Dig This

So....a pal told me that if I have time to comment on her blog, then I should have time to update mine. Touche, Leigh. **and please insert 'air-internet-cheersing' here**. I mean, it's only been three months. Whaaaa?

So, the new year is just around the corner and I have to tell you that I couldn't be happier. I mean, I am so over 2010. Like, o.ver.it. Let's face it 2010, you sucked. You chewed me up and spat me out like a bad wine after finishing the last vineyard on your tour of Napa. And that's bad, cause let's face it, by the last tour, you would drink fermented prison booze with gusto sold by a hobo on the side of the street. Maybe even pose with him for a picture a la party pic style after.

However, I have high hopes for 2011. I was even talking with Tam over Christmas that we are totally going to feed our kiddos herring for good luck because that is what you do when you are from Russian/Greek lineage? I only add the question mark because half of my northern relatives had never heard of that little tradition of chowing down on smelly fish doused in fish-mayonaise, which makes me completely doubt it's potency of luck. But whatevs-Alex better looooooove it cause I am smearing that stuff in his hourly peanut butter sandwich all the live long day. So that should ensure our good fortune for sure.

I am also thinking that I should adopt any tradition that I can, just to really hedge my bets. So, if anyone (cue the echo: anyone) is reading (echo: reading) this and has any New Year's Day tradition (echo: tradition, tradition, tradition), let me know, I need all the help I can get. So, comment away, my happiness and fate is in your hands.

My God, my mam would be so proud to think I am turning to superstition for luck. But God help me if I get any of those "send this to eleventy billion people and your wish comes true emails" heads will roll. With that, I need a drink.

Tale for Tuesday

So, my best friend Emily and I have best gal pals for quite a while. So long, in fact, that we can look back at pictures and curse puberty for being so cruel. We have really grown up together. We survived high school and truly convinced each other that those bitches were just jealous. Together we learned what our maximum for tequila capacity was in college. (Mine is much higher athankyouverymuch. Sadly, Emily and tequila still have not made up since that fateful St. Patrick's Day. And if needed, I vow to kick it's ass anywhere, anytime). Good times.

Before Luke proposed, he actually asked Emily if there "was anything else he needed to know". She just laughed....and I still don't know what, exactly (or who) she was laughing at. I like to think she was laughing at Luke....but almost ten years later, the jury is still out on that one.

But one thing that I love most about my BFF is that she is totally not judgey. Most obviously is that I am over 30 and still use 'BFF', so that is one. Another, is that she is fully supportive but can also tell me when I am wrong on those very rare occasions. I guess that comes with knowing someone for so long. Let me tell you, once you hold someone's hair more than a couple times, or help them use the bathroom in their wedding dress, walls come down. And she never gives me a hard time for loving Teen Mom almost as much as Alex.

So, today after talking with her I remembered several months ago. I was totally frustrated by the confines of being a stay at home mom and feeling the instant need to escape. I tell Luke I am running to Target and leave Alex with him. Knowing Luke loves going to Target right after hitting the Craft-Dollar-Tiny Figurine Store, I know he won't mind staying behind. On my way to Target (read: the exact moment the garage door closed) I call Emily for back up. She doesn't know it, but of course she doesn't disappoint.

Jane: "So am I going straight to Hell that I just told Luke I am going to Target, but I think I am going to the Tasting Room to have a glass of wine and read?"

Emily: (cackles with laughter) No, but have two glasses; one for me too."

I. Love. Her.

As a mom, I totally appreciate that when I mention to her throwing a towel in our whirlpool tub along with a couple toys so I can take a shower isn't unsafe it's resourceful. It isn't my fault Alex now hates all his toys that are in the first floor. I mean, he hasn't exactly said he hates them, but the screaming and head-banging is kinda a sign that he is less than thrilled than being in the bathroom with me....even is Yo Gabba Gabba is on the bathroom TV.

Or, when I tell her about a nasty look I got from some girl when the fam and I were at a patio because we had a baby with us. Either I didn't get the memo that a place with picnic tables and a crock pot of free hot dogs is too fancy for a baby, or she didn't get the memo that Houston doesn't have an age requirement to enjoy a locally brewed beverage among friends. Emily didn't understand why she would even care and then sweetly reassured me that after college that beer will catch up to her.

Yeah, she is that good.

