cool beans

My good friend is in town for a visit and I’m spending as much time as possible hanging out, drinking wine and marveling at her brilliant children. I’m also busy with work and volunteering and not so much with the laundry because of the drinking, working and volunteering.

While you’re hanging out, head on over to my boyfriend’s place. He’s super fly and his friends aren’t bad, either. They ooze the coolness, see.

Even their website is sexy.

Also, if you’re still bored, try clicking one of those links on the right. Who got caught with her pants down? Which blogger has been wearing men’s capri pants? Whose pants are holding enough water to fill a small pool? Who posted a moving piece that isn’t about pants but includes the word? And which blog author doesn’t have urinal cake breath and also doesn’t have a very recent entry including the word “pants”?

I’ve always loved to read. I love the smell of new books that creak a bit as you open them for the first time, pristine pages begging to be read. I love the smell of old books, dry, fragile, yellowed and lonely for another look. I love the weight of a book in my hands, the way the left side grows fat as I chew through the pages. How characters and lessons and trials and triumphs stick with me for days or years after I finish, changing me a little bit, solidifying, validating, expanding. But there’s one thing about me that rules over everything I do, including reading. I hate not being able to finish something quickly.

I remember summer days spent reading in the air conditioned house under an afghan my mother or grandmother had made. Sipping sun tea and hooking and unhooking my big toes, poking them through the holes in the blanket as I read. Devouring chapter after chapter as the scenes built themselves behind my eyes and reflected on the pages. I could easily finish a book in a day or two with time to reread the parts I really liked or wanted to understand better.

That was before I had a full-time job, three children, a husband, a mortgage and laundry and housekeeping duties for five people. Now I’m lucky if I get through the Family Fun magazine each month, and my mom isn’t renewing my Reader’s Digest subscription this year because everybody forwards me those jokes anyway. I read to my kids and while that feeds my heart, it doesn’t satisfy my brain.

Recently, I picked up a book that I knew would be a light and easy read and finished it in post-childbearing record time. It was a nice warm-up for my mind. It brushed away the cobwebs and lifted a layer of film off the window to my imagination. I picked up another book, and am now on a roll. The window is starting to sparkle again.

This afternoon, imagination tapped on the glass and reminded me of a book I loved as a little girl.

Christina Katerina and the Box

This past weekend was a nice one. One of those relaxed and easy weekends spent in the backyard reading and watching the kids play while laundry flipped and snapped on the line.

Saturday morning we lazed about. I was feeling too laid back to point the children’s faces at the chore list. I wonder now if they were anxious. Holding still and not making any noise, trying to make themselves invisible to the chore-assigning mother on Saturday morning. The way I used to hold my breath and try to make myself smaller so my mom wouldn’t realize I wasn’t vacuuming even though American Bandstand was on.

I made some coffee and put two loads of laundry out on the line. I inflated the pool and filled it up so the water would lose some of its icy bite by the afternoon. Knowing we were leaving, I covered the pool, tacked the cover down with garden stakes and used clothespins to attach a “NO SWIMMING” sign. Sometimes, I hate that we don’t have a fence.

The Man came home from working overtime and we loaded the kids in the car. We drove up to his grandmother’s house for a visit. She’s very ill and while the visit was quiet and pleasant, her rapidly diminishing size and memory were the loudest thing I’ve heard in a long time. She was worn out from a morning trip to town with her daughter, and my son had an end of the season baseball party to attend, so we didn’t stay long.

The rest of the weekend was more lounging. I started reading this book again - finally - while the kids enjoyed the pool. My sister came over with Ben & Jerry’s for two. Because that’s how you make a nice weekend even better.

Sometimes, when I’m bored at work or avoiding work or just at work, I check personal ads for my area. If you know a lot of people, or know a lot of name-and-face combos, I can tell you that looking at the personal ads is FUN!

This one time, at band camp, I was looking at the personal ads and I found out a former coworker not only swings both ways but is a really, really horrible speller. Her grammer ain’t so good, neether. I wonder if her husband knows these things. (I’m guessing YES and DOESN’T CARE, respectively - the latter likely due to the former.)

