the mirror told me the rest of the story. My teeth, the inside of my mouth, and my lips were stained  blue. Like Smurf Blue.