Conversation with my Grandma

Me: And then….
(interrupted by kids screaming with laughter and cutting up)
Me: (hissing) Boys! I can’t hear myself think much less Grandma talk!
Grandma: Awwww. Sure sounds like they’re having fun! I can hear them laughing!
Me: Sigh. They’re farting on each other, Grandma.
Grandma: Hee heee heeee. Sounds like they’re having a lot of fun though.

 

Dear John,

I wrote a Dear John letter today. No really! I wrote a real, honest-to-God letter. Who writes handwritten notes anymore? I swear I’ve forgotten how to write!! It’s becoming a lost art.

I wrote to each of my coaches for baseball, thanking them for their help. One of them just happened to be named John. But I laughed like a lunatic after writing out Dear John. Ok, I crack myself up. Shut up. It was funny. You had to be there. ANYWAY.

It got me thinking about handwritten notes. Last month I got a handwritten letter from my 89 year old grandmother. She used to write me letters all the time, but she hasn’t written one in at least 10 or 15 years, probably longer. I suspect that it will probably be the last letter I ever get from her as with her age, she finds writing difficult now. But she wanted to thank me for some things I did for her when I was there in April. Sniff. Just the fact that I got a letter from her made me all verklempt.

While I appreciate the speed of technology, sometimes I think a good, old-fashioned, handwritten letter is the best way to communicate. When was the last time YOU sent a handwritten letter?

 

Tongue Kissing Buffalo in Sequim

We went to Sequim, WA last weekend and we loved it so much, we’re going back this summer for our vacation. We decided we’d leave a smaller carbon footprint this year by exploring Washington instead of traveling halfway around the world. And to our surprise, there was so much to do in Sequim, we didn’t even make a dent in it all.

We got all Cape Cod, Martha’s Vineyard and dug for clams like the Kennedys. Except I’m sure the Kennedys have their servants dig the clams for them. But still. It was so hunter-gatherer! And Doooooode! Clams really do spit! I had clam loogies all over me. I didn’t eat the clams (the whole vegetarian issue and all), and son #2 wasn’t a fan, but Steve and son #1 made pigs of themselves. And paging Dr. Freud? Have you seen clams? The kids kept referring to the neck of the clam that sticks out as “clam wang.” (I know, precious little creatures of God, aren’t they?)

We also took the kids fishing several times. Steve made the big catch on our Puget Sound fishing excursions:

Yes folks, he caught a crab. Go Steve. You stud!

The next day, he had to hang his head in shame as I caught a 5 lb trout, just a few ounces shy of a record for where we were fishing. We were fishing on private property and when the guy who owned the property saw my fish, he asked what I caught him with. There had been a huge array of fancy baits all splayed out but I had gone to car and gotten a piece of bread and marshmallows. When I informed him that I had used a marshmellow I dug out of the car, he was all shocked and walked away muttering “Never had no damn marshmellows in my water EVER.” lol.

The last place we went before returning home was the Olympic Game Farm. You drive through acres of open land and the animals come up to your car. You can feed them through the windows of your car. This was a fantastic experience. I loved it. Right up until a smelly buffalo came and stuck his head through the car window and tried to molest me with it’s 7 inch tongue. It licked all over the head rest and the side of the car while I screamed. On the plus side, Steve invited his new friend over for dinner next week.

 

The buffalo is totally NOT invited.

 

Sick day. But not like you think.

Arggg. You know when you’ve come to a point where you’re just so emotionally fried it’s hard to function? Yeah. I’m there.

Yesterday after baseball practice, Steve and I finished loading the equipment into the car. I turned around and said “Where’s son #2?” We both turned in a wide circle and there was no son #2. We walked back to the field to check the field and playground. No son #2. I starting calling him. No answer. No son #2 as far as the eye can see. I have nightmares like this. Only this one was real. I started calling more frantically. There were some parents who know us who started helping us look. I. was. freaking. out. Steve started on a lap all the way around the school. I started digging in my pocket for my cell phone to call 911. A parent suddenly yells to look over on the hilltop that’s behind the school, where there is a grove of trees. I have forbidden both kids to ever go up there because unsavory characters hang out there AND they could easily be kidnapped unseen from there. And yet? As I started running that way, it did appear that son #2 was up there. When I finally got close enough to see it was him, I almost threw up. I totally lost it. This is my recurrent nightmare. I felt sick for hours afterward.

If that wasn’t bad enough, the phone rang late last night. You know when the phone rings late and you just know it’s nothing good? And you want to freeze that moment in between what you know and are now and the next moment when some sort of hell is going to let loose on you? You just want to run away from the phone and go hide in a hole and not come out. Because in the last few years, when the phone has rung late at night, it’s always been death on the other end. And so it was last night. Steve answered the phone “Hi, Mom!” then “WHAT?!?!?” And the last two times he had said ‘what’ that way, someone had died. My favorite relative on Steve’s side of the family was found dead yesterday. She’s young- early 50’s with four kids. OMFG. Now the sick feeling won’t go away.

I am spent. I can’t seem to get it together today. Sigh.

 

Brotherly love

Oh it’s on now!

Steve’s brother: BRO! I got some sparring gear! Make sure you bring your sparring gear next time you come down.
Steve: Ok.
Steve’s brother: Oh! And you better make sure you bring a mouthguard.
Steve: In that case, you better be sure you get a cup.

Sigh. They’re going to beat the hell out of each other. And I want a front row seat. ;D

 

Battle of the trash can…

My grandmother is very much a daughter of the Great Depression. She raised her children to be pack rats savers too. This is the generation that doesn’t waste or throw anything out. Really, this generation was the early reuse/recycle “green” generation. They haven’t gotten the memo on “disposable.” While I was there, my grandmother kept washing and trying to reuse paper plates and plastic disposable cups. She won’t wash her clothes after she wears them because she doesn’t want to wear them out. I literally had to steal her clothes and run with them to put them in the washing machine. With her yelling “COME BACK HERE!” after me and me yelling back “YOU GOTTA CATCH ME FIRST, GRANDMA!” (Yeah, like I’m going to let here REWEAR. Um, highly illegal. Hell no.) She brought my aunt a sandwich in a sanitary napkin bag she recycled. LOL! (And if you were wondering, my aunt refused to eat the sandwich and tossed it when Grandma wasn’t looking.) She’s a saver that Grandma.

Of the six children, my Aunt Judy really took the “throw nothing away” to heart. I can remember when I was growing up, being amazed at the stuff she saved, things like twist ties, drive thru napkins and drinking straws and ketchup packets from fast food restaurants. This behavior utterly horrifies her daughters, especially my cousin, Alesia. Every time she visits my aunt, she throws a bunch of stuff away.

On Saturday, Alesia pulls me aside and whispers “You would not BELIEVE the sh!t I’ve thrown away this time!” I immediately start laughing. “No seriously, and Mom keeps digging through the trash and finding the sh!t I’ve thrown away.” I’m laughing pretty hard at this point, because she isn’t joking. “Get your camera.” she says. I’ve got an ear to ear grin and I go grab the camera. “I tried to throw away this junk magnet she got in the mail, from an attorney with a 2006 calendar on it? She dug it out the trash!”

