Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Can I apologize for being so remiss?  I love both MamaGeek and Cecily, yet this is the first time I’ve joined in on their Photo Story Friday.  I am so sorry ladies.  I’m a lousy blog friend. 

I finally took a picture!  Can you believe it?  Neither can I.  I am embarrassed at how long it’s been since I did my motherly duty & showed off the tyke.  My poor (as opposed to Burgh’s) Mr Canon has been idle for weeks.  Partially this is due to Knute’s refusal to pose and partially it is that I am a lazy fat ass.  True story. 

I was blogging diligently cleaning my house yesterday, when I heard a big KABOOM! in the kitchen.  Oh, boy.  What’s Knute up to now?  I walked in to find my change jar upended on the floor and boy wonder sitting in a pile of currency. 

“Knute! What are you doing?” I asked while trying not to smile.

“I’m cleaning up the dirt, Mommy - with my dump truck,” he said proudly. 

“Well, so you are.  Knute?  Can Mom take your picture?” He’s been so adament about NOT having his picture taken I was shocked to hear him say, “Sure Momma.”

Now, you know my darling is rather petrified of dirty hands.  His fear approaches OCD like tendencies.  When he’s thrown up?  He could give a carp (my new word for crap, yo) about the vile smelling puke; it’s all about his dirty hands.  Last weekend at my BFF’s son’s birthday party?  They had to dig up the pirate treasure in the flower bed.  My son?  Wouldn’t stoop to getting so dirty and watched from the perimeter.  And, actually while playing in the raised sandbox plastic thingy, he would stop every so often to “wash” his hands in the grass.   I’ve often worried what this might mean, because boys are supposed to get good and dirty.  Leave it to my Knute to come up with an alternative.  Only Knute would create dirty out of my spare change.  That boy is such an engineer in the making.  I loved his face when he realized money was, in fact, also dirty.  “Momma, I need to wash my hands!

Lord help me.  A 32 year old engineer and a 3 year old one.  I’m totally outnumbered here.  Help.  Send reinforcements!

I last left you with beavers upstairs in MIL’s house.  We resume the tale downstairs in her mother’s room.  

Here’s your background on Puppy’s maternal grandmother: She is a seriously old school Southern woman.  She is very blue blood and really loves to claim her DAR membership with a flourish of “My family came over on the Mayflower.”  In addition, she takes her Republicanism a bit too far (”Tom DeLay was framed.  I met him once and he was a nice man.”) in that she sells her intellect to the party, she is offensively racist, and most importantly, she makes being contrary an art form.  She will fight just for the sake of fighting.  She once went off on me for saying the Founding Fathers were not very Christian but more Deist.  Despite teaching American History at the time - I was wrong - because she said so.   She became even more unbearable when her husband passed away 10 years ago and even worse after she suffered a series of strokes that have left her nearly bedridden.  But, the mouth.  It still functions a mile a minute.  And, stupidly, I always allow her to bait me.

“Holly, I was thinking about you today,” she said with a bit of a smile. 

“Oh, really?” I asked, knowing better than to so easily give her the incentive to begin yet another diatribe.  But, like the moron I am…I just took it.

Puppy and I exchanged a glance.  He rolled his eyes.  I quietly seethed inside.

“I just think Knute will be better off with his mother,” she added.

Puppy asked to read the article and I uncomfortably moved from one foot to the other, hoping not to scream something about how preschool in America in 2008 has nothing to do with WWII Soviet schools indoctrinating communists.  And, how preschool is wonderful for children.  Look at Puppy!  Putting him in 1st grade at 4 certainly affected him. 

“I can see you have already made up your mind and I’m not influencing you in any way.” 

In my head: Really?  You think?

“Well, I don’t want to tell you how to raise your child.  I just thought you should know how harmful preschool is.”

Puppy gives me a look that clearly reads: Caution.  I finally can’t handle not speaking, so I say, “Well, you know?  It was very beneficial to my brother and I.  I got so much socialization and learned how to deal with people because I went.” Does she even realize I’m poking at her?  Nope.

“Is Knute at least attending a good Catholic preschool?” This from the woman who was Presbyterian for 30 years, Episcopalian for 45 and has only been Catholic 2. 

Do I?  Do I make her squirm?  Am I still as childish as I was when I discussed beavers in front of her daughter not five minutes earlier?  Hell yes I am.

“Actually, he’ll be attending a preschool where he will be in full-immersion Spanish,” I say out loud.  And, my thought continues in my brain with: bite me you racist cow. 

