They are too old for stuffed animals, they have all of the electronics they need.   The things that go along with said electronics tend to be really small, so again….not BIG.

Here’s where I made my mistake.   I turned to my trusted friend Amazon.  The have gift lists galore, and I am a Prime member so I get all my shipping for free plus discounts.   Sweet!!!     I thought for sure if I keyed in a few phrases, I’d find the large scale, yet affordable gifts, I needed to round out my holiday.

Here’s a clue.   Never search Big Giant Gifts.   Ever.

Most of the things that came up were innocuous enough.  Big stuffed animals (they are too old for this), go karts (we don’t have the yard for it) and other things.   What I didn’t expect was this:

Yes, the big coloring book of v*ginas.    A coloring book.  Of v*ginas. With fun activities to boot!     (And if you don’t get why I’m not spelling it out it ‘s because I really don’t want the hits that would happen with the actual word v*gina.   Trust me on this one….)

So the book in and of itself is….well…strange.   But here’s the kicker.   You can buy it new for $9.95 should you care to illustrate your v*gina.   Or you can buy it used, in good condition for anywhere from $207 to FOUR HUNDRED AND NINETY NINE DOLLARS.    You know, so you can see how other people illustrated their v*ginas.

No, I’m not kidding.     EWWWWW.

But then there were the reviews to which I feel compelled to respond:

From Anna:  This is a fun, exploratory and inclusive colouring book. I really liked the way so many vaginas in all their different shapes and sizes were represented – and of course you can make them any colour you like.   I would even let my kids have a go – educational and good for vagina pride.

Dear Anna;   Letting your kids have a go at the v*gina?    I’m going to have to say it’s not a good idea, but I’m glad you are proud of your hooter.  GO GIRL.

From Stewart:   It’s everything you’d expect it to be. My wife loves it! And I reap the benefits!

Dear Stewart;  If it takes a coloring book to get lucky with your wife?  You are doing something really…REALLY wrong.

From Ben-Jammin:   Out of the 26 illustrations in the coloring book I got, 8 of the illustrations are REPEATED! That means around a third of the content is repeated!    I’m not sure if I just a bad printing or if everyone else is getting repeated illustrations???   I’m a bit let down by that, but now I color the repeats differently and see which one I like best.   The illustrations are done excellently and respectfully, paper quality is decent, but I’m not going to try any markers as if would most likely bleed right thru!

Dear Ben;   You obviously are not seeing enough v*ginas in your real life.    Glad to hear though that you are making use of the repeats by coloring them all differently.   Please never get anywhere near me or anyone I know who owns a v*gina.   In fact, Ben, I shoot people like you just for fun.   You are creepy….for real. I’m not even going to touch the bleed thru comment….it’s just too easy.

So there you have it, why you should avoid last minute holiday shopping or at least be very careful what you search for.

TSM

I don’t know how this happened and I certainly did not give my permission for this to occur.   When Mr. C was born, he was such a tiny little thing….barely six pounds.   He required a lot of attention….I lost a lot of sleep.    In those midnight hours, I imagined him being a toddler, in grade school….maybe even as old as 9 or 10.   My thoughts never wandered beyond that.

When 9 and 10 came and went, I started living moment by moment thinking every day that this sweet little boy would turn into a surly kid.  But he didn’t.

11 and 12 hit…and still I waited, dreading the moment he would figure out I’m not cool.   Still nothing.

So 13 looms today and guess what?   The kid still loves me, hugs me in public and laughs with me.   Crazy, right?   He is now only starting to roll his eyes at me.   Obviously, my parenting skills are amazing and I’ve done something far superior to garner such admiration and love.

Or maybe I haven’t.

Maybe Mr. C is the kid I always dreamed I’d have.   So full of love and hope, with such a big sense of self and a good dose of humor to boot.   Maybe he is what I prayed for, someone who would love me the way I loved my own Mother.   A person who knows himself so well he is comfortable in his own skin and isn’t afraid of showing what he feels.

A better version of me.