“Look! She’s still washing out and saving ziploc bags!”

“And look at this! Rubber bands, twist ties, all kinds of crap. I threw some of it away and she caught me and do you know what? She called me a BITCH! My own mother!”

By this time I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. We’re whispering and laughing in the kitchen and I’m opening the cabinets and taking pictures. But then? Aunt Judy hears us and yells from the other room “WHAT ARE YA’LL DOING IN THERE?!” We both freeze. Me with the camera in my hand, pointed at the cabinets, Alesia whispering in my ear. We both must have looked guilty as hell because she gets up and comes to the door of the kitchen. “What the HELL?! …..Are ya’ll taking pictures of my Tupperware shrine?!” Alesia and I look at each other “Yeah Mom, we’re taking pictures of the Tupperware shrine!”

She turned around and left and we cracked up again. Except…..several minutes later she came back in and caught us again, this time I was no where near the Tupperware shrine. She narrows her eyes at me “WHAT ARE YOU TWO UP TO?!” I said “Um… nothin’! Hey look! A bunch of wine corks!”

Proudly she tells me that it’s from all the wines she and my uncle have had. (See? Distract and mislead!) I snuck around the kitchen some more and captured saved bottle caps,

jars and bottles,

empty prescription medicine bottles,

bags.

You won’t believe what was found in her car.

Yep, that’s an early 80’s cell phone, folks. And she won’t throw it away because she says she might need to call 911. We couldn’t convince her that the phone would no longer work. She might sell it on Ebay if any of you are in the market for an antique. Or a movie prop. ;D

We went back into the kitchen and were writing on her to do list.

Alesia wrote: Clean off my door.
Then I walked by and wrote: Go trash diving for all the things Alesia threw away.
Then Alesia walked back by and wrote: Don’t look in neighbor’s trash! (3 doors down)
I pointed out that Alesia’s last “to do” entry could be more embarassing than anything, because most certainly she was going to be digging around in the neighbor’s trash now. LOL. Anyway, I got caught again and Alesia threw me under the bus. “She’s blogging it, Mom!” Aunt Judy looks from me to Alesia. I decided to go for broke: “Give up the straws and the ketchup packets, Lady. I know they’re somewhere around here.” Alas, she says that with no small children in the house anymore, she doesn’t do fast food. I’m skeptical. We probably just didn’t look hard enough. ;D

So there you have it folks. That’s what being green in the 1930’s was. And in a very 2008 kinda way, Alesia will continue her battle with my aunt and the trash can. ;D

 

Words of Wisdom from my uncle…

“When you want the truth, you go to the horse’s mouth, not his ass.” LOL!

 

Punching order…

Steve and I are laying in bed reading with the kids in between us, when someone decides to pinch me.
Me: WHO is pinching me?!?!
(hysterical laughter from all three of them)
Me: Stop pinching me!
(PINCH!)
Me: All right, next pinch I’m going to start punching….in order of proximity!
Steve: Oh good! Cuz I’ll be gone by the time you get to me….

 

Tournament Results

You’ve all been on pins and needles waiting for the results, haven’t you? ;) I have to say that the tournament was a great experience for everyone. It wasn’t what I expected, but we’re all ready to do it again. Having been a swimmer my whole life, for some reason I expected the tournament to go like a swim meet, with everything going on in a linear, serial order. As it turned out, there were 9 rings and at one point three Teixeiras were in three of those rings AT THE SAME TIME. Because of the confusion and everything going on at once, while Steve and son #1 were watching son #2’s fight, they completely missed me and my fights. I was jumping up and down waving in my ring trying to get their attention, but alas, they weren’t even looking in my direction.

There are two types of things you can do at the tournament. You can show Kata, which is a series of fight moves, sort of like a routine or there is Kumite which is fighting (sparring). In my style of martial arts, Hapkido, we don’t do Kata, but Steve and the kids do. So Steve and son #1 entered the Kata divisions for their ages and belt ranks. Son #2 is still in the little kids’ classes where they don’t even learn a full Kata yet, so he didn’t feel comfortable entering Kata. Our intention was that son #2 was going to watch this time. However, Saturday morning he woke up and first insisted, then demanded that we let him enter the Kumite division. Son #2 has never sparred. The little kids do not spar until they are older. The only sparring son #2 has done was in our living room, with us, about 3 months ago. After much insistence and howling, we finally agreed to let him spar and I prayed it would go well for him. Son #1’s sensei had already taken me aside and told me that she did not think son #1 should spar because he is still not 100% from his broken hip. Two other senseis that know son #1 well also said we should not let him spar in this tournament. Son #1 was MOST unhappy about this, let me tell you. As it turned out, that was really good advice. The kids fighting in son #1’s division were much more experienced fighters and I have no doubt there’s a good chance he could have gotten hurt.

So anyway, Steve was first showing Kata. Here’s Steve showing his stuff:

He won a fourth place medal. YAY STEVE! I actually thought Steve’s Kata was going to score him even higher, because I thought his was cleaner and better than the other guys. He thinks he may have made a technical error when he bowed to the judges that lost him some points. That’s the thing about us being so new to all this. We don’t even know all the rules yet.

Son #1 was up next with his Kata. He did a beautiful job. Probably the best I’ve ever seen him do it. There were a ton of kids in his division so I was worried about him placing. However he earned himself a fourth place medal as well! YAY SON #1!!!

Halfway through his Kata, I noticed that Steve was beating people up over there in ring #7 (all the way on the other side of the gym) and son #2 was getting ready to fight in the ring next to son #1. I was running back and forth between the three rings. Let’s say it together: THREE RING NIGHTMARE!

I did manage to catch a few shots of Steve’s first fight before I had to run back. He kicked ass and took names (look at the look on his face):

We had planned on video taping the fights and posting them for your perusal, however we have a semi-new video camera and I could not figure out how to get it to work and I couldn’t ask Steve because he was…well, busy. Steve lost his next fight. However, everyone who saw the fight, said Steve won the match. I had to watch bits and pieces of his second match from across the gym. I didn’t get to see most of the fight. We’re thinking there was some kind of conspiracy going on. That’s my theory anyway. We think there might have been a second kicker on the grassy knoll. Anyway, Steve did not place in sparring.

With Steve just finishing up and son #2 starting his division *I* got called for my fight. GAH! This was totally nerve wracking. There was no way I was leaving son #2 to fight in his first-ever sparring match alone. I found a mom I knew to keep an eye on him while I ran to other side of the gym and checked in. I spent the next 20 minutes running back and forth between my ring and son #2’s ring. I was truly terrified for him. There were a ton of kids in his division (7 and 8 year olds) and son #2 just turned 7. Although he is huge for his age, there were some ginormous kids about to turn 9 that must have outweighed him by 50 pounds. And many of these kids looked like they had done a good amount of sparring. It was enough to make me weak in the knees. I prayed he wouldn’t get hurt. He’s a really tough kid, but yikes! In the end, he did fantastic. It still brings tears to my eyes. Son #2 ended up winning a sixth place medal. Gutsy kid, eh? He’s a natural born fighter like his father.

