This & That

Not much to report over here at Blither Blather headquarters.  It's a total den of slackers.  The boybarians are actually begging me to do laundry.  Go figure...  I'm pretty much pants-optional this summer.  Who needs socks and underwear in the summer time anyway???  That's so passe...  I tell them to think creatively... and go dig sumpin' outta the dirty hamper.  Now that's ol' school thinking for ya.

Oh, and I've stopped cooking too.  Looks like somebody is slackin' on laundry and kitchen slut duties and will probably be on strike until....whenev.

I've decided to take one for the  lady team and join my gal pals on the Million MILF March of Magic Mike.  Honestly, getting all glammed and bedazzled to hoot and holler over 'ol long in the tooth Matthew McConoughey is a tad embarrassing...and pathetic...and desperate.  But hopefully there will be some drinking involved to help me numb the memory, and we will manage to keep our $1 bills in our wallets...

Lastly, I have an appt with a boob expert on Monday.  You would think that I would get a little extra attention over here at BB headquarters. Ho no, sirree!  Mr B just keeps trying to feel me up (all in the name of science), and the boybarians just keep talking about video games and ninja stars.  This crew is oblivious to the Victorian vapors....sigh!

Dropping my Basket

I've been dealing with some pesky stuff lately.  And I thought I was holding it together pretty well, until I wasn't...  I'm not saying any one thing broke the camel's back.  It just happened, and my dependable bad ass-bravado scurried into a dark corner and could not be coaxed or bossed back (and that's saying sumpin').

Here's some of it:

1.  The doctor found a lump in my breast.  "Does this hurt?"  she asks as she stabs and holds her finger into one tender spot.  I"m a little confused.  "Well, yeah, now it does," I think to myself.

2.  Judy TAMPONelli has been on a 6 wks rampage over here at BB headquarters.  You woulda thought I was hosting an ax murderer for the summer.

3.  Which meant that I had to have a boob and vag sonogram.  Did I mention I HATE procedures-or having machines driven through my personal space???    This totally weirded me out and made the lil terror monkey in my brain trip the light fantastic and run amok.  The only thing that helped me keep my barely there sanity during the whole procedure was thinking that I have friends who actually pay good money for these kind of "probing procedures"-batteries not included...

And I could go on...  But honestly, it's just real life happening-like it does for us all.  As my grandaddy used to say, "Sometimes you get the bear.  Sometimes the bear gets you."  And ain't it the truth???  So, I'm sure I'll be sick of myself sooner than later and put on my big girl panties...eventually.

On the good news front:  my new floors look great, and my powder room is temporarily free of boybarian pee splatter.  And for now, that's ALL that matters.

Camping Report

Mr B took lil brother to Cub Scout camp for the week and called me this afternoon to report that there is a mom there tottering around on high heel wicker shoes.  "You mean wedges?" I clarify, clearly disgusted that he has no fashion vocabulary to speak of.  "Uh, yeah, if they look like wicker shoes, " he grunts, unsure why I have such a pissy tone over such an inconsequential detail (...only in man land).

He continues...  This mom who is tottering around in high heel wicker shoes is wearing those short pants above the ankle.  "You mean capris?"  I inform him in my most sardonic tone.  "Uh, yeah, I guess so," he concedes.  According to Mr B she is dressed for an indoor scrapbooking convention at the Holiday Inn-not a hot, dusty, humid, stinky campground for boys.  But most importantly he continues, she has her shirt unbuttoned and is continually rubbing and rolling her BIG SWEATY BOOBS in a towel she keeps around her neck, and every boy scout there is desperate to help her pitch her tent and carry her luggage.

So I ask the million dollar question:  where is lil brother???  And of course Mr B has no clue...  he's had his eye on wicker shoe lady and her BIG SWEATY BOOBS.

Clearly the cub scouts are gonna have a freakin'  blast this week since the camping staff & chaperones are otherwise engaged.  Stay tuned for incoming details on lil Miss Wicker Shoe's prancing camping antics.  Pffttttt....  I hope she breaks her ankle.

Interview

So I decide to interview lil brother and record his responses for posterity-or at least my own amusement.  Little brother is in his boxers with spiky morning hair eating cold pizza on the couch and already appears bored with this convo because Mom questions are notoriously BOR-ing!

Mom:  So what three things do you most like about yourself?

LB:  Everything  (as I suspected, he wants to get this over with)

Mom:  What else (giving him the beady eye)???

