Snapshot: then and now

So some of you may remember that I mentioned once a long time ago that we had a hole in our carport ceiling from when the tall boy fell through it.  Here's how it happened:

The young tall boy (he was twelve) was fetching camping gear from the carport attic, in preparation for a Boy Scout adventure, when he stepped in the wrong place.  He crashed through the drywall ceiling of the carport, bounced off the top of the minivan, and landed flat on his back on the cement floor, right next to the trash dumpster.  Inside the house, the husband and I heard the crash, and seriously -- one of us said to the other, "Huh.  I wonder what that noise was."  Then we both picked up our coffee mugs and went back to whatever we were reading. 

And people, I swear that's exactly what happened.  When you think I'm exaggerating, or making something up for comic effect -- that is when I am telling the precise truth.  The stuff I make up cannot hold a candle to the shit that really happens to me.

Well -- after a spit take as we both realized that our beloved child was in the carport attic -- and the noise had come from the carport attic! -- we put down our coffee and strolled outside to see what all the racket was about.

Actually, I did make that part up.  Once we realized that the noise and our boy were probably connected, we did bolt out the door pretty quickly.  We're morons, but caring morons.

There was the tall boy, splayed like Wile E. Coyote after he chased the Roadrunner off a cliff.  The husband said, "Can you move, buddy?"  And the tall boy said, "Uh, no . . . ."

Insert all your own worst nightmares here.  They will be an accurate representation of the thoughts that ran through my head in slow motion.

While I was imagining my new life as the parent of a paralyzed child, and looking around for a discreet place to throw up, the husband responded to the horizontal tall boy:  "Listen.  Is it that you can't move, or that you're afraid to move?"  And the tall boy shot his father a pitying look.  "Dad.  I just got the First Aid merit badge.  You're not supposed to move a back injury."  And the world bounced back into place.

After determining that our boy could in fact move his fingers and toes, his arms and his legs, the husband got him up off the ground and dusted him off.  "What do you say we head on over to the hospital and see if you're brain-damaged?"

The tall boy laughed dismissively.  "No way, Dad!  We're going camping!"

And that was the end of that.

* * *

Well, so the hole in the carport ceiling was huge, and needed repairing in the worst way.  But somehow we never quite got around to it.  I have joked that we are lazy, and it is true -- but we're not that lazy.  In the ten years since the hole appeared, we have painted almost every room in our home, replaced flooring, renovated our kitchen, built a lovely fireplace mantel, gutted, designed, and restored one whole floor of our house, replaced a deck, and put up a split rail fence.  Some of these chores were accomplished by hiring professionals, but many of them were done by us, our own lazy selves.

And yet the hole in the carport ceiling lingered.  Why?  What was the weird dysfunctional thing going on that would not allow us to get rid of this unsightly and dangerous and embarrassing open wound?

I have no answer.

But it's gone now!  Our long national regional local pathetic nightmare is over!

And somebody needs to slap me, because I did actually say out loud to the husband, "You know, if we wait just a little longer, we can have a tenth anniversary party for the hole . . . "

Doesn't matter why

So last weekend the fabulous neighbors knocked on the door and instructed us to report for the first cul-de-sac gathering of the season.  Of course we obeyed.  The fire pit was deployed, and everyone brought "a little something" to share.  This was the most last-minute and impromptu of gatherings -- no one (not even Saskia -- Lake Ridge's own Martha Stewart) "made" anything, but we all brought a tasty store-bought something.  The fabulous neighbor gave us all an approving high-five:  "Good job, ladies -- way to keep it casual!"

And then the very next night, we met again at our church:  Trivia Night!  It was another fabulous reason to hang with our besties:  some tasty food (this time we did pull out our "dish to share" cookbooks), a fundraiser for a worthy cause, and a fierce competitive adrenaline rush (fed by $2.00 beer and wine). 

And I will just pause a moment to say that as a table we were pretty freaking smart: nitrogen as a cause of the bends; the crocus-to-saffron transition; memorization of Bible verses; a confident mastery of '90s sitcom and music trivia -- we rocked it, y'all.  We came in second, and immediately had t-shirts made:  "JUST WAIT UNTIL NEXT YEAR, TABLE NINE!"

But the point I want to make here is this:  I don't care about the reason for the gathering.  I just love these people!  How lucky am I?

A poem for a sunny spring day!

Ha!  I always knew I was hot stuff!

Cranky . . . .

Image via Cranky Birds -- a fabulous blog!

 Here is a sampling of comments that I have actually made -- in writing -- in the past few days . . .