Mr. C, I love you beyond the ability to express it in words, but you know this already.    You are a rock in my life, my go to for a quick smile or a stupid joke.   You are my touchstone.    You mean the world to me….please don’t ever change because you are perfect just the way you are sweet boy.

So much love,

Mom

PS:  If I could suggest one tiny improvement, if you could get along with your sister that would be the bomb.    For real.

It’s the most magical time of the year….

Bitchmas is back baby!

To be honest, I sort of failed at it this year.    I reflected upon  my behavior of previous years where no one was to touch the freaking decorations until I was finished and decided that maybe, just perhaps, I had somehow lost the true spirit of Christmas…sort of like that lady that pepper sprayed a crowd at WalMart to get her XBox on Black Friday but with less violence…just a lot of death threats, general insults and probably as many tears.  But no pushing or hitting because even I have my limits.

Anyway.

I went into it with the best of intentions.    Here were my personal guidelines:

1. TSM shall not scream, intimidate or generally threaten anyone smaller than herself.   Husbands are fair game.
2. TSM shall not break into a sweat, wring her hands or pace back and forth rapidly should any of the decorations be placed without her explicit permission and even worse, without care or concern for symmetry.
3. TSM recognizes and admits there is no place in the holiday season for swearing, and most especially eff bombs.   Because that is totally not fucking cool, that’s why.

I did  really well too.  Especially with numbers one and three which honestly, I felt was a big accomplishment.    It was number two that got me.   I’m not sure when it happened, or even what I said really.   All I know is Mr. C was helping me put one of the garlands up….it’s a complicated beast, full of nutcrackers and blue and clear glass ornaments.   I’m telling you, if one of the nutcrackers or ornaments is not in it’s proper place it’s like the end of the world for me.

So like I said, I did really well, or at least I thought I did and Mr. C was working right along side me.   The failure came to light when Miss G decided to step in and a very loud Mr. C saw her placing an ornament not quite in the right place and shouted, “No G!!!  It has to be spatially correct!!!”

You may ask yourself given the above set of rules, why on earth a 12 year old boy who has never given a single thought to spatial correctness might come up with such a statement.   Personally, I was wondering the same thing.   My best guess is that I possibly, maybe, could have muttered something under my breath and Mr. C  having lived through Bitchmas for as long as he can remember, knows that this particular day is not the day to mess with Mom.

Fa la la la la….La la la….

That was my big wake up call.   Kids should have fun decorating, not listening to the mad rants of their obsessive compulsive former decorator mothers, right?    Right.    So I resolved at that moment to shut my mouth and let them do what they wanted.

The result was this:

What is it you ask?   Is it giant alien carolers taking over a small town and scaring the tiny people below with their loud rendition of Jingle Bells?   No, it is not.   The carolers were a gift to my daughter from my SMIL (Step Mother In Law)  and Miss G wanted nothing more than for them to have the spotlight somewhere in our home to show off her new treasure.   It’s not that I hate them, they are actually kind of cute.   They just don’t fit exactly where I would have envisioned them.   Instead, they sit  in the middle of our den terrorizing the little people of the village where they will remain, much to my chagrin, for the remainder of the holiday season.

But I didn’t stop there…oh, no….I even let them put the ornaments on the tree.    Even my prized Radko’s from a stock market long ago when I thought spending fifty bucks on a single ornament was a perfectly sane thing to do.     We even made it through without any breakage, save for one ballerina bunny who lost her foot to a Spider Man ornament in a tragic land grab for what was deemed to be the perfect tree limb.

The tree itself looks pretty good except for the gaping holes in coverage and the total lack of concern for placement of small ornaments at the top, big ornaments at the bottom.   Heck, even some of the ugly ornaments that I normally put on the back of the tree for balance and coverage made it to the front.   But you know what?   I don’t care.    I learned that the true spirit of Christmas lies in the hearts of children…watching them excitedly decorate, talking about each ornament along the way.   The holes in the tree and the ugly ornaments just don’t matter.

Oh who am I kidding.  I’m totally going to rearrange everything once they go to sleep.

