It's Summer, So You'll Likely Find Me On Twitter

When it's summer, for me, all things blogging turn to twitter. My ADHD can't keep up with the lack of regular routine. I'm a GO-er. I'm not sure what the general definition of that is, but here's mine: whenever someone suggests anything remotely fun, I'm ready to GO!

Trip to the beach? GO! Impromptu BBQ? GO! 8:00 movie for all the kids? Hey, it's summer, so we GO!

Stay home and wash dishes or go out to eat with friends? GO!

I don't stay at home much on a normal day, but when we have no scholarly commitments, I'm outta here.

Therefore, my blogging life usually suffers. I'm running around in a summer spin and I just keep spinning. Spin or be spun by something else, I say.

If I'm not blogging here, I'm blogging on the GO as Mombshells on Twitter...follow me and I'll follow you!

Thelma and Louise Summer Camp for 6 Year Olds: Flashback 2008

It's day 5 at the beach house, and we haven't seen Thelma (Birk) and her sidekick, Louise, for days. As soon as we arrived, the BFFs, disappeared into their self titled "dorm."

The mini mighty amazon girls settled in Kid Animal-House-Style: clothing everywhere, snacks hidden under the bed, a big jug of spring water and bedding in a twist. They were stocked and locked like they were in a bomb shelter. The biggest battle for these warriors? Brothers, bed time and lack of sugary snacks.

Seriously, these girls could be on Kid Survivor. Once in a while they pop up asking for a dry towel or a new dvd, but they are mostly locked behind their self-made, masking tape posted sign on the door that says:

NO BROS ULOD IN ThE GRLS CLUB

When they o.d. on movies, spring water and bananas, we might catch a glimpse of them--hair snarled, still in pjs or bathing suits. Ruth is the voice of 9 year old reason and keeps a sisterly watchful eye, but for the most part, the 6 year olds are running wild.

If they happen to clean the windows with Shout, at least it's good, clean, fun, right? That's what makes the most excellent summer memories, good times, good times...

The Ark

Well, if you have heard rumors about an ark, they are true. I am told I can no longer refer to it as "Swamp House." All I can say is that the first time George laid eyes on this place, he was grinning ear to ear.

He was still grinning ear to ear through the pest inspection report. It was like the pest inspector just drew a big red circle around the entire structure and declared it infested. He was still grinning ear to ear when the building inspector declared part of it a "tear down."

And he was really grinning ear to ear when he dragged his old kayak out of it's 6 year hibernation and plopped it into the creek.

I am charmed by the history, the unique lifestyle and the gorgeous views. I guess I finally got my 100 year old, um, house. George got his cottage location northwest, as well as an office. Our parents get a place to come and enjoy extended stays. We all win, except the pests, I hope.

Last Game on the Field of Dreams

We have this picture perfect, manicured little baseball diamond in our cozy town. Our school is right next door, and every time I stop by to drop off a forgotten lunch or paper in the spring, there is someone tenderly tending the field.

Eight years ago, my little guy with his baseball mitt from Toys R Us started his little league career. The T-ball diamond, adjacent to the big, fancy field, is a super cute, mini version of the big kid's diamond and stands in the shade of a big, perfect-for-climbing tree.

All the little kids watch the big diamond in awe. If you are a kid and you love baseball, this is the place you dream of playing. It is your big leagues. It is your majors. There's a light up scoreboard and enthusiastic parent announcers in the skybox. The snack shack sells dogs, peanuts in the shell and nachos with the mandatory neon orange cheese.

As a family, we've moved up through the little league ranks. Our son has made his way through multiple positions, and both fantastic and heart wrenching plays. He's hit a homer and one one memorable occasion lost his permanent front tooth. We've experienced the good, bad, ugly and exceedingly excellent of coaches. We've been the winning team and the team that lost every single game.

If you hang around little league until you're 12, you are serious about baseball and you play or practice all of the time. It holds a family hostage from March until June. I am sad to see the last game John will play on this magical field--even though I've sat on the metal seats so much this year that my back is in spasm.

The ping of the bat, the sound of a hard, fastball hitting the mitt, parental chuckles and angst. The smell of hot dogs, the tranquil green of the field flanked by blue sunny skies, and the dust that kicks up in the infield-- these all will always be in our memories of John's childhood.

