Halloween Funnies

This very thing happened to Michael and Amy about eight years ago. Michael hit the guy over the head with his bag of candy and ran away, screaming bloody murder:



My brother-in-law passed this gem along:



It wouldn't be complete without a bit of Charlie Brown's The Great Pumpkin (thanks to Sean for finding this):



For all of you trick-or-treaters out there, have a great time! Happy Halloween and All Saints' Day!

Don't check that off

When we make the trek South I always send a day-by-day plan of what we’ll be doing, when and where. Visit my grandmother: check. Visit some girlfriends: check. Visit my folks and Sean’s: check and check. Visit a Gwinnett County policeman after a fender bender on Sugarloaf Parkway: check. But that one was most definitely not on my list.

I was heading over to Sean’s parents’ in my Mom’s car. It was raining, and had been all day. I was stopped at a red light, minding my own business, listening to my favorite Atlanta radio station, enjoying a drink from Chick-fil-A when I heard a crunch of metal. My car lurched forward and in that split second I thought, “For crying out loud, what is going on?!” When I looked in my rearview mirror the guy behind me was a lot closer than he’d been mere moments ago. A policeman in the next lane over and saw the whole thing and he directed us to a parking lot where he took our insurance and personal info.

Neither of us was hurt, thankfully. Well, not physically. The poor kid, who was about 18, was in his father’s Mustang. It was nearly new and he was absolutely distraught. I felt terribly for him. The impact cracked the front bumper and there was no way it would go unnoticed.

All I could think was, “If this were Michael, he’d be an absolute wreck.”

I did my best to make sure the young man knew everything on my end was okay. My Mom’s car didn’t suffer any damage and he was thankful about that. We were both thankful no one was hurt. And, again, thankfully, the policeman was as kind as he could be under the circumstances; he actually seemed concerned for the kid’s well-being, too.

Tomorrow we get back to the list – visit Sean’s sister’s family, watch one nephew play soccer, watch another march with his high school marching band. I hope yesterday’s little fender bender is the last deviation from my schedule on this visit.

Mandatory visit

We’re in Atlanta for a visit with friends and family. Planning these trips back home is difficult because I could never see everyone I’d like to see which is a good/bad thing.

One non-negotiable visit for this trip was with my grandmother. She recently moved to an assisted living facility; she fought that move for years, but now, at 93, she realized she needed a bit of help. My grandfather’s been gone for 13 years and for all that time she’s taken care of everything. Until a few months ago she lived on her own. She drove to church and the grocery store and post office and she took care of her house and all that goes along with that. But a few medical scares and difficulties led her to the decision it was time to accept some help.

My parents, aunts and uncle and several cousins have all been to visit her in her new digs. I had not. I also had not written or called, facts she didn’t hesitate to tell my dad each time she talked to him. I was in the dog house. So when I peeked in her room I wasn’t sure what she’d say – she’s notorious for biting comments like, “I nearly forgot about you!” or, “I thought you’d died.” I was not looking forward to the guilt trip.

But she was so frail – frailer than the last time I’d seen her several months ago. And with the loss of her energy it seemed she’d lost some of the steam that fueled the remarks I dreaded. I just hugged her neck and said, “Hi Mama Mary. It’s good to see you.”

She took us on a tour of the facility, which is lovely. She showed us her place in the dining hall, and Dad took us upstairs to see the craft room and movie theater. (Michael and Amy said they wouldn’t mind living there!) The staff we spoke with seemed genuinely interested in the residents and the whole place seemed lively and open and inviting. There wasn’t that nasty old people smell so many places like that have.

We took pictures with her and the kids and I couldn’t help but wonder if we’ll see her again. We’ve always joked she’ll outlive us all; after seeing her Sunday I’m not sure I’ll make that joke again.

I’m glad she’s in a place where she’ll receive care when she needs it. I’m glad she’s not responsible for the upkeep of her house. I’m glad someone’s monitoring her meds. And I’m glad she has so many friends in the place.

I’m also glad she let me out of the doghouse – even thought she's a bit of a grouch (and, honestly, always has been) I don’t know how much time I have left to call or write her but I don’t intend neglect that granddaughter duty again.

