My Kind Of Town

Holy shit guys, Chicago is off the hook. In a way, I really miss being “home,” in the country. I think it’s my kids and old man that I really miss most. Of course I miss Chip the Wonder Cat and my porch swing where I blog, sip coffee and watch my backyard birds, but I am digging the shit out of being “back home.”

I was born and raised in Chicago. Being here all week is fun, exciting and timeless in a way. The early days of life are with me as I travel the grid system roads where I learned how to drive, as I smell the Maxwell Street Polish being grilled, as I walk the busy streets and try to not stare in awe at the amazing architecture like a tourist, even though I have seen every single building thousands of times before, as I listen to the melting pot of accents.

It’s not all shits and giggles at Clown College. Sure, I am having a great time but there is a lot of work involved. I have homework every night. There is at least an hour and a half drive back to my mom’s house where I’m staying, which puts me in the car at least three hours every day. It seems I keep running out of awake hours here. There is so much I want to see, do, experience and time just gets in the way. Add deadlines for my freelance work and I am up all night long. Sure I could skip this whole blog thing, but I figure updating everyone at once here is a lot easier than e-mailing all of you who have e-mailed me over the last few days. I can’t thank you enough for all of your well-wishes, birthday greetings and well-being checkups. You guys are great. And yes Hoss and Vicki, I have lunch covered for Aug. 23.

I thought about doing an audio post from my cell phone while in traffic this afternoon and then I realized, I’m not that talented. No way can I drive, drink coffee, speak coherently while trying not to cuss out the prick who just cut me off, again.

The only thing that really sucks about this school stuff is that part of my enrollment fees cover tickets for all of the shows being performed at Second City throughout the week. Unfortunately, the shows begin after 8 p.m. If I had stayed in a nearby hotel rather than at my mom’s, I would be able to take advantage of the sweet deal, but due to the fact that I’m not rich, like I am supposed to be, I can’t afford a downtown hotel stay.

So that’s all I’ve got right now. I should be heading back home Friday night or Saturday morning and I’ll have more time to fill you in on all the latest goings-on.

Teleblog

Birthday boy, 14-yrs.-old.
Stop.

Two years in a row not spent with my son on his special day.
Stop.

Makes me sad.
Stop.

Makes me feel old.
Stop.

Better not be a pattern forming.
Stop.

He asked for an iPod nano.
Stop.

Loved his super-sized iPod = CD Walkman.
Stop.

Knows his parents are broke.
Stop.

Loves us anyhow.
Stop.

Thank God everyday for great kids.
Stop.

School at Second City.
Stop.

I love it.
Stop.

First day got homework.
Stop.

Need to get on that soon.
Stop.

My teacher blogs.
Stop.

Stay tuned for her link, coming soon to a blog near you.
Stop.

Staying at my mother’s house.
Stop.

She is driving me crazy.
Stop.

Her birthday is tomorrow.
Stop.

She will be older than dirt.
Stop.

Wrinkled dirt.
Stop.

Thankful to be with her on her special day.
Stop.

Thank God everyday for insane mom.
Stop.

Freelance deadlines sneaking up.
Stop.

Just got word, 18 stories of mine have been approved to be in a book.
Stop.

Mr. Lane whining about having to take care of our children while I’m away.
Stop.

I married a big baby.
Stop.

His whining makes me smile.
Stop.

Kids must get that from him.
Stop.

Paybacks are a bitch.
Stop.

Thank God everyday for husband, whining or not.
Stop.

Dance Like Nobody’s Watching

Mr. Lane makes for a pretty funny drunk. Three sheets to the wind after three bottles of beer over a four-hour span, also makes him a lightweight. What I didn’t know was that he was taking shots with the groom. I should have known something was up when I saw the two dancing together, getting their Brokeback Wedding on. (Not that there is anything wrong with that.)