It's Tuesday, Em, and I am cheersing to you. You are the best a gal ever had.

And you should know, no wine was injured in this post.

Love,

JJB123

1984 (part 33 1/3)

So, where was I? Oh, yes, someone is going to steal my son.

Yeah, I am afraid someone is going to steal Alex. I had mentioned The YMCA, where I go and workout. Cause here, it is hotter than hot. Like, always feeling like you are on fire hot. So I go to the Y and get my run on and drop Alex off in the little child care area while I sweat to the oldies.

And here is where my trust goes downhill and my neuroses get the better of me.

Here is what happens; when I go and dump him off in Kidz Care, I basically roam in the door and set him down in front of some toys, and sign a little sheet.

That's it.

I just sign something. I don't get a buzzer, a sticker, I don't dispense a vial of blood. Nothing. So, you are telling me I just sign something and........leave????

Yes, there are a couple nice little ladies in there playing and helping them become bilingual, which I totally appreciate. And I am sure that playing with the other kids is helping him learn to share or whatever.

However, it seems to me, that when I go "pick him up" I could go into the room and grab the first kid wearing a navy polo or the girl that is always wearing the fairy wings and the ladies would be none the wiser. I mean, all I have to do is sign the kid out. Let me tell you, there is a reason I can copy my dad's signature spot on, and I'm not about to let that little talent go to waste.

Did I mention that there is a 60 inch plasma mounted on the wall of the Women's Center with a direct feed from the Kidz Care? No? Funny. Well there is. And I totally freaked out when I couldn't find Alex on the screen when I went from treadmill to elliptical. I rushed downstairs thinking that someone ran out with my sweet baby and all the while a montage of Alex being stuffed in a van, shuffled to a remote campsite where there no puppies or air conditioning.

However, I take the 62 step journey only to find him hiding in the corner of the room....making his "dump" face. Not stolen at all.

But, it got me thinking.

I talked to Luke about this and, while he disagrees, I think the best way to face these fears head-on, is to have a locator chip implanted in Alex's arm, or foot, or the back fat-rolly part of his leg. I realize it is like a dog, but a dog can't tell you where they are if they are lost. A dog can't tell you how much they loved the fact you fed him Circus Peanuts on his birthday. Well, neither can a baby. And they do, by the way....love Circus Peanuts.

But really. Do you have any idea what healthy black-market babies go for in the US? Me either, but I am thinking it is a ton! And, hel-lo, have you seen how cute? No?

Not cute enough?

How about...

You can see why I am worried. Clearly cute. Obviously hilarious.

Look, I logically know that anyone who would actually steal a baby wouldn't go through all the planning and such to swipe a baby that is sleeping soundly from their crib. That seems like a smash-and-grab type of thing. I will even give the YMCA the benefit of the doubt that they may have done some sort of number looking to see that baby-snatching from their buildings was low enough not to implement a more high-tech system. But still.

Even with all that, even though psychos who steal babies don't do so from the YMCA, can you really tell me that there aren't some amoral venture capitalists out there? Really?

All I'm sayin'.

Yeah the chip-in-the-arm seems a smite bit over the line, but I'm pretty sure if I could give Alex a double dose of Benadryl, get out my exacto-knife and fill my Solo cup full of Franzia, with chip in hand, I would go.to.town.

At the very least, next time I go to the Y, I am going to strap one of those singular flashing red lights to Alex's head so I can see him from the plasma. That would be the plasma TV that is as long as one of my good pals is tall.

1984 (part a)

So, I have been suffering from a totally irrational fear lately.

First, I would like to totally confess that this is probably one my most ridiculous thoughts, next that one summer vacation when I was really bored and thought I could teach my dog to read.

Second, I realize that this most likely will not happen, but considering I come from superstitious stock , I will type the next few sentences with my feet as I knock on wood with both hands.

So, my irrational fear is this:

I am super duper afraid that someone is going to steal Alex. Not kidnap, not abduct, but steal. Yes, I realize that these area all kinda the same things, but they aren't. Let me explain.

My first fearful-baby-stolen-thought is: I am terrified that Alex is going to be taken from his crib in the middle of the night while we are sleeping. So much so, that I won't allow Luke to sleep with the french doors that keep the sun from rising riiiight across his eyes every morning crisply at 6am.

Why, you ask?