Opposing views

A week ago I saw a YouTube video featuring Will Ferrell and a bunch of other celebrities. I don't begrudge them their right to speak their minds, and honestly, I was dismayed by how good the video was (I was dismayed as well to see Jon Hamm, aka Don Draper, look so sweaty in the first five seconds):



I hoped a counter to the video would be produced, and one was:



They're both great spots and certainly get their points across but I can't help but wonder why conservatives aren't in the forefront of these kinds of creative ads? Sure seems like conservatives discount the effectiveness of humor.

When conservatives produce copy-cat spots, no matter how well-produced or well-written, it's lame. We need to be leaders, not imitators.

Friday Funnies and other cool stuff

I miss lots of things about having little ones. Changing diapers is not one of them. Thanks to Amie for posting this on Facebook:



Here's an example of a Top Chef quickfire - cook with cactus. I'd have packed my knives and just gone home.



I love the behind-the-scenes shots Survivor provides. Here's one from last week's challenge:



And in honor of all the ironing I've done in the last two weeks:



Have a great weekend!

Reality TV - the good, the bad, the unbelievable

I have a couple of guilty TV pleasures – Top Chef and Survivor. I got on the Survivor bandwagon late; I watched the first season but didn’t watch again until we moved to Michigan. Three of my bestest buds back home watched, so I started watching again; it was a weird way to feel connected, but it worked. Feeling like I was still in touch was important and if I had to sit through an hour of a stupid reality show to feel a bond I’d do it. Little did I know I’d fall in love with the show and I’ve been a faithful fan the past four years.

Unlike Survivor, I didn’t watch the first season of Top Chef, and quite honestly I’m not entirely sure how I came to watch it. But in those first few years after the move I watched a lot of television – way more than I’d ever watched because before the move I had friends and a life, which, thankfully I have again but holy smokes, 2005 to 2007 were rough – so I assume that’s when I picked it up. I’ve been hooked since season two. I have no idea how the “cheftestants” come up with all those dishes in such a short period of time. Sometimes I stand in front of my pantry and think, “If a Top Chef contestant were here right now I wonder what he’d cook up for dinner?” And then I make macaroni and cheese from a box.

Wednesday had been a really long day and when I sat down to watch Padma and Tom and the cheftestants I was enjoying not thinking about anything. It was the Restaurant Wars challenge and I was flabbergasted all over again at how even the dishes that fail are better than the best thing I can cook. I was pretty zoned out until the first commercial break. There they were, in all their fake-hair glory: the “real” housewives of Atlanta.

How can a television network so prominently display people pursuing excellence and in the very next minute feature some of the most mindless women I’ve ever laid eyes on? Honey, I lived in Atlanta for 35 years. My mom was a housewife. I was a housewife. Most of my friends were housewives. I never met any housewife like the five Bravo features on their supposed reality show.

It’s a bit like a train wreck, of course, and I couldn’t avert my eyes, especially since I recognized several of the places featured in the ad. I know one of the women lived in a subdivision down the street from my parents’ sub (until the bank took the house), and another is from John’s Creek, a mere 15 minutes from where I used to live. Lots of the shots of restaurants and shops are familiar because I’ve driven by them hundreds of times.

I was getting a bit hot under the collar, thinking people would assume women from Atlanta were like these crazy people. But then I realized nobody’s going to think that! These are the fakest women around, just like all the other “housewives” who allow cameras to film their every move. There is something seriously wrong with television networks when nutjobs are heralded as “TV worth watching.” (But, of course, Bravo wouldn’t air it if it didn’t get ratings…)

Thankfully the commercial was short and the cooking resumed. Real people with real talent doing something useful and productive and amazing. Top Chef may not have cat fights and hair extensions and way too much cleavage, but it does have a lot of fine cooking. That’s what I call TV worth watching.

What does 'ladylike' look like, anyway?

Men with strong personalities are go-getters. Women with strong personalities are bitches. This disparity ticks me off because (and this will shock only those who haven’t met me) I have a bit of a strong personality. Don’t get me wrong – I’m Southern and can “Bless your heart” as well as the next belle. But I have no problem telling you what I think. I’m not a fade-into-the-background kind of girl. I enjoy good conversation and have never shied away from controversy. I don’t speak unkindly but I do speak plainly and some folks find that kind of talk disconcerting coming from a woman (normally I’d say, “coming from someone without a penis” but I’m trying to be more demure).