Merry Bitchmas,

TSM

We have a favorite place we go for movies.   They have not only really great entrees instead of the usual fare of Milk Duds and Popcorn, the also have a full bar.   Yes! This allows us to sip wine while enduring said penguins, cats, donkeys and dolphins and still escape thinking we still had something of an evening out…even if we have two children fighting the entire way home.

So given our night of freedom, we decided to go see J. Edgar.   The buzz on this movie was huge and The Man is quite the history buff.    Personally, I am quite the Leonardo DiCaprio buff so this was a match made in heaven.

The first shock to the system came when I realized there would be no hot Leo for me at any point in this movie, but then again I sort of knew this going in.

On the left, HOT.  On the right, NOT.

The movie itself, was amazing.  Or at least I think it was.  Aside from being a little bit put out that I would not be getting my Hot Leo fix, the guy next to me was driving me crazy…and I’m not talking about The Man.

Remember before when I mentioned that full bar deal?   Yeah, the guy next to me was taking full advantage of it.    Aside from the four (FOUR!!!!) separate food orders he placed, he was a big fan of rum and coke.   How do  I know this you ask?   Because he ordered at least six during the course of the movie.  It wouldn’t be a big deal really, but the waiter had to walk in front of us to serve him each and every time…and also, he started jiggling his ice in his glass to indicate, “Please sir, bring me some more of the stupid juice.”

He was okay at first.   Quiet except for the loud manner in which he chewed his four courses of food.   (Chips with Queso, Wings, Hamburger…and then buttered popcorn in case you were wondering.)    The thing is, the drunker he got, and the more jiggled his glass to exemplify his displeasure with it’s current empty status, the more of a historian he became to his date whom I can only assume is a recent immigrant to this country if she didn’t know the basic back story of J. Edgar Hoover’s well documented moments in the spotlight.

Let me share some examples:

The scene: It’s the early 60′s.  The phone rings.   Moments earlier, there was a scene where Robert Kennedy and J. Edgar get into it, so one can easily assume it is the era of Camelot.    “Sir, there’s been a shooting in Dallas.”    Me?  I’m guessing it’s JFK because really?   We can be a hot mess in Dallas but we’ve only managed to assassinate one person in Dallas important enough to make it to the direct line of the head of FBI.   I was sort of thinking this was a given.

Drunk guy: LOUDLY comments, “Hot damn, I bet that was that John Kennedy dude.”

YOU THINK??????

The scene: A man, who appears to be African American, is being surreptitiously recorded having “relations” with a white chick who is definitely not his wife.   I’m guessing again….60′s, MLK recordings.   My friend is stumped though.

Drunk guy: “Shee-it.   Who the hell is that dude???”

CIVIL RIGHTS MOVEMENT?  HEARD OF IT REDNECK???

And on and on it went until The Man offered to change places with me which I politely declined because I knew it was going to take one more jiggle of the empty rum glass or one more stupid comment and my sweet history buff was going to make history of my drunk friend sitting next to me.

I’d like to recommend this movie to you…I think it was really good, but then again being an educated person, I sort of knew how it was all going to shake out.

Jiggle, jiggle…

TSM

It all started innocuously enough.  Mr. C had a little cough.   Not a bad one mind you.   But a cough none the less.   He wanted to go see “Footloose” and to be honest, I did too because nothing makes me happier than going back to the 80′s.    Also mentally at best I am a 12 year old boy in terms of what entertains me so my son and I do very well together.

Before the movie, I asked him repeatedly, “Are you getting sick or is this just allergies?”.     Just allergies he assured me repeatedly though I did have my suspicions.   And it would have all been fine were it not for the popcorn.

Stupid popcorn.

I just had to have some, the smell wafting my way as I joyously danced in my seat embarrassing not only my son but his nice friend that had no idea what he was getting into when he joined us.  See?

The movie was fun.   All Saturday night I recounted with much joy and improvised dance my love for all things 80′s to The Man who eventually tired of me and left me alone to dance on my back porch.   I can only hope the neighbors were asleep.    The fact that most of them are unwilling to make eye contact with me lately leads me to believe they were not…but whatever….a girls gotta bust a move when the mood strikes.