Here's why. Ok, so let's say someone runs up the half-flight of stairs to our front door, breaks in the door, then runs up two more flights of stairs to grab him from his crib? Whasgunnahappen?

Let me present you with my line of defenses:

1) Yes, I do have a video monitor that I keep on very loudly every night, but no way I am going to hear any baby crying if he is away from the monitor....clearly because his Stealer will have shuffled him down to stairs by now. Our door would be closed so I couldn't hear anything. What am I going to say to Alex? "Um, sorry you lived in a shed your whole life and had to eat cold beans from a can...your dad didn't want to get up early."???

2) Sure, I do have two large dogs, but only one is the constant jerk that barks all the time, but maybe that will be the one time he'll be sleeping too. That would be totally his style to only be a jerk not not helping us at all. Hence, being a jerk. And if I have faith in him? Then what? Am I really going to rest my safety on something that eats his own poop? Ah, no.

3) Jane, don't you have an alarm system? Yeah, but wires can be cut, people, wires can be cut. Haven't you seen Scream? Patriot Games? Cape Fear? No? Get HBO.

4) The scariest piece of this puzzle, is that if this person actually gets into my house, they have gotten through the gates, of which, the codes are changed every other day. Yeah, I have those neighbors.

Which leads me to:

5) If some crazy has gotten into the house, we are totally out matched and no alarm system is going to be of use. If some nut-job actually infiltrated the house then we have been out-played Survivor Style. Like, Jeff Probst will be interviewed by Geraldo the next morning while I am in the back ground kicking Charlie......

I can see it now.....

First, they must have gotten by my neighbor, Bob, see, Bob is kinda nosy. He is more infatuated with looking through our fence at our newly installed fake grass, than the landscapers who are confused why our yard never grows.

And, Mike too, our other neighbor...the one who reminds me everyday that Luke's side of the garage door is open during the day.....and is nice enough to call one night to let us know our air conditioner was squealing. At 12:30.

Then, Marlene's son who owns a brewery. Eh, I give both of them a pass.

You can see why I worry. I mean I do live in Texas so we have more guns in my house than mouths to feed, but something tells me that trying to load anything without contacts in will end up badly.

But Jane, don't you leave the house? Yes, I do. I go to the local YMCA to work out. Don't get me started. That is a whole other post. Really.

In fact, tune in tomorrow.

Unless I am out hanging up posters.

Come on 7

So, I am about done with this heat. And I mean d.o.n.e. Alex and I can't get out because it is hotter than the surface of the sun. Not to mention with wind that feels more like a hairdryer blowing on your face, it is miserable.

So, in the spirit of willing cooler temperatures, I reminisce with something that started out beautiful, and ended less than. This is the story of buying our first Family Christmas Tree. And hey, if you don't care that is totally cool. But, I would bet Alex's morning nap (AKA: My Sanity) that you are experiencing a heat wave too, and there are pictures of snow involved. That is basically as good as standing in front of your fridge.

So, go ahead and do the Wayne's World thing cause I know you are old enough to remember it and travel with me back to a simpler time.....

I had this great idea the other day.

Luke and I were going to take Alex and get our, first ever Family Christmas tree. It was gong to be perfect and wonderful and a crew from Hallmark was actually going to come a film us as we looked so cozy and Rockwell-esque.

Then, against all odds.....a freak episode happened upon us and granted us the only missing thing in the perfect Christmas Tree Outing.....

Snow.

It was as if the Heavens opened up and blessed our most wonderful first holiday with a baby with big, thick, cottony flakes.

For hours. It snowed and snowed and snowed.

Luke was on the way home while I was getting Alex ready in his most appropriate of Christmas Tree Hunting clothes and I noticed that he is not too big a fan of the coat with faux fur trimmed hood. Oh well, it must be because it was warm in the house. I did turn on the fireplace, after all.

So we go to lunch, (see? happy at lunch....)

After lunch, we head to the grocery store to stock up on supplies (read: wine) all the while talking about if we want to use the camera, or the video camera, or both. And what type of pictures do we want to make sure and get? And did we bring money to tip the loaders of the best tree ever picked out?

We pull up to the lot and get out. I grab Alex and put on his coat, and he is not too thrilled.