And, I’ve successfully broken the 4th Commandment twice in the span of ten minutes.  If you need me I’ll be heading to confession.

* I’m still not sure who “they” is.

You probably know I spent last week with the family.  Friday afternoon, Puppy, Knute & I headed over to MIL’s house.  You need to remember MIL is literally a throwback to 1950s.  She was not allowed to go to college and is literally living in a Donna Reed-esque bubble of pretend happy.  She doesn’t believe people under 21 drink and certainly would never believe anyone had sex before they were married.  If you’ve been reading me for any length at all, you know that I am not the biggest fan of my IL’s and how much I love to ruffle feathers when I am given the chance.  I’m a bitchy woman and I will never deny that I enjoy going in for the kill. 

Puppy and his mother started talking about this gas station chain my youngest BIL (age 20) loves.  It’s called Buck ees.  It also just happens to have the worst mascot in history. 

It’s a beaver.  Yes.  I know.  I know.  Which is exactly the reason my BIL loves it.  He wears his Buc-ee hat proudly all over the place and his poor, slow, mother is none the wiser.  MIL mentioned him also owning a pair of jammy bottoms with the beaver on it.  I sat on the couch stunned, cause knowing his hormonal mind?  That is meant to be all kinds of dirty.  She proceeded to go and get them.

“They were navy blue, but they’ve faded.  But, you can still see the beavers all over them.”  she said so eloquently.  I really tried not to giggle, but you know?  My mind was in big time gutter mode.  I just couldn’t help it.  And, I looked at Puppy.  Do I dare?  Oh, hell.  Yes, I do.

“I just think that mascot is tacky,” I said through an innocent smile.  Puppy glared.  MIL, not knowing a thing about double entendres smiled in her ignorance.  She said something about it just being a cute beaver.  I smirked.  “I just think it’s tacky.  They could pick a better mascot.  I mean it’s a beaver.”  Puppy gave me the look of death.  I chose to ignore it.  MIL said, “Well, aren’t they like squirrels?” 

Tell me: would you have just let it go?  Am I too childish for my own good?

A while back my dear friend Catwoman did a post reviewing the KY His/Hers stuff.  I was mildly intrigued by the vivid descriptions she gave.  And, being hopelessly curious, I kinda thought maybe I should get some. 

 Puppy, Knute & I were on our weekly run to the mother ship (Target, duh!) when we passed by the lube juice, tampon, and vagisil aisle.  I remarked about how I kinda thought it might be worth getting some of the KY.  Puppy turned a few shades of pink.  I loved it. 

So, I said, “Honey do you want this His & Hers or this Intrigue stuff that comes in Spicy or Heat?”  He turned a few more shades of pink.  He mumbled incoherently under his breath, while pointing at the toddler.

I threw the box in the cart and left it alone.  Until we were paying.  He glanced at the ticket. 

“That stuff was 14.99!” 

“Pup, that was on sale.”  He gave me a look.  Oh, well.  I’m already in trouble, might as well go for broke, right? “I mean, sweetie, you know porn’s not cheap, right?”  His already pink face went into red instantly. 

Is it wrong that I love to torture him so?

********************

Also, I’m at my parent’s this week.  I’ll be in and out sporadically.  Please know I will get back & check up on you soon.

You may be wondering how my venture into the foray that is tax-free weekend turned out.  Great, thanks for asking.  I spent far too much money outfitting the toddler, but as he’s the greatest things since sliced bread (or Tivo since that’s pretty dang good, too), I have no problem enacting my plan for global shopping domination (HMoGSD).  Helping out the tyke is a good and worthy cause. 

Back when I still worked, Puppy basically left me alone to splurge on whatever I deemed necessary at the time.  Now that I’m not earning my keep, the coupon clipping mom that I am still longs for the days when I could part with money so freely. As a shopaholic, I’ve tried and tested many ways to fool or outwit Puppy when it comes to spending the disposable income.  In order to help my fellow gals out, I will share a few with you:

The Rat Hole.  This is an idea stolen from my BFF my mother.  Mom has money stashed all over her house.  She calls these “rat holes” and when she feels the need to outwit my father, she will carefully go and take money to do as she sees fit.  The most outrageous use of the rat hole was when I actually opened a secret checking account without Puppy’s knowledge.  I figured I’d one up my mother and accrue interest on my secret funds.  What I wasn’t thinking about was that the bank would send letters telling me how much was in my account.  Puppy caught on pretty quickly when a strange bank statement appeared.  DRAT.  FOILED AGAIN.