1.  Across a spreadsheet that our Girl Scout Council requires of the over-worked cookie mommy volunteers:

This is s stupid form -- and is a duplication of effort. Troops have already provided this information through eBudde; why does this council require this ridiculously awkward form in addition?  This is why volunteers flee as fast as they can from working with Girl Scouts.  You do it to yourselves!

I thought this tirade was a better idea than asking someone to help me learn how to fill out an Excel spreadsheet.

2.  On the feedback page of yet another purveyor of beautiful clothing that my two teenaged girl urchins yearn for:

Dear Free People -- I would be more inclined to purchase your lovely dresses for my lovely daughters if these dresses actually covered their asses.  Regards -- Liz

I have sent this note a few times, to various merchants.  By the way, props to ModCloth, who brought back the "Longer Lengths" section of their online catalog (I must not be the only person who complained).  But Free People -- what the heck?  The name they gave the dress pictured above is "Lolita Syndrome."  I'm not even kidding.

3.  This is actually a groveling email I sent after I was -- let's just say a little testy with the nice pharmacist at CVS:

Dear Kathy -- I wanted to apologize again for losing my temper this morning while trying to find out where the hell my mother-in-law's chemotherapy prescription was.  I also deeply appreciate your help in getting the cost of the drug reduced from $8,100 for a 30 day supply to only $1,200 -- even after I implied that you didn't care whether my mother-in-law lived or died.  I know you do care whether my mother-in-law lives or dies.  I was overwrought.  Regards -- Liz

4.  Here's my text to my beloved tall boy, when he asked whether I could come fetch him from his college campus in the city for the long Easter weekend or he should wait outside in the rain for the commuter bus that might or might not show up and sit with a bunch of people who might or might not have the flu, and get home well after dinner time after walking that last six blocks in the aforementioned rain:

Bus.

Snapshot: Lazy Easter Bunny

The Easter Bunny is usually exhausted by the time he makes it to our house. He hides the eggs only in the most ceremonial sense of the word. It's true that he does sneak inside the house -- he knows that my bed-loving children would never bother to go outside first thing in the morning to look for eggs and risk getting the fuzzy socks wet. But the eggs are usually left in pretty blatant spots.

I sometimes imagine the Easter Bunny standing in my living room, smoking a cigarette and swaying with exhaustion (he drank too much Scotch at that party after the Easter Vigil Mass), flinging hard-boiled eggs without looking to see where they land.  Good thing, too -- because the teenaged urchins are way more interested in the candy he also leaves behind -- and in getting themselves wrapped around a mug of coffee.

Book review . . . .

The girl in charge is a voracious reader -- and has never been one to hold back an opinion.  Here's her in-progress report on one of my favorite novels.

People, I weep.

And by the way, hold back on the obituaries for the liberal arts education.  This girl (loving her theater class and tolerating her Victorian literature class) plans to major in the sciences.  Oxford College of Emory University -- gotta love it!

Still sad about Jane Eyre, though . . . .

Snapshot: the best hair glamour

The sunny girl did it again:  right before Christmas, she got a sassy new haircut!  Her adorable bob swings to just below her chin, and she feels so easy breezy as she goes about her day.  And the best part is that she was able to donate eleven inches of beautiful hair to LOCKS OF LOVE, the fabulous non-profit organization that uses these donations to create wigs for children who have suffered hair loss.

The sunny girl is the Jo March of her generation! --

She came walking in with a very queer expression of countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear, satisfaction and regret in it, which puzzled the family as much as did the roll of bills she laid before her mother, saying with a little choke in her voice, "That's my contribution toward making Father comfortable and bringing him home!"

     "My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope you haven't done anything rash."

     "No, it's mine honestly. I didn't beg, borrow, or steal it. I earned it, and I don't think you'll blame me, for I only sold what was my own." As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for all her abundant hair was cut short.

      "Your hair! Your beautiful hair! Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one beauty. My dear girl, there was no need of this. She doesn't look like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it."  As everyone exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle, and said, rumpling up the brown bush and trying to look as if she liked it, "It doesn't affect the fate of the nation, so don't wail, Beth. It will be good for my vanity, I getting too proud of my wig. It will do my brains good to have that mop taken off. My head feels deliciously light and cool, and the barber said I could soon have a curly crop, which will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order. I'm satisfied, so please take the money and let's have supper."

                                                                            Little Women, Chapter 15:  "A Telegram"
                                                                            -- Louisa May Alcott, 1868-69