It is in this exact moment, that I realize I am the dumbest, piece of crap parent ---oh, wait, not for reasons you think. Not because, clearly he is already giving me a crap-tastic smile for our first pics. Not because I am subjecting my kid to snowy-rain and he might be all swiney as a result of this---but because I can't hold him in a way that his coat looks cute (see how rumpled?), making him agitated, making him cranky and not cute for the pictures. He doesn't like the snow.....he doesn't get that he will be warm if he would just relax. I mean, I don't get to go all freaky about girl baby clothes. I can't buy dresses...he owes me this.

But, being dedicated to the family dream, we trek on. But it is all downhill from there.

Walking though the lot under the "tarp" that usually keeps the sun out, but now is acting as an irrigation system for the snow that has been falling, and now draining on our heads.

Alex is less than thrilled.

I continue to carry him though the lot and he is starting to flail and become hysterical. So Luke and I pick out a tree that was "less of picking out a tree" and more of "pointing to one tree two minutes after we got to the lot and telling Luke to wrap it up".

Not at all the happy memory of a bouncing baby in the snow I had anticipated.

So I take Alex back to the car and he is pretty much cursing the day I was born. I get him to the car but can't do anything to calm him.....why? Because it is hard to rock a baby, and soothe their sweet little backs, when your hands are basically ice. Somehow, I see that making things worse.

So, our idyllic tree getting experience was Luke getting a tree and waiting in the rain/snow as 4 random guys climbed on our roof to tie our tree down. He is so drenched that after we got it in the house, he gave me a serious stink eye when I jokingly asked him if he had just taken a shower.

We decided to get a discrete tree this year, by the way. We thought it was in poor taste to get something totally obnoxious (like last year) when our neighbors, the Shapiro's, adorn their window with a very tasteful menorah.

What do you think? We went with the discrete 12 footer. Of course, Luke thought I was stifling his Christmas Spirit, by not going bigger (that's what she said. That was for you Sarah :))

Huh, posting about Christmas does make me feel a little less like I am living on the surface of the sun.

I'm Out

So...about love.

Some people, from some sort of 70's movie about people dying and crying, say that 'love' means never having to say 'you're sorry'.

Agree to disagree.

'Love' means taking the outside trash that is filled with a zillion pounds of dog crap to the curb for the curb side garbage pick-up tomorrow.

Reasons, you ask? Well, here you go:

A) tomorrow is trash day and Jose gets here earlier on trash day than his other "sleep under my tree" days. Not even kidding. The entire crew hangs out all day doing nothing.... with the exception of trash day and Alex's nap time...then they decide it is time to use their leaf blowers and get here at 8am.

B) Someone* still has a running injury and is complaining it is "hard" to walk.**

C) The aforementioned bag of dog crap also contains the dead mouse carcass*** our garage door squished and that smells so bad after cooking in such insufferable heat and humidity most Africans would say it is bad.

Yeah. So if there was ever a doubt, I am in love.

*That would be Luke. Either he is really hurt, or brilliant.

**Not even kidding, we are logging this injury much like the oil spill. Currently, we are day 42 and Anderson Cooper is

milling around my house with a camera crew. I know.

***Not.Even.Kidding. I really can't even go into it (that's what she said), it was so bad. And I am throwing the shovel away with too. Oh, and by 'mouse' I mean 'rat'...so says my neighbor Mr. Shaprio...after he asks me why I killed his flowers. But 'mouse' sounds nicer....and I like that.

Gift Ideas

So I have been thinking a while now about something that I know is very important to all of you. I understand that some of you haven't been sleeping too well because of this....I am sorry.

I hear that a few of you have almost gotten into traffic accidents, being so distracted in thought about this very situation. My bad.

It has even been rumored that a slight percentage of you have completely broken down, haven't showered in days and refuse to leave your houses as a result. Well, go throw in a load of laundry and hose yourself off.....because today I have the answer.

What I want for Mother's Day.

I know, pivotal, right?

Well, it hit me today while I was getting my hairs did at the mall.

Go with me on this one.

I am getting my hair all washed and scrubbed by some kid with a lip ring and a red spiky mohawk. Now, even though his arms looked like fleshy spaghetti noodles covered in multicolored tat's, he washed my hair kinda like a genius. He's all blabbing to me about this and that and I can hear his ear cuffs dangling all the way to the change purse that is stuffed in his pocket. Now, I know you are going to say "Jane, it was a wallet." No, if it carries monies and has a strap it is a purse. Simple enough.

