"A Box of Rocks"

So, thanks everybody for missing us. We're back now.

We've had a busy two weeks. First, Luke and I took our family to Disney for vacation. We had a great time. Then, I had a few days back home before I went to Valerie's for the weekend to celebrate her 40th birthday. Now I'm sick, but not too sick to tell a story.

Val and I decided a few years back, that we should start getting together between our birthdays and celebrate together. Since this year was her fortieth, we decided it was as good a time as any to start.

We were going to do this big trip, I was hoping for Napa Valley. Well, Luke pouted and money got tight, so we decided to stay closer to home. Our next destination was going to be the Biltmore in North Carolina. They have a winery and 'outings' you can sign up for. Well, again, time and money were tight.

But if you know us, we were not to be deterred. We thought a weekend trip to Williamsburg, VA was just what we needed. We could do the historical sights, enjoy some sister time, eat out. Or instead, we couldn't.

What we did do, was spend the weekend at the Hilton on Virgina Beach. Yes, it was wicked cold; there were snow flurries when I got there Thursday night. But again, the spirit of the sisters cannot be easily stopped by snow. We went for the weekend and had a fabulous time. We talked, we napped, we slept in, we ate out. We had a fantastic time doing absolutely nothing worthwhile.

I took pictures and read books. And I collected rocks from the beach. The beach is different up there, and instead of cool shells, they have these awesome tumbled rocks. Some are pocket-sized, and some were the size of a volleyball. And yes, I picked up all sizes. I'm redoing the garden in back and I needed rocks for it. So I came home with about sixty pounds of beach rocks. They're beautiful, I love them, and they will always remind me of the weekend with my sister.

Moral of the story: You have to laugh when airport security checks out your backpack and says, "Ma'am, what do you have in here?" and the answer truly is, "A box of rocks!"

"The Frozen Concoction That Helps Me Hang On"

So I recently had occasion to celebrate the second anniversary of my 39th birthday. And as much as I appreciated all the presents, well-wishes, and cards, there was one thing that made my birthday complete: ice cream cake.





Those of you out there who have had the pleasure of downing a cold slice of paradise know what I'm talking about. I mean it's a whole cake. Made out of ice cream. It just doesn't get any better than this.





When Mom and I went to the grocery store we carefully picked out the cake with a top of layer of vanilla ice cream, middle layer of chocolate crunchies and a bottom layer of chocolate ice cream. Then I looked at the cake. It claimed to serve 6-8. We put it back and got the one that serves 16-18. That was just about right for my party of six. I mean, come on, let's get real. I'm going to eat a fairly large slice to begin with, because, well, it's my birthday. And then, right before bed, I'm going to sneak back into the freezer with a fork and have a second helping. Maybe I'll just clean up all the uneven edges so you won't even be able to tell I've been there. And then, the next morning, I'll have a piece for breakfast. Because, well, after all, it was my birthday.





My love of ice cream cake extends so far that I look for a good excuse to have one. You got a promotion at work? Let's get an ice cream cake! You lost 5 pounds? Let's get an ice cream cake! It's Tuesday? Let's get an ice cream cake!





Moral of the Story: If you're celebrating a special day, or maybe it's just Tuesday at your house too, let me know. I'll buy us a little happy from the freezer case.

"The Old-en Years"

So, you've heard of the 'golden years', right? Well, now I'm coining a phrase, the 'old-en years'. Let me explain.

Melissa and I were doing our morning walk earlier this week when we were lamenting the passage of time. I mean, it's mid-February already! This year is flying by. I took a look at my calendar for the next several months, and I have one free weekend a month for the next three months. One weekend! And don't get me started on this fall. I put the Florida football schedule on my calendar yesterday. Between football games, holidays, soccer games and other activities, we are booked until next year!

Luke has always claimed that these are the years that make you old. What with running around with your kids, worrying about your kids, planning things for and with your kids...it's true. I mean, just look at pictures of yourself BEFORE kids, and then look at a picture of yourself AFTER kids. See what I mean? It ain't pretty, folks. It seems that these few years out of your life that you spend raising your children really take it out of you. I think you almost can say that you live about 1 and 1/2 days for every one day during these years. It's no wonder that retirement subdivisions popped up; these people know that young ones suck the life out of you, literally!

