Sunday, April 29, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Point-Counterpoint: Pigs vs. Gus
I get to start because I'm the human. This outrage is going to get hashed out here, in public, on the internet, so that we have witnesses. It is also an exercise to keep me from giving the dog away or maiming him in some unspeakable manner.
Yesterday was my birthday. I was sick. Piglet was sick. I had to go to the grocery store because there was no food in the house. I ran over my toe with the grocery cart wheel. Piglet blew out his diaper in the doctor's office. It was that kind of day. Happy birthday to me.
Gus the Beagle here. I just want to say that I had no idea it was mom's birthday. If I had known that, I might have thought a few seconds longer about my transgressions. Just wanted to put that out there.
SO. While I was at the grocery store, I picked up some of my very favorite grocery store sushi. Nine little Philly roll bites just for me in their tidy little package with a little dollop of wasabi and a few bites of ginger. It was my little ray of birthday sunshine. I had a tennis match that night, so I didn't want a heavy dinner, but everyone needs a little something special on their birthday, right?
Again....I had no clue it was mom's birthday. How's a dog to know these things? Let's stop playing the birthday card and get over that already! Enough about rays of sunshine.
That afternoon, I went to have coffee with a friend. I was chatting on the sidewalk, sipping my tasty treat when my phone rang. It was Mr. Pigs. He alerted me that he had just arrived home and something was awry. Askew. Not good.
It turns out that SOMEONE had managed to open the refrigerator. And SOMEONE took their little hound nose and snatched my nine perfect little pieces of fishy goodness and absconded with them. Then someone ATE all nine pieces of my birthday sushi! My five dollars worth of tasty grocery store grade sushi.
Now let's hold up just a cotton-pickin' minute here. That refrigerator was left cracked open. What kind of dog do you think I am? I wouldn't open a refrigerator uninvited and all. And there was no snatching. There was a delicate removal process and some casual scampering, but let's cool it with the snatching and the absconding. You make me sound like a common thief.
[Ignoring Gus entirely] That dog robbed me of my birthday treat that would have been the highlight of my day. My mouth had been watering for that sushi all day long. I even considered having some for lunch and decided to save it all for dinner. He inhaled it every bit without a bit of remorse.
WHOA. There you go tellin' whoppers again. I did no such thing. You claim I "inhaled it every bit." I'll have you know that there was a blob of green stuff in there that wasn't even fit for beagle consumption. I got a little taste of that on my tongue and WHOA NELLY! Whooooo! 'Bout shot me through the roof! Hot stuff, mama. I'll have you know I left that behind, thankyouverymuch.
That would explain the green streaks all over the hardwood floors where Gus dragged his tongue around trying to rid himself of the wicked wasabi. You'd think that would have slowed him down, but no. Mr. Pigs then asked me, "How many sticks of butter were in that box?" I told him I thought there were two. He informed me that Gus had also defiled two sticks of butter as a part of his feasting free for all.
Look here. There was something bad wrong with my tongue. Somebody left that foul green blob in that fish box as a trap. It was something to keep people from stealing fish I think. Lucky for me I'm too smart for that, but I tell you what.....my tongue was on fire. Little bit of that butter did the trick. It was cool.....soothing....nice. [Drools in memory of event]
Well. You'd think that would have been enough, but later that night I sat typing away in the office when I heard some suspicious scratching sounds coming from the baby monitor. Piglet was in the family room, so I dashed for the nursery, afraid of the destruction I might find. Upon arrival, I saw nothing. Heard scratching, saw nothing. Further investigation led me to Gus, under the crib. It was very low to the ground, I had no idea how he even got under there.
I got mad army crawl skillz.
I called him out. Ordered him to show his face. Wondered nervously what might be in there with him. He dashed left, dashed right, and realized he was cornered. At last, he slunk out. Slunk out from beneath the crib with a stick of -very melted - butter clenched stubbornly between his teeth. The dog had stashed butter under the baby's bed.
Hey, waste not, want not. I was some kind of full after all that fish and those first two sticks of butter. It's not like you like the stuff - I've never even seen you eat a stick of butter! Why not give it to the dog.....the dog who APPRECIATES good butter?
Have you ever tried to pry a melted stick of butter from a beagle's clenched jaws over carpet? It's not an easy task, I promise you. It's been a while since Gus has had an incident and I should have known that it was coming. It was only a matter of time.
Yesterday was my birthday. I was sick. Piglet was sick. I had to go to the grocery store because there was no food in the house. I ran over my toe with the grocery cart wheel. Piglet blew out his diaper in the doctor's office. It was that kind of day. Happy birthday to me.
