Yankee Gone South . . . A Classic Love Triangle

I was born in Michigan and yes, I realize that’s not the “NORTH”.  Michigan is part of the Midwest but when I first moved here to Memphis I was told very plainly, it didn’t matter from what part of the North I came from, I’m still a Yankee by all accounts. I was not born or raised on the East side of the state – Not a Motor City girl.  At this point, within the first five minutes of meeting you, I am compelled to due my Michiganly duty and show you from where I hail with the very convenient Michigan Hand Map.  This is me, West Side, a city on Lake Michigan called Muskegon.  Yes, it really is cold as hell there.  IN fact, I think “Muskegon” is  Iroquois for “Oh my God, I can’t feel my feet.”      

German, Dutch, Swedish and French settled this area of the state and they are a seriously pragmatic and resourceful people.  When times are tough--and they are so tough now, people rally.  People are very proud and there is no waiting or asking for handouts and help.  These are very much "bootstrap" pulling up people.  There’s a sign in every lawn – small engine repair, taxidermy, childcare, blueberries, vegetables, hair salon . . . Et cetera.  Whatever it takes, whatever skills they have . . . they are put into practice to provide for their families.  Hunting and fishing aren’t just hobbies, they’re a food source and for many families, necessary to keep their families fed.  It is with great pride and even enjoyment my people incorporate these skills into their lives.  This isn’t by any means unique to Midwestern or Middle Class, but I’m just giving you a frame of reference here.
   

I grew up this way on ten acres of pasture and pine trees – a little farm with 2 cows, a pond to ice skate on and a blueberry farm backing up to our property . . . Western Michigan, agricultural, rural, manufacturing, industrial area.  It was beautiful and magical and I loved going to the lake and romping through the woods, catching tadpoles and fishing in the pond.  But as much as I loved mother nature, very early I began to covet sparkly things, seek out silky or satin fabrics and squirrel away stray sequins, gems or anything metallic – much like a raccoon.

People looked at me funny when in 3rd grade, I showed up in a beautiful corduroy navy blue 3 piece suit my mother made me.  Satin blouse, Blazer, Vest and Culottes complete with burgundy leather knee high boots.  Swoon.  Third grade, people and I begged my mother to make the outfit for me from a pattern I spotted at the store. 

I also made a hobby out of inventorying my mother’s jewelry collection.  There were just a few items in it but I could model her rings and necklaces every single day.  I also coveted the one makeup palette of 12 creamy pastel eye shadows she had.  I counted down the days until I would be allowed to touch makeup.  Fast forward to junior high and high school . . . I wore flouncy shirts, riding boots, vests, blazers and dressed up for every occasion I could find warranted it.  I loved clothes and classic style.  T shirts and jeans and sweatshirts felt very sloppy and unkempt. . . . It just wasn’t me.

This is where my family started looking at me like I’d grown a third eyeball or something.  My sister questioned me many times about "Why are you all dressed up" or "Why are you wearing makeup?" to which I replied, "I don't know, why do you wear pants?"

My extended family was by no means rude to me about my love of all things fancy and special, but I knew they found me a little odd.  I would wear special holiday skirts or dresses and makeup and boots and really blow it out for our holiday gathering and well, pretty much for anything.  Not that these folks aren't festive . . . there are usually holiday sweatshirts.  And on that subject, let me just say, there aren't ugly sweater parties . . . I think you know what I mean.  

How I got here . . .  

–S

–

So, as luck would have it, I married my husband - at the CRAZY stupid young age of 19 and moved to Memphis TN where he attended optometry school.  It was SUPREME culture shock at first.  I spent the first 4 or 5 years here feeling like I was Alice and I had somehow fallen down the rabbit hole in this strange backwards place.  There were language barriers {oil vs. ole} {pin vs. pen}, and people moved, talked and just seemed to operate on a much slower schedule than what I was used to.  I walked fast, talked fast and worked fast.  