And so, my new phrase, 'old-en years'. It seems appropriate. Just don't tell the ones that don't have kids yet. Us parents want as many participants in this particular aging process as we can get.

Moral of the story: Empty nest syndrome, my ass. I can't wait to start aging normally again!

"Can You Spare Some Change?"

So, I've recently discovered that money doesn't mean the same thing to my kids as it did to me when I was a kid. Can you recall the joy of having 2 quarters? Do you remember what that got you? These days, with credit cards and bank debit cards, real money hardly ever gets used. And as I am teaching Mark a money unit, I realize he hardly ever even sees the stuff, much less get to actually use it.

So what did change used to get you? I have memories of putting my coins into the collection plate at church. I remember buying gum at the ball field. I remember getting quarters from the tooth fairy. As I got older, scrounged change equaled a burger, or even gas in the car. It was a banner day when you found enough for both.

In college, change equaled Taco Bell for lunch. Some days here, it still does. And I have vivid memories of Valerie checking phone booths for change every time we saw one, and especially when we traveled. Do they even have those any more?

So what do we use change for now? To park at our beach, you must have quarters. Most days the machine doesn't work, but when it does, it only takes quarters. Like I said, an occasional mid-week run to the Bell is always funded by change. Air and a vaccuum for the car come with change. Tolls as you drive around Central Florida use lots of change.

Have you tried bribing your kids with change lately? That doesn't work so well. They just don't want it enough; they don't see the value of change. A polite, "No thanks," is what I get when I try.

And here's something I never thought change would be used for: the renting of porn. Yup, it has come to my attention recently, that on Sundays, if you scrounge enough change from the basket and take it down to the corner, they still deal in the stuff. Go figure.

Moral of the story: Pretty soon all change is going to go the way of the penny and not be worth the effort to even pick it up from the parking lot.

"Today Is Your Birthday!"

Okay, so it's not quite your birthday. I do know when it is, unlike our father; it's this Saturday. And rumor has it, to celebrate your 40th birthday you are going to run in a race.

I always knew you were crazy. Seriously.

I just wanted to take this opportunity to say.....YOU'RE FORTY, AND I'M NOT! But that's not all. I've been your sister now, all of my life and I must say, you've gotten better with age. This is the perfect place for me to list all of the crappy things you did to me when I was little, but I'm not going to because I like the grown up version of you too much to remind you of that stuff.

Instead, I'm going to say you're the best big sister a little sister could have. We have this shared history that no one else quite understands as well we do. You can make me laugh, cry, and tinkle just a little. I call you every day, just to chat, and when I can't reach you, I chat with you in my head.

I find you witty, charming, intelligent. You're working on the athletic part. You make a mean salad and find interesting recipes. You love my kids just like I do, and you gave me some to love in return. In my book, if it ain't Luke, it's you, and that my sister, is high praise.

To celebrate the occasion of this milestone birthday, I have written you a little poem. It's much nicer than the rude, mean, awful crap you penned for my 29th. Here it goes.


So, you're the big 4-0,
And I think you know
This means your age is showing;

Your hair is limp,
Your youth is spent;
And your skin no longer glowing;

But with age comes grace,
And upon your face,
I see many years of knowing;

There are laugh lines there,
And your fair share of
Damage from the sun;

And yet it's you
I call out to,
When I'm in need of fun;

I love you sis,
But just know this,
When all is said and done;

You might be older,
And sometimes wiser,
But these last words are true;

I will always ALWAYS be, two years younger than you!

Moral of the story: It's great to have an OLDER sister around!

"Ten Percent Smarter"

So, this is a phrase that my neighbor uses all the time. It's something she picked up from work. It means, you don't have to know everything, you just have to be ten percent smarter than whatever you are working with. Ten percent smarter than the bike you are putting together. Ten percent smarter than the person that is arguing with you. This theory works for me.

