So, my sister married a Gator. I have not really forgiven her, but I have moved past the pain. Florida beat Georgia again. Did I say I moved past the pain? I lied.
That is why, when my nephew comes over, wearing a damn Florida blue outfit with Gator orange socks, (which, incidentally, is the same dork outfit my bil is wearing) and then his father leaves to go watch the Florida game at his house, I like to play this little game with my nephew.
Why? Because it makes me feel better.
Just me and my dog.
See dog on couch. Take dog picture. Decide to try and get a shot of me and Dog. Lay down on couch with dog. Dog starts licking. I start laughing. Camera shakes.
Never really get a good shot of either of us.
I love him so much.
Some days as a parent are so frustrating I could cry. I don’t cry. I usually just sigh, shake my head, and then have to laugh at the colossal mess. Like this one.
I walk into the kitchen, where the kids are at the kitchen table having a snack of yogurt. Blue yogurt. I walk to the sink to put some dishes in the washer. I look out the window and blink, thinking i am seeing spots. I take a step back and realize that I am seeing spots – blue spots – everywhere i look.
The window panes. The cabinets to the right of the sink. The cabinets to the left of the sink. I stare at it until it dawns on me.
Yogurt. Blue yogurt.
I look over at the table. What I want to know is, how in the HELL do you get yogurt splattered all over the cabinets that thoroughly? It looked like a Jackson Pollack!
Need another example? My nephew did this in about ten seconds flat:
And this is the kind of crap that parents clean up all day long, every day. While I clean this mess, the kids are shooed out and they head to another room to make a similar mess there. All. Day. Long.
Ribs, Beer, and Smores are awesome together. Sonic Youth is perfect fire-gazing music. Firegaze, if you will. And, on a sad note, I have become that dude who says, “If you don’t eat your meat, you can’t have any pudding! How can you have any pudding, if you don’t eat your meat.” on Another Brick in the Wall.
FUCK.
Things are so different now than they were when I was a kid, but then i am always surprised that some things stay the same.
Rollie’s class went on a field trip to a farm. They did a hayride, and made corn husk dolls, and Rollie got off the bus wearing an Indian feather headband, and carrying a pumpkin. (Or Punk King, as he called them when he was little.) And, instant timewarp, it was like Alpharetta First United Methodist Kindergarten, 1978, all over again.
I am bummed I can’t find the picture of me in my indian headress and with paint on my face. I know I have it here somewhere. . . Mom?
I have to admit that I was surprised that they still do this. I would have thought that someone would have complained about how offensive it is for 6 year olds to dress up like Indians. Me? I remember that i just thought it was the most awesome thing ever. Hope Rollie felt it too.
I love a good time warp.
Amazing that my ankle is feeling much better. I think i might wrap that bitch up and try a run by this coming monday!
Just have to show off how big it got.
The bad ankle. Bad. Very bad!
This one compares the good and bad ankle. Also, I am shameless, and just wanted to show my feet. You can see that they look like old lady feet, and that I never get pedis, so my paint job is growing out like an inch. There is an ant bite on my left big toe. I have a line from my socks on my calves, which basically means I’m bloated. I didn’t shave, either, for like a week. You can’t tell that from the photo. I just like to over-divulge.
Feet. Yeah, not my strong point.
Well, I’m trying to do NaNoWriMo again this year. I did it last year, too. While training for a half-marathon. So, you would think that this year would be easier, since I am benched (AGAIN) due to the Halloween Ankle Twisting episode of 2009. (Just thinking ahead. Let’s be honest. It will probably be an annual event.) No, it is not easier this year. We are still trying to finish up renovations to the basement: we still have doors to paint and hang, shades to purchase and hang, some lighting issues to resolve, and I have to put away all my highly valuable packrat stuff. Yes, I need that funeral home fan from the 1940s, my t-ball hat from 1978 (Go Birmingham PeeWees!), and every letter written by every member of my family for the last 120 years. I need them! Deep down in my soul!
But I am going to do it again anyway, because last year? I wrote FIFTY THOUSAND WORDS. They came right out of my head and went into the computer and now i have them. I haven’t quite gone back and shaped and coaxed them into something useful yet, but it is the most writing I have produced in my life. It was AMAZING.
So, yeah, i am already behind. I only have a thousand words down, and I should be up to about 5000 by end of day, but you know what? I have a thousand more words down than I would if I had not attempted at all. And that’s saying something.