Another time, like, this afternoon, I was looking and I found the ad for a guy I once argued with at a party. Four million years ago when I drank Night Train and picked fights with tall men who were made completely out of lean muscle and shit-for-brains. I’ve since given up the Night Train.

We were at a party in one of the filthiest trailers I’ve ever seen and for some reason, people were talking about guys hitting girls and this particular guy was rather pleased to share with us his approval of smacking a girl around. “See, sometimes they nag at you and won’t shut up. Sometimes, they ask for it. And, a lot of the time, they’ll hit you first and then what are you going to do? Not DEFEND YOURSELF?!”

So, of course, I got in his face with the nagging and the asking for it and not with the hitting him first because the dude is 6′5″ and has mile-long arms. Or did. Four million years ago.

He didn’t like it much.

But he didn’t hit me. He threatened, though, and that was enough to get half a dozen guys to take him outside and have a little heart-to-heart with him. Because I was wildly popular with the filthy trailer partying crowd. [insert gleaming smile here]

Recently, I went out with a group of girls to celebrate a fantastic woman’s upcoming wedding. We had all been enjoying ourselves and at the last stop on our bar crawl, we were shaking our tailfeathers on a small and crowded dance floor. Shortly after Last Call, I saw a young man on the dance floor holding approximately eight drinks. Several bottles of beer and three shot glasses. All full. I made room for him to walk past me, but he stopped like he was going to stay put with all the glass and liquid on the dance floor. So I told him to keep going, that he needed to move. And I’m sure I said something not nice. He didn’t move, said something not nice back and I pushed past him. (Later I found out that when I did that, I caused him to drop one of the bottles, I guess. I didn’t mean for that to happen - I just wanted away from him.) Moments later I was several people away on the dance floor with my friend and when I looked up, I saw he was looking at me, trying to be all mean and crazy and calling me names. I smiled and waved and blew him a kiss. He bit his lower lip in a tough guy way and that’s when I saw the whiskey flying at me.

He threw a shot glass at my face.

It struck me on the cheekbone directly beneath my right eye and the area was red and swollen immediately. In the week and a half following the incident, I had a nice shiner that changed color hourly. I still have a tiny spot of discoloration and a separate spot that is still a bit tender.

He was removed from the bar quickly. (Lightning fast, actually, because they were grateful I wasn’t calling the police to their business.) And I never did call the police or press charges, because the night wasn’t about me and because I’m what you might call “a little mouthy” and didn’t want any more attention. I’d had my fill!

There are many lessons to be learned here. One, be nice to people and try not to be so mouthy. Especially when you’re dealing with a crazy person. Two, never ingest anything W. Axl Rose writes a song about. Three, concealer is your friend. Four, that one guy doesn’t like it when people blow kisses at him. Four, don’t pour whiskey on your face - particularly when you’re wearing contacts. Five, if you’re going to be in the wedding, avoid getting hit in the face seven days prior to the big event. (Edited 1/17/07 - Seventy hundred, learn how to count. -cb)

But probably the most important thing: If you’re bored, take me drinking and dancing! It’s a HOOT!

(I have a picture of the black eye one week later. The picture is funny, but I’m chicken to post it. Email me if you’d like to see.)

I spent a little time smooshing together a new layout because I didn’t feel like writing, but wanted to dink around with something. So, I had it looking all peachy keen jelly bean and decided I should check it in IE, not just Mozilla.

Ahahaha! It doesn’t work in IE like it works in Mozilla. So, until I figure it out (or someone smarter than me tells me where I’m going wrong - please!), this site is best viewed in Mozilla Firefox. Which you can get here.

You will totally dig it, I swear. It smells/tastes/feels good. It will make you sexier/thinner/younger/hipper/rockin’/stronger/longer-lasting/brighter smile/fewer wrinkles/LOW CARB!/etc. If it still looks wonky, then I will amend my previous declaration to read: “This site is best viewed in Mozilla Firefox on my computer at my house.” In that case, my readership will drop from half a dozen to just five because I’m sure at least one of you is batshit crazy.