He came back to the table where I sat kibitzing with my aunt and uncle in-law (the bride’s parents), to announce that the groom was freeballin’. (You know what that means right? No skivvies.) I guess the groom figured his new bride would be in full control over his balls after that day was over; either that or the 90 degree heat was the cause. At any rate, I really didn’t need my husband sharing that tidbit of information with me or the bride’s folks. In fact, we all could have lived the rest of our lives without knowing that.

After getting snookered and dancing with the groom, my husband asked me to dance. We haven’t danced in years. It was almost awkward. When Deejay Alf played You're Beautiful by James Blunt, my old man dragged me onto the dance floor again and sang loud enough to drown out Alfie. He was so cute. He had trouble keeping his feet in rhythm as he sang. Doing two things at once was never Mr. Lane’s strong suit, add alcohol and fuggetaboutit.

Our baby girl tried to be a wall flower. She didn’t want to dance with anyone, not even her daddy. I unintentionally threw her a guilt trip and said, “There aren’t a lot of chances in life when you can dance with your daddy. I’d give anything to have that chance.”

She later admitted that she was uncomfortable in her strapless dress. She was worried it would fall while she danced, so I took the string and tied it like a halter around the back of her neck. After that, there was no stopping her. She danced with Uncle Owl who spun her like a top, then she asked me to dance, she even grabbed her dad a few times. And then, there was a moment, Uncle Owl and I were cutting a rug and Mr. Lane and Auntie Vie were dancing, Lane 1 and Randi were too. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the picture below. Thankfully Uncle Owl didn’t mind a brief intermission in our dance as I snapped this little gem.

I know one day I will hate the idea of a boy looking so cute at my daughter. For that moment, while her parents were within arms reach, it was all good. However, Mr. Lane did tell the boy to watch his hands, which made Lane 2 blush. Beyond cute!

Here is Lane 1 dancing with his cousin Randi. It’s too bad he shed his suit because I didn’t get any pictures of my boy dressed up. Randi dragged Lane 1 onto the dance floor for practically every song. He pretended to hate the attention but you can clearly see in his blurry eyes, he had a great time.

As I gear up for Second City and a visit from my nieces and nephew, I’m going to be MIA from Blogland. I should be back in a few days. Have a great weekend everybody!

Road Warriors

They say getting there is half the fun. With my little goofballs, that saying is somewhat true. This was a wedding I was dreading for many reasons. Obviously, I was being selfish because it was my birthday weekend and I knew I’d get the shaft, which I did, unfortunately not in the literal sense. The other thing was it’s six hours to their tiny village from our house, an hour longer than we anticipated. Their out in the middle of nowhere, beats our out in the middle of nowhere all to shit. The expense, birthday blow off, time, and the fact that I had a deadline smack-dab in the middle of the whole thing, add four people to one car for all of those hours, and poof, those are a handful of reasons I had a case of the I Can’t Wanna Gos.

In the car, the kids drove us crazy. Lane 1 wanted us to stop every time he saw a Subway, and he’d say to his father, “Get me a sammich fool.” His tactic was fruitless.

We peed at every oasis between here and there. All of those stops had a claw machine with stuffed animals crammed inside. That was Lane 2’s road obsession. “Daddy,” she always calls him Daddy when she wants something, “can I have 50 cents for the claw machine?” She batted her eyelashes at that man and he fell for it every time. She never won anything but it never discouraged her from trying at the next stop. I would not be surprised if those two kids were in cahoots, claiming they needed to use the bathroom just to get access to the claw.

During the few times we did have radio reception, it was hard to find something all of us wanted to hear. At one point, Mr. Lane got tired of changing channels and seemingly out of nowhere, we all chimed in, “De, do, do do, de, da, da, da, is all I want to say to you.” We laughed our heads off about that and when we all realized we only knew that part of the song, we laughed even harder. It kept happening but that was the only song I can remember.