Gus the Beagle here. I just want to say that I had no idea it was mom's birthday. If I had known that, I might have thought a few seconds longer about my transgressions. Just wanted to put that out there.
SO. While I was at the grocery store, I picked up some of my very favorite grocery store sushi. Nine little Philly roll bites just for me in their tidy little package with a little dollop of wasabi and a few bites of ginger. It was my little ray of birthday sunshine. I had a tennis match that night, so I didn't want a heavy dinner, but everyone needs a little something special on their birthday, right?
Again....I had no clue it was mom's birthday. How's a dog to know these things? Let's stop playing the birthday card and get over that already! Enough about rays of sunshine.
That afternoon, I went to have coffee with a friend. I was chatting on the sidewalk, sipping my tasty treat when my phone rang. It was Mr. Pigs. He alerted me that he had just arrived home and something was awry. Askew. Not good.
It turns out that SOMEONE had managed to open the refrigerator. And SOMEONE took their little hound nose and snatched my nine perfect little pieces of fishy goodness and absconded with them. Then someone ATE all nine pieces of my birthday sushi! My five dollars worth of tasty grocery store grade sushi.
Now let's hold up just a cotton-pickin' minute here. That refrigerator was left cracked open. What kind of dog do you think I am? I wouldn't open a refrigerator uninvited and all. And there was no snatching. There was a delicate removal process and some casual scampering, but let's cool it with the snatching and the absconding. You make me sound like a common thief.
[Ignoring Gus entirely] That dog robbed me of my birthday treat that would have been the highlight of my day. My mouth had been watering for that sushi all day long. I even considered having some for lunch and decided to save it all for dinner. He inhaled it every bit without a bit of remorse.
WHOA. There you go tellin' whoppers again. I did no such thing. You claim I "inhaled it every bit." I'll have you know that there was a blob of green stuff in there that wasn't even fit for beagle consumption. I got a little taste of that on my tongue and WHOA NELLY! Whooooo! 'Bout shot me through the roof! Hot stuff, mama. I'll have you know I left that behind, thankyouverymuch.
That would explain the green streaks all over the hardwood floors where Gus dragged his tongue around trying to rid himself of the wicked wasabi. You'd think that would have slowed him down, but no. Mr. Pigs then asked me, "How many sticks of butter were in that box?" I told him I thought there were two. He informed me that Gus had also defiled two sticks of butter as a part of his feasting free for all.
Look here. There was something bad wrong with my tongue. Somebody left that foul green blob in that fish box as a trap. It was something to keep people from stealing fish I think. Lucky for me I'm too smart for that, but I tell you what.....my tongue was on fire. Little bit of that butter did the trick. It was cool.....soothing....nice. [Drools in memory of event]
Well. You'd think that would have been enough, but later that night I sat typing away in the office when I heard some suspicious scratching sounds coming from the baby monitor. Piglet was in the family room, so I dashed for the nursery, afraid of the destruction I might find. Upon arrival, I saw nothing. Heard scratching, saw nothing. Further investigation led me to Gus, under the crib. It was very low to the ground, I had no idea how he even got under there.
I got mad army crawl skillz.
I called him out. Ordered him to show his face. Wondered nervously what might be in there with him. He dashed left, dashed right, and realized he was cornered. At last, he slunk out. Slunk out from beneath the crib with a stick of -very melted - butter clenched stubbornly between his teeth. The dog had stashed butter under the baby's bed.
Hey, waste not, want not. I was some kind of full after all that fish and those first two sticks of butter. It's not like you like the stuff - I've never even seen you eat a stick of butter! Why not give it to the dog.....the dog who APPRECIATES good butter?
Have you ever tried to pry a melted stick of butter from a beagle's clenched jaws over carpet? It's not an easy task, I promise you. It's been a while since Gus has had an incident and I should have known that it was coming. It was only a matter of time.
So, ladies and gentlemen of the jury....how do you vote? I would like to point out that I ate peanut butter crackers for my birthday dinner and subsequently got creamed at my tennis match. On my birthday. Did I mention it was my birthday? Just checking.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Don't Jostle the Doo.
Of course you know that once we arrived in NC, we had to come back home. It seems that unfortunate luck primarily plagues us as we are in travel mode, specifically flight mode. Everything about our trip went swimmingly between the two flights: the outdoor wedding got off before the hurricane force winds blew in the next day, I only fell down once during the entire trip (my parents' driveway has shifted, courtesy a tree root, since my high school days), Piglet happily went to bed for all four grandparents, we saw friends and family, you name it.....all good. And then I had to come home.
