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|Posted on April 11, 2015 at 9:50 AM||comments (0)|
My fourteen-year-old son just told me he wants to be a witch doctor when he grows up. I can picture him dancing around a fire wearing only paint a feathers.
So I bought him a book on Native American medicinal plants. Personally, I think Western science has been very dismissive of thousands of years of practice. Perhaps Kevin will become a holistic healer.
With luck, it won't involve fire, paint, or feathers....
|Posted on March 23, 2015 at 4:19 PM||comments (0)|
The best part about going to work is hanging out with my friends and talking. Today, though, I'm working with an older guy. He's terrific, really sweet and super nice, but I think he's turned his hearing aide off. The better to ignore me with, probably.
And that makes me think about my husband. He has these tiny, cute little ears, and I have a theory: the men in his family tend to marry harpies, and they have evolved smaller ears to make it easier to not hear them. My great-great-grandsons will probably just have little nubs on the sides of their heads.
Of course it might be easier for them to stop marrying harpies, but there's no evidence that the men in my husband's family are getting larger brains as their ears get smaller.
|Posted on March 20, 2015 at 3:07 PM||comments (1)|
One of the guys in our office is a concealed carry instructor. (Remember that I live here in Colorado, the Wild Wild West.) I asked him about signing up my twenty-year-old daughter, Valerie, for a class.
"She can take the class," he told me, "but she can't get a permit until she's twenty-one. And the first thing we teach sweet little girls like her is to overcome their aversion to hurting people."
Obviously he has never met my Valerie. She has no aversion to hurting people. I can picture her in front of the judge: "Valerie," he'd say sternly, "you have to stop shooting people. You've already shot six people this month and it's only the third."
We'd have to teach her that she can't shoot people for cutting her off in traffic, for driving too slow in the left hand lane, for saying something stupid, or for using hand gestures and not their words. She's not allowed to shoot people for dissing her car, for taking the last parking spot, or for disagreeing with her.
Sigh. Maybe we should just give everyone a gun and let them shoot it out in the street like the good old days. At least then they'd have a fighting chance when they cross paths with tiny terrorists (she's five-foot-nothing-but-pure-attitude) like Valerie.
Love you, sweetie! You're the best!
|Posted on February 22, 2015 at 8:24 PM||comments (0)|
Here in Colorado Springs we've spent the weekend watching the snow fall. Since I've been working a lot, I took advantage of the time to partially excavate my home. It's funny to see the husband scurrying around, grabbing his treasures and dodging the vacuum. He hates it when I clean
I'm not a neat freak, not by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, I've lowered my standards from an unattainable ideal to "no one has died from botulism or tetanus TODAY." I'm far down the chart from Martha Stewart but, as long as the crew from "Hoarders: Buried Alive" don't knock, I figure I'm doing okay.
|Posted on February 18, 2015 at 1:32 PM||comments (0)|
On Sunday my darling son, Kevin, told me that he had a science fair project due Wednesday. So off we went, scrambling around in a blizzard to acquire his supplies, including crickets. He wanted to measure the effect colored lights had on the insects.
On Monday I called from work (he had the day off from school) and asked him about the result of his experiments. He concluded, he said, that crickets are disgusting.
I'm so proud.
|Posted on November 27, 2014 at 10:34 PM||comments (2)|
"Don't run to the bathroom with greasy feet" are words to live--or die--by. I often worry about what my epitaph will say, and I don't want it to involve "Hit her head and drowned in the toilet" in any way, shape, or form. There's just no way to pretty it up.
|Posted on November 20, 2014 at 5:52 PM||comments (0)|
Today I bravely ventured forth on a terrifying journey...to the kitchen. I cleaned out the fridge. <Gulp>
Cleaning the fridge is always scary but intriguing. Has that thing in the back evolved sentience, or are the cold temperatures keeping it quiescent? Why does this thing have an expiration date of 2047? Is it not biodegradable? In my will, I'm going to have my great-great-grandchildren throw it away in 2048.
I can see them now: Yay! We got Granny's fridge! What the heck is THIS?!! OMG! It's alive!
I'll reassure them that it's not alive. It was never alive. It's not even biodegradable and, apparently, it wasn't edible, either.
But no one ever threw it away and it languished here, in the back recesses of the fridge, for decades.
At least I know they won't squander their inheritance. But they will have it forever...and ever...and ever....
|Posted on November 13, 2014 at 12:34 PM||comments (0)|
I just heard that a family who is very active in our church left because of a conflict with another member. That makes me very sad.
One of the good things about growing up Catholic was the fact that we had one church. There were three services, so if there was someone you didn't like, you could avoid them. That was your only option. You could talk to Father Brown, I suppose, but he was physically incapable of speaking a harsh word to anyone. He was the sweetest guy in the world.
You Protestants have too many choices. Father Brown would tell you to turn the other cheek, come to the early service, and come home. We miss you.
Why can't we all just get along?
|Posted on November 9, 2014 at 10:13 PM||comments (1)|
I went shoe shopping with my son today. That involves going from store to store with me picking up shoes and him responding with mute horror. Apparently he has very specific tastes. Never mind that the shoes he's currently wearing are (literally) falling off his feet--his new shoes must fulfill some mysterious checklist, known only to the boy and unknowable to me. I am, after all, only his mother.
I could have bought 18 pairs of boots (and was sorely tempted to do so) in the time he took to pick out one pair of sneakers.
And when he handed me a box I said, "Only one pair?" Silly me. I figured that, since he'd already spent a half-hour and tried on many, many shoes, he'd have a second favorite. Oh, no. Apparently we had to start the process all over again....