My no-nonsense approach applies to people I hire as well. If I contract someone to do something I expect the work to be done. And if it isn’t, the worker either needs to make it right or pay me back. This is not a problem as long as I’m working with a man. If I’m working with a woman, however, things get a little tricky.

A woman who is in business for herself needs to understand that while she may build relationships with her clients she is ultimately responsible to provide the service for which she was hired. For example, if you advertise that you know Latin, have a grasp of literature and science and understand current events and I hire you to teach my daughter, you dang well better teach my daughter.

And if you don't, do not tell me you’ve had some family problems that kept you from preparing your lesson plans.

Do not tell me you’re going to do better when you’ve already been given three weeks on top of the entire summer to get your act together.

Do not tell me you’re hurting financially.

I completely understand how difficult it can be to get the bases covered when your family life is imploding. I know there’s a steep learning curve any time a new task is begun. And I have great compassion for anyone who’s hurting in this economy. But if I hired you to teach my daughter then you better teach my daughter.

And if you don’t, please don’t act all shocked when I fire you.

I found myself in that exact situation recently and even though I handled myself respectfully, I was firm, which equaled bitch in the eyes of the two women with whom I was dealing.

I don’t understand that. Do. Not. Understand.

All my life I’ve struggled with issues of femininity. In my mind a feminine woman is soft-spoken, quiet, reserved, and size 4. Needless to say, I don’t fit that stereotype. I’m often loud, have never been afraid to speak my mind and the last time I was a size 4 I was probably four. Is the image in my head self-imposed? Probably. But it’s there for a reason. Soft-spoken women are lauded as lady-like. Loud, confident types aren’t.

So when I was called, “hostile” for demanding the service for which I’d paid (and no small amount I might add) I couldn’t believe how quickly I thought, “See, Christy, you’re not a lady.”

But just as quickly as the thought entered my mind, out it flew because truth wins. I knew I’d been honest and fair. I knew I’d been kind even in the process of telling someone she was unqualified teach. I knew I’d followed the biblical model of conflict resolution.

And I knew I’d protected Amy from a year of inadequate instruction. That may not make me a lady, but it sure as hell makes me a mom who does what it takes to protect and provide for her daughter.

I’ll take that over demure any day.

New week, ready or not

Good news! The ironing is done. Well, mostly. I did a few more loads of laundry this weekend which added several more shirts but the majority of the ironing is, in fact, finished.

I received several emails from folks who were amazed I had so many shirts to iron. People, so am I! My sister called and wanted to know how many shirts Sean owns. Too many to count. Of course, I’d have that many shirts, too, if my shirt size hadn’t changed since 1988. That’s 21 years ago, a year before Sean hired on full-time with GM. Think about it this way: if he started his career with ten shirts and added two each year since, that’s an extra 42 shirts for a grand total of 52 shirts. (How 'bout that math?!) He only wears classic button downs in greys, blues and whites so they never go out of style and he never wears them out so we have shirts he's had since high school. I haven’t actually counted because really, why would I? But now I’m curious… not that curious. Suffice it to say he had enough shirts that he wasn’t hurting for something to wear even with my backlog of ironing.

In other fascinating home news we repainted the school room Sunday afternoon. It was completely unplanned which is the best way to get home projects done – there’s no time to worry or get all worked up over the impending chore. I bought new containers from Ikea (who doesn’t adore that store? So wish one was closer to Lansing) to put our dry erase markers in but wanted to paint the room before hanging something else on the wall. I honestly don’t know how it happened but in a span of two minutes we’d decided to paint the room and Sean was moving desks and chairs and laying down drop cloths. We knocked it out in three hours. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon. And Sean and Michael hung up my new dry erase marker buckets.

It’s amazing what a fresh coat of paint does for a room. And I’m amazed how two little buckets from Ikea hanging on the wall makes the prospect of writing on the white board exciting. It’s the little things, I suppose.

