Avec Gratitude

Dinner courtesy of some wonderful people.

Before we had dinner, I suggested to the family that we go around the table and state for the record what we are thankful for.  They glanced at each other over the rims of their root beer mugs and waited for my temporary insanity to pass.

You'd think we'd be more talkative around here, wouldn't you?  Well, we're not really that expressive when it comes to the positive stuff.  We're aces at pulling each other apart, at dissecting the foibles and tics and pointing and laughing when one of us stumbles.  I should be ashamed, but I'm not.

That's something to be thankful for.  We may not be soft and snuggly and Hallmark Channel fuzzy wuzzies, but I don't think there's a single person in this house who doesn't feel loved.  Right down to the last wretched cat. Hang on a second.  Let me see...

Okay, I just checked.  I asked each of them (the humans, not the cats) if they felt loved.  Here's how that went:

MathMan:  Yeah, who said I didn't?
Nate:  Yeah (with accompanying eyebrow raise)
Sophie:  I don't know.  Can I have a hug first?
Chloe:  Um....yes?

So there we are.  Love.  It is probably the greatest thing ever.  And we have it in spades.

And for that we truly are grateful.  Whether some of us are able to express it or not without a gun to our heads.

Here are some other things I'm thankful for:

RennRatt and her wonderful family who provided us with an authentic and delicious Thanksgiving dinner - Friends near and far - Family near and far - Laughter - Music - The moment right after I take off my bra - Good health - Shared memories - The gorgeous weather we're having - MathMan's job which pays the bills and gives him the chance to save the world - Books - Words - A hot shower - Remembering - Forgetting - Working out - Quiet - My trusty old laptop circa 2007 - The fact that Nate really loves going to school now - My digital camera that allows me to capture life as it happens - The silly cats - Movies that make me laugh or think or cry (as long as I'm alone) - The light and color at sundown when the trees are shadows against the palette of pinks, mauves, purples and blues - Hollyhocks on their tall stems - Art Deco Architecture - Still being able to recite Goodnight Moon - Chloe's happiness at school - The entire Art Nouveau movement - Edward Gorey - Anthony K. and his sock - My active imagination - Catching sight of a hawk on a wire or post alongside the road - When the car starts - The roof over our heads - Dry pavement - The cartoons and reruns I watched as a kid - Comfortable clothes - Major appliances that work - PBS - Agatha Christie and her memorable characters - High count cotton sheets - Lotion - Skype - My wooden back scratcher - The internet - Homemade fabric softener - Ibuprofin - Red wine - Billy Nye the Science Guy - British TV - Edward Hopper's art - Time - Sugar - How Sophie enjoys playing her clarinet - Dogwoods announcing the spring - When we get a little snow - Chocolate - Art created by my friends - A whole mess of other stuff - And you.  I'm grateful for you.

I hope you've had a good day wherever you are.  Tomorrow we'll get back to the pointing and the laughing.

The Wisdom of MathMan

MathMan, bless his heart, was full of one liners this weekend.  Sadly, most of them revolved around my breasts.  I swear, it's like the pair of them are a third person in the relationship.  Thankfully, they don't ask for much.  Just an occasional tweezing of the rogue hair (WHAT is THAT all about?) and a good bra (alas, they are often denied).  Oh and they do appreciate being released by the bra, any bras, as soon as the clock strikes 8:00 p.m.

So this man of mine, this light of my life, this guy who helps me figure out percentages, he wakes up on Sunday morning and announces "I like sleeping with big naked boobs."

I blink awake.  "But I'm wearing pants," I yawn.

"You're even funnier without your shirt on," he said before getting up to go weigh himself and pee.  Actually, it's the other way around.  We're all about bragging about our weight loss to each other these days.  You can pretty much the determine the tone of the day by what happens first thing in the morning in the bathroom.  If there's a Woot! it's going to be a good day.  If there's a a "Damn it, I shouldn't have had that half a pizza before bed," it's going to be a tuna over greens day.  Those are not particularly happy days.

Same morning, a little while later, MathMan lay absentmindedly tweaking my nipple while I checked my email on my phone. I'd bet cash money he was using my body while he fantasized about the other woman, Calculus.  The tramp.

"Do you mind?" I skeezed out.   I can take only so much nipple tweaking before I'm compelled to ask the tweaker for an explanation.  "What are you doing?"

