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Showing posts from June 13, 2010

On the Set of Mission Impossible

It's not everyday you look out the side window of the car you're driving and see this: a helicopter, racing next to you at eye level. Whatcha doin' over there, Mr. HelicopterPilot? Aren't you supposed to be a little higher in the sky? You're not experiencing engine difficulties, are you?

A crop dusting helicopter?! That's right. I've got to tell you, I was impressed. It was like watching Mission Impossible the way that copter would pop straight up over a row of trees then disappear again in the blink of an eye.
But I sort of missed the bright yellow biplane...

The One Where We Don't Allow the Bean to Babysit Anymore

Jelly Bean spent some quality time bonding with Cletus the Used to be Fetus. This is how they entertained themselves:

The mohawk was cute. Even the tattoo was kind of funny. The gansta chain was questionable. But the chest hair? I mean.... ew.

Because I Could Never Find a Ruler or a Pencil with MY Name on it...

Growing up everyone had pencils and rulers with their names on them. And little license plates for their bikes. And stickers. And pads of paper. And bookmarks. Everyone. Everyone but me. Every Jenny had one. (Several, actually, those snobs.) And every Kim. And all the Carrie's, too.
But not me. I had to have one of those names that you didn't really hear that often. Bridget. Sure, adults loved it. But me? Where was my pin with my name on it? Once in a while I'd come across a Bridgette - but that was nothing but a cruel joke. It was soooo unnnffaaaiirrrr!
And so, like any good mother suffering from insecurities brought on by a childhood of disappointments, I vowed to put my own children through that same hell. No normal names for me, no sireebob! Or Jenny.
But then one day I thought you know, I kinda like my kids. And I kind of like their names. And I feel bad that they will never understand what it feels like to have their name stamped into a 12" piece of neon pink plas…

Bad Date #42

Once upon a time I looked across a seedy bar my friends and I hung out at and caught the eye of a guy I knew. I'd known him for several years but really all I knew was he was funny and when he smiled and laughed his eyes lit up. "He smiles from the inside out," I'd think.

So, Smiley made the walk over and we started small talk chatter that somehow morphed its way into a really fun night of dancing. Now, I love me a boy that dances. Dances. Not grinds, pumps or gyrates. No, I love me a boy that can dance.

For the next several weekends we would dance. And laugh. And dance. And joke. And dance. And flirt. And dance. Then the request came, but it was more of a command, "Let's have dinner tomorrow night." Uh, dinner? Together? As in sitting across the table trying to hold an actual conversation without dancing? What about the dancing?

But he was cute. And he smiled from the inside out. And he knew how to dance. Of course I said yes.

I got excited. Thinkin…