But then there was the next day.  Sunday.  A day that will live in infamy.

Somewhere around 1:00 PM, I had the specific feeling I had been hit square on the chest by a truck.  A big one.   I went to bed and didn’t get up for a very long time.

On Monday morning, Mr. C and I huddled together coughing with blankets wrapped around us.   The Man and Miss G looked upon us with great disdain while keeping a safe distance.    They escaped germ free and went about their lives.   We hated them.

Off to the doctor we went, where I managed to snap this picture of my son in agony because I am the most awesome mom in the history of ever, that’s why:

We were both diagnosed with severe bronchitis, mine bordering on walking pneumonia.   As an added bonus, I had my boss coming into town the next day for a party at an agency for 60 people.   Yes, 60.   It was an 80′s themed party (I KNOW…enough of the 80′s!!) and I pulled it together, and managed not to collapse.

The next day I had lunch with the entire American Airlines team and while the thought of that might scare the shit out of most, I’ve been friends with these people forever so I wasn’t too worried.  Also, at that point, I’d gone back to the doctor, confirmed walking pneumonia that was no longer contagious and been given some lovely cough syrup with codeine. Life at that moment was good, even if my driving was not.  I may or may not have hugged a few of the clients but I do that when I’m not stoned so if they were shocked, they at least hid it well.   I love them for this.

After I had my boss safely on a plane back home, I collapsed with my son and gave into the illness.   Actually I turned my life over to it and prayed for death.  This picture was titled “Black Lung, Day Two” on my facebook page.

Mr. C bounced back at the end of the week and went back to school.   I, on the other hand, fell farther into it all and just decided to never leave bed again…ever.

The following week, I was still sick but had to catch up.  By the end of the week, I felt almost normal.   Mr. C had been back to school, I was caught up at work, and I was really looking forward to going full speed ahead.    One week of full health under our belts, Halloween tackled, and I was excited to close this chapter.

And then?  This?

He had a relapse.   A relapse so bad his bronchial tubes had closed and he wasn’t getting air so we had to go for a breathing treatment.   No chance of him going to school for several days as we loaded him up on inhalers and steroids, I was once again stuck with a wheezing kid who needed a whole lot of love which I was happy to give.

The good news is, we are both fine now.  The bad news is, I’m back.

And now you have to listen to me again.

My apologies.

TSM

We’ve known each other for years.   We sometimes like and sometimes despise each other.   We fight for our kids (some of us go maybe just a little too far here…).     We drive our kids to school, we drive them to practice, we drive them to sporting events…and then we drive some more.   We do the grocery shopping and cooking, we sort the homework, we keep the social schedules of our children and our entire family.   In short, we all work our asses off and no one says thank you.   EVER.

So that got me thinking…

I’ve been watching Occupy Wall Street quite closely on twitter.    I’ve been amused and astounded at what people think are their due.   Spend a day in our shoes and tell me how tough you’ve got it.    You think you are fighting for the common good?    My friends and I, we are raising the future of America and it’s damn tough job.

All of this being said, if this is going to be a national movement, I’d like to start one right here in my home town.  Feel free to append this to fit your own city or neighborhood.   But most of all, feel free to add your own demands…that’s what Freedom of Speech is all about, right?

What follows is a list of my demands for the bubble I live in and they are non-negotiable:

HOUSEHOLD DEMANDS:

• I demand quality time without repercussions.  I don’t want to hear about the hour I spent on myself doing something….selfish.   I earned it.   OWS gets to hang out and sleep in the park?   I get to spend an hour on a mani/pedi and THEN another hour on a massage.
• I demand you pick up your own crap.  I am not your maid.   Your clothes on the floor?   Those toys?   Whatever that cheesy mess is embedded in my carpet?   Is pissing me off.   This isn’t Zucotti Park and in this house?   I am the 1%.
• I demand you not touch your sibling.  Ever again.  Not even at his/her wedding.   Because I’m sick and fucking tired of hearing “He/She touched me!!!”   And I swear to God, if you break out in a fight at a wedding I paid for for either of you?   I’ll beat you over the head with the bridal bouquet just for grins.    I like to think of this as my not so peaceful protest.
• Bathing is not optional and should not require nagging.   Have you seen what some of those protesters look like after three weeks?   Well, I have and let me tell you, it’s only going to go downhill from here for their skin.