Lane 2 stole my shoe and the two backseat boneheads sang into it like a microphone. “One gazillion bottles of beer on the wall…”

I begged for mercy. Mr. Lane offered to put in one of their CDs. We threatened to drop them off roadside. Thankfully, our little dorks can’t count well enough backward from one gazillion.

The kids talked nonstop until it was 3:30 a.m. when they finally fell asleep. We arrived at 4, which was just enough to give them a second wind. As we arrived, I was hating myself for agreeing to this whole thing because I was tired and crabby. We drove through their neighborhood on country back roads and encountered a lot of wildlife. One big ass doe slowly sashayed across. We had to slow down from 60 to 5 miles per hour in a few short seconds. At the side of the road waiting for her to cross was a mega buck. He was looking at us with his big ol’ head cocked to the side, as if to say, “You better not hit my bitch, bitches.”

Mr. Lane’s cell phone rang, it was Callin’ Cousin (not only a blog friend of mine but one of my old man’s cousins, sister of the bride, the only person I really knew out of the whole bunch.) and she and her old man were waiting up for us to arrive. They called to make sure we were okay and not lost or murdered by some angry deer. I realized they actually cared and probably more so than I would have if the situation was reversed. Their genuine concern for us chilled out my bad ass attitude and I finally felt happy to have my feet resting on the soil of Michigan.

Tomorrow, Mr. Lane cuts a rug, gets snookered and sings in public to his bride.

He’s A Big Star

The thing that sucks the most about someone dressed all sorts of fucked up like the “lady” I described yesterday is, she was nice and she was funny. Sure she wasn’t dressed for a wedding but she had this, take me or leave me as I am thing going for her, which is something I admire. No, that doesn’t mean I’d be inclined to go out anywhere dressed the way she was but she was really just a happy person dancing to the beat of her own drummer.

One thing she said to me that cracked me up was when she started ripping on her teenaged daughter for not wearing a dress. She even complained that the child didn’t wear one to the homecoming dance at school. As a matter of fact, she was dressed a lot like her mom. So I kind of gave her the apple doesn’t fall far look and she got it. Not a lot of people can communicate with eye and facial expressions, especially people who just met. But we did and then laughed. So the next time you are at a function and you see someone wearing their camel toe on their sleeve, so to speak, take the time to talk a while, you might just be surprised.

Now, Mr. Deejay Funky Not So Fresh who just so happened to be lifelong friends with Miss Underdressed, was a laugh fucking riot. First of all he was a big four-feet tall and of Mexican-American decent.

“This is Deejay Alf in the hooooouse! But the ladies call me Alfie. How you doing, ladies?”

Before he mentioned that the ladies call him Alfie, I thought his name was Al. Then it sounded like he was saying El, as in El Niño. Pretty soon, it sounded like he said Elf. Elf was a good name for him. So I mentioned something to my new friend Miss Underdressed about Deejay Elf and she corrected me, “You know, like Alien Life Form.” Yes, they were all seemingly stuck in the 80s.

Alf thought it would be a good idea to sing along into a microphone to almost all of the songs he played. His accent was very much like Cheech Marin, even when he sang. Is it normal for a deejay to sing along at a wedding reception? Yeah, I didn’t think so. It was like Karaoke and he was the star. Can you imagine Cheech singing Funky Cold Medina? No? How about Cheech singing the bride and groom’s song as they took the dance floor for their first dance as a married couple? Yes, he really sang along to Shania Twain’s From This Moment. Talk about spoiling the moment and the mood.

“From dis moment, dare is nutting I wouldn’t gib from dis moment don.” Not even kidding.

Tomorrow, getting there really is half of the fun and maybe a couple of drunken in-law tales. Thank you all for the birthday wishes yesterday.

We Gonna Party Like It’s My Birthday

Yay! I’m home! And it’s my birthday so I’m going party like it’s my birthday, which means, I’ll be taking an afternoon nap. Holy crap I am tired!

I woke up to no internet! I dodged the birthday brigade of calls to get a hold of Comcast fist thing. “It’s my birthday you fuckers! Get my internet back on before I have myself a good old fashioned bitch fit! (neck roll) You do not want me to have a bitch fit, bitches!”