Now most of you know that Luke recently purchased a new car. It's a Mazda CX-7, and she's a beautiful metallic Gator blue. She's got leather interior, a moon roof, heated seats; pretty much the works. We all love her. Here's the problem.

I think the car is ten percent smarter than I am.

Let me give you some examples. It has sensors for the headlamps and windshield wipers. They turn on all by themselves when they're needed. I don't even have to figure out the different wands on the steering wheel; they just come on. See? Ten percent smarter than me.

The car has GPS. It can locate restaurants, parks, museums. It will plot you a course to get where ever you want to go. It will even talk you through the turns if you aren't quite sure about the map it displays for you. Talk about smart! A definite step up from me sitting in the 'navigator's' seat, holding a map upside down screaming, "I can't even figure out where we are, much less figure out where we're supposed to be!"

Still not convinced? How about this. It won't allow you to lock your keys in the car. Even if they aren't in the ignition. It's got that key-fob thing. You just have to have it in your pocket and it will let you drive that way -- no key. And another thing? It has sensors on the back that know when there is something in your blind spot and it sends a little blinky picture to your mirrors to warn you. And if that's not enough, if you are an idiot and still insist on turning on your blinker to go in a direction that has something there? She politely rings a chime to alert you that you are a dumb ass about to have an accident.

This car is seriously cool. I'm just concerned about my learning curve. I don't think I could ever best this thing.

Moral of the story: It's a scary day when a machine is smarter than you.

"If Rage Could Make You Tall"

So, screw finding joy for the moment.

I've had several incidences over the past several weeks with teenagers. Now, I get a little angry when they knock over garbage cans, swear in the street, and trespass on my property. I know I was like them at one time, but really, GET A LIFE! One that doesn't include you taking your hormonal teen aged angst on my property and ears. I'm sorry you're going through puberty. I'm sorry you feel like your life sucks and no one understands you. I really am sorry. I was there once. But, honestly? I'm not there now and I don't give a crap about how sucky you think your life is. ESPECIALLY if you feel the need to vent your spleen around me.

Want to REALLY piss me off? Include my children in the equation. One sunny afternoon, on a Monday, the kids were in THEIR OWN BACKYARD, minding their beeswax, playing with the neighbors. When along come some trespassing teenagers who feel the need to assert their age and knowledge over MY children. NOT ON MY WATCH! Because I, unlike the wretched people that sired you, actually LIKE my kids. They aren't snotty teenagers yet. So I sit outside on my porch and enjoy a good book whilst they play. So I HEARD WHAT YOU SAID! Granted, in the retelling, what you said makes no sense, but this is beside the point.

However, this IS the point....I can do nothing about anything that any of these crappy excuses for oxygen users do or say. No police person could ever get to the scene quick enough. So that leaves ME on the front lines. I have plenty of rage, righteous indignation, and all around attitude to take these piss-ants on. What I DON'T have? Height. That's right; you heard me. I don't have the stature to pull off the GET THE HELL OFF MY PROPERTY AND LEAVE MY KIDS THE HELL ALONE all on my own. I need backup. And you know, that kind of pisses me off even more.

There was a time in my teaching career, before my own kids, that I could blend in with the fifth graders, no problem. On Fridays, when we were all wearing t-shirts and jeans and I had my hair pulled back into a pony tail, you couldn't distinguish me from the others. Now while that is kind of funny in its own right, it's just not useful here. You cannot put the fear of the gods, Mother Earth, and Mama Potter in a teenager when you only come up to their necks!

Don't get me wrong, the body and spirit are more than willing, nay, anxiously wanting, to go toe-to-toe with the little cretins. It goes against every humming fiber of my being to watch these kids just walk off and do nothing. No consequences, no smacks up the side of their greasy little heads. I just get to stand in my driveway, with my arms crossed disapprovingly, watching them just walk away. Letting them know with my eyes that I saw them, recognize them, and am waiting for the day that they are of age so I can take their skinny little butts out.

Moral of the story: Hurl crude remarks at my children now, while you can. Some day, they will be your BOSSES!