He continued to stare off into space.  "I'm communicating."

Family therapists, please take note.  Nipple tweaking is an effective means of "communicating."  I pinched his penis and said, "What I hear you saying is......"

We continued to lollygag about in the bed.  Sadly, that is not a euphemism.  We had other people's kids in the house, you see.  That will keep us locked in our room, looking for entertainment that doesn't make the springs squeak, I tell you what.

I rolled over and one of my ridiculously large breasts became uncovered.  MathMan was on the scene immediately.  "That's better," he smiled.  He put a hand on the exposed flesh and said, "Don't want to let this go to waste."

The rest of the morning went on in the same vein.  Me in need of coffee, but reluctant to leave the room unrestrained.  My breasts in need of some serious corralling.  MathMan waxing poetic about them while thinking about math concepts that are completely over my head.  Probably over my breasts' heads, too, but they'd never tell.  They're always putting on airs like that.

Finally, the Spokescat, who had been rattling our bedroom doorknob and begging for food for what seemed like hours got on my last nerve.  Even all the mammary chat couldn't distract me any longer. I threw the covers off and growled, "That's it, I'll put on a bra.  I can't go around scaring those other kids."

MathMan had a solution for that.  "And that is why we should always say no to letting the kids' friends sleepover.  I guess I better put on some pants, too."

And then he went back to thinking about Calculus.  I'm sure of it.

What's your favorite body part?  Are you a face person?  Do you look at a person's hands first?  A butt aficionado?  Or is it the eyes?  How about the spleen?  I'm rather fond of venting mine........okay, your turn to talk.  I'm shutting up now.

Send in the Clowns........

A long time ago, when Darling Sis and I would try to slink away unnoticed from the dinner table to race down the hall and slam our bedroom door, locking out our little brother so we could play Barbies in peace, it never occurred to us that he would grow up to carry a gun for a living.

Had we known, we might have been more kind to his destructive, hair-pulling little boy self. Instead, we minced our precious plastic feminine icons around the elaborate homes we'd designed for them using a mishmash of Barbie specific items and things gleaned from our mother's vanity table.

Remember the Barbie Dream Home? It came with that plastic bed that always had a crack in it where you would pinch your finger. We used nail polish bottles for lamps, folded up Kleenex for pillows and we draped open tissues over the bed for covers. We even expanded our wasp-waisted dolls' living space through a DIY project worthy of its own television program. We made more rooms and hallways by pressing masking tape onto the hardwood floor - much to our mother's sour-faced displeasure.

Our poor little brother sat outside the locked bedroom door and cried and begged and demanded to be let in. When we were worn down enough to agree - with numerous conditions, of course - we were predictably disappointed as he would go tromping about, acting the Godzilla to our Barbies, messing things up, tipping things over and nibbling the toes of our Barbies when we were distracted with fussing and straightening the mess.

Or did we nibble those Barbie toes? Memory is such a subjective thing.....

Well, the joke is on us now that Baby Brother is the Chief of Police of our hometown. Godzilla is now the keeper of Law and Order. (And I'm dang proud of him, too.)

We were your typical siblings. Car trips were the usual nightmare with three surly kids. I still don't know why our parents punished themselves so. Back in those days, cars had bench seats and while Darling Sis and I had our traditional places in the back, we insisted the CoP ride up front between Mom and Dad. That didn't mean he couldn't get up on his knees and twist around in the seat so he could face us. Pest.

I used to make an ugly face at him using my fingers to pull my eyes down, my nose up and to stretch out my mouth into a hideous gaping maw. He would yelp and flail around in his seat. Darling Sis ignored us, Mom clucked her tongue in disgust and threatened to escape out the passenger door and Dad taught us new words and phrases we later found out via the piquant taste of Palmolive were not allowed.

Were the five of us to attempt car travel en masse now, I doubt much would be different.

I've written on my other blogs about a few incidents involving my brother, but one of my all time favorites was the time he was hypnotized at a school assembly and announced to the whole high school that he was afraid of clowns. Not a fan of clowns myself, I can understand this, but it was still a moment of high humor for my 18 year old self, being the smarty pants older sister that I was.
I'd forgotten until recently all the methodology I employed to frighten the CoP back then. I should apologize or something. First though, I want to tell you that I find it particularly amusing in a symmetrical kind of way that one of my favorite bloggers Bubs, who is also in law enforcement, posts often about clowns. I never miss an opportunity to crack wise about showing my brother the scary clown posts. And now, here's my chance. Hey - Chief of Police - whatever you do, don't look here.