The wedding was great. Only a little material came out of it but we all had a good time. Tomorrow when I am less pooped, and have less work to do, I’ll tell you about the DJ. He was one of the funniest parts of the entire weekend.

I took a few pictures that I’ll post over the next couple of days. Mr. Lane did get drunk but he couldn’t possibly top the oddness of others. Just to give you a quick taste, one guest came to the reception wearing a tank top, tight-mini like camel toe jean shorts, she had a tattoo on her upper thigh the size of my head, she wore a shemullet and had a black bowtie around her neck. Oh my!

See you tomorrow!

He’s More Than A Woman To Me

It took me forever to find this stupid picture. By popular demand from yesterday's comments, here is a photo of Mr. Lane as a hooker and me as a construction worker, Halloween 1994. Lane 2 was born one week later. Belly authentic, Mr. Lane’s boobs are not. If the old man ever does decide to read this blog and finds himself in drag, here on the internet for all to see and laugh at, I may have some ‘splainin’ to do. Michigan should be interesting huh?!

Living In A Material World

I must be getting soft in my old age. I finally told Mr. Lane how badly I didn’t want to go to Michigan. He must be paying attention to our kids and how they trick me into agreeing to stupid shit. All he said was, “I really just want to go somewhere. We haven’t gone anywhere together in forever. Plus, think about all of the material my nut job family could hook you up with, babe.”

Since they are almost as insane as my own, I caved. Michigan, here we come.

An example of how nuts one of my own is: Mom’s dog barks every time someone thinks about walking on her block. When I am on the phone with her and the dog lets out that ferocious wail, my mom always says something like, “What’s wrong Lassie? Did that klutz bastard Timmy fall in the well again?” It makes me laugh no matter how many times she says it.

If I don’t walk away from that wedding with at least five gems like that, I’ll get the old man drunk, make him do stupid shit and then post his picture here for all of you to see.

The last time I got bored at a family party, I fed him lots of drinks. It was Halloween, he was dressed like a hooker. He wore a black wig, way too much makeup, a miniskirt and lots of gangly jewelry, with ridiculously high pumps. I was pregnant with our daughter and dressed like a construction worker. I had a hardhat, sunglasses, construction boots, my old man’s wrist watch and I had glued doll hair bits to my arms and V-neck chest area. My pregnant belly hung over the edge of my pants and the bottom of my T-shirt, where I had glued a trail of hair leading into my drawers. I made a butt crack out of a pair of nylons, which I glued curly doll hair to and had sticking out of the back of my pants.

As if convincing him to dress that way wasn’t fun enough, I got him drunk. He headed to the dance floor stumbling in his “fuck me pumps” and before long, he was whipping the socks out of his bra, flinging his “tits” at other guys. He also kicked the pumps off and did a little moon walking. He graduated to a support beam and treated it like a stripper’s pole. Good times.

Our kids will be with us at this wedding. Seeing their father do something like that could scar them for life. But for the sake of material, that is a risk we are just going to have to take.

I Don't Wanna

Next week we are going to Michigan. I just found out that Mr. Lane’s cousin is getting married. I’ve met her a few times but don’t exactly know her. Basically, I have cold feet. What do I wear? What do the kids wear? What do I buy them or is cash still cool?

I hate weddings. I didn’t even like my own. We managed a low-budget city hall ceremony, with a dinner at home cooked by the bride. Clothes for me and the old man, cake made by my sister in-law and food for our very closest of family, cost me roughly 80 bucks. Not even kidding.

We’ll spend that in gas getting to Michigan. Since they are about five hours away, we’ll have to get a room for at least one night but probably two. And to top it off, it’s my birthday weekend. How is Mr. Lane going to buy me all of the presents I so rightfully deserve if he is blowing the family bank on a wedding for a person we never see and barely know?