Friday Funnies

Who doesn't love roller skating babies? (Thanks, Sarah for this one!)

A few political cartoons:

And some subtraction I can keep up with:



Have a good weekend!

Invade their grief with joy

I've known my friend Traci since kindergarten. She and my twin sister, Heather, were best friends but they’d let me play with them every once in a while. We went to the same elementary school, high school, were in Brownies together. Our moms were good friends so we got together often. I have wonderfully fond memories of being in her house, looking at her dad’s immense train set, visiting with her mom and watching Traci and Heather dance to Greased Lightening (maybe if they had let me dance, too, I wouldn’t have just spilled the beans…!)

Traci’s brother, Derek, was also a part of our get-togethers, like it or not. He was a typical younger brother: always wanted to know what was going on and routinely tried to disrupt whatever Very Important Things we older, more mature girls were doing.

Thankfully Traci, Heather and I have stayed in touch over the years (Traci even worked with Sean at the GM plant in Atlanta for a time) and though we don’t talk often we do email occasionally and can see each other’s statuses (stati?) on Facebook. Another way I’ve stayed in touch is by reading Traci’s sister-in-law’s blog. Unfortunately, it’s a blog chronicling her fight with colon cancer. I’ve loved reading her entries which are full of faith that God can heal, faith that God can sustain, faith that God is ultimately in control. Her posts have been amazing and more than once have brought me to tears. She hasn’t posted recently which has concerned me, but I was hopeful that was a good sign that she was able to spend more time with Derek and her two young children, six and four.

Deep down I knew what it really meant, and a few minutes ago my Mom sent my sister and me an email from Traci’s mom, letting us know Derek’s wife passed away Wednesday.

That pesky little brother who’d throw soccer balls and footballs and any other round object at us is now a widower with two young children. I’m 1,500 miles away and can do absolutely nothing. I can’t take a meal or watch the kids or sit with Traci or hug Traci’s mom. I feel so utterly helpless.

What I can do is pray. I can pray for the peace that passes all understanding to surround that precious family. I can pray for God’s faithfulness to be felt. I can thank God Derek’s wife left a written testimony about her faith and her belief that God would heal her, either here or in Heaven and I can pray that brings comfort to the family.

And I can pray for Traci.

So Traci, if you’re reading this, please know I’m praying for you and sending you love from a long way away. And I’m praying your mourning will soon turn to dancing.

Young women will dance and be happy,
young men and old men will join in.
I'll convert their weeping into laughter,
lavishing comfort, invading their grief with joy.

Jeremiah 31:13

If only the wrinkly look would be in

See this lovely armoire? And the cozy chair and pretty light? Don’t they all just seem to say, “Christy, please, sit a spell! Read a book! Take a load off.” Yes, that’s what they seem to say.

Unless you know what’s in the armoire.

That’s where I keep all the clothes that need to be ironed. I take them out of the dryer and move them right to the cabinet of the job-I-hate. Then I close the doors and pretend nothing’s in there.

When I open it up and stuff falls out, well, I have to deal with it and, obviously, I’ve reached that point. I can’t stuff in any more. I know this because I tried and couldn’t shut the doors.

What I’d like is for the Ironing Fairy to get her little backside over here, wave her magic wand and “Poof!” Clothes ironed, hung on hangers and placed in the correct closets.

So far, no Ironing Fairy.

So that’s what I’ll be doing today: ironing. And while I do hate it I will attempt to be thankful for clothes and electricity and the fact that I’m using an iron and not a hot rock.

Even so, I think I’m only going to buy wrinkle-free shirts from now on.

Count Me Out

Rebecca has a class on Monday afternoons that combines writing (yay) with math (boo). Her teacher, who is so fabulously energetic I need a nap after just listening to her lectures, talks for about 45 minutes about grammar and composition, then transitions to Game Time. Talk about bait and switch – it’s not fun game time; it’s math game time. This wouldn’t be such a big deal except that parents are required to attend the class. They’re also required to help with the math games. This is a major problem for me.

Monday's game was clever: using a regular deck of cards, you slap down four cards and the kid adds them up. Kings are 13, queens, 12, jacks, 11 and aces are 1. For each set the student answers correctly in the allotted time they get play money to be used at the class store later in the year. And the kids want that money. They are a very competitive bunch.