The Padding the Books.  A quick and easy way to make a little money without drawing attention to yourself is to “pad” the books a little as it were.  Most grocery store chains and a few other stores will ask if you want cash on top of the amount you are spending.  Your response should be an unequivocal, “YES, Please!”  The amount on the credit card just shows you spent a little more on goods at the store without screaming out “Your wife also snuck $50 in cash on top of the groceries you fool!”  Alas, the most recent time I tried to pad the books, the wiseasses at Discover were on to me.  I looked at the statement and it said something about $20 in cash in addition to blah blah blah in groceries.  DRAT. FOILED AGAIN.

The Tried and True.  Ahh.  You might be wondering if any of my theories or plans is universally successful.  YES!  I could not have become a shopaholic with my eyes set on global domination if there wasn’t at least one way to always get what you need.  This is how my adorable Knute got a kickass new wardrobe courtesy of tax free shopping.  The tried and true method of global shopping domination is actually pretty clever.  You simply buy everything you really want when you are out.  Then, buy a considerable bit more that you would actually like but don’t necessary have to have as it were.  Then, when you come home, you look sad and pathetic while your spouse reads you the riot act.  You begrudgingly say you are willing to return this bag of things (the stuff you never actually wanted anyway) and sigh loudly.  The spouse sees you are compromising and thinks you are good.  In reality, you got everything you wanted.  Sneaky?  Yes.  Does it work?  Hell yes.

When it came to Knute’s new wardrobe, I bought 21 things from Talbots Kids for a steal at $256.  They are going out of business and everything was 50% off plus the 8.25% I didn’t have to pay in tax.  I was stoked.  I also knew Puppy would freak out when he learned nothing was returnable.  (hee hee!)  It was time to put Holly’s Method of Global Shopping Domination (HMoGSD) into effect.  I then went into Gap Kids and bought stuff and into Macy’s and bought a lot of Ralph Lauren.  I liked these things but I did not need them or have to have them.  When Puppy arrived home to read me the riot act, I submissively agreed to return the Macy’s and Gap things.  He felt better and I got everything I really wanted without any of the guilt.  Try it.  It works!

It is a well known fact that I am a bit of a shopaholic.  I don’t feel this is a bad thing.  It’s like being a bitch: part of me I cannot fully control and part of my “self” so I would never consider doing anything to change it even if I could.  The main problem with my love of single handily jump starting the sluggish economy is my husband.  Puppy is more totalitarian dictator (ala Scrooge McDuck) than fellow capitalist pig.  This is something which makes me die a slow death.  With the economy in a free fall, my inner shopaholic hears the cries of stores near and far.  50% off here and an additional 25% off there.  Did you hear it?  I think it was a SALE.  My blood just got a shot of adrenaline. 

Today my main mission was to peruse the mall and outlet mall to see what is available - my new niece needs to be outfitted, Knute needs uniform (Sigh…it begins) pants, and then there is winter to think about even if it is still 103 outside.  Tomorrow just happens to start tax free weekend in Texas.  Yes, it’s only 8.25% off, but you add that to the 50% stores are already giving and you get a nice discount.  I buckled Knute into his carseat and noticed he was acting funky.  He was holding his head.  I asked him about allergies or headache.  He told me he was fine.  I hesitated and then gave him a little Tylenol.

1.23 seconds after the car was out of the driveway he said in a quavering voice, “Mom-my, I need a huuug.”  That was it.  Something was definitely wrong with the toddler.  I threw the car in reverse and backed into the garage in time to hear him start to cry.  I quickly turned around and heard, “I frrew uuup,” between frantic boy sobs.  Poor baby.  Knowing Knute, he was more upset with having dirty hands than anything else. 

I loathe the smell, sound, and UGH factor involved with puke.  But, somehow the momdar clicked on and I got him out, got him changed, didn’t puke when some got on me, and had him curled up on my bed watching Toy Story in about five minutes flat.  Yay for channeling my own mother when I really had to. We got nothing done today.  NOTHING.  But, at least he only threw up the one time. 

So, I gotta ask, do you think it’s okay to drag him to the mall in the morning?  I gotta hit those sales.  GOTTA….does that make me a bad mom?

Now that Plurk has officially replaced Twitter (yes, YOU, YOU & YOU, I eat the crow willingly) for my affections, I’ve been spending the last few nights Olympic plurking.  In layman’s terms this would be watching the Olympics while hanging out on Plurk.  Do you remember what it was like to be part of those phone calls in middle school where your 3 way calling included about four other people with 3 way?  This creating one cacophony of prepubescent girls gabbing?  That’s what Plurk’s like in the night time.