I think it’s time to stage a protest.

Animals Eat Their Young

“You might have won this battle, woman. But you haven’t won the war.” This is the boy’s newest catch phrase. Sometimes his teenagedness takes control and he thinks about arguing with me. Most of the time, I verbally beat him down and smite him with my motherly verbal sword.

I explain “why?” I tell “when?” I show “how?” yet these questions always find a way into our conversations. I’ve read that teenagers are the reason animals eat their young. I’m starting to think there’s some truth to that. How many variations are there for an explanation?

“Mom, can you take me and Brad to the movie theater tonight?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because your dad is going to be home tonight and we already have plans.”

“What plans?”

“The same plans we’ve had for the last week, son.”

“Why can’t I go to the movies instead?”

Before you readers pop a vein in your skulls, I’ll end the dialog there. That doesn’t mean it actually stops at this point all of the time, however. Sure, sometimes I snap and say those words I vowed to never say, “Because I said so!” I’ve learned that is the frustrated answer parents give. My poor folks must have been all sorts of fucked up because of us kids. They used that line a lot.

I had this crazy notion about kids. I thought once they made it through the terrible twos, the questioning of why would end or at least subside. That’s the trouble with all of these parenting books and magazines, they allow us suckers parents to think if we can get through the terrible twos, it’s clear sailing from there.

I realize my battle could be one of cigarettes, drugs, alcohol or sex, which is what I keep reminding myself as I feel like my head is going to explode. Most of the time, I am quick to win the battle. But every once in a while I feel like I should make some type of deal with the little shit because his questions and way of bugging me are a welcome compared to some trouble kids his age face. It’s almost like rewarding him for not being a stoner.

“I’ll take you and Brad to the theater Friday.”

It’s like giving in, caving in, Deal or No Deal, Let’s Make a Deal. And I end up picking curtain number two with a goat who incidentally has dropped a pile of turds and appears to be smiling about it. Does anyone else remember that show? Watching it I’d think, where would we put a goat if we won one? I never saw it as a terrible prize. I mean, sure, it wasn’t a Brand-New-Car, but it was still pretty cool.

If anyone needs us, the goat and I will be sitting outside of the theater tonight. I’ll be the one dressed up in the jackass costume.

Have a great weekend!

Sacrament Of Penance

As I gear up for clown college, I’m trying like hell to get a lot of work done. I want to be able to focus at school and not have a bunch of work crap on my mind.

Bless me Bloggers, for I have sinned, it has been two weeks since my last confession, I mean since my last blog surf, and these are my sins. I popped in and didn’t comment on many occasions. I started writing blog posts and never finished. I started writing comments and again, never finished. I’ve wanted to be active in the blogging community but internet porn keeps sidetracking me. Okay, that last one was a lie to see if you are really paying attention to this sacrament of penance.

For these and all the sins of my past I am truly sorry. However, these sins are likely to continue as I try to focus on the kids being home, work, this housework crap and my edjumication.

To be honest, I can’t wait until I start school. I’m going to Second City in Chicago, which some of you may have read, as it was leaked to the Janet Press. I can’t tell you how giddy I am to be in the same building where so many great comedians and actors have been, while learning just as they had.

I hope to be able to fine tune my writing and learn to make everything funny. Having the name Second City sitting on my resume might make me look a little more attractive to those nay-saying agents.

I don’t just want to get my book published, I want a comedy writing job too. And a gardener, a cabana boy and a couple of male housekeepers. I really don’t think I’m asking for too much.

---

Today is my parent’s anniversary. The picture above is one of my favorites of them.

While Dad was sick, he spent a lot of time back in church. During his first visit he said, “I told Father Flannigan to put me down for everything, except hurting people, in my sacrament of penance. It just seemed easier than trying to remember and rattle everything off.”

Mom’s been a little sad lately. But look at their faces, body language and you’ll see the oozing love they shared. Course, if Mom didn’t have her arms folded across her chest, we would likely see her boobs oozing because she was letting the old gals hang free that day.