Anyway, he is babbling about whatever-I couldn't say because he is all washing my hair and it was wonderful. We all know that it is amazing to get your hair washed right before someone cuts it and this was no different. It was so relaxing I think I accidentally moaned. Ok, maybe I didn't moan, but I am pretty sure I caught myself biting my lip. Twice.

So here is where my grand Mother's Day scheme begins.

Imagine......a pub crawl.....but instead of going from bar to bar to bar; you go from cheesy mall salon to cheesy mall salon only getting your hair washed.

Strike, that. If you are a rookie, first you get a Route 44 cup and a bendy straw then hit the salon circuit.

Now, for all the veteran's out there, you can grab your El Camino of purses, fill 'er up and hit the road. (I learned about this little gem from my brilliant sister-in-law. Shouts, Lisa!)

And as a total sidebar, I have decided that people who wink at you all the time in conversation are creepy. Unless you are Vince Vaughn, I promise you can't get away with it.

Especially YOU, quasi-gay guy at Janie and Jack. I understand you may think that I am an easy target. I have bought enough clothes from you to keep you in skinny jeans for a couple years and it is obvious, since I am buying baby clothes, that I put out....but, ew.

And, Tam, if you are reading this.........

Hope you are WORK-IN for the WEEK-END!!!

USA!!! USA!!! USA!!!

A Boring Read to All, and to All a Good Night!

So, I have never had a great memory. It's really bad and it always kinda has been. Bad, as in, if it weren't for various dry erase boards around my house, I probably would not have spoken on the phone with pretty much everyone I know over the last 10 years. However, I can usually trace it back to some reason that totally covers my ass.

Such as:

"Oooh, no, Luke I didn't make it to the cleaners today....I was watching Alex all day and couldn't get away. Parenting is hard!" *

"No, Jim, I don't exactly recall doing a River Dance with the newly purchased boot-shaped beer mugs from the St. Arnold's brewery tour.....but thank you so very much for the proof...I mean....video." **

You get the gist.

Sometimes I can use some sort of brain injury related excuse, but for people who have known me a while, the whole "I was run over by a car, you know! Cut me some slack will you?!" only goes so far.

But lately, my memory is starting to fail me in a way that is really alarming me.

I'm afraid I am starting to forget my dad.

And not just my dad, but all the looks, smells and stories that he would tell. Stories that all of us would tell and re-tell. The conversations we would have over and over and over....and later laugh about having them over and over and over. Stories that we all know the words to, but it was the way he told them, that made them as much a family heirloom as any picture or antique.

A fav is the story of when Tam almost got attacked by wild dogs at a boy scout camp out (one night outside, mind you). He always ended the story by saying that weekend was worse than going to Vietnam. He volunteered, by the way.....for Vietnam, not to be a leader at the camp out. Trust me, it makes a difference.

But also things that were just him.

Like how his collar was always popped when he put his shirt on after getting out of the pool.

How he always hummed "Roll 'Em, Roll 'Em, Roll 'Em" when we pulled out of the driveway to go on vacation...even if we were just going to the airport.

Or the blonde and gray stubble on his face even after one day of not shaving. (That is kind of an anomaly around our house. Luke stopped shaving once for 3 weeks while we were in China, and he looked only slightly more manly than the teenager that delivered our pizza the night we got back. Did I mention the kid was on a bike?)

It does feel good to know I can hold on to the way I would wear his robe when I didn't feel good. Like every little girl who wants to physically wrap themselves in the comfort and strength that their dad embodies, I would pull his huge, heavy robe on. Or that, even in adulthood, my brother and I always wore his shoes around the house in the summer. Tam looked normal. Me? I looked like a four year old wearing huge, black Crocs.

It's just that it all seems so far away now.

So far removed.

Ancient.

Over.

I am afraid that never hearing him rehash the day we found my wedding dress, the sparkle and magic of that day is going to fall flat. After pouring over lists and lists of potential Father-Daughter songs, he picked the perfect one. Later, we practiced every night on the back patio for our first dance-him whispering in my ear the steps so we wouldn't forget even though we both knew which step followed the one before it. I mean, how hard is the box-step? He even wanted to do a practice run with me wearing my shoes and my big, huge slip so he "could get used to it before the big day". That, over time, it is going to fade away like the ending of a song. Like that very same whisper.

