keep passing the open windows

I had a dream that I wrote this blog post:

“Men and penises, so silly. All that worry about size. Of all the men I slept with (pre-marriage, of course!), I don’t remember any significant differences.

Except for that one guy, he was pretty big.

Oh, yah…

and that one poor guy…”

*Actually, now that I think about it, this “dream post” probably has more to do with seeing a late ngiht “Vazomyne” commercial than my subconscious.

I had a nice Mother’s Day.

The highlight? One of my sisters text messaged my mom:

“Happy Mother’s Day! Sorry, can’t make it. Warrant out for arrest. Can’t drive. Love, M.”

I moniter my kids’ online activities, instant messages, cell phone usage, text messages, etc. They know it’s a part of being allowed to have an email address, having a Myspace page, and a cell phone.

Today I checked out my daughter’s Yahoo Answers! profile and looked at the questions she had answered. The first two were innocuous, a question about pets and “What’s the worst Hillary Duff movie?”

The third?

“What’s the wildest thing ur parents have done?”

Uh, oh.

Reagan’s respnse:

“hahaha we were at a hotel and i was in a different room. their room had a hot tub and i walked in on…….”

One, what happened to appropriate capitalization?

Two, OMG!

Three, at least she didn’t go into details!

A boy wanting advice on turning his girl friend into his girlfriend received this response from my daughter:

“aww that’s sweet. that happened 2 me once… i just kissed him and then he decided he liked me 2 lol.”

That’s an even bigger “OMG!”

But, I think she’s fibbing.

No, really, I mean it. Reagan like boys, but she’s not a “boy crazy” kind of girl (at least not yet!) and complains about her friends that are afflicted with that malady. She’s not lacking in adult supervision, has never been to a boy/girl party, so unless she’s kissin’ boys at school (highly doubtful), I think it’s pretty improbable.

Looking at her other questions, she answered a lot about pets. Her advice? “Name your dog ‘Jack,’ it’s a cute name for a cute dog.” “You don’t have to speak German to your German Shepard,” and, to someone who was still missing her dog six years after its tragic death:

“my brother killed my pet hamster a year ago. I still miss it!!!”

Um, we’ve never owned a hamster.

I guess my daughter’s online fantasy life includes kissing boys and sibling hamstercide.

I’m not sure which is worse.

Yesterday I had to take Taylor to the dentist for a follow up visit (cavity!). After signing him back in at the school, one of his teachers came up to me and said:

“What happened to Taylor’s hair?”

And she said it in the same concerned and bewildered tone one might use when asking someone about a broken arm or a black eye!

I wanted to laugh, but I was sympathetic; I’m well known for putting my foot in my mouth. For example, earlier this week my co-worker’s adult son emailed her and said he was making enchiladas for the first time and might be calling her later for advice.

I responded, “That’s so nice, kids always have fond memories of their mother’s cooking, even if the mom doesn’t cook well.”

Riding in the car yesterday Reagan said “Mom, remember when I went to that lock-in and the topic was abstinence?”

“Yah?”

“Well, one 6th grader asked ‘If abstinence is so great, then why are there prostitutes?’”

My son proclaimed this to be his new motto.

He wants to get bumper stickers and t-shirts printed and sell them; I’d love to encourage his entreprenurial spirit but I would also not like to be pariahs in our small, largely Apostolic Christian town of sixteen hundred (mostly) Republicans.

Her other tidbit of info:

“We’re making brochures in English class.”

Oh? For what?

“The Holocaust”

Yesterday’s post was just an example of one of the “commonplace” conversations we have at my office that would be bizarre to others. Part of the feel of living and working in REALLY small town.

There is a one-armed man living in an “apartment” two store fronts down from my office. This greatly amuses us, as 1. One armed man! (it’s insensitive, but what is more curiousity provoking?) 2. It’s a store front, for god’s sake! What idiot turned it in to an apartment?

A couple of days ago I was leaving the office to go to the pharmacy (also on our block), hoping for a pleasant encounter with the multi-personality clerk. In the middle of the street was a medium-sized black dog with a short, gruff-voiced man calling it. “Come back, damn dog!”

The dog promptly ran the other direction.

He would stop, sniff something, mark his territory. The man would get closer, the dog would see him and run another block, stop and sniff, repeat, repeat.

Later that day I saw the dog chaser entering the one-armed man’s apartment.

Yesterday he was there again.

Hence:

“I think the short, loud guy with the black dog is moving in with the one-armed man.”

I just said to my boss “I think the short, loud guy with the black dog is moving in with the one-armed man.”

BEFORE:

AFTER:

(Scary thought, before he looked like my little boy, after, he looks more like many of the soldiers now serving in Iraq and Afghanistan. Maybe that’s why I hate this new hair style so much!)

Last night I went to be early. Early-early, like nine pm. I haven’t been sleeping well and really needed a good night’s sleep.

It was wonderful.

Of course, there’s a BUT.

Actually two BUTS.

One, I missed the blogger bash.

Two, while I was sleeping my husband shaved my son’s head.

Apparently Taylor was hot (they had been playing basketball) and complained about needing a haircut and Chris offered up his clippers and his barbering “skills.”

In an effort to “even things up” his hair got shorter and shorter and shorter. It’s now not hair, per se, but more like “stubble.”

Three weeks to Taylor’s 8th grade graduation and he looks like a cancer patient.

Or, worse, a skin head.

Hopefully his hair will grow fast.

Or all of the photos will have to include his cap and gown!

*My husband is almost completely bald, so maybe he just wanted some company?

My kids were supposed to have a dance last Friday night. It was cancelled because the teacher that usually sponsers it was ill. No other teacher could do it? Whatever.

Disappointed, my daughter asked to attend the “30 Hour Famine,” hosted by the nearby Methodist church.

What, pray tell, is a “30 Hour Famine?”

Well, the participants don’t eat for, uh, 30 hours.

They sleep outside in cardboard boxes.

All to gain insight into the issues of world hunger and homelessness.

Maybe “needless suffering” should be added to the list of “stuff white people like.”

Because, really, who thinks this is a good idea? (Other than the church down the road from my house? and middle class white people? Oh, yah, one and the same. One and the same.)

They started not-eating at noon Friday and went to the church after school. Reagan was instructed to bring a sleeping bag, pillow and toiletries. (Because most homeless people have sleeping bags, toothpaste and hairbrushes!). Friday evening she called and asked “Can you bring me and A. two large cardboard boxes?”

“Yes, Reagan, we have two people-sized cardboard boxes just lying around the house and they are so unobtrusive you’ve not noticed them.”

Duh.

She made it through the night in the box.

The next morning they served breakfast and lunch at a shelter - the most worthwhile part of the experiment (in my mind) but also the most tortuous. Handing out donuts and sandwiches while one’s stomach rumbles? Good idea.

After working at the shelter the church took the kids to collect food for a food pantry. Also worthwhile, also difficult in the circumstances. They went door to door, carrying tissue thin plastic bags of canned goods.

We had plans Saturday night so Reagan came home early. Came home early, and ate early, twenty-eight hours into the famine; which was more than long enough for her to gain empathy for those that go hungry.

“Those that go hungry.” Due to chance, due to birth, due to life circumstances. Not because they choose to, not because it’s an interesting social experiment.