Growing up with that kind of love was a real blessing.

Pump It

You know, our society is pretty funny. Anytime it is mentioned, people want to congratulate Mr. Lane for getting his nuts snipped, even though it was eleven years ago. If it were me who had my tubes tied, it would go completely unnoticed, even thought it is major surgery not an out patient visit like a vasectomy.

What's even weirder is that he wanted to get fixed. I never asked or suggested. As a matter of fact, I wanted at least five children. Him, not so much. "Babe, we got a boy. We got a girl. That's all most people want." I very reluctantly agreed to his logic.

He went in for a pre-op visit the day before the big snip. He filled out a bunch of paperwork, answered a million questions and had a physical exam. When he came home, he quietly crept in the doorway, leaned against the wall, placed his hands over his face, slid down the wall into a seated fetal position and said, “I feel so violated.”

I laughed my ass off, “Old finger in the butt trick?”

“Yeah, and that bastard didn’t even give me a warning or buy me dinner.”

If Mr. Lane was born female, I have no doubt he would never go for checkups. I offered fake sympathy.

Another odd thing about our society is, when I took Mr. Lane to the out patient clinic for his "procedure" the doctor made me sign a permission slip. Swear to God! Mr. Lane was super pissed off. "Why do I need HER permission? They're my freakin' balls?"

Trying to lighten the moment, I motioned my hand as if his balls were in my fist. I raised my other hand in a fist over my head. I deepened my voice, and in my very best He-Man impersonation said, "I have the power!" Mr. Lane was not amused but doc and I were.

The surgeon explained that as a married couple, he would be altering something on his body that would directly affect me as his wife. Fuming mad, Mr. Lane said, "If Lois was knocked up and wanted to get an abortion, even if it was MY kid, she could do that without my permission. And to top it off, her doctors would keep her information private because it is a WOMAN'S CHOICE! How is that fucking fair?"

Mr. Lane isn't even against abortion, it was the principle, and he did have a point. Normally, however, he is really just a take it at face value kind of guy who goes with the flow. Typically he would never talk like that in front of a doctor. Apparently, the doc gave Mr. Lane a sedative that had an adverse reaction in my old man. It made him angry and edgy. Kind of like an unruly drunk. Doc gave him another shot of something else to shut him up. I wish I knew what was in that syringe because I sure could have used some on him the other day.

He’d gone shopping and bought me a bra. I never asked him to, and I never mentioned needing one. Excitedly, he followed me into the bathroom so he could watch me try it on. As I pulled it out of the bag I said, “Honey, it looks kinda big. A little wishful thinking, perhaps?”

“It looks like it will fit. Try it on.”

Knowing there was no way to fill a D cup, I asked, “What made you think I’m a D?”

“I remember you saying you were a D once.”

“Babe, I was breast feeding. I’m far from a D now.”

As I pulled the over-sized boulder holder onto my boobs he asked, “Who said you could get a boob reduction?” He went on to remind me of his vasectomy and having to get my permission.

“Hey, no one even asked for my permission on this boob deal either, pal.”

“Come with me.”

“I can’t go anywhere with this mega bra. Let me get my shirt back on.”

“You aren’t going to need it where you’re going.”

He raced to the front door and locked it, with the kids outside. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me into… the garage?

“What the hell are you doing? I’m not getting busy in here, babe.”

“Oh, I wasn’t planning on getting busy just yet.”

He reached for a can of Fix-A-Flat off of the shelf.

“We’ll fill that bra, get over here.”

Telewhat

No words today!
Stop!
Go here!
Stop!
Look at pictures!
Stop!
More birds!
Stop!
My little track star!
Stop!
Have a great Monday!

It's Angie's Fault!

Julie reminded me of something inappropriate from my youth. I don't remember what she said exactly that triggered this memory but it was another one of those, "I have to tell my blog buddies this one!" moments.