My flight home was my first airbound experience alone with Piglet without the assistance of my trusty better half who had flown home for work on Monday. I was a trifle nervous about the vast amount of baby paraphernalia that I was lugging through the airport. I could've done with a pack mule. Arriving at security huffing and puffing with a plethora of infant accoutrements attached to my stroller, I caught the attention of two alarmed looking business men. I waved them through ahead of me, but being that I was in the south, these gentlemen insisted on assisting with my load. Who was I to complain? I carefully juggled Piglet while removing half my clothes and shoes and shoving diaper bag, pump, backpack, and car seat one after another through the x-ray. I shot Grand Master Peeky Poo one of my patented Looks and dared him to say anything about the amount of liquids in my bag. I was fully prepared to say the words "breast milk" very loudly and start discussing the process with him if necessary.
Lucky for me, he didn't blink an eye at the liquids, but did flag my pump bag as one to be specially evaluated. I rolled my eyes, imagining my bodily fluids on display for the airport. Meanwhile, I turned my attention back to my two Business Man Friends who were now surely regretting their offers to help me. They were trying to break down my stroller and failing miserably. I reached for the release button and told one of them to just pull up on the tray and it would glide into place. Snicker. As though anything glides in my world. POP! In his earnest attempt to help me, he pulled as instructed. A cup holder, apparently detachable, sprung loose from its normal resting place and launched across the security area of the airport, sailing over the head of Grand Master Peeky Poo and landing just on the other side of the security rope. As in, on the side Regular People aren't allowed to go. Stifling my giggles, I had to ask a policeman to retrieve my sippy cup holder before we could proceed. After a great deal of formality, the officer received permission to enter the Special Area and procure my stroller part. As you can imagine, the line is lengthening behind me.
Did I mention that Piglet is practicing his spitting skills during this event? He is. Loudly and proudly. At last we made our way through to the other side, safe and secure, only to find Grand Master Peeky Poo extracting a notably suspicious looking bag of white powder from the side pocket of my pump bag.
"That's not mine!" I squeaked. Brilliant. What would a guilty person say? I saw handcuffs and prison time flash before my eyes. It seemed that someone had, in fact, put something in my luggage without my knowledge, which the airport specifically advises you not to allow. How you are supposed to avoid having someone do something without your knowledge, I'll never know, but it appeared to have happened to me. All I could think was that I didn't have enough diapers to last me a trip to the pokey. The man jiggled the bag and poked at it with a trained finger. There was some sort of scoop with a handle in there. Drug paraphernalia! Was that a syringe? A bong? I was going down.
"I think it's baby formula," the man grunted to his partner as he unceremoniously stuffed it back into my bag. Heh. Duh. Formula, left from my friend, the owner of said bag, and her baby. It was a set up. I relaxed as I put myself, my stroller, and my belongings back in order. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my two helpers dashing away to catch their flight. I didn't blame them.
Once on the aircraft, I settled in to get Piglet comfortable for the lengthy nap he was going to take, according to my Plan. It was the exact naptime and everything. We just needed to get up in the air, get that loud airplane noise going, and he'd be off to dreamland. This, of course, was assuming that my plane would actually leave on time. I was flying American, the airline that is famous for loading you on a plane and parking you on a runway. There we sat, me with a screaming Piglet, and my seatmate, a grandfatherly type, grimacing while trying to tell me it's no big deal. It is, in fact, a big deal. I plugged him up with the bottle I had prepared for take off to help his ears pop as he swallowed and he gulped that bad boy down in five minutes. Forty minutes later, we still sat on the runway and Piglet was still upset. Making him yet another bottle proved key to helping him drift off once the plane took off. All of that food has a consequence.
The wheels of the plane had not even left the ground when I smelled it. Faintly, at first, wafts of baby poo floated past my nose. Then stronger.....stronger.....until I had confirmation. The blissfully sleeping bundle of joy in my lap had dropped a load in his diaper before the plane even left the ground. There were now two hours and 54 minutes remaining in our flight for me to pretend that this event had not transpired. I tried to be as still as possible so as not to jostle the doo. I attempted to keep the passed out baby comfortable so that he would not wiggle and smear the doo about, releasing its odoriferous fumes. There's really only so much you can do. The people around me either had to acknowledge what had happened or assume I had a really unfortunate flatulance situation. Frankly, I hoped for the former.