Okay, now I really owe him an apology. And a dinner. And possibly a gift certificate to Bass World. Will that do?

This is fresh in my mind because we've had the chance to renew our kinship on Facebook. The Chief of Police was the last of the siblings to get a profile. But now he's there and we're all about the airing of dirty family laundry and reliving the stunning idiocy of life at 118 A Wilson Street circa 1969 - 1984.

Thankfully, our parents aren't involved. They are safely without a computer or knowledge of what goes on in cyberspace between their children. That is, of course, until one of the aunts who are on Facebook clues them in. The horror.

On the Chief of Police's Facebook wall......

Me: Seriously. Well, you're actually a pretty nice guy except when you're holding your sister in a half nelson. Have you seen the retro wrestler's favorites thing yet?

CoP: No...still trying to figure all the apps out on here...the wrestling stuff reminded me of the werewolf and hoobiedoobie man...hahahahahaha! Do you remember when you used to scare the crap out of me and then you'd be in for it!?!?

Me: Oh my gosh! I'd totally forgotten about the werewolf and the hoobiedoobie man! Yeah, I was pretty mean to you - scaring you like that. I guess it was only fair that you practiced your wrestling moves and holds on me.

Still - let's blame Darling Sis. She started it by hiding in the closet and jumping out and scaring me every chance she got.

CoP: She's an easy target...I say we blame her for everything!

Me: Deal.

Darling Sis: Oh hell no...don't even think of blaming any of that crap on me. Yes, I'll admit I hid in the closets (with camera in hand) and jumped out to scare Lisa. You'd think that as smart as Lisa was, she would have known I would jump out at her every chance that I got. I say blame CoP - isn't he the one who did the autopsy on your rag doll, Lisa? ... And what about the amputations to all the Barbies? Hmmmmm? ......

Me: I knew we'd get busted for this. Fine. Why don't we band together and blame the parents? Have you guys talked to them lately?.... P.S. Don't read the blog, CoP. I'm going to write about Clowns. With pictures.

Darling Sis: PS - while you two twits are talking about "the old times", remember "Georgie Porgie" (Lisa) and "Liggle-Diggle" (Lisa, again), "Clepto-Trashies" (Lisa again), and the best one, "Pr*ck of the Month Club" (yep, Lisa). Sorry I'm picking on Lisa here, but I .....

CoP: Ewwwwwwwww....Clowns are the creepiest EVER! There used to be a freakin' scary mask in the storage room that reminded me of a clown...hated it!!! Trust me...I have read waaaaaaay more on the blog than I should have! Just thankful that "mother and dad" don't have a computer!

Darling Sis: What is it with clowns? They scare (nephew) to death also. Took the kid to a circus and he freaked out in a major way. CoP - do you remember the old hag witch mask that we used to have at MOTHER's house? That was one gnarley looking thing.

Me: First - Thanks, Darling Sis, for noting more of our (my) childhood weirdness). Second - CoP, now that I know you're reading the blog (did you catch the video where I imitated mother eating the ice cream cone? that'll give you nightmares), I'll be sure to not identify you when I write about the hypnotist visiting the school assembly. Third - Hell, Darling Sis. The Dancer's 18. We're all getting old.

Darling Sis: Old? Heck no...it's called Miss Clairol and major dentistry work. Maybe a little botox, a nip & tuck here 'n there. When I go to my class reunion (35th - ouch) in June, I'll probably be one of the few in my class that isn't a grandparent yet.

One can only assume that at this point, Baby Brother had lost interest. Or had to go out and arrest someone that one of us had gone to school with at some point. Small town. You know how it is.........

P.S. Darling Sis, you missed one. Georgie Porgie was when I made the mistake of leaning in too close to the Chief of Police. He would grab my cheeks in his chubby little hands and shout Georgie Porgie while squeezing really, really hard.

I suppose that was his way of getting back at me for all those times when he was just learning to walk and I would put him in his baby walker into the middle of the family room where I would run around him in circles singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and staying just out of his reach........man, I wish I had video of that.