When I was a kid my gym teacher made an assignment for us to perform at parent's night. Each child or group of children had to come up with some type of athletic performance. My sister Angie and I, along with a couple of our closest friends, decided we would do a jump rope routine.

It took us forever to get coordinated, choose a song and be able to keep up with Angie. She was by far, the jump rope champion of the world, back in the day. We finally picked out a song, one recommended by Ang, and we practiced really hard. Day-after-day, for hours on end.

Our gym teacher was surprised how well we were doing in practice. I remember her snapping her fingers to the tune of our song and smiling as she watched. It wasn't often our scowl-faced gym teacher was happy, which is probably why I still see her face from that day in my head.

It was 1984ish and Angie's band of choice for our famous routine was Prince. That was way before he became a symbol and then turned back into a prince. The song, Erotic City.

The big night arrived. Nervously, we line up on stage, ropes in hand, smiles cross faces, look out to the sea of parents and fellow students, music maestro, and these are the words that came out of the record player that fateful day:

All of my purple life (jump, twist, smile, jump)
I've been lookin' for a dame (twist, jump, smile, twist)
That would wanna be my wife (cross, jump, smile, cross)
That was my intention main (jump, twist, smile, jump)

As the following words of the chorus played, the crowd gasped.

If we cannot make babies (jump, twist, smile, jump)
Maybe we can make some time (double jump, twist)
Fuck so pretty, you and me (jump, twist, smile, jump)
Erotic City come alive (double jump, twist)
We could fuck until the dawn (jump, twist, smile, jump)
Makin' love 'til cherry's gone (double jump, twist)
Erotic City, can't you see (jump, twist, smile, jump)
Fuck so pretty, you and me (Angie's solo was about here)

We assumed the gasp was because we managed to stay in sync with each other. We were pretty sure we were rockin' the house. When many people in the audience started to get up, we were really sure Ang impressed them so much with her jump ropin' skills that they were offering a standing ovation.

Instead they were getting the hook to drag us off of that stage. We didn't even get to the best part of our routine, which would have gone a little like this:

Every time I comb my hair (jump, twist, smile, jump)
Thoughts of you get in my eyes (twist, jump, smile, twist)
You're a sinner, I don't care (cross, jump, smile, cross)
I just want your creamy thighs (jump, twist, smile, jump)

After the "creamy thighs" line, would have been where my solo fit in. We never made it that far. Even though Mom, Dad and our teacher heard the song thousands of times as we practiced, like us, they never paid attention to the lyrics. When I later found out why our routine was halted, I became a lyrics junkie.

I guess I could say it's also Angie's fault that I am a word nerd. Who knows how long it would have taken me to take an interest in song lyrics, had that jump rope routine not taken place with the likes of Prince. See, it is all Angie's fault!

ABC, Easy As 123

I should mention, my son, the object of yesterdays funny, doesn't read this blog. He's heard his grandmother talk about it and yell at me for telling certain stories about her, which I guess is why he assumed I might share his embarrassment.

I can still imagine him 2-years-old poopin' on the potty. Pants around his ankles as he peers into the pot to admire his poop in all of its glory. He was always fascinated by his poop. I suppose I expected it was something he'd outgrow. I fear for the woman who marries my poop lovin' son.

I remember one time, we were packing up for a move out of state. I had boxes everywhere along with a marker, and packing tape in practically every room. When the little guy went into the bathroom to do his business, he spotted that black permanent marker and just couldn't resist the temptation.

By the time I noticed he had been in the bathroom far too long, he had opened the marker and drew a line from the center of his forehead, down the bridge of his little nose, over each lip, into the divot of his cleft chin, sliding down his neck and chest. At his belly button, he decided it best to color the whole thing in and make a hypnotizing swirl around the outside. When I arrived in the bathroom, he was singing the ABC song and the marker was headed south as he reached the letter P.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to get black permanent marker off of a child's skin? I should have known I was in for trouble with that son of mine.