So then it was my turn. Do you know what my biggest fear going into this tournament was? That I would get disqualified for power (hitting too hard.) Since most of my experience is sparring with men, I tend to hit a lot harder than most other women. Also under pressure, I hit hard. Sigh. So I spent most of the several days beforehand worrying about getting disqualified. Hapkido sparring has different rules. I didn’t even know all the rules for this style of fighting. I listened in on the rules in son #2’s ring. However, I later learned that each ring’s judge can amend or alter the rules. My ring judge never went over the rules. Turns out in his ring, the head and face aren’t targets. Which is unfortunate, because I really love to go head hunting. So I actually ended up losing one of my fights because after repeatedly getting called for power, he started deducting points. I wasn’t being defiant. The woman I was sparring against had been given some very poor advice before the match. They told her to charge. So every time the judge yelled go, she charged at me like a bull, outweighing me by probably 100 pounds yelling like a lunatic. And every single time, I first put a foot in her belly, then a right and a left to her head. Every time. She just kept charging me. Charging is extremely dangerous. If you’re fighting someone with poor control, you could be very seriously injured. And the judge was getting angrier and angrier at me for hitting her in the head but she was shorter than me and bent over charging so I really had no other targets. It was extremely frustrating to lose this match. I mean losing a fight because you hit too hard? Sigh. After the match she said “We could fight 999 more times and I’d never beat you again. That was a total fluke.” Sigh. My other fight was over in less than 2 minutes. I beat her 3-0. She never even got to touch me. In fact when the judge said go and she put both fists turned towards her body and in front of her face, I actually felt sorry for her. I almost said “Honey, you don’t want to fight me like that. I’m gonna knock one of those fists into your own face.” But I didn’t. I just kicked her until I won. And so? I WON A HUGE THIRD PLACE TROPHY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Unfortunately there are no photos since the whole family missed my fights. I don’t even have a decent picture of me with the trophy because Steve gave son #1 the camera and well….he’s not a good photographer.

Steve SAYS he has video of me getting my trophy, but it turns out we do not have a cable we need to download it to the computer. When/if he gets the cable, I’ll post it. If you’re wondering about the black gi (uniform) in a sea of white uniforms, it’s because 90% of the people at this tournament were Karate people who wear white gis. We wear black in Hapkido. It’s not a good vs. evil thing. ;D

So there it is, folks, our first karate tournament.

 

 

 

The worst advice my parents ever gave me…

Steve and I were talking about the kids the other day and we were talking about colleges and how we didn’t have anything vested in where they went to college. We’ve also repeatedly told the kids that when they grow up, they should do whatever makes them happy. They should pick a major and career that they love. Because we both believe that the key to happiness in life is doing what you love. I’ve mentioned before that I’m back in school on Fridays taking art classes. My parents never felt “Art” was a worthy major and repeatedly told me that I would never make any money doing it. Because to my parents, being happy in life is equivalent to making lots of money. And unfortunately, I listened to this advice and changed my major. This is probably my greatest regret in life. I love art. There’s something magic that happens inside me when I put a brush to canvas or sink my hands into clay on a pottery wheel. It’s soul satisfying. So every Friday, I’m back at the pottery wheel and every Friday I am reminded how much I truly love art. I’m considering going back for my master’s degree in art, although I think I need to wait until the kids are a little older and self sufficient.

Terrible piece of advice #2: There’s nothing wrong with the kids, they’ll be fine/outgrow it/ you’re making him have something wrong. My oldest child has severe sensory integration. He has an ADHD diagnosis, hypotonia (low muscle tone throughout his body) and dysgraphia. On some level, I’ve known since he was an infant that “something was wrong” but every time I voiced my fears, my parents said he’ll be fine/ you’re going to make something wrong etc, etc. He wasn’t diagnosed until he was five. And for those first two to three years after diagnosis my parents fought me tooth and nail about getting him therapy and help. They insisted nothing was wrong with him. They insisted therapy was a waste of time. At 10, he has come a long way, but is still receiving special education assistance. I can not fathom what his life would be like had I listened to that terrible piece of advice. Son #2 would even be worse off. He had significant developmental delays in speech and social areas. I didn’t wait or listen with him. He started various therapies at 16 months old. At seven, he is still receiving private therapy, but he no longer needs special education assistance in school. I am grateful every single day that I didn’t listen to their advice to ignore what I knew was something wrong.

Perhaps the absolutely BEST piece of advice my parents gave me was to dump Steve. When we met, Steve had a major heart condition, called Wofle Parkinson White Syndrome. He nearly died from it one night early in our relationship. His heart went into atrial fibrillation. After hours, I finally convinced him to go to the hospital by telling him I was calling 911 AND the police if he didn’t go. Two minutes after we walked in the door of the hospital, Steve had a blood pressure of 86/84 (no blood pressure) and a heartbeat of 320 beats per minute. Every available nurse, doctor and paramedic was in the room trying to save him. At one point, I heard two nurses saying he wasn’t going to make it. Steve was finally properly diagnosed a few weeks later. He had surgery later that year to correct it and now has normal heart function. My mother constantly told me “You should NOT be involved with anyone with a medical condition.” What was truly behind my parents motivation was that Steve did not come from a wealthy family. And the real reason was that he wasn’t rich. He was from “the other side of the tracks.” I am so grateful Every. Single. Day. that I ignored this advice.

I hope that I never give my children advice based on my own baggage or motivations. That my judgement is not clouded by my own aspirations for them, but by what is truly best for them. So how about you? What was the worst piece/pieces of advice your parents ever gave you?

 

Horizontal blogging, better than throwing up….

I’m trying something new today. It’s called horizontal blogging. I chose this new style of blogging because laying down is so much better than sitting  up. Also because every time I sit up, I get dizzy and want to throw up. I haven’t had the flu since the early 90’s when I was working in a high school and they made me get a flu shot. Which gave me the flu every flippen year.  They used the live virus back in those days. Consequently I’ve refused to get a flu shot ever since and I’ve done fine thankyouverymuch.

Until last Friday. I was feeling smug and triumphant because for 2 weeks I had managed to avoid the illness that had taken out the rest of the family. Then last Friday I started sneezing hard enough to blow off the top of my head. And then my hose nose started to run. OMYGAWD, did it run. By Saturday I woke up as a gargoyle. I had one eye partially swollen shut, a Rudolph red nose, and sinus pain so bad in my face and teeth, I could barely move. Moving my eyes was so painful. As soon as I stood up, I think the top of my head did explode, cuz Holy Shiites it hurt. Steve had also taken a turn for the worst. To illustrate how much pain I was in, I AGREED TO GO TO THE ER! ‘Member I said I wouldn’t go unless I was unconscious or dying? Well lemme tell you, the pain was so bad, death would have been welcome. Lemme just say though at this point? Had the ER docs actually done their jobs and tested us for the flu? I might be sitting upright right now and not wished I were dead all week. Steve and I just got sicker and sicker. And by Tuesday we had a doctor come out to the house because neither of us could sit upright. THIS doctor recognized the signs and tested us for flu. Well, she tested Steve while I looked on in horror as she shoved a giant Q tip 6 inches into his nose. I looked at her and told her I was going to throw up on her if she did that to me. He tested positive immediately. Excpet by this time it was too late for Tamaflu. Oh and if you were wondering? Steve had a flu shot this year. Which makes me giggle. Stupid, useless flu shots I HATE THEM!