DEMANDS FOR THE PUBLIC, ALSO KNOWN AS “BITCHING OF THE COMMONERS”:

• I demand low or no calorie dressing at all restaurants.    I have birthed two children and my metabolism is shit at this point.   I don’t need some fancy pants waiter telling me something is healthy and then finding out it was 3,000 calories….FROM VEGETABLES!!!
• I demand that the guy at the car wash stop flirting with me while trying to up-sell me on “the best wash”.   I’m forty something, you’re twenty something.   I’m no cougar and I’m pretty sure you have better taste.   Really.   It’s not going to work, not now, not ever.  We both know this.
• I demand that all clothes be labeled a size two regardless of what size I, or any of my friends, are.   If OWS can demand equal pay across the board, I can demand equal sizing.
• I demand a personal trainer, and preferably a hot one, come to my house at the hour of my choosing free of charge.   Again, if you guys can ask for free college, I have a right to a free hot bod.   I would also take free liposuction…but again, the doctor must be hot.
• And last of all…I demand a $10,000 stipend for shoes for ALL WOMEN because if we are going to be chasing you kids around, we at least deserve to do it in something that looks like this:

Which reminds me….throw a bottle of champagne into the mix as well dammit.

Yours in solidarity,

TSM

PS:  Have a demand of your own?   Add it below…more is more after all….

I turned into my mother.

I’ve seen her parenting style creep out every once in a while with my kids and I’ve even been known to throw out some of her Jerry’isms.   Here’s a fave:  “If if’s and but’s were candies and nuts, we’d all have a Merry Christmas.” Does that make sense to you?   Me either but it doesn’t stop me from saying it.

The sayings were cute enough and only slightly annoying.    The really annoying stuff happened when she’d misuse a word.   As an example, one time I had a zit the size of Pluto (when it was still a planet) going on.   Back in her day, they called them “hickies”.   You can imagine my shock and dismay to hear her lighting up the phones with her friends, who BTW were the Moms of my friends, proclaiming, “Oh Dear Lord, you should see the size of the hickey on The Stiletto Teen today!!!” And then I’d go to school and everyone would stare at my neck, and most especially my boyfriend who had heard through the grapevine about this monsterous hickey that he didn’t give me, and I’d just be all “Awesome, Mom…thanks for this.”

Then there was the period when my Dad was ill.   Not an easy time and many unsuspecting people would check in with her to see how he was doing.   “How’s Hugh?” they’d ask which seems like an easy enough question to answer because no one really wants to know, they just want you to say “fine”.   My Mother would have them pinned against a wall until their eyes glazed recounting date by date how his condition was deteriorating.    And  then she’d list her own ailments just to round it out.  And then their eyes would roll back in their heads and they would mouth a silent “help!” as they slid to the floor while my Mother continued to talk.

Knowing all that you do now after suffering through this much of my post, I’m sure you can imagine my horror when I found myself doing the same thing.

My transformation started with an eqally innocent question, “How are you?” during a conversation with said old friend the other day.    That single question caused me to morph seamlessly into my mother…I phased really…almost like Jacob in Twilight but a whole lot less sexy.   And I kept my top on.   Thank God.

