This post is just too good not to share.  But I would have titled it, "And this is why you should love The Bloggess..."  Here's a sample:

Then Laura came to pick me up so we could go to the discount outlet together, and as Victor gave me a kiss goodbye he lovingly whispered, “You are not allowed to bring any more goddam towels in this house or I will strangle you“.   And that was exactly what I was still echoing through my head an hour later, when Laura and I stopped our shopping carts and stared up in confused, silent awe at a display of enormous metal chickens, made from rusted oil drums.

Laura:  I think you need one of those....

Now GO! Find out why huge metal chickens make lousy anniversary presents, will you?  The caption on the last photograph is just icing on the cake.

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My birthday has been re-postponed to Saturday.  I had a feeling that would happen.  Bright side?  I'm still 47.

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I had tights like those, too!

 My friend Carol (of garlicky giggles fame) has seen fit to harass me in the comments to last Friday's post.  Carol?  You might pretend you are doing me a service by asserting that you saw Tracy Partridge in a high school sex ed video depicting the realities of childbirth; but I fear your motives may be of the non-altruistic sort.  You're jealous, I suspect - yes, jealous of my having retained a childhood sense of whimsy into adulthood whilst you have morphed into a jaded, bitter woman pretending not to mourn the youthful illusions ripped from her too soon.

No matter - as I stated in Friday's comments, I will persist in clinging to my dreams of tambourine grandeur, tarnished as they might be by the thought of innocent little Tracy screaming labor-induced obscenities. Try as you might, Carol, you can't take that away from me.

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 Did I mention my birthday was postponed twice?  Oh, I did?  Well, then...

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Product rave: Trader Joe's Peach Pops!  Buy them!  Yum! 

Only 2 dollars!  Full of real peach goodness!  And no compensation has been received for this review!  I've even provided all my own exclamation points.

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I've had a hankering lately to say to someone,   "Back off, man - I'm a journalist!"  The opportunity never seems to come up, however.  Maybe because the statement's not true...

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Be sure to mosey on over to the original 7 Quick Takes, guest-hosted by Betty Beguiles this week because Jennifer of Conversion Diary just had her baby.   Betty is collecting money for a babymoon present - childcare/household help during those crazy first weeks.  For some reason, she thinks that Jennifer (with 5 children under the age of 7) might need some of that...

[Tracy Partridge photo: The Whine Sisters]

[Peach pops photo: All You Need Is Love]

Pin What?

So - I joined this site here, because people kept talking about it.  But now I have no idea what to do with it.  I mean, everyone is just looking at pictures of what other people like?  It's like blogging, I guess - only with no words...or funny stories...or anything...

Now people are "following" me, but there's nothing for them to see.  Should I "pin" pictures of my superannuated leftovers?  Snapshots of Larry's kill?  Cute photos of the children vomiting? Or is that just not done? It could be that I'm just too lowbrow to be a "pinner."

Is that what they call them? 




[Pinterest image: Maybe This Door?]

Usurped

Anna's high school graduation is tomorrow, and the mother in me rejoices at this milestone marking the end of childhood dependence and the beginning of Anna's making her own way in this big, wonderful world of ours.

The person part of me, however? The non-mother part?  Is sulking.  How DARE the school system schedule the graduation on - hello? - MY BIRTHDAY?!  Gone is my delicious custom of having the WHOLE, ENTIRE day to myself.  That's all I ask for my birthday every year, and that's what I get.  I look forward to the occasion with an almost unreasonable glee.

Do you realize how many times a day a mother needs to issue orders to people?  Do you have any idea how sick I am of the sound of my own voice?  Do you understand that a day to myself means that I do not have to tell anyone what to do?   I NEED MY BIRTHDAY.

"We'll just work it around the graduation," suggested Larry.

Work it around the graduation?  Squeeze it in?  I don't think so.  No.

"All right, then," counseled my patient husband.  "Let's just make your birthday a different day."

Sulk.

It won't be the same.  I LOVE my birthday - the longest day of the year, the first day of summer...why don't those silly school people make the GRADUATION a different day?  Hmmm?  Whoever heard of a Tuesday graduation, anyway?

Sulk.

All right.  Thursday.  I'll take Thursday.  And I'll pretend all day long tomorrow that it is NOT my birthday.  Because having it on 2 days just dilutes it.  Really.

I'll be turning 48 on Tuesday Thursday - 48 going on 3.  Just in case you were wondering...



[grad cap image credit: Simply The Best Gift Ideas]

[cake image credit: Webweaver's Free Clip Art]

Make My Friday

I CANNOT stop singing this.  And look - there are words for all you young'uns who don't know the lyrics!

 

 I always wanted to be Tracy - I knew I could really rock that tambourine.

Respite

Oh, my goodness, it is beautiful here.  You'd think we lived further north, where summer is not an endurance test and people don't hunker down in their houses (with brief forays - in air-conditioned cars - to blessedly cool Targets and Costcos) for the months of June, July, August, and September.  I don't know what we have done to deserve this respite from our typical heat and humidity, but bring it on! 

It's good to be alive.  Of course, it helps that the kids are still sleeping and no one is standing at my elbow saying, "MOMMY!"  every 3 minutes.  Because that's what my Rachel does.  She doesn't say, "Hey, Mommy, can we have a snack?" or "Mommy, I want to play outside."  No.  She says, "MOMMY!"  and stops.

"Yes, honey?"

"MOMMY!"

[Why the heck does she keep stopping at that?  Why doesn't she continue?]

"What is it, Rachel?"

"MOMMY! Can we have a snack?"

If this doesn't sound annoying, I'm not typing it right.  All I know is, every time I hear "MOMMY!" uttered in this tone that's a cross between someone's-bleeding urgency and someone jumping out of a closet to yell "BOO!", my insides seize up; and it's all I can do not to yell, "Just say it!  Say what you want!  YOU HAVE MY ATTENTION!"

Patience is not my strong point.


[Happy sun image: Free Extras]