So here I lay, laptop burning a hole in my lap, eyeballs moving painfully in their sockets, and feeling like I might throw up on you. Comments left unanswered, kleenex shoved into each nostil, and all I can do is hope that tomorrow might be the day I can sit up. I haven’t forgotten about you dear internetz, I’m just trying to keep from throwing up or passing out. Oh which reminds me, Steve has never passed out before so he didn’t recognize the signs, and when the world went black, he tried to stumble blindly around the kitchen and ran into cabinets like a bumper car until he fell down. Then he decided to lay there awhile hoping someone would find him. Son #2 eventually did, however did not find it odd to wake up and find Daddy on the kitchen floor. He stood over Steve’s carcass and proceeded to prattle on and on about dragons and swords, never wondering WHY Daddy was on the floor. lol. I have instructed him for future reference that it is NOT normal to find people on the kitchen floor and it would probably be a good idea to come get me next time.

We are pathetically sick over here. So send some well vibes our way, people. I desperately want to feel better!

 

It was NOT “like that”

I’ve spent most of the last twenty years saying that. I’ve been around since my brother in law was 9. This kid has been a handful since the day he was born. By a year old he would regularly paint his bedroom walls with poop. By the time he was 5, he was cutting kindergarten. By the time I came along, this kid had trouble down pat. And when he got caught? He always said “It was like that.” Through the years I’ve noticed that Steve and his sister use “it was like that” and now, my own son regularly responds with “it was like that!” Which causes a full body spasm, arms waving, eyes rolling into the back of the head, teeth clenched while I yell “IT WAS NOT ‘LIKE THAT’ !!!!!!!!!!!”

Over Christmas Steve’s sister broke his mom’s computer and so he got her on the phone and said “What the hell did you do to mom’s computer?!” Her answer? “It was like that.” Staci, IT WAS NOT “LIKE THAT”!!!!!!!!!

The kitchen sink was completely stopped up the other morning and I had to call a plumber AGAIN. I’m staring into the sink all annoyed and said to Steve “You put coffee grounds and egg shells down the disposal again, didn’t you?!” And do you know what he had the nerve to say?! “It was like that when I woke up.”

Nothing makes me snap like those four little words. Son #1 threw a bunch of little army men all over the floor of son #2’s room this morning. Upon being confronted, he said “It was like that!” GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IT WAS NOT “LIKE THAT”!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

After twenty years, Steve’s brother can’t even look me in the eye and say “it was like that” without starting to laugh. Because immediately my face goes all purple, eyes start rolling back and my mouth opens to scream. And just for the record IT WAS NOT LIKE THAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

I’m a fighter not a lover…

Uh, ya’ll? You should see my face today. I’ve got dark shadows under each eye, the bridge of my nose hurts and my eyes are all swollen. Apparently in sparring class, I WAS NOT PROTECTING MY HEAD! Son #1 was cleared to return to contact sports on Friday so he attended the sparring class. He’s responsible for the left eye. As soon as he started sparring, he was throwing full force punches and kicks and charging in at me. I know from last week, when I hit a twelve year old black belt squarely in the face when he charged me, that this is what I do under pressure. What happens is that once you get hit pretty hard and your heart rate and adrenaline shoot up, you lose the ability to think and can only react. Good fighters want you in that position. Inexperienced fighters do it but without knowing they’re doing it. I was terrified that I was going to seriously hurt my own child, so I was not hitting back. I was losing my cool with him because he was reckless and throwing wild haymakers. Ergo, I was taking a beating, while not making contact with him. By the third round sparring with him, I’d had it. So every time he came charging in, I put him on the ground. I figured that was probably the safest place for him. Plus, it made me laugh when he was all sprawled out on the ground and I hadn’t even hit him. Martial arts are cool. lol.

You’ll be happy to know that Steve did not cause any of the damage to my face yesterday. We were both pretty tired by the time we got to spar each other. It was hard to even lift our arms. My feet felt like they were glued to the ground. Whew. People see us walking out of sparring class and say “Wow, all of you come here? Things must get pretty interesting in your house!” To which I always reply “Ever seen the movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith? It’s like that.”

I’m a fighter, not a lover anyway. ;D

 

On life and death….

Have you ever noticed that when someone dies, you do/say the strangest things? I’m not talking about what other people say to the person grieving (those idiotic things are an entirely different blog post) but the things you find yourself doing and saying?

When Steve’s grandmother died, the paramedics left her in the middle of the floor. When we got there, I could not tolerate seeing her laying on the floor so I organized five of us to lift her onto the bed. And as soon as we got her onto the bed, which was extremely difficult, I said “Wow that was….” and my voice trailed off because I was about to say “like lifting a dead body.” Duh. Points for the brainiac.

And when his grandfather died? I brought clean underwear to the funeral home. How many dead people do you know need clean underwear? But somehow this was important to me.

Steve’s uncle used Pop’s cell phone to call me in the days after he died and when my caller ID came up “Pop” I caught myself cheerfully chirping “Hi Pop!” into the phone. I can’t count how many times I have picked up the phone to call him since he died, even though with his deafness, I had to yell through all conversations with an ear to ear grin and somehow I had forgotten he wasn’t here anymore….

I was in the bathroom getting ready for the funeral and Steve poked his head in and said “Stay out of the garbage!” Neither of us had slept in days and we both had dark black circles under our eyes. “Huh?” I said “You look like a raccoon!” he said when he was walking away. “Stay out of the garbage!” has been our catchphrase ever since when things are bad and no one has slept.

When my own grandfather died, I remember being concerned about leaving him all alone at the funeral home after the wake. Why? Because he might be LONELY? It truly blows the mind….

What got me thinking about all this was that my aunt called because her mother in law had died and I am reminded of the staggering grief and the ridiculous things you find yourself doing when someone dies. And how angry you feel at the sun for shining, people going about their business as if nothing has happened, and time for marching on oblivious to my pain. But alas……. I forgot to tell her to stay out of the garbage…. Mrs. Boudreaux will be sorely missed….

 

Oh Snow, how I love thee! It’s your cousin Ice, that I hate….

Having lived my entire life without snow, when we moved here three years ago, we were SO excited about the snow! We LOVE the snow! We check the weather reports repeatedly all winter anticipating the snow. It crushes our very souls when the promised snow is not delivered and Steve and I run around like kids when the heavens rain down the sweet, fluffy whiteness and turn our world into a winter wonderland. I mentioned we love the snow, right? The first snow of the year, I lay in wait for the kids to get off the bus, then POW! I hit them with snowballs. Did I say we LOVE the snow yet?!?!

This love of snow is in stark contrast to my dear friend Ree, who is from Michigan and refers to snow by it’s more common name, suck-ass snow. Actually my day is not complete until Ree says suck-ass snow. Because it’s funny. Because I don’t think it sucks at all.

