Quietly making noise

Quietly making noise; I think that’s a Jimmy Buffett song. I would look it up but I’m writing this from my internet-free vacation. It’s sort of a handicap, this googleless existence.  I can barely even remember how we used to figure things out; do you remember?  You would have to ask someone, or go to the library. Funny, you’d think people would be a fuck of a lot smarter these days now that it’s so easy to look something up, but not so much, hmmmmm? Well, I’m not here to muse about technology and stupidity, at least not today. 

I was out running on the beach, and the song came into my head. Like a lemming! Not the whole song, just the phrase ‘quietly making noise’, and it took me a while to work out where it came from. I’m pretty sure it comes from the album ‘Fruitcakes’.  It’s a catchy little tune; you should check it out. The whole album is good. But I’m not here to muse about Jimmy Buffet’s vast catalog, at least not today. 

Naturally, it was crying out to be turned into a blog post, and I started thinking about why that particular phrase was in my head. It’s because I stopped making noise. I lost my voice. It’s easy to do; I had no idea how easy. And it can be hard to find again, especially if you look in the wrong places.  But my voice is important, and so is yours. So is everyone’s. Well, maybe not exactly EVERYONE. Sadly, I don’t get to pick.  It doesn’t have to be loud, just true to you.  But it’s good if it’s loud, too…..

Hoist On His Own Petard

Doesn't that make you wonder what a petard is? Oh, I know you know what the phrase means, but do you actually know what a petard is? I had to look it up. I'll tell you, also, because when you go to click on the link, Wikipedia might be shut down to protest SOPA and PIPA. I thought I read yesterday that the revolution was successful and those outrageous miscarriages of justice were dead in the water, but perhaps I was mistaken. It happens, you know.

Anyway, a petard is/was a small bomb used for breaching gates and other fortifications. It now means 'firecracker' in French, and is slang for 'handgun' or 'joint'. If the bombmaker blew it and the bomb went off prematurely, he or she might be lifted by the explosion and thus 'hoist'. The phrase 'Hoist with his own petard' was coined by Shakespeare, in Hamlet.

Fascinating, right? And why the hell am I talking about petards anyway? Good question, my friends! Check out the pictures from my backyard this afternoon. Apparently, while I was at work yesterday, there was some sort of fishing line trap fashioned in the vicinity of the swing. I'm not sure what it was intended to catch, or how it was constructed. I've learned the hard way not to ask too many questions, see. In any event, Shane was snagged in the snare of his own devising; don't you hate it when that happens? And do you like how I took pictures before snipping him free? Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch, there was no blood, OKAY? And I think he has learned a valuable lesson, don't you? I'm pretty sure he'll build his trap in a more advantageous location next time. And as for the rest of us, we now know what petards are. So yeah, a good day all around!

On the snow front, we are anxiously awaiting the promised megastorm; it is supposed to dump like crazy today. I will keep you posted!

The Past Comes Back to Haunt me, and a Turkey in a Dress

Yes, that is a turkey in a dress. No, I do not know why, thank you for asking. I could try to explain it but I would probably not be successful, so I will just say that in my family, we do things like put dresses on turkeys. Seriously, I don't know why. But I do think that particular shade of blue is not that turkey's color and next time we should go for more of a forest green or some other jewel tone. Or a plaid, perhaps- that red and blue and green one. Come on, you know what I'm talking about, admit it.

There is, however, a reason for the turkey itself. The boys and I went to my dad's house today to have dinner with the cousins and the aunts. My dad has been sorting through pictures and other assorted items and there is always a bag or box (or both!) with my name on it. Sometimes I just set the whole thing on fire but once in a while there is some good stuff in there. Today I hit the jackpot with some letters I wrote to my parents from college in 1988. I scanned one of them so you could see the art work. I'm not going to transcribe them, but here are my favorite excerpts:

Letter 1: ....it's really boring here. I even cleaned my whole apartment. I made my bed this morning too WOW!!!!!!!..... it should be another fun weekend. Somebody put a toilet in the middle of the fountain and it wasn't me, and I don't know who it was. Aren't you impressed?

Letter 2: Susannah is going to stay with us over Memorial Day, ok? Her family moved to Alaska and she has no home. Can I have some money? I need to eat. All I have is condiments.