Then again, our Father-Daughter song was "Unforgettable"......so maybe that is a good sign.

*"Watching Alex" is sometimes also known as "Watching Millionaire Matchmaker" while Alex is playing in jail.

**Wha?? I had a babysitter all weekend...and let me tell you, nothing says "I am a good mom" like drinking for 10 hours straight.

I Would Like to Thank the Academy...

Big, big news. Huge, actually.

So..... I am pretty sure I am Mom of the Year.

Surprised? Didn't think so. But, what I bet you are wondering about, is why.

Well, it's not because when random strangers walk up to us at Target and tell me he's cute, I joke that I am just waiting until he is house-broken so I can get more when I put him on Ebay.

Nor is it because I expect him to understand when I say things like: "Alex, does Mommy scream in your face when you are eating? No? Well there you go".

And it certainly isn't because I use words like "house-broken" in reference to him.

Here is why:

So, I am at Janie and Jack today buying some clothes for Alex. We are checking out and he kinda starts to have a fit. Naturally, being SuperMom I reach into the pacifier pocket in the jogging stroller while also grabbing my wallet from my purse at the same time. See? Multitasking-I am a genius. Well, imagine my surprise when I don't pull out the pacifier, but actually a wine cork. The sales lady gave me the awkward giggle that made it all the more uncomfortable.

I know what you are saying...."Jane, that isn't bad! It's not like you thought rubbing his nose in poop would help potty train him". You would be right...what makes me Mom of the Year, is what comes next. I instinctively do what any parent does...blame it on the kid. So, while the gal is giving me the stink eye, before I know it, I have the cork in my hand and say, "Alex, you know better than drink and drive." And because the universe thought it would be funny, as I say this a little hiccup escapes. Great.

I took my bag full of clothes that are cuter than a box of puppies and got the heck out of that pressure cooker.

If you need me, I'll be at The Tasting Room.

---jane

And Scene......

And this people......this.....is the essence of how hilarious my family is.

Posted this morning, by Tam:

Anonymous said...

You know what is great about those particular Aunt suggestions? Thinking about other things that could have been suggested in the same context and seemed as reasonable. Par example:
Aunt: "Oh, Jane, you know what your Mam needs to do?"
Jane: ""What? Donate some of the flowers?"
A: "No, BURN DOWN HER HOUSE FOR THE INSURANCE MONEY. I am going to go and tell her that."
Or
"No, DEDICATE HER LIFE TO GETTING ON THE PRICE IS RIGHT. I am going to go and tell her that."
Or
"No, GET A TATTOO OF JERRY'S FACE ON HER OWN FACE SO SHE SEES HIM EVERY TIME SHE LOOKS IN THE MIRROR. I am going to go and tell her that."
Or
"No, LEARN TO DRIVE A STICK SHIFT. I am going to go and tell her that."
Or
"No, TAKE PITBULLS INTO NURSING HOMES I am going to go and tell her that."

- Dear Sweet Brother

Slow clap, Tam. Slow clap.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Funeral

So, it is no secret that my family is full of characters. We are pretty much divided into two categories: those who have a sense of humor and those who don't.

Now, you may be thinking that the line is pretty clear. Not really. See, of course the ones with the astounding sense of humor are clearly hilarious. But, those who are lacking in the sarcasm department know we are funny, but laugh with the blank look in their eyes that says they know they should be laughing, but really aren't sure what part they are laughing at. Which kinda makes it funnier. Especially when we start to point it in their direction and they are a couple steps behind the joke. Good times.

So I have this aunt, one of my mam's sisters....the eldest. Man, she is a riot. And not the "ha, ha" kind. She is teeny and grey-haired and is very, very long winded. She used to travel from Chicago to visit and bring her cat. Besides the fact that my dear, sweet brother is allergic to cats (like, kinda bad), this cat hid under his bed and by the end of the trip we were all pretty much convinced that Chessy was the anti-Christ coming to kill us all and drag us to hell....right after my Aunt's smoke break.

Naturally, as the years have passed she has gotten crazier...and I mean that nicely? While driving, she is afraid to make left turns, so she won't...she will only turn right. Makes sense. It could be that she has just aged a smite bit, or her favorite cocktail she once accidentally made in the 80's, and never switched from, and the effects are starting to be seen. That would be her Vodka-Vodka. Now, now, I am not judging. Remembering the mixer is hard. We have all been there.