I was beginning to see her point last night though, when I stepped out the car and was hit in the face with a snowball by a child who does not wish to see adulthood. The thing about snow is that it’s cold and it dribbles all into your clothes and slips down your cleavage in a most uncomfortable fashion. However, I discovered something else that I really don’t like even more. It’s called SUCK-ASS ICE! Oh yes. Steve’s car slid out of the driveway last night and I almost died today slipping on black ice…..We do NOT like SUCK-ASS ICE.

 

Call me Sporto again and I’m going to the bonfire…

I forgot to tell you guys that I got invited to a bonfire by a nineteen year old friend of my cousin. It’s funny to even type that. Anyway when Steve called that night I told him about it and he flipped. He got ALL jealous and chit. I’m still grinning because it’s funny. Then he’s hanging up and calls me Sporto. We all know how I feel about being called SPORTO so I issued the following threat: “If you call me Sporto again or any other variation of Sporto I AM SO GOING TO THE BONFIRE!” Guess what? He didn’t call me Sporto for the rest of the trip. ;D So that’s my new threat. I’m going to the bonfire with a nineteen year old! Seriously! How many of you can say that? ;D Ok, maybe the nineteen year olds can. But I got T-shirts older than this kid!

Speaking of teenage boys, Dooooode. Auntie Cutsupalot has a sixteen year old boy. OMFG. Do you know how much a sixteen year old can EAT?!?!? OMG!!!!!!!!!!! They eat you out of house and home! And by the third day, Cousin Eatsalot managed to show up every time there was food around. He also had this uncanny knack for walking in the door everytime I took doberge out the fridge. Finally I said “What? Can you just hear it come out of the fridge?” Since he lives across the street, I suppose it’s possible……Maybe there was an alarm on the fridge? Seriously. Cousin Eatsalot can EAT and he apparently has the same junkie tendencies towards doberge that I do….

Cousin Smart Ass showed up on Saturday all sniffly. Knowing about my germaphobia, she said she thought it was allergies. However, about an hour after she got there, I found her in the kitchen, taking swigs from a bottle of Benedryl. Her mom rushed in all concerned asking “Did you read the directions on that?” She pauses with the bottle midway to her mouth and said something along the lines of “Yeah, it said take some until your nose stops running.” A few swigs after her mother left she leaned close and said “How much of this shit can I take before it kills me?” I said “I think 100 mg before it knocks you out.” She whispers “You think I had less than a 100 mg?” It’s unlikely with the way she was drinking it, but I didn’t want to tell her that. As it turned out, about an hour later cousin smart ass was HIGH. All stumbling around, drowsy eyelided, saying funny stuff. It’s why she couldn’t even be consulted about the green etoufee. As she’s getting ready to leave, she sees my aunt’s cat and says loudly “I AM ALLERGIC TO CATS! DO YOU SEE MY EYES? THIS IS WHY I HAD SNOT RUNNING DOWN TO MY KNEES MOST OF MY LIFE! IT WAS BECAUSE OF (HER SISTER’S) DAMN CATS!” Then she staggered out the door still trying to pretend she wasn’t sick OR high. I poked my head out the door after her “You aren’t going to drive in that condition are you?” All indignant she says “Of course I am. I AM FIIIIINNNNNNNNEEEEEE.” And she slams the car door and backs out the driveway all crooked. She called me two days later to confess that she really was sick and the cats only made her more snotty. lol.

My last day there I was supposed to go visit Cousin Smart Ass and Cousin Etoufee Fixer, but Grandma woke up in pretty bad condition. We had to make her stay in bed all day. And if you were wondering? If you call the on-call doctor with an urgent medical concern? In Louisiana, he doesn’t call back. They just pretend to have on-call doctors there. Like when Fry’s Electronics pretends they have merchandise on sale… She seemed a little better by nightfall but not herself.

The trip seemed a little too short and I didn’t get to spend nearly enough time with everyone. We lit fireworks on our last night, but it was clear my children had never grown up around fireworks. Everytime one was lit, son #1 was rushing AT the impending explosion instead of AWAY from it with me screaming “GET BACK! GET BACK!” I swear that kid is determined not to live to adulthood. Sigh.

I had to have doberge for breakfast before I left, because it will be my birthday before I get any more. Uncle Fart stopped by to say goodbye on his way back from a hunting trip. The trip home was fairly uneventful although we did have to do the Houston Hustle again. We made it back in time on New Year’s Eve for me to slip into complete exhaustion and fall asleep at 10:30. I know. It was all the doberge…. ;D

 

Delicious and….. green……

I think I got side-tracked hiding bodies and forgot to tell you about the rest of my Louisiana trip.

There are certain foods I can only get in Louisiana. My absolute favorite is called doberge cake. Years ago you could ONLY get this cake at a handful of bakeries in the New Orleans area. Since hurricane Katrina, regional Louisiana foods have spread out a little. I even saw doberge at a grocery store. And being the sick, sick, doberge addict that I am, I had to try it. The cake wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t Gambino’s. I don’t think they quite understood the intricasies of making a good doberge. I’ve tried making a doberge cake at home and discovered that it uses every damn pan and dish in the kitchen and I still couldn’t quite get it right. Sigh. Every year for my birthday I have one flown in from Gambino’s instead.

So Saturday morning was devoted to acquiring doberge. I was edgy because I’d been there 48 hours already and hadn’t had doberge. I don’t get my doberge and I hide bodies. I stopped at Gambino’s and they have bite sized cakes and so I picked up a few squares of red velvet cake, another food I have trouble finding outside of Louisiana. However, I’m backing out of my parking space, slam on the brakes, throw open the door and let it all fall out my mouth onto the concrete. My aunt looks at me in dismay and yells “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” I wiped my mouth and said quite seriously “Life’s too short to eat bad food. It was dried out and chokey. Bleckkk. Hand me a doberge square.” Yes, I had to have some squares as a precursor to the two doberge cakes I just bought because it would be, like, a half hour before I could cut into the cake. I know. I’ve got a problem. Better than crack though….

One of my young cousins stopped by on Saturday. She’s in her very early 20’s, unwed and the mother of a 13 month old. Dad’s already abandoned them. (I’d start on a tirade here about what the hell is wrong with the world bringing all these children into it without two parents, but then I’d get side tracked and all, like I did with the cake. I’m still thinking about the cake, by the way. I like cake. Mmmmm dobergey goodness…..) ANYWAY, I was talking to her about her plans for the future and her plans to support this baby and herself. She was in nursing school when she became pregnant and I encouraged her to go back. She had already applied to go back but get this…..My UNCLE (her father! Not Uncle Fart.) told her not to waste her time going to school, to just find someone to take care of her and the baby. WTF?!?! Who gives that kind of advice to their children!?!?! Don’t be self sufficient! Find someone to depend on! OMFG!!!! I almost fell off my chair. I alternated between wanting to go over and kick his ass and..no….you’re right, I didn’t alternate. Just wanted to kick his ass. What kind of mentality is that?!?! LAWWWWDDD HAVE MERCY! This is what is wrong with the world! Sigh.