TSM:   “Well I’m good, all things being considered.   I went to the doctor for my physical the other day and found out I”m statin resistant.   I take Trilipix to control my cholesterol, had I told you that before?  No? Well, I do.    Anyway, it worked the first three months, my levels went down to 206 but then this visit, poof!   They were up to 411 again even though I’ve been taking my medicine.    It’s so bad I have to go to an internist now, have you ever been to an internist?   No? Well apparently this guy is the best according to my doctor and since both my parents died of heart related diseases I’m a little worried.   He says I’m genetically screwed.   Did I tell you both my parents died of heart related diseases before?   No? Well, they did.    Anyway, I’m sure it will be just fine…I’ll probably have to give up red meat which I love but it’s a small price to pay to not to have it get any worse.   Also, my knees have been giving me a positive fit lately.  I may need to go to an orthopedic surgeon to check that out since I’m sure the internist is going to insist that I take up running a few times a week to help with my statin resistant cholesterol.   ::sigh:: Anyway, how are you?”

The good thing here is that my friend is also falling apart  because I got the full run down on a compressed disc and some really nasty headaches he’s been suffering.     Keep in mind here that both of us are in our forties, can you imagine us in our fifties?   Well, I mean if my statin resitant cholesterol doesn’t kill me by then and he’s not paralyzed.   So we have that to look forward to.

Anyway, HOW ARE YOU?

Every year I have watched you.   I have enjoyed seeing some of my favorite shows and actors win awards.   I endured the bad music and the long acceptance speeches.   It wasn’t always easy, but I stayed with you…if for no other reason than out of habit.

But tonight Emmy’s?   Oh dear Lord did you cross a line.    That pirate number with Michael Bolton almost sent this good ‘ol Catholic girl right around the bend.

It wasn’t just that the singing was awful.  And it was awful.   I even tried to look the other way at his crooked moustache.    I did.   It wasn’t that freaky guy standing next to him dressed up like a wave….making waves with his ummm, nether regions.   I even almost made it past the crotch thrusting in front of Bill Macy….almost.   No, it was the line that kept getting repeated over and over again while my 12 year old son watched “It’s not gay if it’s a Thr** W*y” (and for those of you wondering about the odd spelling, you don’t even want to know the type of google hits I’d get if I spelled it out all the way, that’s why.)

Here’s the thing Emmy’s.    I’m pretty open with my son about sex.   I was the one who had to have “the talk” with him.   I”m the one that has to answer questions that quite frankly make me want to spork my eyes out and stick them in my ears because I am so not ready for this.    I do this because my own Catholic  Mom’s answer to my questions about sex was a pat answer, “You’ll burn in hell if you ever do that before you get married” just doesn’t seem right, but God bless her, it’s all she could say before she ran off to do eleventy million rosaries on my behalf.    I’ve taught him to be open and accepting of all types of people, especially gay people, because it’s not his job or mine to sit in judgement of how two people love eachother.

What I did not teach him about, nor did I ever intend to was a thr** w*y.

So you can imagine, Dear Emmy’s, when your tawdry little skit came on at around 8 fucking o’clock when both my kids were still up that it might have caused a little bit of havoc in my normally quiet, yet slightly crazy, home.   Really?   I mean REALLY???   Because most kids in the central time zone aren’t asleep by then, let alone west coast.

I’d really like to thank you for the line of questioning that came next.   Let me give you some insight here:

TSM:   Did you see that?   Do I need to bleach your eyes and ears dear?

Mr. C:   Yeah I did, but didn’t you tell me something about this once?

TSM:  No sir, I most certainly did not.

Mr. C:  But they said “It’s not gay if it’s a thr** w*y and you always said gay was okay?

TSM:   Yes I did, but I never spoke to you about a thr** w*y nor do I ever intend to.

Mr. C:  ::scratches head, wanders off::

TSM: ::flies through house to locate computers before a disasterous google search can be completed, hoping he will forget before the morning::

So yeah, Emmy’s….thanks for that.    Some families watch your show because they expect it to be at least slightly acceptable and entertaining.

Not mine anymore.

PS:  I’m sending you the bill from my shrink that I will no doubt incur as I try to struggle through explaining this to my son who will likely figure it out on his own and then ask me about it forever just to watch me squirm.    You guys are all sorts of awesome this year.