As I sat, motionless, in my cramped quarters, I attempted to read a book. Laid flat on my tray, I was able to carefully turn the pages without disturbing Piglet or his pile of mud. At one point, my tasty icy cold cranapple beverage arrived (did I mention that I am deathly ill during this flight from Germy von Hackerson?) and I was eager to feel the icy goodness on my sore throat. I left my book - a harmless story about the ills of applying to private kindergartens in New York- open on my tray for a while. I noticed my seatmate squinting at the text and I looked closer. The book was open to the only sex scene in the book and the word "nipple" leapt off the page at me. My mortified eye scanned the page only to see several phrases jump out at me. What to do? He probably thought I was some sort of pervert. A perv with a stink-o baby on her lap. How did he get so lucky? I casually shut the book and sipped my beverage in silence as I waited for the next 95 minutes to pass before we would arrive home.
We did at last arrive in Texas - searched, tired, stinky, and sticky - but here, nonetheless.
My flight home was my first airbound experience alone with Piglet without the assistance of my trusty better half who had flown home for work on Monday. I was a trifle nervous about the vast amount of baby paraphernalia that I was lugging through the airport. I could've done with a pack mule. Arriving at security huffing and puffing with a plethora of infant accoutrements attached to my stroller, I caught the attention of two alarmed looking business men. I waved them through ahead of me, but being that I was in the south, these gentlemen insisted on assisting with my load. Who was I to complain? I carefully juggled Piglet while removing half my clothes and shoes and shoving diaper bag, pump, backpack, and car seat one after another through the x-ray. I shot Grand Master Peeky Poo one of my patented Looks and dared him to say anything about the amount of liquids in my bag. I was fully prepared to say the words "breast milk" very loudly and start discussing the process with him if necessary.
Lucky for me, he didn't blink an eye at the liquids, but did flag my pump bag as one to be specially evaluated. I rolled my eyes, imagining my bodily fluids on display for the airport. Meanwhile, I turned my attention back to my two Business Man Friends who were now surely regretting their offers to help me. They were trying to break down my stroller and failing miserably. I reached for the release button and told one of them to just pull up on the tray and it would glide into place. Snicker. As though anything glides in my world. POP! In his earnest attempt to help me, he pulled as instructed. A cup holder, apparently detachable, sprung loose from its normal resting place and launched across the security area of the airport, sailing over the head of Grand Master Peeky Poo and landing just on the other side of the security rope. As in, on the side Regular People aren't allowed to go. Stifling my giggles, I had to ask a policeman to retrieve my sippy cup holder before we could proceed. After a great deal of formality, the officer received permission to enter the Special Area and procure my stroller part. As you can imagine, the line is lengthening behind me.
Did I mention that Piglet is practicing his spitting skills during this event? He is. Loudly and proudly. At last we made our way through to the other side, safe and secure, only to find Grand Master Peeky Poo extracting a notably suspicious looking bag of white powder from the side pocket of my pump bag.
"That's not mine!" I squeaked. Brilliant. What would a guilty person say? I saw handcuffs and prison time flash before my eyes. It seemed that someone had, in fact, put something in my luggage without my knowledge, which the airport specifically advises you not to allow. How you are supposed to avoid having someone do something without your knowledge, I'll never know, but it appeared to have happened to me. All I could think was that I didn't have enough diapers to last me a trip to the pokey. The man jiggled the bag and poked at it with a trained finger. There was some sort of scoop with a handle in there. Drug paraphernalia! Was that a syringe? A bong? I was going down.
"I think it's baby formula," the man grunted to his partner as he unceremoniously stuffed it back into my bag. Heh. Duh. Formula, left from my friend, the owner of said bag, and her baby. It was a set up. I relaxed as I put myself, my stroller, and my belongings back in order. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my two helpers dashing away to catch their flight. I didn't blame them.
Once on the aircraft, I settled in to get Piglet comfortable for the lengthy nap he was going to take, according to my Plan. It was the exact naptime and everything. We just needed to get up in the air, get that loud airplane noise going, and he'd be off to dreamland. This, of course, was assuming that my plane would actually leave on time. I was flying American, the airline that is famous for loading you on a plane and parking you on a runway. There we sat, me with a screaming Piglet, and my seatmate, a grandfatherly type, grimacing while trying to tell me it's no big deal. It is, in fact, a big deal. I plugged him up with the bottle I had prepared for take off to help his ears pop as he swallowed and he gulped that bad boy down in five minutes. Forty minutes later, we still sat on the runway and Piglet was still upset. Making him yet another bottle proved key to helping him drift off once the plane took off. All of that food has a consequence.