My “rabbit hole” began with my first experience working at Seessel’s Grocery Store at Poplar and Perkins.  East Memphis, wealthy, old money.  I can’t tell you how many times I was asked, “Where you from, honey?” and “Slow down, what’s your hurry?”  

After much frustration, one day, a light bulb went off in my head . . . call it wisdom or acquiescence . . . I’m never going to get ahead or at the very least, get anyone to trust me if I don’t “assimilate” and slow down.  Assimilate . . . or die trying.  And, like a user becomes a junkie, wasn't that hard.  

–I learned to speak a little slower, linger on the vowels and worked to duplicate and appreciate the lilt of Southern speak and charm and understand its unique power.  

There are so many things I've come to appreciate in the nearly 17 years I've loved in the South now.  I love the friendliness and familial nature of Southern people.  Not one year passed in the first 10 here that we didn't have 5 or 6 offers to spend Thanksgiving as a part of their family.  (As a side note, after 4 or 5 Thanksgivings, we decided to stay home and cook our own dinner as no one in the South made Stove Top Stuffing.  Rather than decline to eat Grandma Margaret's famous dressing for the 10th time, we became Thanksgiving Recluses to  make Stove Top in the privacy of our own home).   


People in the South go to extraordinary measures to make people feel special, appreciated, and loved.  The details put into giving gifts, throwing parties and making sure nothing is left to chance--everything is done with panache and style . . . even the Euphemisms and Idioms have a special flavor and Sass.  Some of my favorites include, "That is a Hot Mess," and "Aunt Betsy is just Bat Shit Crazy," and "She's about to have a Come Apart."  Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention, "Bless your Heart," a phrase that covers a lot of topics implying pity, empathy, sympathy, or my favorite, stupidity.

•That being said, there are Southern ways and customs that my very Midwestern upbringing just can't fully appreciate.  For instance, tailgating with canopy tents and seersucker suits – fruit trays and ice sculptures.  I come from the land of football games where there is more Camouflage and Ski caps, Kegs and brats in the parking lot instead of shrimp cocktail and salmon pate with children with polo shirts running around, with little girls in matching hair bows or boys in checkered John John’s . . . The Alma mater legacy runs deep here in the South but demonstrated . . . in a different way.  

–Speaking of children I had previously never encountered the child/person with two names.  My best friend I met here 10 years ago.  Her name is Laura Lea.  She is from Jackson, Mississippi (pronounced, Missippi) and has been my Southern woman Jedi Master for more than a decade.  I've also had the pleasure of meeting a Jack Henry, Beau Henry, David John, Ellie Grace, Mary Taylor, Mary Porter, Mary Carter, Mary Margaret, Mary Courtney and so on and so forth . . . They’re beautiful but really, how many names does a person need.  My feeling is it’s a mixed bag of fear of offending as well as paying homage to a relative.  It’s not such a big thing further North . . . Or at list in middle class Midwest. 

•We looked at our family names for our kids.  For our daughter the female names consisted of – Janice, Louise, Susie, Linda, Diane, Penny, Pauline, LaVerne (my grandmother) and last of all, SHAWN.  Who names their daughter Shawn?  Apparently my father and stepmother do as coincidentally, I have a step sister named Shawn.  So, I gave my daughter the most classically feminine name I could find:  Sophia.  Nothing Androgynous about Sophia.  Our son, that was hard too.  Family names include Craig, Rick, Morris, Lee, Oscar, Arnold, Ernie, Danforth and yes, another LaVerne.  My grand parents are both LaVern – the power couple: Vern and Vernie.  I know, ryight?  So, his name is Jake.  Just Jake, no namesake.  Jake.

 

–Jake and Sophia . . . I have not purchased either one of them a monogrammed piece of clothing.  I think a nice lady gave Sophia a bag and a friend gave her some monogrammed bloomers.  Monogramming.  I can get behind an initial here, a name there, but here, people are tagging everything like you’re in a weird, high falootin’ street gang?  My dear friend Laura lea explained it to me when I called her out on this crazy Southern-ism . . . "It’s like marking your territory but instead of peeing on things, we MONOGRAM – to say, 'Those are my God Damned Hand Towels, or That’s MY damned precious baby and her cute baby shit is in this adorable diaper bag with her damned initials on it. '"  Why she curses like that in this quote, I don't know.  But I love it.  You should hear a Southern woman swear.  It's most awesome.