Once she was contacted via a World War II chat room by someone who doing a book report and wanted a personal account of her experience during the war. I can really see how she helped this young boy with her perspective, and the effect the war had on her, and how it made his project a complete success. She was 4 years old at the time of the war after all. Just to clarify, as someone who has also been 4 years old, that is a real pivotal time.....going from two naps down to one.....the social stigmas a young girl had in the 1940's playing in her shirt dresses and little leather Mary Jane's. Tough, tough stuff.

Anyway, so we are at my parent's house after my dad's service and it is packed. People shoulder to shoulder eating and talking, and of course laughing. So many flowers you had to be careful not to trip over them since we ran out of space on the shelves, counters and tables around the house.

So, I am talking with this old neighbor who I haven't spoken to in literally 15 years or so, and my Aunt sitting next to me. The couch is small and the conversation leads itself between all of us. However, in the middle of talking about this or that, my Aunt says with such confidence:

Aunt: "Oh, Jane, you know what your Mam needs to do?"

Jane: ""What? Donate some of the flowers?"

A: "No, adopt a Haitian orphan. I am going to go and tell her that."

J: "Oh, please let me be there when you do."

I can just see it now....my mam, recently widowed, roaming the house with nothing but the sound of Sophie's dog collar jingling and the Haitian orphan playing quietly on a blanket in the front room. They would become bff's and ride on the bike handlebars a la Laverne and Shirley.

I mean, this is a mere couple hours after the memorial service. People are still noshing on their eloquently catered funeral food. We haven't even made a second run to the liquor store yet. And, here is my Aunt, going to tell my mam this suggestion with an intensity that rivaled my hatred that Chic-Fil-A is closed on Sunday. (It's true. They are all bastards.) My mam is also the same one who lost a rescue dog a decade back so I can only imagine how well she would keep up with a malnourished, french speaking child that has recently been displaced due to a horrible catastrophic natural disaster.

Not to mention the logistics of this. Would it go something like:

1. Call the funeral director

2. Find Out About Life Insurance

3. Inquire about Haitian Adoption

4. Sell Dental Practice

Yeah, I can see that situation getting it's own 'Successories' poster real soon.

The House of Cards

So..... when I started to "blog" (if 30 some odd posts can even count as being a blogger) I thought it would be really fun and everyone would think I was hilarious and the end. Humor is really the only thing that I am really good at so I have honed my skills and read many leather bound books on improving my form. Humor, and well, sewing but that is only because I took clothing classes, like, four times in high school so I can sew a square pillow. But, the only thing that qualifies me for is to get hired on at a sweat shop. However, I have seen on 20/20, or something, that most sweat shops don't have air conditioning and considering I have really frizzy hair, I decided not to go that route.

Well, not so much today. I haven't posted anything in eleventy months anyway, but, I just want to go on record now, saying that nobody is going to want to read this. All (what is it, 25) of you are free to "un-follow" me cause, seriously, nobody cares about any of this except me...which is fine.

I grew up in a family that laughs all the time. So, it is really easy to have any situation and make it funny when you are around other witty people who are also hilarious. And when there is usually wine involved. My little 'stories' (i.e. what happens whilst I stand in line at Costco) translate easily because I grew up laughing. So when I would email someone (Hi, Katie) something funny, they would tell me to blog it.

But now, I don't really want to blog-I just kinda want to put something down so I can remember it while it is still fresh in my mind. And since my handwriting is about as good as Alex's, this is easier than actually writing it down.

Ah, Alex.

Maybe this is for him too. And Annie. Because I can remember but they won't be able to. And, just maybe, if they have some idea of how wonderful and fun it used to be, then they can carry it on with them. I figure if we all play our cards right, one day, they will have a machine that can convert this into the new version of the google-web, read it, and from that, they will be prepared if someone sends a Chinese Nationalist to their house for Memorial Day and know just what to say....or learn just how important a diving board is to the 4th of July......or that being brave is 'going nill' when you have the Ace of Spades in your hand.

And just where to hide the ribs.

Oh, and if you happen to make it this far, I kinda warned you. Permission to "un-follow" now granted. But, feel free to come back tomorrow.

jane