I think I forgot to mention that I’d been inviting relatives over every night and cooking. Grandma really enjoys the constant parade of people that make their way over when I’m in town. There was only one minor problem in that I made a huge pot of cuban black beans and certain unnamed relatives were um, banned by their spouses from ever eating beans again because of the um, reprocussions….or percussions as the case may be… No mo’ comment on the beans…

So on Saturday, I promised to make a huge pot of crawfish etoufee. I’d connect you to the wikipedia link on it, except the information in it is wrong. Etoufee means smothered in French (smothered vegetables.) Etoufee is a cajun dish that you used to really only be able to find in the Acadiana region of Louisiana. As the regional lines have blurred in Louisiana and cajun food has become more popular, you’re able to find cajun food in New Orleans. However, if you want a true etoufee, eat it in Acadiana.

The creole influence brought rich, tomato based dishes to Louisiana cuisine. Cajun purists will tell you that a true etoufee has no tomato sauce in it. But as I said, regional lines have blurred and some of the people in my family have started using tomato sauce in the etoufee while others use the “white sauce.” So before I even started cooking, the tomato sauce argument started. And it was a loud argument, lemme tell you. To be honest, I make it both ways. My grandmother made it with tomato sauce, and Auntie Cutsupalot makes it with tomato sauce, but my mother and another one of my aunts use the white sauce. I had intended on being a cajun purist that day and making it with the white sauce (which isn’t really white at all, you should know.) Now before I go on, the information vital to understanding what happened next is this: THE ENTIRE EFFIN’ FAMILY HAS SEVERE A.D.D.!!!! Seriously. The attention span of a gnat’s. And they all get distracted by bright, shiny objects. So with all of them flitting about the kitchen, still arguing about the tomato sauce, I started putting people to work. The Holy Trinity needed to come together. For those of you unfamiliar with the religion of cooking, the Holy Trinity is onions, garlic and bell peppers if you’re from Louisiana. Some people say onions, garlic and celery. All food in Louisiana starts with a roux and the Holy Trinity. I needed things chopped. And the rule about too many cooks in the kitchen in Louisiana? You just try and keep them out. A fricken’ stranger will go behind you and season your gumbo. Doesn’t matter. Everybody’s gotta fix it.

So I assign Auntie Cutsupalot to chopping. And I showed her the recipe sitting right next to her. Not that any of us usually cook with a recipe, but in this case, for so many people, I did not want any mishaps. I had to leave the kitchen for a minute due to hearing too many children in the bathroom and voices that sounded like MY children. When I returned Auntie had dumped it all in the pot and I dutifully began sauteeing veggies. One of the things Auntie was supposed to chop was fresh parsley. It was also the first time she’d ever seen it. How does that happen?! 

Another quality of Louisiana cooks is that we all cook by taste. We taste it, adjust it, and keep on cooking. So imagine my horror when I tasted it sometime later and OMFG! The. Worst. Thing. EVVVAHHHH. It was unbearably bitter! I mean, drag your tongue on the ground bitter with a horrible aftertaste. I bring in Auntie Cutsupalot and my cousin (sister to smart ass cousin cuz smart ass cousin doesn’t cook anything but cereal and milk) and as we’re all standing there with spoons in our mouth and making faces, another aunt comes in and says “It can’t be THAT bad….EEEEEEEEEEEEW! What the hell?!” We ended up concluding that someone had taken Grandma’s spice mix in her cabinet and put in some salt substitute stuff and that was the bitter flavor with the horrible aftertaste. *I* wanted to throw the whole thing out and start over but cousin and auntie were convinced we could save it. ‘Cept I didn’t see Jesus around, so I was still pushing to throw it all out. It also came out at this point that Auntie had not measured and just thrown everything in the pot, including WAY too much parsley which, in case you’re wondering, produces a GREEN etoufee. Sigh. Auntie flitted in and out of the kitchen over the next hour while me and my cousin didn’t leave the pot, trying to produce something edible. Evenutally we were successful. Never let it be said the natives can’t cook….We finally managed to make something that tasted good although it required a team of cooks. Everyone pronounced it delicious and…. green.

I promised the relatives I’d finish telling the whole story so I’ll be back with Tales from the Swamp later….

 

I hide body…

Sometimes the most bizarre things spawn a new age of phrases in our house. Last week we saw this and laughed our asses off:

“I hide body” has been the new catchphrase in our house. The other day when someone annoyed me I told Steve “Dun worry. I hide body.” This morning I get a text message from Steve that said: “ACKKK! Traffic backed up to (miles and miles of traffic). I hide body.”

 

Other signs and symptoms I’ve been in Louisiana….

It’s not just the ya’ll that’s coming out my mouth. I haven’t pronounced the “r” at the end of a word in over a week (like buttah and suppah.) Do you know I heard myself saying “Where you at?” mostly because it was easier. I also heard myself referring to getting out of the car as “gettin’ down.” The expression “fussin’ at (someone)” has escaped my lips. So help me God, if I hear “I’m fixin’ to” come out of my mouth, I’m cutting out my tongue.

I think I’ve mentioned before that one of my aunts is only a few years older than me so we’ve grown up more like cousins. Ok, the truth is she’s never grown up. We had to go to the store and I put her in the back with the kids which was a HUGE mistake. OMFG. She starts cutting up with my boys, tickling, pinching, punching and screaming. Grandma’s in the front seat and I yell “GRANDMA! STOP THEM! REACH BACK THERE AND START CRACKING SKULLS!” above the noise in the back and what does Grandma do? She starts tickling people and more screaming ensues.

So I’m yelling at everyone to shut the hell up because I’m driving, and the 40-something year old child in the back is more trouble than all the other ones put together. We get to store and they are still screaming and cutting up and I jump out the car, fling open the back door and deliver a pinch to Auntie Cutsupalot that will get her attention. “OWWWWWWWWWWWW!” she yells loud enough to be heard four blocks away “OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! SHE’S PINCHING ME!” to no one in particular. Or perhaps Grandma. I’m not sure. Anyway, the pinch got her attention. ‘Cept she got out the car and wanted to fight. Now Auntie’s bigger than me and ordinarily wouldn’t hesitate to try to kick my ass. ‘Cept she also knows I’ve been taking Hapkido. She goes to tweak my nipple (oh she’ll do it and it fricken’ hurts!) and before I realized what I was doing, my martial arts training had kicked in and my hand was halfway to her head. Lucky for Auntie she stepped back at the last second and so my hand did not connect with a ferocious open handed slap (mmm hmmm they teach that in hapkido.) She’d already taken a stun manuever earlier. She didn’t want another piece of me. Going to the grocery store with the overgrown child, kids and grandma in one of the motorized carts was like herding cats. You don’t even know. Trying to get them all pointed in the same direction and moving was impossible. Two and a half hours later we exited the store. OMFG.

Growing up Auntie Cutsupalot and one of my uncles, who we called Uncle Fart (Lawd help me!) were the children who never grow up. Uncle Fart is as bad as Auntie Cutsupalot when it comes to acting like a overgrown child. But as I watched my children play with them, it brought back fond memories of my childhood and I remembered why I adored these two in particular so much. Uncle Fart was playing a game with son #2, who was winning, and Uncle Fart knocked the board over on purpose so he wouldn’t lose and tried to pretend it was an accident. I caught it on video. Cheating because a seven year old was winning and he got CAUGHT. Finally some justice in the world.