Anyone else doing it? Not too late to jump on the bandwagon. I’m looking at you, JB. If not, you are doing Script Frenzy with me in April. I mean, how hard can writing a script be? If Judd Apatow can do it, I can do it. Right?
Oh, god.
I saw my own high stakes baseball game yesterday. The River Cats took on the Thunder, I think. River Cats are a rust red color. Rollie is #9. I was so proud – he is really improving in his fielding skills. He helped make two outs in one inning! (This is huge for t-ball.)
The shortstop fields the ball. . . 
He bobbles it!
He recovers.
The throw to second!
The runner’s out!
Yeah!
Coach Fred comes out to bump the rock!
The fist bump!
But you win some, you lose some.
Line drive, past the third baseman, Rollie J!
Look at him hustle!
That’s gonna be an error on Johnson, folks!
The left fielder picks it up.
We just keep on telling him it’s not about winning, it’s about how you play the game. You always wear your helmet to bat. You wait patiently in the hole. You listen to the dugout mom.
You practice your swing when you’re on deck.
You choke up the bat and keep your eye on the ball.
You swing for the wall!
You run it out, no matter what.
Don’t worry about where the ball is, just run it out!
You make sure you touch the bag!
And you lead off a little at third, keeping your eye on the batter, and listening to the coach for the go-ahead.
I am so proud of my boy. He’s really getting it. And I think he is enjoying it, too. And that’s the best part.
Last night, we took the kids trick or treating, despite the misty rain, and the mud, and the fact that the Gators were still in the midst of kicking Georgia’s ass. Sometimes, it is better to just walk away and eat candy and drink beer.
Rollie was a mummy (Not that fun a costume to put together, and even worse to remove! Like the old school costume ideas, though.) and Tills was a cheerleader. We went to meet neighbors a couple of streets over for a neighborhood tradition. A family has always done a pinata before trick or treating. It started with just a family or two, but over the years, has ballooned to tons of neighborhood kids showing up to take a shot at the pinata. I think they even have two pinatas, one for the big kids and one for the little ones. So many people show up that I dropped candy off the day before to help out. The whole thing is a ball of candy frenzy, but so much fun. It gives the parents a chance to group, pour themselves a drink (everyone has a cup or a rolling cooler with them), chat while the kids wait in line for their turn to whack the pinata, and to check out all the costumes in the floodlights of the driveway. When the pinata finally cracks open, candy rains from the sky, and the scramble for booty begins. One mother in my neighborhood aptly referred to it as “like a scene out of Lord of the Flies.” I loved that book! Perhaps not for everyone, though.
After that, we all give our thanks and head around the loop to trick or treat. The bigger kids race from door to door, their parents yelling, “slow down! It isn’t a race! Wait for your sister! You’re going to trip over something cutting through a dark yard like that! Don’t ring that doorbell! Porch light off means they aren’t giving out candy!” The shrieks and yells carry through the night, echoing off the houses. The parents walk down the middle of the street, then weave to one side or the other, depending on which house the kids are going to. Occasionally, the kids stop at the parents to yell excitedly that a certain house gave a certain something awesome. Some houses have scary stuff – motion-activated sound machines or mummies and vampires that pop up when the kids approach the steps. One got Tiller so bad that she turned around and ran back across the yard, to the sound of myself and todd roaring in laughter. Parents drag coolers or wagons or push strollers (they make great drink transportation!) The little ones get tired about 3/4 of the way and start dragging and wanting up to be carried or in the wagon. (“Baby, Mama’s cooler’s in the wagon. You better keep walking.”) We finally finish the loop and head home, the kids wild-eyed and digging into their candy before we get there. We visit the old folks around us, which we should have done before going to the pinata, but damn it, Mummies are hard to wrap. The old folks make over the kids and the kids stumble over their words trying to explain everything that they saw, and who was dressed up as what.
Then you get home, and you let the kids have some candy. (Yes, we are terrible and limited their intake right before bed. We wash off mummy makeup and take off saddle oxfords and tights and tuck them into bed, visions of pumpkins and candy dancing in their heads.
Then we rummage through their candy, and pour ourselves a drink. Finally, we walk out into the carport to blow out the candles in the pumpkin and step on a pile of muddy shoes, twisting our ankle and bumping our head on the brick wall, our screams of agony resonating throughout the neighborhood under a Waxing Gibbous moon. We limp back to the couch with the help of our husband, who brings us a water, Ibuprofen, a bag of frozen fruit, and a beer. We prop our foot up, icing it and watching The Night of the Living Dead.