So here’s the catch: the parent putting the cards in front of the students has to be able to add more quickly than the students.

I really don’t have to tell you what happened, do I?

I was the card flipper for Rebecca and another student. He did the math super-quick; I was struggling to get the first two cards added by the time he’d finished the fourth and wanted more cards. After three sets of me counting on my fingers (the third set was a K, J, 9 and 8 - I nearly burst into tears) I just took his word for all the sets and quit trying to add them up.

I have no idea if he was telling the truth. By the end of addition time I think he knew I wasn’t even trying because he was going really, really fast. And then when we moved to subtraction I’m almost positive he snowed me. But I didn’t care. I was just praying for those three minutes to pass faster than any three minutes have passed in the history of the universe.

When it was finally, mercifully over I was sweating and nervous and a wreck all over and to add insult to injury I was out of diet Coke. I took a potty break, gathered my wits about me and headed back to class. Thankfully Game Time was finished. And it’s a good thing because I know I certainly was.

After class I told the teacher I would never, ever do that again. Never. Ever. Let me talk about nouns, verbs, direct objects, heck, I’ll even diagram a sentence or twelve, but please, do not ever make me the Flip Mom again. I simply cannot handle the pressure.

And I know the kids are on to me…

Chickens and donkeys and Bugs, oh my

So Rebecca's getting into the act of taking little knickknacks and putting them where they don’t belong. Case in point: I have two chickens on the ledge by my kitchen sink. We’ve had the smaller one for years and she’s always called it a “Looley” for the sound she said roosters made: looley looley loo. (Did I mention she had a severe hearing problem from birth to age 3?) She took the Looley and stuck it into the plant I also keep on my kitchen ledge.

Once I mentioned that Michael might stick Don Key the Donkey in the light fixture he decided he wouldn’t do that. Too predictable, he said. Please remember the only thing I asked of him was to keep the donkey in his room. No such luck. Here is Mr. Key lounging on my unmade bed (this should teach me to always make my bed!):

And a few pictures of the last car show of the season. Our favorite car wasn’t even registered for the show; it was a red Bug in the parking lot just down from our car. Rebecca was in heaven. And, truth be told, so was Sean.

By the way, this show was two weeks ago. Notice Rebecca's bare arms? Not any longer. It wasn't even 30 degrees when we made our way to church Sunday morning. The cold is coming. I am not happy...

Friday Funnies

Let's start with a few fail videos (thanks to Sarah for this one):



Several friends have told me they love the new show Glee. I haven't caught it yet (heck, I'm two weeks behind on Mad Men - darn this home schooling thing) but hope to see it On Demand especially after seeing this scene from the school's football game:



This cannot be a real toy, can it?


see more Epic Fails

And for a little homeschool humor:



Happy weekend!

That socially stunted kid's gonna be your boss one day

Homeschooling carries with it all kinds of stereotypes: women who wear their hair in buns while sporting denim jumpers, crunchy granola folks who grind their own wheat to make homemade bread, religious extremists who want to withdraw from society… there’s a reason stereotypes stick and anyone who’s homeschooled long has run into one or more of these kinds of homeschoolers. Despite the pigeonhole home school parents are shoved in there is one universal stereotype for the children: all home schooled kids are socially stunted.

I’m always amazed at that label. I mean, if you’ve spent five minutes with my kids you know they’re anything but anti-social. My kids' home schooled friends are great kids. I suppose I can understand why people might think there’s something queer about home schooled kids if they don’t know a home school family. I just haven’t had anyone come right up to me and say it out loud.

Until last week.

A neighbor friend came over for lunch a few days ago. We met when I first moved into the ‘hood but became reacquainted in the spice aisle at Sam’s two weeks’ back. I could sense we clicked on several levels and was pleased when she accepted my invitation to lunch.

She came in as Michael, Amy, Rebecca and their friend Christine were sitting down to lunch after a successful math tutoring session. My friend asked several questions of the kids like, “Have you always gone to school at home?” and “Do you like it?” The kids answered in politely and it was obvious they were having a good time enjoying the day.