Thank you and goodnight.

The Fourth of July is a big holiday at our house. We can see the city fireworks display very well from our backyard since we’re so close. We invite everyone we know and everyone they know over for food and fun and blowing shit up. YAY!

My husband grilled various meat products and I made drinks. Because I am cooler! Ha HA! I used this recipe and it was a hit. (I didn’t use diet soda because aspartame wants to kill me.) For the second batch, we were out of frozen limeade, so I used lemonade instead. Totally worked, but my sister liked the limeade a smidgen better. I think half lemon half limeade would be perfect. We have renamed this “Cheater ‘Ritas” because that’s what it is and that’s a name you can slur and still understand!

I also made a punch that I’d taken for a test run a few weeks ago. The first time I made it, I used light rum, orange juice and pineapple juice and left out the banana liqueur. It was alright, but I didn’t think it was different enough from any orange juice and alcohol drink. It does make a good slush if you leave out some of the water. Scoop some into a glass, cover with Sprite and that’s mighty tasty. However, the second time I made it, I used orange juice, a pineapple/something/something (sorry) juice and half Bacardi, half Bacardi RAZZ. Also, I forgot the grenadine the second time. The second way was PERFECT. It was so good. If you make this recipe, it’s a good idea to use a pitcher like
this one. The punch separates and benefits from a little stir before pouring.

The day after the party, everyone slept in. My kids were like angels sleeping past 9am. Of course, Mommy was like the devil getting up anytime before Tuesday, so it balanced out to be about normal here that morning. My brother in-law and nephew spent the night in our living room and my son had had a friend spend the night because it was his birthday weekend. I thought it would be nice to have a nice big brunch to get us all going. I fried bacon and made pancakes. I made a baked omelet roll and burnt the bejeezus out of my thumb taking a pan out of the oven. We had juice and milk and coffee and a nice sit-down meal together, in shifts. Because I don’t have that many kitchen chairs. After cleaning up the kitchen a bit, I took my son and his friend to the store so my son could spend some birthday cash on a new Gameboy Advance game. It was a hot one and I wanted to spend the afternoon in the yard finishing the leftover party drinks. So I bought a pool for the kids to splash around in and we all did just that. Except, the kids didn’t drink alcohol and I didn’t mean to fall down in the pool in my shorts and tshirt. Oops.

Then, on Tuesday, I went to work. And it’s pretty much been major suckage from there.

The End.

So, recently I mentioned I was listening to Hadassah: One Night With The King. I think the recording was well done and would definitely listen to the narrator again. Mostly, I liked the story and how it was written. Until the end. I didn’t like the way it wrapped up. I thought it was cheesy and corny and lima beany. (What is the deal with “cheesy” and “corny”? I have to find this out.) Anyway, I thought the end was icky. I felt cheated and like I’d been tricked into listening to this story just to have a “lesson” on how a God-fearing woman should behave for her husband shoved in my face. I’m not keen on that, kids.

I yawned too big this afternoon and forgot I still can’t open my mouth wide and nearly separated my upper and lower jaw entirely. Not pleasant. Don’t try that at home. I’m going to try not to open my mouth too big for a while so maybe I won’t have to talk about how I’m still recovering from the SURGERY since I’ve said “surgery” fourteen mazillion times in the last month and I’m sick of it already! But I can’t stop talking about it.

I’m in dire need of a pedicure. And something to stop my feet from smelling. I mean, I wash them. With soap even. What is the deal?

You are dependable, popular, and observant. Deep and thoughtful, you are prone to moodiness. In fact, your emotions tend to influence everything you do. You are unique, creative, and expressive. You don’t mind waving your freak flag every once and a while. And lucky for you, most people find your weird ways charming!

I don’t know how accurate that is. I mean, I’ve observed that I’m wildly popular. But MOODY? What the hell is THAT supposed to mean? That test writer is a smartass.

(Also, I can’t find my freak flag. Where did I put that thing?)