Somehow one thread moved from synchronized diving to the freakish stuff the US commentators were eating to blend in with the Chinese locals (seriously? fried scorpion?  GAG!)…then ended up with a major chocolate discussion.  The chocolate made me think of an old post (it’s one of the Best of the Best with Honors, YO!) where I mentioned how VDog and Burgh and I loved Perfect Strangers and the Bibbi-Babka Song.  That tangent took me back to fantasy football.  And, then it fit.  The cosmic alignment was so perfect.  I knew.

My team name: The Bibbi-Babkas.  And, the boys will be jealous, because my team comes complete with it’s own team song and you tube video!

When you rolling out the dough,
Just make sure you roll it slow.
If you make the dough too quick
Bibbibabka make you sick.
When you pour the filling in
Just make sure you wear a grin.
When you smile on what you bake
Bibbibabka turn out swell.

As you may know, football season is just around the corner (Can I get a WOOT! or an AMEN!).  If you’ve been reading me for any length of time, or if you have ever looked at my blog name, you understand at the Anglophile house, football ranks up there with breathing in nitrogen laced oxygen.  And, being my own oxymoron, despite being somewhat girlie girlish, I’m also VERY tomboyish.  I love football.  Puppy said that pretty much sealed the deal on me.  He was never parting with a chick who not only watched but loved and understood football nearly as much as he did - especially when I was willing to add his beloved Irish in with my Longhorns.

You may recall I participate in fantasy football with Puppy & his ND cronies.  Last year, do to my very cynical view of professional sports, I chose quite well on draft day.  Puppy’s friend T spent about 20 hours combing stats and every possible scenario into a binder filled with every major player.  Seriously!  It was two inches thick.  He knew he’d win the league.  I literally did zero prep work, other than take my cynicism into the draft.  11 men and me.  And, who won the league?  Oh, yes, I did.  My victory quote still makes the boys cringe: I’m gonna take the money and run to the Red Door Spa.  However, my winning fantasy (and winning the NCAA tourney the year before) has made me enemy numero uno.  The fellas want to take me down in a very big way.  They all submitted their man cards for burning and now they seek revenge.

Part of the allure for FFB for me is the creativity in picking a most excellent team name.  The first year I did FFB, I was Puppy’s Baby Momma (Knute was months old at the time).  The next year, my love of Monty Python translated into The Holy Hand Grenades of Antioch.  Last year’s winning team was a throwback to The Clash: Shreef Don’t Like Its.  The boys hated that name, because you see that and without thinking, you feel the obligation to say, “Rock the Casbah.  Rock the Casbah.” They despised the psychological warfare that name necessitated; despite playing me, they inadvertently cheered for Shereef.  I’m such a bitch

This year’s draft begins Sunday at noon.  I suddenly feel the bulls-eye lines being drawn on my back, and I can feel the heat of the boys’ ire as it singes my skin.  They really want me to do badly.  And, I cannot even begin to consider players (LaDanian or Randy?  Brett or Ben?) until I get a name just as good if not better than last year’s name.  This is where you come in, I hope: Can you help me come up with a good name?  Please??

The other day Knute was digging through my night table drawer (no this is not allowed) and he stumbled across a letter.  He pulled it out and wanted to know what it was.  I picked it up, filled with shock as I glanced at the aged handwriting and 1995 date.  I told him, “This is a letter Daddy wrote to me a long time ago, sweetheart.” For him, that was enough to make it less than thrilling - it wasn’t a secret treasure map, but for me, it meant I just had to pull it out and read it.  I needed to reminisce.

I know I often complain about Puppy’s rocket scientist/engineer mind keeping him on tangents quite far from romance (more often he’s thinking about classified lasers) and me.  But, once upon a time, quite a long time ago, he was rather romantic in his own unique engineerish way.  Despite loathing the phone, he dutifully “talked” to me for hours a day during the entire four years we were long distance.   I believe it was the distance that forced our relationship into a maturity I don’t know if either of us had intended it to take for our young age.  We revealed ourselves and our feelings either in pen and ink, on the phone, or about a year into our relationship, email (I can only fathom the way Knute will laugh in about ten years when we tell him we dated before there was such a thing as email!) and IM.  I look back, smile & blush at the way our innocent flirtation moved from puppy love into something deep and lasting.