Today, 8 years later, John will have to grab his gear and walk away from the field for his last time as a player. George and I will be right by his side, squinting into the evening sun as we leave a chunk of childhood behind. It will be a sad, growing-up-way-too-fast, good-bye.

Unplugged from School

"The good thing about a book is it can pause forever...until you want to finish."

11 year old Ruth

The Table: Part 1 of Many

I have a table. I am thankful for this table. It belonged to my husband's great, great grandmother. It was passed on down and around from all the members of my husband's family and has landed in our kitchen. Permanently.

I have lived with said table for almost 16 years. It is time to pass it on.

How can I say that, you might ask? How could I be eager to pass on such a beloved heirloom? Ahhh, but this seems to be the hot potato of tables, and everyone has been eager to pass it. Now it's my turn.

People, it is falling apart. The middle sags. The top is splintered--and not in a cute antique shop distressed kind of way. The legs are so short that you can't get your own legs under the table when you are sitting at it.

It is not comfy and it sits in the center of my life right, smack dab in the middle of my kitchen. I keep it covered to protect it's modesty at all times with a tablecloth. While I would like to replace this old mare, I do respect her and am happy to have made her acquaintance.

However, my husband loves this table. He has threatened to divorce me if it was to be, say, magically replaced one day without his knowledge. I am a very sentimental girl, but what used to be once just a discussion about this table has turned into much more.

The more I dig in, the more he digs in. We are both of the most stubborn stock, so now it's a battle of the wills.

It would make a great desk. A lovely occasional table. (I'm personally not allowed to move it to another location out of the kitchen). Any relatives reading? Need a table? I'm sure if I found it a good home...

You Fight Like A Girl

I was reflecting on a regular Margarita Friday.  The usual 'Mom' suspects were sitting in a circle chatting away around the table.  Various kids of all ages were romping freely outside.  We all were basking in that wonderful thing known as Friday and the beginning of the weekend.

It was our last Margarita Friday of the school year (Margarita Friday is a thing that sometimes happens at my house...on Fridays).  The next time the Margaritarator will be humming will be on the 4th of July.  School activity was ramping up to ramp down to a steep descent into a delicious, lazy summer.

The conversation wasn't about school coming to an end.  We had dished school ending and summer camp long ago.  This week the conversation drifted to what you can do to yourself to look younger and how much each procedure hurt on a scale of relative  pain.

Burn, poke, pry, prod, pluck,

laser, inject, re-surface (you'd think we were talking about floors), 

nip, dye, tint, suck, 

scrub, peel, wax, thread, tuck.  

Whew!

Never tell someone that they fight like a girl, if they have ever done some of these aforementioned procedures, they know no pain and they will kick your butt.  

Step aside men who cry like babies while their backs are being waxed--it's 2009 and someone has created the most painful, expensive ways to look youthful and beautiful to date.  

We are girls,  and we don't shrink at the sight of needles and lasers.  We do not shy from the $400 beauty salon bill (well, some of us).  We are so strong that we can giggle, laugh and tell our stories about silently suffering at the hands of a beauty professional.  

If we didn't laugh about it, we'd have to cry.  Yep, we fight like girls do.

Bikini Shots on Facebook

I'm not a big facebooker.  I have an account and about 20 friends.  I have no need to write on their walls, because I see them every day.  I know this is generally not the typical use for facebook.

Yes, I know it's used to spy on old boyfriends.  Check in on the kids you once went to school with, etc., etc. It's like one big, happy family reunion.  It is an easy way to connect, but I'm just not that much of a connected kind of person.

O-k, what this really is about is all of the woman who have bikini shots as their profile photos. I know, they are all looking slim and trim--I'm happy for them.  But, what does this say when you identify yourself as a swimsuit model?  I'm not going to even recognize you in an airport or the grocery store if you actually have all of your clothes on.  I need close up head shots--my eyesight isn't that good.

There are cool shots on FB of people doing quirky, silly things, or surfing or climbing mountains.  There are shots with the husband, kids or all of the above.  How we identify ourselves or portray ourselves to the world is quite interesting.

I originally had a shot of my husband and myself.  Then I thought, what am I trying to say with this?  Is it that I'm married to a handsome guy?  Is it that I'm married in general-ha, proved some of you wrong?  What does our FB profile photo say about us?

Is this just a case of too much caffeine on a Wednesday morning?  I guess I better quit procrastinating and go clean my room.  Does anyone else think about this?