The wheels of the plane had not even left the ground when I smelled it. Faintly, at first, wafts of baby poo floated past my nose. Then stronger.....stronger.....until I had confirmation. The blissfully sleeping bundle of joy in my lap had dropped a load in his diaper before the plane even left the ground. There were now two hours and 54 minutes remaining in our flight for me to pretend that this event had not transpired. I tried to be as still as possible so as not to jostle the doo. I attempted to keep the passed out baby comfortable so that he would not wiggle and smear the doo about, releasing its odoriferous fumes. There's really only so much you can do. The people around me either had to acknowledge what had happened or assume I had a really unfortunate flatulance situation. Frankly, I hoped for the former.
As I sat, motionless, in my cramped quarters, I attempted to read a book. Laid flat on my tray, I was able to carefully turn the pages without disturbing Piglet or his pile of mud. At one point, my tasty icy cold cranapple beverage arrived (did I mention that I am deathly ill during this flight from Germy von Hackerson?) and I was eager to feel the icy goodness on my sore throat. I left my book - a harmless story about the ills of applying to private kindergartens in New York- open on my tray for a while. I noticed my seatmate squinting at the text and I looked closer. The book was open to the only sex scene in the book and the word "nipple" leapt off the page at me. My mortified eye scanned the page only to see several phrases jump out at me. What to do? He probably thought I was some sort of pervert. A perv with a stink-o baby on her lap. How did he get so lucky? I casually shut the book and sipped my beverage in silence as I waited for the next 95 minutes to pass before we would arrive home.
We did at last arrive in Texas - searched, tired, stinky, and sticky - but here, nonetheless.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
It's ketchin'.
Oh, Lordy. I've never gone this long without posting. *head hung in shame* But I do have a very valid excuse. Last weekend, I was in a wedding in NC and I've been gone for a week now. A whole week! The beginning of the week involved a great deal of running from place to place, city to city, bed to bed. Okay, that doesn't sound so good, but the gist is that Piglet slept in a different bed every night for about five nights in a row. And handled it swimmingly, I might add! I managed to keep him on Central Time, my goal for the trip, and nothing appears to have adversely affected his sleep. (Am now beating on wooden desk in hopes that perhaps I did not just jinx Piglet's slumber.)
The bad news? The flights. Piglet himself did fine, it seems that other forces were there to vex us terribly. First, the flight out. We found ourselves sitting directly in front of MawMaw and Jethro Clampett and their charge, their granddaughter, Germy von Hackerson. I should have requested a seat change after this exchange:
MawMaw: Ain't you just cute as the dickens on a big airlane! Gimme some sugar. [loud kissing sounds commence.]
Jethro: You gone cry like on that last flight? That won't so cute.
GvH: COUGH! HACK! COUGH! [directly behind Piglet and me]
Jethro: Why you barkin'? Yew sound like a beagle goin' BARK! BARK! I'm gone gitchew! [some sort of tickling takes place, invoking further respiratory distress from GvH.]
GvH: HACK! HACK! Rattle, rattle, hock, HACK! [Giggles with pride at being compared to the family hound. Throws in a few extra coughs for attention.]
MawMaw: Giiiiiiiiiiiiiiirl! Dang!
Jethro: Hurlp! Burh...urh....urg....HACK! [Rattly goodness from the depths of Granpappy's tobacco ridden lungs quake through the aircraft. I try to suppress my urge to vomit.] Girl! Look what you done! I think it's ketchin'! You done give it to me!
This was clearly when I should have changed my seat. Gotten off and waited on the next flight. Built a shield. Anything. No, no. I stayed put, thinking that Germy von Hackerson would go to sleep as Jethro so cleverly alluded. Nope. She instead hacked throughout the ENTIRE flight. Then they took turns, one making the other laugh and hack and gag and wheeze. I'm genuinely surprised that I didn't have lung in my hair after the flight. Piglet dozed off like a good little Piglet, but jumped with each cough and each tremor of my seat caused by GvH kicking the chair as she tried to cough ever-harder to impress her emphyzema-ridden elder.
It was a long flight. Needless to say, Piglet got sick, I got sick, Mike got sick, and finally, my dad got sick. Thanks, Clampett's, for sharing the fun. I'm off to take my medicine - Oh wait! That's right, I can't take anything because I'm still nursing. I'm off to use my saline drops and my tissues and get some rest. More about the trip soon. Missed y'all terribly.
The bad news? The flights. Piglet himself did fine, it seems that other forces were there to vex us terribly. First, the flight out. We found ourselves sitting directly in front of MawMaw and Jethro Clampett and their charge, their granddaughter, Germy von Hackerson. I should have requested a seat change after this exchange:
MawMaw: Ain't you just cute as the dickens on a big airlane! Gimme some sugar. [loud kissing sounds commence.]