Auntie Cutsupalot told my children about the time I put vaseline all over her toilet seat and wet and froze all her undergarments. Ya’ll, sitting on a greased toilet seat is NASTY. My cousin and I got folded up in the sofabed while sleeping for our trouble. Spending the night at Auntie Cutsupalot’s house was always an all-nighter filled with pratical jokes. It took lots of planning.

By Saturday, my smart ass cousin finally showed up. She thinks a long drive from Houston is, like, an excuse for showing up days later.

Stay tuned for the adventures of four cooks in the kitchen save the etouffe….

 

Louisiana. The day after Christmas…..

Oh Laaaaaawwwwwdddd, ya’ll. I am BACK. And back with that Louisiana draaaawwwwwllll. Sigh. I heard son #1 say the following during the trip “Ya’ll are………ohmygod…..did I just say ya’ll?……ohmygod! I did!……….. If that slips out at school I am DEAD! I will never hear the end of it! OHMYGOD! I said ya’ll!!!!….. Mom? We can’t stay here much longer! I said YA’LL!!!!!!!!!!!!”

So ya’ll? NEVER EVER EVER fly Continental! OH. MAHHH. GAAWWWDDDD. On the way there, I am peacefully dozing off in my seat when a flight attendant gets on the intercom and screams “IS THERE A DOCTOR ON BOARD?! I NEED HELP BACK HERE!” And Dr. McDreamy jumps up and starts running down the aisle. And ya’ll? He was HOT! No way he was a doctor. Paramedic or EMT? Maybe. Too young to be a doctor. Son #1 says he was wearing dogtags, so maybe military medic, but hooo boy. Dr. McDreamy all cut and muscly through the tight shirt and all…mmmm sop him up with a biscuit. But I digress. Someone was dying in the back. I can’t let ya’ll be distracted by Dr. McDreamy, go on, focus!

There was a big commotion in the back of the plane with someone on the floor. The flight attendants dispersed after awhile and they didn’t get out the heart shocker, so I guessed we were good…..until… the pilot gets on the intercom and announces the plane is being diverted to Denver. Now, my blood pressure shot up because if you’ve ever flown through Texas, you know there’s either the Houston Hustle or the Dallas Dash. You gotta RUN to make your connecting flights because no matter where you land, your connecting flight will be in another terminal (airports in Texas are ALL SPREAD OUT!) and if you don’t run at a full out sprint, you aren’t gonna make it. And I’ve been stuck in Texas for not being able to sprint fast enough more times than I can count. So I began a mantra of the eff word cuz the Houston Hustle was gonna end up being the Houston Heroic Hustle.

The only other time I’ve been on a flight where it had to be diverted, the lady was so ill, I’m not convinced she was alive when then took her off. Her skin was gray/green, she was limp and didn’t look like she was breathing. When the paramedics boarded the plane I expected them to pass by with someone in this condition. When the lady passed, I was shocked to see that her color was good, she was conscious, alert and seemed perfectly normal. In fact, she seemed like she was just being a damn drama queen. It wasn’t just my perception either, I heard a whole bunch of people say it didn’t look like anything was wrong with her. Grrrrr.

We landed in Houston, did the Hustle and discovered…our flight had been majorly delayed. I earned the ire of the kids because they kept howling “MOOOOOMMMMM! You made us RUN ALL THAT WAY!” Sigh. I ended up getting to the tiny podunk airport in Louisiana several hours later. Only to find…..Continental had lost my luggage. They couldn’t even trace where it had gone. Buh-Bye Luggage! We needed each other, Luggage! Now who do I have to kill? Sigh.

Did I mention that I went 14 hours without peeing? I was afraid to leave the kids alone in the airport to go to the bathroom and I was sitting window on the plane and so…yeah. When I got to my grandmother’s I ran up the driveway, threw open the door and screamed “I haven’t peed since FOUR THIS MORNING! OUTTA MY WAY!” While shocked relatives just watched open mouthed as I ran by. Hoooooo doooggggiiieee. My eyes were floatin’.

So I arrived safely, albeit barely….More to come…..

 

And God said “a plague upon your houses…”

Since November 19, I have had a sick child at home every day except for three days. And those three days? I worked at school. Seriously. We’ve got the plague here. Son #2 has now missed more than three weeks of school this year. I took him to the pediatrician yesterday and word is he’s got pneumonia. Ummm Hmmm. Pneumonia. Sigh. Then son #1 woke up in the middle of the night last night with fever. I know. Defies belief.

Every year I have the goal of never having to go to the mall during the holiday season. This year I’m finally going to make that a reality since I haven’t been able to leave the house for a month. I’m done shopping and everything is going to be delivered to my doorstep. Woo Hoo! And guess what I asked Steve for this Christmas? I said I didn’t care what I got for Christmas just that he be done by the first week in December. HE is the one who usually forces me into the mall on the 23rd or 24th because he waited until the last minute and can’t find what I want. And much to my shock, HE DID IT! First time in his life! I know. It’s enough to bring tears to your eyes, isn’t it?

I hate the mall during Christmas time. HATE. IT. I hate the pushing, shoving, obnoxious people totally destroying my holiday good will. The long lines, invasion of personal space and frantic shopping put me in the foulest mood. EVER. Before children, I was done Christmas shopping by Halloween. A few years after son #1 came along it slid to Thanksgiving and last year I was running around on the 23rd!

I hope you too are done with your holiday shopping and can relax and enjoy the Christmas season. I leave you with a haiku:

Don’t curse your bad luck
Until you’re sure it’s not good.
A blessing disguised.

 

My cousin, the smartass…

Being the oldest child, I was not privvy to the experience of having older and wiser siblings. The closest thing I had was my cousin who is three years older than I am. However, in the last decade or so, SHE apparently has gotten younger while I continue to get older. At my sister’s wedding someone asked her how old she was and she stated an age five years younger. As the person walked away I leaned over and between clenched teeth said “You lyin’ bitch!” She looks surprised and said “What?!” and I said “You can’t possibly be that age because that would make you younger than me and I distinctly remember you being born before me.” Obviously caught in the lie but unwilling to admit defeat, she says “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” We both burst out laughing but I let her have that on account of her getting so old and all. 

It was at my older younger cousin’s knee that I also learned sarcasm. She is the most sarcastic person I’ve ever met in my life and I learned how to be a complete smart ass from her. Or maybe it’s genetic or contagious. I’m not really sure. ANYWAY! A couple of weeks ago I got one of those recipe emails where you forward your favorite recipe to two people and you’re supposed to get 36 recipes in return. The only recipe I got was one from my supremely smart ass cousin:

Ok my favorite recipe:

1 cup of your favorite cereal

3/4 cup milk

enjoy  lol

On second thought, it’s probably better I didn’t have any older siblings….

 

 

Dear Nana

I’m sorry I’ve been an absentee blogger. I’m leaving for Spain today and I’m not packed. I’ll try to blog from there because I know ya’ll miss me so much. My mother in law arrived late last night to take care of the kids while we’re gone. Son #2 lovingly left her a letter that reads (with phonetic spellings corrected):

Dear Nana,

I am in bed. And do not open the door. Cuz you snore loud. OK? Get it? I can’t answer your question.