That is some classic literature right there, people... And speaking of classic literature, also in the box today were two college texts on cat anatomy. Interestingly enough, when we got home Shane asked, 'What's the inside of a cat look like?' I'm not sure if he knew about the books in advance or if it was just a freakish coincidence, but either way it worked out well for Shane. The cats, not so much.

Overall, it was an excellent day. The kids played outside for hours- it was freezing cold and they wouldn't even put coats on. They had some awesomely questionable game about grizzlies, guns and dinosaurs. Here, you can see a snippet for yourself:

Then Jennifer and the aunts and I had an argument about the advisability of small children peeing outside. Strangely, I found myself in alone in a minority of one but I PREFER that they pee outside. The bathroom stays way cleaner that way. Who can argue with logic like that? Plus it saves valuable playing time. And even if you don't have a preference, why would you care? I WOULD rather they not pee in parking lots, or at least not when I'm with them, but what are you going to do, right? I will not back down on this one, my friends. Who's with me?

I also got in a good thrifting trip. Good thing, too, because I really needed some wine glasses. I break about one a week; that's probably how I'll tell time after the earthquake. I found six new ones for 69 cents each, but I broke one on the kitchen floor when I got home. It was still wrapped in the paper, though, so the cleanup was super easy.

So that was my day; I hope you are having a fantastic weekend!

Smart

I'm going to do it, you guys. I'm going to get a phone that's smarter than me. Yeah, I know: not at all hard. WHATEVER. I am suspicious of technology; I always have been. It took me forever to get on facebook; remember that? My car doesn't open with a remote, and my home phone has a cord. Mine will work when the power's out; will yours? Hmmmmmm? I won't stand in front of the microwave and we have no cable. But sometimes, you just have to get with the program. I'm not getting anything fancy, of course, just the most basic model that has the death ray option. Or maybe that's an app? I'm not quite sure but you can bet I'm smart enough to figure it out, and quick. Oh yes, and guess what? My list of death rayees is scrawled on some junk mail from the utility company. I just scribbled out that obnoxious 'FINAL NOTICE' written in red across the front and then there was plenty of room, though I will admit I needed a second envelope from the fascists at the phone company for the last few low-value stragglers because my list is so long and distinguished. I used junk mail so no one will ever catch on. That's because Shane burns it all. He's kind of an addict. I wonder if there's a name for that? If I had a smart phone I could find out. Then, if he needs therapy I could send him on an airline trip! I totally should have called this 'Brilliant' instead of just 'Smart', don't you think? Well, that's enough of that. I think I might be about to get myself in some serious trouble. Always to be avoided, no matter how much fun it is. If you're smart. Which I am. Sometimes. Unless the death ray/pyromania is so awesome that it cancels out my good sense.

Seriously, though, my charming and well-loved Aunt Ina, the one that thinks I lie on here, sent me a text today and I could read it but not answer it, because my 1997 ebay flip phone has no keyboard. What if her head exploded because her Starbucks was closed one Saturday and in desperation, with her last conscious thought, she sent me a text looking for directions to the Tully's and I couldn't write back? I couldn't forgive myself! That will just not do, my friends. It's time to step up for the greater good. So here's what I'm going to do: as soon as I sleep off my hell trip I'm heading to the wireless store. I'll let you know when I'm done. Then I'm going to set the thing on vibrate and stick it in my pocket. TEXT ME.

Saturday

****updated Saturday afternoon: the toylit plan was too close to coming to fruition for my liking, so I bribed him to come out with promises of Taco Time. After that, we went to Target, where Shane dumped his milk out all over the cart in the checkout line. That was fun, but I would have preferred balloons filled with poop.

Lots of times I don't post on the weekend; I try to put up a couple of posts during each week so if I write on the weekend I usually save it for later. This is because there is less blog-reading on Saturday and Sunday, and I can't always be counted on have something to say during the week. Some weekdays my job wrings me dry, leaving just a crumpled-up husk of a wine sponge and the writing falls by the wayside along with many, many other things. I have been extra prolific lately, though, and this morning I have a surplus of kid-related raw material, so I'm going for broke.