Jethro: You gone cry like on that last flight? That won't so cute.
GvH: COUGH! HACK! COUGH! [directly behind Piglet and me]
Jethro: Why you barkin'? Yew sound like a beagle goin' BARK! BARK! I'm gone gitchew! [some sort of tickling takes place, invoking further respiratory distress from GvH.]
GvH: HACK! HACK! Rattle, rattle, hock, HACK! [Giggles with pride at being compared to the family hound. Throws in a few extra coughs for attention.]
MawMaw: Giiiiiiiiiiiiiiirl! Dang!
Jethro: Hurlp! Burh...urh....urg....HACK! [Rattly goodness from the depths of Granpappy's tobacco ridden lungs quake through the aircraft. I try to suppress my urge to vomit.] Girl! Look what you done! I think it's ketchin'! You done give it to me!
This was clearly when I should have changed my seat. Gotten off and waited on the next flight. Built a shield. Anything. No, no. I stayed put, thinking that Germy von Hackerson would go to sleep as Jethro so cleverly alluded. Nope. She instead hacked throughout the ENTIRE flight. Then they took turns, one making the other laugh and hack and gag and wheeze. I'm genuinely surprised that I didn't have lung in my hair after the flight. Piglet dozed off like a good little Piglet, but jumped with each cough and each tremor of my seat caused by GvH kicking the chair as she tried to cough ever-harder to impress her emphyzema-ridden elder.
It was a long flight. Needless to say, Piglet got sick, I got sick, Mike got sick, and finally, my dad got sick. Thanks, Clampett's, for sharing the fun. I'm off to take my medicine - Oh wait! That's right, I can't take anything because I'm still nursing. I'm off to use my saline drops and my tissues and get some rest. More about the trip soon. Missed y'all terribly.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
I am sort of glad I sit behind you in reading.
After a trip down memory lane Saturday night with my friend from 4th grade who I found via MySpace living in the same city I do, I decided that the sharing of elementary yearbook comments would yield entertaining blog reading. It at least entertained us for the better part of an hour.
We begin with the less-than-sophisticated 4th grade yearbook comments:
To my fellow Bucky Beaver. Don't change your teeth if you do I won't recenize you.
I like you Stacie Schumacher! (not my name, hers)
....and let's not forget the endearing:
I hope you're in Girl Scouts next year
Those deep and meaningful fourth graders soon grew into worldly, catty fifth graders. You can begin to see my rep developing. It wasn't at all dorky either....
To a real smart person who is nice helping me with my homework. Matt. (5th grade hottie)
I really like you as a friend. Jenny. (how else might Jenny like me?)
Have a great summer! Good luck. Amy.
Hmmm. I wonder what happened to make Amy retract her good summer wishes? It must have been serious for her to have scribbled in my yearbook.
See you next year! Don't throw away any more retainers! Maureen.
Oh! Horrible flashbacks to the day I tossed my retainer away with my lunch trash. Memories.....returning.....harsh! Brutal! Climbing through school dumpster at dusk with my dad standing in the hole with the flashlight! Darned parents who believed in natural consequences. (In case you're wondering, the retainer was recovered from the dumpster. It was then worn.)
See you next year! Good luck with the guys! (if you go with one make sure he doesn't get down your pants!) Your friend, Stacey!
Um, WHOA. What? Hello? Fifth grade? We were eleven? I'm relatively certain I had not a clue what she was talking about at that time. Apparently, she later became the class slut is the word on the street.
Soon, we were 6th graders:
Pigs, You're a weird dude but noone can help you. It's the "Gene's" fault! Kelly. (umkay?)
To the skinniest legged person I know. Stay skinny but eat sometimes. Danni.
Pigs, I am sort of glad I sit behind you in reading. You are nice. Emily.
This one cracked me up. She's "sort of glad" she sits behind me. Whoa, Nelly! What a compliment! Touch her! I must've been awesome to very awesome on the social totem pole to earn that comment.
Finally, the comments became increasingly sophisticated by 7th grade.
Pigs, Have a special summer. Wish I didn't know you. Sike!!! Kelly
Pigs, You are a kind, fair, and decent human being. (syke) You are just a wild prostitute! (syke) Oh well I can't think of what you are. See you next year. Ben (math class disrupter)
I kind of suspect that last one was supposed to be flirty on some level. I also suspect that the 1988-89 school year was the year in which "sike" became very, very big.