Love,

Son #2

 

Life is a poker game

Negotiations in our family are usually a game of poker. We were driving in the car the other day and Steve says “I want drinking chocolate when we get home.” I gave him a look of annoyance. Because “I want drinking chocolate” is synonymous with “I want you to make me hot chocolate.” So I said “Can’t you just throw some cocoa mix and milk in the microwave?” He whines “Noooooooooooooooo. I want it from scratch! The way you make it on the stove!” And he bats his eyes all cute and stuff. “Hurrrrummmpppphhh” I snorted and slouched in my seat. A few minutes later he says “Uh oh, you’re out of gas.” Bewildered, I said “Well stop and put some in!” He narrows his eyes at me “I’ll fill your car up if you make me hot chocolate.” I thought about it for a minute then said “I see your gas and raise you supervising baths and putting the boys in bed.” He thinks for a minute then says “I see your gas, baths, and bed, and raise you homemade cookies.” Oy. “Aww c’mon, cookies?! Do I get to choose what kind of cookies?” He said “Your choice.” I sighed “Fine. I call.”

Last night the kids had a harvest carnival at their school. These events are from hell. It’s hundreds of screaming children running amok, while the parents are just trying to keep track of their kids and not lose their mind. Someone claimed he had to work so I had to take the kids by myself. About an hour into the Harvest from Hell, I sent Steve a text message all in caps that said “YOU OWE ME BIG TIME!” I was in a foul, foul mood when we finally walked in the door last night. From the doorway I yelled “I see your WORKING and RAISE YOU KIDS IN BED AND CLEANING UP THE KITCHEN FROM THE ALL THE CUPCAKES I HAD TO MAKE FOR THE CARNIVAL.” When I walked in the room and Steve saw the look on my face, he sighed and said “Fine. I call.”

 

Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting

Every now and then a post requires it’s own theme music. This would be one of the posts. So before you read further, play the video. If you choose to watch the whole video before reading on, again, I must tell you that you need to hit play again because this post is all the more better with theme music.

In fact, I have to play it just to write.

As some of you may remember, son #1 broke his hip in February. In June, his physical therapist said he needed to do Shudokan Karate to fully rehabilitate his hip. So off we went to the dojo. And here is where son #1 found his passion. There is nothing in his young life that he has ever had a greater passion for. It didn’t happen over time. The first day I knew something was going to be different about this activity. He came home every day and would practice. At any given time, I will find him with fists raised, practicing kicks, strikes, and punches. He moves with a grace I have never seen in him.

Son #2 loves karate too. By September, we were spending 4-5 days a week at the dojo. They couldn’t get enough of it. And here’s where our lives have forever changed. One Saturday morning we were waiting for the kids to finish and Steve says “Let’s do Karate too.” I made a face. “Uh, it’s not really my thing, but you can.” One of the Senseis in the dojo was nearby and told us we should watch the show Human Weapon. We started recording it for the kids to watch. I’ve never been interested in the martial arts, but I began watching the show and I was hooked.

Steve and I have played sports together, like hockey and softball, and the one thing I discovered is that when someone is a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, it’s just damn near impossible to get the upper hand. In hockey I have to resort to tripping and checking or he sends me flying with a flick of his arm. But with this martial arts thing….I learned that skill, not size matters. After watching one particular episode of Human Weapon, I was able to flip Steve. That’s right, I threw my 6′5″ husband like he was a rag doll. And suddenly, I was just devastated that I had not been introduced to martial arts sooner. This was FUN!

Steve started turning up the pressure to join the dojo. I kept insisting that the Shudokan style was not me. I was more interested in Judo or Jujitsu. “I want to throw people!” I kept saying, and still he kept up his quiet persistence. Then a month ago we were waiting for the kids to finish and there were two women practicing in the lobby for their third degree black belts. They were throwing real punches and kicks, their Gis (uniforms) were popping with the contact and I turned to Steve with an ear to ear grin and said “I want to do THAT!” I waited until they were finished and went up to one of them and said “I want to do what you’re doing but I don’t want to learn the Katas.” She grinned and said “Then combat Hapkido is for you and we have a great program here.” It was done. I was hooked and I signed up for Hapkido and Steve signed up for Karate that day.

With the four of us in Martial Arts, we are no longer a normal family. Last Monday, I was getting ready for class and I came out of the bedroom in my Gi (uniform). As soon as Steve saw me, he went into a Karate down block, fist poised. I went into a Hapkido fighting stance, both fists raised. We eyed each other warily. I said “Is this how we’re greeting each other now?” he replied “I guess so.” We feigned a few punches and kicks before I went downstairs to leave. It’s like the movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Or Kato from Pink Panther. At any given moment you must be ready for punches, kicks and strikes. And since I’m learning a totally different style, it makes for some interesting tussles. This song you’re hearing, Kung Fu fighting has become our family’s theme song. You can hear “Mom! You totally left yourself open for a kidney punch!” and  ”No strikes to the temple, Son, it can kill someone.” or “HA! That kick totally missed my head!” coming from the kitchen. The kids’ favorite activity now is to go throw each other in the living room. Son #1 and I were sparring in the driveway the other day.

It could get ugly. It almost did two weeks ago over chocolate. I had just come home from Hapkido and flopped into a chair. I have a sacred bar of chocolate. The damn thing costs me $8 a bar at Whole Foods so I eat it in small pieces over the course of a couple of weeks. It’s my favorite. So Steve says “I’m going to eat your last piece of chocolate.” I threatened ”Don’t you dare.” and he said “Oh I’m eating it.” I had learned to triple punch that night: an elbow to the solar plexus, followed closely by a fist to the face and groin. “Don’t make me get up and triple punch you. If I have to get up, I’m triple punching you.” I hear wrapper crinkling and he’s standing there with the chocolate in his hand, grinning. I jump up out the chair and run across the room. I start to throw the elbow and he jumps and drops the chocolate. (He will claim I knocked the chocolate out his hand, but I never touched him. ) We both stare in horror at the chocolate on the floor, look at each other, crack up laughing, then the smile fades and he says with dead seriousness ”Oh it’s on now!”

It could get worse. My sparring partner in class has been taking Hapkido for about 2 months. Her husband has been doing it for about a year. She says to me last week “I tried to get Stuart with a leg sweep last night. I went in for the kick and next thing I knew I was on my ass.” Very serious I asked “Did you surprise him with it? Cuz if he knows it’s coming he’s gonna take you out first.” Puzzled she says “Yeah, I came up behind him. He had no idea it was coming.” We both stood there scratching our heads then decided we needed to practice some more. Surprise leg sweeps needed to be practiced. They’re an all-martial arts family too.

On Friday son #1 went to a board breaking class. Steve went to pick him up and he walked in the door carrying this:

He had a look of pure rapture on his face. That’s right, he broke an inch-thick board with his hands. This kid has found his calling!

Steve and I are still waiting for our sparring gear to arrive. When it does, you can be certain you’ll find all four of us out on the lawn Kung Fu Fighting.