Then my friend turned to me and said, “I thought I’d be able to tell if kids were home schooled but these kids seem so normal.”

She didn’t mean it in a negative or nasty or even snarky way. She was genuinely surprised that these home school kids were, for lack of a better word, normal.

I couldn’t blame her for her reaction – I had the same one 20 years ago when I met my first home school family. One of my college professors and his wife home schooled their four children. With the certainty only youth can give I said, “Well, if you’re keeping your kids at home you’re stunting their social growth.”

Pretty sure hubris is the only appropriate word for my attitude. That and stupid.

Why this professor and his lovely wife had anything to do with me after that is beyond me. But they showed grace and great patience and by the time I graduated I couldn’t articulate why they home schooled but I sure saw a difference in their kids. They were polite yet kid-like. They could play with their friends but also converse on an intelligent level with adults. They were lovely, smart, interesting kids. So when Sean and I needed to make a change in schooling for Michael after fourth grade we thought about those kids; we wanted our kids to be like them. Maybe, we thought, we should give home schooling a go. Six years later I’m still pleased with our decision and thankful I witnessed a different way to educate my children.

So thanks to Dr. and Mrs. Metts for being such great examples of kindness and patience to people who don’t know any better than to assume home schooled kids are weird. Because of their longsuffering with me I was able to laugh with my new friend and say, “Well, my kids are as normal as teenagers can be!”

When the lesson you plan isn't the lesson you teach

So, you know that logic review I was working on last night at, oddly enough, this very hour? I was so excited because I actually understood the material and thought it was immensely interesting. I couldn’t wait to pass on my newfound knowledge of the Square of Opposition and show my class the relationship between A, E, I, and O statements. I’d taken meticulous notes, drawn out the entire square, labeled everything just so. I knew my stuff and I was ready to make sure they knew it. I went to bed full of conviction that Monday’s class would rock.

That conviction may well have been pride.

Class began at 9:30; by 9:35 I realized I was on a collision course with stupidity but didn’t know why. Nothing I said made any sense. Each time I tried to give an example of an A statement (All S is P) and compare it to an E statement (No S is P), thus showing examples of contrariety I bungled the statements. I mixed up the definitions for contrariety and contradiction not once but twice, and I’d written them on the board so I couldn’t even pretend the kids’ heard wrong (not that I’d ever do such a thing). Amy was looking at me like I’d lost my mind (which I was pondering myself) and she kindly said, several times, “I think the A and E are mixed up.”

I kept looking down at my notes. “I knew this last night!” I thought. I explained it to Sean and he got it. I’d taken four pages of notes! I knew I understood. But each time I opened my mouth to give an example it was as if I were speaking perfect Hungarian to a room full of Spaniards.

By 9:40 I stopped the class. I admitted I royally screwed up, acknowledged I’d forgotten to start the day with prayer and asked for a do-over. I prayed, thanked God for second chances and went on to do a fairly decent job describing subcontrariety, subimplication, and superimplication.

By the end of the hour the kids understood the whole square, which was a miracle considering how the lesson began. But more than knowing about particular affirmative and universal negative statements I hoped they took away a lesson about someone completely losing it, admitting it, asking for guidance from the Lord, and pressing on. Certainly not the lesson I’d planned for the day, but one that’s way more important than knowing the difference between contradictory and contrary statements.

Because I know you're all dying to see the Square of Opposition now, here you go!

Back tomorrow

It’s 11:34 on Sunday night and I would really love to be writing something for my blog. Instead, I’m working on a logic review sheet for the class I have to teach Monday morning.

I hope to be back to blog writing tomorrow. Until then, enjoy this little gem Tina passed my way on Friday. I love Oscar and I love Mike Rowe. Can’t go wrong with that duo now, can you?

See you tomorrow!

Friday Funnies

Okay, I'll admit it: I love Mad Men. I'm not sure why because it is horribly dark and not my typical TV fare but there's something about it that is intriguing. And it's apparently caught the creative eyes at Sesame Street. (Thanks to Michelle for posting it on her Facebook page!)



It's just one of those days when a shot of Brian Regan is needed:



And a little laundry humor to get me ready to tackle the seven loads awaiting my attention:

Have a splendid weekend!