I conclude from reading these comments that:
a) I was just as dorky as I remembered being.
b) I was known exclusively for being weird and for being skinny.
c) I was not crazy when I argued previously on this blog about the spelling of the word "sike" or "syke" or as cousineddie claimed "psych". According to my yearbook, all of the youth in my school spelled it either "sike" or "syke". So there.
d) I underlined the names of all the people I considered friends. The coolness just oozes out of me.
We begin with the less-than-sophisticated 4th grade yearbook comments:
To my fellow Bucky Beaver. Don't change your teeth if you do I won't recenize you.
I like you Stacie Schumacher! (not my name, hers)
....and let's not forget the endearing:
I hope you're in Girl Scouts next year
Those deep and meaningful fourth graders soon grew into worldly, catty fifth graders. You can begin to see my rep developing. It wasn't at all dorky either....
To a real smart person who is nice helping me with my homework. Matt. (5th grade hottie)
I really like you as a friend. Jenny. (how else might Jenny like me?)
Hmmm. I wonder what happened to make Amy retract her good summer wishes? It must have been serious for her to have scribbled in my yearbook.
See you next year! Don't throw away any more retainers! Maureen.
Oh! Horrible flashbacks to the day I tossed my retainer away with my lunch trash. Memories.....returning.....harsh! Brutal! Climbing through school dumpster at dusk with my dad standing in the hole with the flashlight! Darned parents who believed in natural consequences. (In case you're wondering, the retainer was recovered from the dumpster. It was then worn.)
See you next year! Good luck with the guys! (if you go with one make sure he doesn't get down your pants!) Your friend, Stacey!
Um, WHOA. What? Hello? Fifth grade? We were eleven? I'm relatively certain I had not a clue what she was talking about at that time. Apparently, she later became the class slut is the word on the street.
Soon, we were 6th graders:
Pigs, You're a weird dude but noone can help you. It's the "Gene's" fault! Kelly. (umkay?)
To the skinniest legged person I know. Stay skinny but eat sometimes. Danni.
Pigs, I am sort of glad I sit behind you in reading. You are nice. Emily.
This one cracked me up. She's "sort of glad" she sits behind me. Whoa, Nelly! What a compliment! Touch her! I must've been awesome to very awesome on the social totem pole to earn that comment.
Finally, the comments became increasingly sophisticated by 7th grade.
Pigs, Have a special summer. Wish I didn't know you. Sike!!! Kelly
Pigs, You are a kind, fair, and decent human being. (syke) You are just a wild prostitute! (syke) Oh well I can't think of what you are. See you next year. Ben (math class disrupter)
I kind of suspect that last one was supposed to be flirty on some level. I also suspect that the 1988-89 school year was the year in which "sike" became very, very big.
I conclude from reading these comments that:
a) I was just as dorky as I remembered being.
b) I was known exclusively for being weird and for being skinny.
c) I was not crazy when I argued previously on this blog about the spelling of the word "sike" or "syke" or as cousineddie claimed "psych". According to my yearbook, all of the youth in my school spelled it either "sike" or "syke". So there.
d) I underlined the names of all the people I considered friends. The coolness just oozes out of me.
Fifth grade:
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Get on the Fashion Train, and Ride It!
I'm so glad I'm not a boy. Let's just get that out there.
There are many reasons I'm glad I'm not a boy, such as I prefer having indoor plumbing and Adam's apples totally gross me out, but the reason I'm going to discuss today is fashion oriented. That's right, fashion. I may not look like a fashionista, but I like me some clothes.
The purpose of clothes in my mind is to provide variety in your life. To show your personality and your style. To be unique or to fit in, take your pick. The point is that clothes should be different. Like, each day, you should look at least slightly different than the day before.
Let me take you into my closet. Not literally, because it's messy and I don't want to tidy the closet just to take a picture of it for my blog. Don't worry, I'm a fairly good describer. Descriptor. Whatever. My side of the closet features two bars, high for summer, low for winter because that matches my moods as they relate to seasons. Shut up, it's my closet. Anyway....throughout each bar there are many colors and multiple patterns. There are button downs and polos, there are t-shirts and going out shirts (as though I go out). There are capris and pants and shorts and skirts and dresses.
Now let's look at Mike's side. The Man Side. There is a bar of shirts and a bar of pants. Along the shirt bar, the shirts are sorted into colors: white and blue. That's right, two colors. And the pants row? There's black, navy, and khaki. That's it! No more. The whole affair just makes me feel sad. Now, if Mike were here, I'm sure he would tell you that I'm exaggerating and whatnot, but for the most part, that is exactly what his closet looks like!