I reread the letter Knute found and it still fills my stomach with little butterflies of joy to read words like “I just want you to go (this is in reference to college) where you think you will be happy.” What a wonderful Puppy he is/was.  Always encouraging me to try harder and be a better person.  How lucky I am to have found a 19 year old male willing to say, “I miss spending time with you.  I love you, Holly.  I miss you.”  Those words make my mind remember the agony of the separation the distance created for us.  How sure of our feelings we were.  How confident.  And, I am inspired in that confidence.  Because, of course, having found that first letter, I had to go to the Rubbermaid filled with sentiments exactly like that one.

Granted, only about 25 letters in the 25 gallon container hold letters from Puppy, but what does it say about him that he kept every single one I ever wrote him?  Four years of letters, cards, stickers, confetti totaling in the hundreds, possibly thousands.  And, do you know what I found on the very first one of mine I picked up?  I signed it HV_ - the initial of his (now my) last name.  I have no conscious memory of doing that.  How profound, prophetic.  I always knew. 

How could I not fall in love all over again with the man who says, “The high point of everyday is reading my mail.  All week I look forward to the weekend, so I can say it’s one week less until I get to see you again.  I know I don’t tell you enough, but I love you.   I’m yours as long as you want me.  Please don’t keep  doubting my love.  (I questioned what college boy would be faithful to a high schooler 2000 miles away)  It’s real.”   So, to my wonderful, amazing, and sometimes romantic husband:  Know that I don’t doubt your feelings, I know they are genuine.  That’s why I’m still here.  You still make my heart smile.  And, I love you, too, sweet mooses of mine.

*****

Where o where is Carl you ask?  He just finished a whirlwind tour of DC: HERE  He’s expected HERE any day now.

First and foremost, go and wish Rachel a very very Happy 30th birthday.  You all saw the panic attacks that preceded mine; she’s behaving remarkably well & deserves major accolades

********

Last Thursday, Catwoman, a friend of hers, and I went to The Cheesecake Factory for their celebration of Natl Cheesecake Day and $1.50 slices.  Divine.  If, you didn’t go, shame on you, you missed out. 

While waiting in the crazed long line $1.50 cheesecake creates, a man approached me.  He said something, but the murmuring of the crowd only allowed me to hear something akin to, “You’re pretty.”  I was rather stunned that some stranger would approach and say something so I kinda smiled and said, “Thank you.”   “Did you hear what I said?” the man asked me.  “Ummm…no.” I replied.  “I said I never do this sort of thing, but I think you are pretty and was wondering if you might like to go to dinner sometime.” FREAKOUT.  What the hell?  “I’m sorry.  I’ve been married almost ten years.” He hightailed it out of the mall and I couldn’t wait to tell Catwoman who had gone potty. 

Does that ever happen to any of you anymore?  I mean I’m thirty.  I was very shocked.  I certainly have the look that screams “MOM” going on pretty much all the time, and that included last Thursday, where I was even wearing a necklace with Knute’s name and birth statistics.  My rings are being re-soldered, so I wasn’t wearing them, but in my head I was trying to figure out how this person found the mom look attractive enough to ask me out.  I would never have been someone considered pretty.  I was cute - something that time, stretch marks, lack of hair coloring (and electrolysis, actually), not to mention the never-budging pregnancy weight have changed permanently. 

It made me think of the previous two times I’d been hit on.  Sadly both times were LONG LONG ago.  Then, I realized both of those also happen to have occurred in malls.

The most recent was Christmas 1999.  I was walking through mall buying presents in a deliriously happy mood.  It was my first married Christmas, I had just that week turned 22, and I was very excited.  A guy was walking alongside me and I was smiling so much he apparently thought I was smiling at him.  He was certainly a year or two younger than I was, but I was shocked when he stopped me.  ”I’m Daniel,” he said with a swaggering cocky grin.  “Umm…I’m married,” I replied waving my ring and leaving him standing there, with his mouth agape.

The older one was Spring 1998 just before I got engaged.  I was at the big mall with a friend shopping.  A youngish boy approached us.  “You see my friend over there?” he asked pointing to a boy a ways off “He thinks you’re cute.” I tried not to laugh.  The asking for a friend bit,  led both of us to assume he was no more than twelve, because only a pre-teen propositions for a friend.  I had to respond with, “Tell your friend I’m too old for him and I’m engaged.” The pure look of shock on that kid’s face was priceless.

Yet, in remembering these events, I’m left thinking maybe shopping is actually more than retail therapy.  Maybe Puppy shouldn’t forbid me to hang out in the mall, because it does wonders for my ego to contemplate that despite the yucky fluorescent lighting, I might, on occasion, be considered mall eye candy.