LB:  My hair

Mom:  Why don't you describe your hair... (more beady eye action)

LB:  short....  (Mom laser eye is warming up, honing in) ...and brown... (he nervously avoids the beady eye)   How many more???

Mom:  One more!

LB:  (long pause)  I'm athletic....  and competitive.... (understatement of the century)...  and I like to run.

Mom:  No you do not!  That's A LIE!

LB:  (grinning and stuffing more cold pizza into his face)

Mom:  OK-so why don't you tell me three things you need to improve on.

Lil brother hustles off the couch, puts the cat and the quilt around his neck, and saunters upstairs to the boybarian quarters so he can join his brother in the Zombie Apocalyspe that is raging on the XBOX.

Mom:  Well, I guess the interview's over....

I saw this link on Pinterest and immediately had a giant *eye roll* moment.  What husband wants to do a 101 things with his wife???  Poll a 101 men, and the response will be unanimous.  Husbands only want to do ONE THING with their wives (or wives in general), and I'm pretty sure the Pinterest Police would come get you if you posted THAT on their crafty-DIY lil wall.

Pfftttt....  Some people are just so stupid.

Job Search

Mr B is currently job searching.  One of the jobs he applied for is a Peace Corps. position.  The PC was surprisingly quick to respond to his application.  "Great!  Just great...  I'll probably be sent to Uganda and end up with a case of Bingy-Bingy fever," he snorts.  Clearly Mr B is not fist pumping over this opportunity for racking up frequent flyer miles, experiencing exotic cultures, or saving the world.  I mean, who wouldn't want to sit in a sweltering hut wearing a greasy loin cloth and eating goat eyeball stew with your hands from the same bowl as the village elders???  Encouraging as ever, I assure Mr B that a case of Bingy-Bingy fever is favorable to being a single parent hustling his kids all over town for never ending sporting events and honking band concerts, daily vacuuming of tornadic pet fur, suffering through lil brother's lies 'bout never having homework (or worse, actually having to help with it), and having the stress of deciding whether to order cheese or pepperoni pizza seven days out of the week-cause we all know that I ain't gonna have the energy to cook or empty a dishwasher after all that.  Mr B actually kinda changed his tune 'bout having a case of the Bingy-Bingy fever-which is testimony to my indefatigable ability to make you feel better about your tragic circumstances because clearly, I have it worse.

FYI-good luck Googling "Bingy-Bingy Fever."  Just because Google ain't never heard tell of it is no indication that Mr B will be safe from it.

Returned

Big kid is home safe and sound from his Key West camping adventure!!!  And I am so happy to be able to stop worrying and prayin' over him long distance.  I also have to give Mr B kudos for training him on returning-to-mama-etiquette:  "You go see your mother first thing!  Answer every question she has.  It doesn't matter how dirty or tired you are."  That's right!  Who cares if he hasn't slept in 36 hours or taken a shower in 72 hours???  I have important questions to ask like, "What did you eat?"  and "Did anyone get mad?"  I know. I know...  These are the stupidest questions ever in boyland-but I gotta know even if the answers are (shrug) "I dunno..."  We are thrilled and relieved to have him back in the nest in spite of the fact that he has plans to head right back out the door...  as soon as he has some clean laundry.

Balance and order is restored in blither blather land.

Souvenir

Don't y'all just love spontaneous, from-the-heart gifts???

Mr B bought me this metal picture from a tacky lil store while on vacay.  It made me belly laugh out loud!  I plan to proudly display it in my kitchen.  Which I need to add to his honey-do list...

Now that's romantic-and right on the money, frankly.

Traveling Show

The blither blather crew took to the road this past week so lil brother could vacay at a kidtastic water park while big kid was otherwise engaged in a Key West camping expedition.  So Mr B and I made a pact:  I wouldn't be a nagatha if he wouldn't be a grouch-a-potamus.  And we pretty much hit the skids on that deal before passing our own mailbox.  Anyhoo...!!!  The important thing is that lil brother had a FAB time on all the slides, rides, rope courses, arcade games, etc. We even ordered room service for him one night and took him to the Ripley's aquarium the next day.  And he didn't stop chattering the whole time.  He even talked in his sleep!  Although we  certainly missed our big kid, it was fun to be elbow deep in 9 year old fun.  On the last night, lil brother says to me, "You've got a disease!"  And I cock my eyebrow at him, laser eye warming up...  And he gives me a toothy grin, "It's called pretty-osis!"  And for that alone, he got to stay up 30 more minutes, be the boss of the remote, and eat more Oreos under the covers with me!!!