I brought it to Mike's attention, the sadness that I feel over men's lack of fashion expression and he was offended - offended! - that I thought his closet was less than chromatic. I believe the word "boring" may have come into play. He claims that there is a great deal of variety in his wardrobe and set out to prove it.
He showed me how in the white shirt category, some of them have different types of collars. Some even have a small (blue) stripe. Some (!) have fancy cuffs. So, clearly, there is variety. There was even more in the blue section. There was pale blue, sky blue, dark blue, and true blue. There were even some blue ones with stripes (white). I was obviously mistaken in my assumptions.
It all became ever more clear when we delved into the pants bar......subtle stripes, shades of plaid, and barely-noticeable check patterns were pointed out to illustrate the vast, vast diversity within this wardrobe.
Blank, glazed over stare....I'm almost as bored writing about it as I was looking at it. The one thing guys have going for them? Ties! If I had the misfortune of being a guy, I would wear really fun ties. Bright colors and fun patterns, maybe even funny picture ties. After sharing this sentiment with Mike, I received the same blank, glazed over stare that I had been guilty of earlier. It simply did not compute. You simply can't take the engineer out of the fashion choices. I've managed to weed out most of his pleated pants, but every now and then a fancy pleat or a tassled shoe will sneak out of the closet and go to work with Mike. Sigh. What am I to do?
I thank goodness that I'm a girl. Each time I go to buy clothes for the Piglet, I jealously eye the girls' clothing section. Little boys' clothes are cute, but little girls' clothes are fantastic. The bows! The ruffles! The sweet little flowers and doodads! The sun bonnets! There begins the cycle of fashion, I suppose.
There are many reasons I'm glad I'm not a boy, such as I prefer having indoor plumbing and Adam's apples totally gross me out, but the reason I'm going to discuss today is fashion oriented. That's right, fashion. I may not look like a fashionista, but I like me some clothes.
The purpose of clothes in my mind is to provide variety in your life. To show your personality and your style. To be unique or to fit in, take your pick. The point is that clothes should be different. Like, each day, you should look at least slightly different than the day before.
Let me take you into my closet. Not literally, because it's messy and I don't want to tidy the closet just to take a picture of it for my blog. Don't worry, I'm a fairly good describer. Descriptor. Whatever. My side of the closet features two bars, high for summer, low for winter because that matches my moods as they relate to seasons. Shut up, it's my closet. Anyway....throughout each bar there are many colors and multiple patterns. There are button downs and polos, there are t-shirts and going out shirts (as though I go out). There are capris and pants and shorts and skirts and dresses.
Now let's look at Mike's side. The Man Side. There is a bar of shirts and a bar of pants. Along the shirt bar, the shirts are sorted into colors: white and blue. That's right, two colors. And the pants row? There's black, navy, and khaki. That's it! No more. The whole affair just makes me feel sad. Now, if Mike were here, I'm sure he would tell you that I'm exaggerating and whatnot, but for the most part, that is exactly what his closet looks like!
I brought it to Mike's attention, the sadness that I feel over men's lack of fashion expression and he was offended - offended! - that I thought his closet was less than chromatic. I believe the word "boring" may have come into play. He claims that there is a great deal of variety in his wardrobe and set out to prove it.
He showed me how in the white shirt category, some of them have different types of collars. Some even have a small (blue) stripe. Some (!) have fancy cuffs. So, clearly, there is variety. There was even more in the blue section. There was pale blue, sky blue, dark blue, and true blue. There were even some blue ones with stripes (white). I was obviously mistaken in my assumptions.
It all became ever more clear when we delved into the pants bar......subtle stripes, shades of plaid, and barely-noticeable check patterns were pointed out to illustrate the vast, vast diversity within this wardrobe.
Blank, glazed over stare....I'm almost as bored writing about it as I was looking at it. The one thing guys have going for them? Ties! If I had the misfortune of being a guy, I would wear really fun ties. Bright colors and fun patterns, maybe even funny picture ties. After sharing this sentiment with Mike, I received the same blank, glazed over stare that I had been guilty of earlier. It simply did not compute. You simply can't take the engineer out of the fashion choices. I've managed to weed out most of his pleated pants, but every now and then a fancy pleat or a tassled shoe will sneak out of the closet and go to work with Mike. Sigh. What am I to do?
I thank goodness that I'm a girl. Each time I go to buy clothes for the Piglet, I jealously eye the girls' clothing section. Little boys' clothes are cute, but little girls' clothes are fantastic. The bows! The ruffles! The sweet little flowers and doodads! The sun bonnets! There begins the cycle of fashion, I suppose.
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