Amidst a world filled with fear and uncertainty during those days following 9/11, Miss G arrived to give everyone around her a sense of the future, a little bit of hope, and a whole bunch of smiles.    The timing of her birth gave our family something to look forward to when the entire country was dark and sad.   She changed things.   She was a light.   She represented the future at a time when it was hard to imagine it.

I think the timing of her birth also signifies something.   She’s a little fighter because she came to us when the world was in chaos.   She’s joy in that she arrived when our family and friends were  sad because of the events that preceded her birth.    She’s the future because she was proof of all the goodness that the world has to offer.

I’m so proud of my little 10 year old daughter…to this day she brings light, humor and love to all that have the chance to know her.   And maybe just a little (a lot, let’s be honest here) of mischief…but that?   Is what makes her special.

I love you my baby, stay sweet, always be yourself, and be proud of who you are….because you are really amazing.

Love and thousands of kisses,

Mama

As always, you need the back story first, don’t you always?   (Just play along with me, nod your heads and roll your eyes when I can’t see you….mmmkay?   Thanks.)

The weekend started off with much promise.   I was off on Friday as well as Monday making for a glorious four day weekend.   The Man and I had plans.   We were going to have a date!    That’s when Hobby Lobby came into the picture.

(Seriously, act like you are still interested….I’m going somewhere with this and it doesn’t involve craft glue, I swear.)

On Saturday, I made the kids go with me to Hobby Lobby to get some things for the remake of Miss G’s room.   She’s tired of the “baby stuff”  (this being hearts, stripes and small furry creatures painted on her wall) and I had found some great ideas on Pinterest.     It was all going so well….Mr. C had his cell phone so I allowed them to roam the store together while I patiently waited for someone to help me in the spray paint isle.      Then I heard it.   The screams.   The endless, sickening screams of a broken bone.   Or in this case a fake injury as the case would have it.

I ran out into the main isle to find one Miss G splayed out on the floor clutching her (unbroken) ankle.   Seriously, it wasn’t even bruised.     Immediately blame was laid upon Mr. C who was standing there looking every bit as confused as the customers who had assembled for what I can only assume was a presentation of  “Worst Mother In The History Of Ever” award for my lack of sympathy.

So I did what any caring frazzled Mother would do.  I assessed the situation, determined there was not a life threatening injury in place, and dragged her butt to the cash register.

But it didn’t stop there.   Oh no, she was just getting fired up.   So much to the point that a woman who appeared to be in her 70′s clutched my arm and said, “You know, it was so much easier raising them in my generation because then you could BEAT THEM IN PUBLIC”.

Yes, people…it was that bad.    And she?  Was grounded for a week.

So this weekend, when one of my bloggy friends, Bobbi in La La Land was in town and I had the chance to sit down with her for a lovely lunch, Miss G was in attendance because she had no choice but to go with me or get sent to live with the mean old lady who wanted to beat her, that’s why.     It started out with the usual squeals of being so happy to see each other and then the introductions ensued.

“Bobbi, meet Miss G….Miss G, meet Bobbi  and Oh. My. God!!!  Why are you wearing my Mother’s antique watch?????”

To be clear here, Miss G was wearing the watch, not Bobbi.   Totally understand my wheels off approach sometimes leaves your head spinning and thankyouverymuch for staying with me this long.   Onward….

The evidence:

See what I deal with?    In her defense, she had no idea how much the watch meant to me and promptly forked it over and spent the remainder of the lunch charming Miss Bobbi.    And it worked.   Her charm knows no bounds…

Bobbi is a sweetheart and apparently a sucker, but at least she knows what I’m dealing with now.  Right, Bobbi?   Anyway, had a great time on our “girls day out” and loved seeing Bobbi.    Look at how we are pretending there isn’t a 9 year old diva in our presence!

The 9 year old Diva in question took that picture by the way.    The good news here is that finally, FINALLY, someone has seen Miss G in action and can be my witness to what I deal with on a daily if not hourly basis.    Maybe someday if any of you are in Dallas you can meet my little Diva too.

Just check your jewelry if she shakes your hand.

I love that little stinker of mine,

TSM