But folks, just to keep it real:  there's no place like home.  Even if that includes 9 loads of laundry after the fact.

Hope you're  having your own fun family adventures and keeping it REAL as you roll!!!

50 Shades...of Puke & Barf!

Mark Twain on reading novels:

I have no liking for novels or stories -- none in the world; and so, whenever I read one -- which is not oftener than once in two years, and even in these same cases I seldom read beyond the middle of the book -- my distaste for the vehicle always taints my judgment of the literature itself...and also of course makes my verdict valueless. Are you saying "You have written stories yourself?" Quite true: but the fact that an Indian likes to scalp people is no evidence that he likes to be scalped.
- letter to Bruce Weston Munro, 15 March 1887

I tried, people.  I really did.  I wanted to be in the ol' S&M Fifty Shades lady club who ohh'ed and ahh'ed and giggled and simpered over this stupid, stupid, stupid series.  For God's sake, I read the Twilight series in week!  Popular and poorly written is usually not much of a barrier for me.   But here it is:  I HATE FIFTY SHADES!  It occurred to me after skimming through 157 pages of the tedious 3rd novel that I had only read perhaps three pages but had rolled my eyes, gagged, and convulsed like 9,271 times.  So I am doing something I don't ever remember doing: I am tossing this drivel on the burn heap.  I will not read another word.  Done. Finit! 

Ok-so what's my complaint, you ask?  Weak character & plot development is a biggie; vapid and sophomoric dialogue that is so 8th grade-like, for realzzz; a gluttony of material possessions that not even billionaires aspire to; unrealistic and chauvinistic sex-capades that no man or woman could perform even with the aid of a genie in bottle; and a docile, spineless heroine who whispers and casts her eyes down and questions nothing ever!  I want to kick her in the head.  Seriously??? 

I understand the allure of fantasy and using fiction as a means of experience or escape.  And I confess, I am a literature snob on many levels.  But at some point, characters need pores, texture, and frankly...to struggle and muddle through the muck and grime of life-or else why bother to spend $12.95 and three or more hours of your life with them?  So I am returning to some tried and true writers who deliver some entertainment bang for the buck:  Diana Gabaldon, Phillipa Gregory, Pat Conroy, Anne Rice, Stephen King, Ken Follett, and good ol' Twain himself, to name a few.  So I will be hitting the library or book store soon and looking forward to sinking my teeth into something juicy-or at least to avoid the scalping that Twain so eloquently references.

Happy reading-whatever it may be!

Birthin'

The only metaphor that I can rightly compare home-reno to is birth.  It's gory, unglamorous, graphic, embarrassing, agonizing, and tedious.  You get the idea...  The list of adjectives is endless.  Having strangers parade through your spread eagle home is probably the worst though.  Anyone who wants to snap on a rubber glove filled with KY can have a feel or a peek at your private parts-in all their humiliating glory.  And you know they are judging.  I wanted to die a thousand-gazillion deaths when one of the lady workers needed to use the boy-barians' bathroom.  I knew the toilet was ba-scusting.  That weird orange ring around the inside rim was proof enough.  I was so humiliated that I cowered and cringed in my own bedroom-kinda like Eve in the garden when God was shaking his finger at her 'bout that damn apple.  I really wanted to blame it on Adam!  I never could look that poor (rightfully traumatized) woman in the eye.  And yes, I understand that construction workers generally use a porta-potty, and what could be more ba-scusting than that, right???  Uhhhmmm, well....that would be blither blather facilities.  I wish I were more of an avenging-cleaning-angel wielding her righteous toilet brush aloft, but honestly I more closely resemble a slutty slattern with legs akimbo reclining on a sagging sofa.  I just can't bring myself to feel inspired...  Plus God made boys to pee all over ery'thing, right???  Who am I to interfere with the Almighty's plan???

Like birth, no one can do home-reno for you.  There are no willing surrogates.  You just gotta grit your teeth, take as may legal drugs as possible, and remember the Queen as you perform your duty to God and country.  As you can tell, I am desperate to wrap this baby up and pull down my proverbial nightgown over my lady parts.  This process has been quite unladylike. 

Laws, y'all...!