5-0

It's Joan Jett's 50th birthday! You've got to love an androgynous rocker in black leather and even blacker eyeliner. Not to mention she still speaks to the teenage angst inside me!

A-hole Doctor Quote of the Week

Dr. Good drugs (full of himself version): "I need an alcohol swab."

Me: "Here, I have one." As I pull a swab from my left breast (repeat BREAST) pocket and hand it to him.

Dr. Gd(fohv): "Well, if I knew where they were kept, I could have gotten it myself."

Did I mention married a-hole? How'd ya like a size 6 springy shoe up yer arse?

I Hope You Dance

Because this brings a smile to my face. And I miss Waldo. I give you "Where In The Hell Is Matt?"

Because My Friends Rock

I love this song, it speaks to me! I know it's a Beatles song, but I like Joe's version better and not just because he looks like he's about to seize when he sings. At least in this version you can understand him, unlike the Woodstock version when he was so high he didn't know what planet he was on. Go Joe!

I also tried to find the version on SNL where John Belushi does a spot on Joe Cocker with Joe onstage next to him...darn it, it was not to be found! I'm feeling extra musical today, and I don't want to fold laundry, so there may be more......

The Reason For This Season

That's right! Nothing makes me happier than the advent of Halloween and the re-stocking of Boo-Berry, Frankenberry and Count Chocula cereals. I don't even care that Halloween is a month and a half away, and that this is a shameless ploy for consumers to spend more money based on fond memories. (Unlike the Christmas display I saw in Costco the other day. There should be a moratorium on selling holiday paraphernalia more than a month in advance of said holiday.)



Ah, the old days. I spent every summer at my grandparents, running wild in the logging camps where my grandpa worked. Every few weeks we'd come back down the mountain to stock up on supplies. Grandma was great because she let us eat pretty much whatever we desired, as opposed to Mom and her so-called "healthy" breakfast cuisine. There is only so much oatmeal, cream o' wheat, eggs and pancakes one can take before the soul just cries out for some sugar coated compressed cereal compound. We would drive out to Goose Creek (pronounced "crick" to you philistines) General Store (900 square feet of love), where we would bask in the neon glow of the monster cereal boxes. My brother and I got to pick out our own boxes, so there was no bickering or jealousy to be had. Paradise, I tell you! Sadly, the monster cereals were discontinued when I was 10 or so. Rain fell in my soul and life became bereft of joy. But now! Now, I get to relieve my childhood once a year with a plethora crappy breakfast cereal that turns your milk different colors and treats you to a flood of insulin after the first spoonful. Thereby guaranteeing you spend the rest of the day in a stupor.

3 years

So. Three years. You know, the first year you spend reminding yourself to breathe in and breathe out. Reminding yourself to put one foot in front of the other. That you have these two little people depending on you to give them a semi-normal childhood and feel secure in a suddenly insecure world. You are numb. The second year you think you have a pretty good handle on things, but you don't realize that you are still numb. Until that day comes and you come screaming back to life complete with all that pain and grief you hid from the first year. I freaking hated September. A month I used to love. But this is year three. And year three has been easier. I am who I am and I will always be a woman who lost her husband when she was 38 years old with two small children to raise. People always say they don't want to remind me or bring up bad memories, but the fact is, you don't forget. That is my reality. And the changes I've had to make, have made me who I am. It's okay. And not all memories are bad. The hole in my heart is closing. It is no longer a gaping, bleeding, ragged edged bomb crater. It is now a small window. With protective glass and a tasteful window treatment. I like September again. I have been given a reason to like September again, and that makes me happy. That, I believe is the crux of the situation. I. Am. Happy.

I took the boys to the cemetery to leave flowers for their dad. The boys view the cemetery as a big park. And I can see why. It has a gorgeous view of Mt Ranier, fountains and lots of grass to play on. The fact that most of this grass is growing between headstones and site markers is no deterrent to these two. Even my cries of "Stop stepping on people!" fail to dissuade them for long. I'm not sure how long it will be before one of them falls in the pond. As I was cutting 6 dollars off the $12 bunch of wildflowers I bought, the boys were engaged in difficult and somber tasks. Tying the parachute onto SoS's plastic paratrooper.

My mother, bless her crazy, pea picking heart, showed up while we were there with her annual memorial. A Mylar Seattle Seahawks balloon which she proceeds to tie onto the flower vase so that it can wave in the wind and be seen by all and sundry. Now the cemetery is owned and run by a wonderful group of supportive people. But, we do live in a "certain area" and it is a little "too-too." They have a strict decoration policy, which excludes balloons of this nature, and which my mother gleefully violates several times a year. What are they gonna do? Evict him? Here is this year's contribution:









Okay, so it's hard to see. Sue me, I was using the camera phone. Trust me when I say it is a football shaped Mylar balloon in Seahawks colors with "Seattle Seahawks" printed on it. All in blissful violation of the decoration policy in the beautiful Northwest September sun. Take that!

1 Week

SoS got off the bus on Friday after his first full week of Kindergarten and this conversation ensued:

"How was your day? Any x's or frowny faces?"

"No! And I didn't go to the principal's office!"

What? This would, naturally, cause any suspicious mother of SoS, namely me, to inquire as to whether said child had EVER been to the principal's office. Which, of course, he answered in the negative. No, it was his friend who had gone to the office after biting SoS in an altercation. As it is my weekend to work, they boys were turfed to my parents' house. Settled back at home, contemplating a night of food and gambling, I received a phone call from my best friend, laughing hysterically:

"Why didn't you tell me SoS had been to the office?"

"That little shit! He told me he didn't go! I'll call you back!'

It seems my BFF's daughter had seen SoS in the office and proceeded to rat him out when she got home. I called to talk to my little felon:

"Dude, did you go to the principal's office?"

"Why?"

"Someone said you were in there."

"No, I had to take my friend to the office. I didn't do nothin'!"

Now, I'd like to believe that my offspring would be honest and was expressing his outrage that I would question his integrity. However, I don't call him Spawn of Satan for nothing. An archeological dig of his backpack yielded a note and a behavior log. Wadded up into a ball and hidden in the bottom.

I'm so screwed.