I had big plans today, you might remember them. I was going to go cat collar and Skittles shopping, but it appears I will be staying home for the foreseeable future. See, Weston got mad at Shane over a helmet from Weston's Lego Transformer car. I'm not even going to get started on this stupid car kit, except to say that the whole concept must have been invented by Lucifer himself. Weston went behind a chair in the living room and won't come out. He is communicating with us by writing notes, which he attaches to a metal tape measure and projects out in front of the chair. They are HILARIOUS and I would take pictures but that would probably make him mad, and I try to be careful about that. I'll just paraphrase: 'I am never coming out!' 'NO!!! NO!!! and double NO!' 'I am MAD'. You get the idea.

So Shane and I started discussing the logistics of actually staying behind the chair forever. How would he eat and drink? What about pooping and peeing? He responds via more notes: 'I will pee and poop out the window!' Shane and I parse each idea and when we shoot one down he comes up with more. Surprisingly, Shane came up with a workable plan for the pee: he can pee in balloons. Shane helpfully tested this in the bathroom, and I would be pretty supportive except for I had to tie it for him. As an added bonus, it is an excellent way to get rid of about eight thousand of those cursed things we have laying around here. Of course one can't poop in a balloon, at least in my house, and he can't go outside because that would require coming out from behind the chair. He considered making himself a litter box and currently plans to construct a toylit (sic) out of a bin, a rim, a lid and a pipe. The last note even had drawings. I'm not sure where the materials will come from but I trust he will come up with something and I will find out about it from the trusty tape measure express.

I am tempted to go on with my shopping (mmmm, Skittles!) and let the chips (hahahahaha) fall where they may but the consequences would likely be a little more dire than I am willing to accept. There's always delivery. I'll let you know how it comes out, if you can stand it! If not, check back next week, this little episode will probably have run its course. Hope you're having a great Saturday!

I have no idea what to call this

This is one of our wedding pictures. Nice, huh? I really like all of them, and we have a whole book full. My supremely talented brother-in-law took them and you can tell he’s good because I don’t look like an ogre OR a haggard wretch, which are the two most common results when I have my picture taken. I like to delude myself into thinking I have a fairly pleasant countenance, but one could be forgiven for not realizing this after looking at almost every single picture ever taken of me. I bring this up for a reason. I mean a real one, not just to boast about my beautiful wedding pictures.

The other day, Weston asked me what would happen if people weren’t married but lived together long enough to have a baby. I’m not sure what thought process prompted the question but I tried to provide a suitable answer. A few hours went by and he asked me if Lloyd and I were married or if we just lived together. I assured him that, indeed, we are married, and brought out the album so he could see the pictures. The book starts out with pictures of us getting ready, and there is one of me in hot rollers. ‘WHAT ARE THOSE?!?!?!’ he shrieked. I explained, and then he turned the page. ‘Are you wearing MAKEUP?!?!?!?’ He then informed me that the makeup make me look wrinkly and old and that my dress was outrageous and ridiculous. For the record, my wearing makeup has met with his enthusiastic approval in the past, so I’m not really sure what’s up with that. Also, I am quite unclear on how I could look older and more wrinkly in a picture taken more than ten years ago than I do today, regardless of how much makeup I had spackled on. Hey! Maybe my recent bathroom renovations are paying off already! You know, when I smashed the mirror AND the lightbulbs in there. He later doubled down on these comments, adding that I looked hideous and disgusting in the pictures.

As depressing as that was, I think I might have a bigger problem. Lately I have fielded MANY questions about why people who are related can’t get married. I tried to explain about the crossed eyes, the banjos and West Virginia, but it didn’t seem to sink in. In fact, he said, ‘ I LIKE banjos!’ I'm not sure who he has in mind, but I've always planned for him to marry a little charmer named Ella. She's cute and brilliant and we're very fond of her. One of the favored dolls around here is named after her, so that seems promising. Another point in her favor is that we are not related in any way to her wonderful family*. I can lower my expectations, if I have to, but we could definitely benefit from improvements to the Dead Cat Family gene pool. I don't want a bunch of ugly grandchildren, after all.

*if you clicked on the link to the story where my makeup was pleasant surprise, please note that the more attractive friend/neighbor was Ella's mother. They are both lovely in every way, as is the rest of their family.