–Next to monogramming, the next phenomenon I not only don't understand but rather loathe:  Little girls with big ass hair bows – bigger the bow, meaner the girl.  Scientifically proven from years of experience/research in the world of retail service.  If I saw a little Buffy with her Big Ass hairbow, I knew she was going to destroy stuff.  Just don't do it.  No one needs a flight deck on their head.  

–And, having not grown up in a rather fancy place, I can honestly say I don't know if anyone in my extended family - both sides - even owns actual China or "good silver."  I'm more of an "every day" china/paper plate kind of gal.  Practical and cost effective.  I DID actually register for China and Silver when I got married.  I did not receive a SINGLE place setting, fork or salad server.  I did however receive popcorn bowls and a jerky maker.  The popcorn bowls saw a lot of action.  Jerky maker, not so much.  

So, how do I reconcile these two social cultures into one woman . . . tormented between my love of the Southern fanciful, extravagant, glittery charm and the pragmatic practicality of my Midwestern upbringing?  

Well, I've decided to create a hybrid.  A new archetype of woman.  "The Midwestern Belle."  It's a working title - but I'm hoping it catches on.    

I'll continue to pick and choose from which influence I shall rationalize my decisions in parenting, life, friendship, work and most importantly, shopping.  I'll wield my Southern accent with pride and sass and charm and apply my Midwestern practicality with a 1-2 punch that you'll never see coming . . . Bless your heart.  

–

One mom, racing 120 Kindergartners . . .

Oh, dear.  Our sweet Sophia is what we like to call, "Sensitive" or "Tenderhearted".  She is compassionate and sweet but the girl can totally fall apart on you.  Specifically when it comes to large gatherings or public performances.  Now, I know you're saying, "hey, how can a girl who's destined to headline in Vegas get stage fright?"  Well, the answer is, "I don't know.  I'm sure she'll grow out of it."  What I do know now is, we place bets on all the holiday, end of year, ballet and track and field performances . . . as to exactly how many minutes will pass before she spots one of her parents and disintegrates into a puddle of tears the finds her way into our laps.

So, how do you help or ummm, assist her or expedite this tendency to revert to tears and cuddles when you're slightly scared or in an overwhelming situation?

Seriously, I'm asking . . . because I don't have a clue.  How do you "toughen up" a five year old?  Does she need to toughen up?  Are we coddling her?  Are we babying her or being over protective?  Is that just her and we're doing okay?  Geeze, parenting is tough.

Recently I made an executive decision in the heat of the moment that showed my own sort of "tough love" and I'm pretty proud of it.  It felt like a "make it or break it moment" in the growth of little miss Trail of Tears . . . and perhaps there was some growth there for Momma Bear too.

At the starting line of Soph's fundraiser - run a thon, she was ready and rarin' to go . . . until she saw me there on the sidelines.  Then, she pretended to get a little sad and weepy and wanted me to come and give her hugs and hold her hand.  Why IS that?  I don't know how someone who can do a triple somersault hooked to a trapeze 20 feet in the air gets weepy and falls apart so easily.  Anyway, they blow the whistle and 16 Kindergartners take off to run their first lap.

Sixteen go down, fifteen go back.  And I'm waiting, and waiting, and I'm waiting.  I couldn't see the far loop of the track but I knew something had happened and started walking over to the starting line.  Now, to scold the organizers, that's a LOT of little kids going full tilt at once.  Eventually, I saw a volunteer coming back with, yes, the TRAIL OF TEARS holding her hand.  From what I gather, Soph had fallen down and been trampled on by a herd of her 5 year old peers.  Just slightly trampled . . . there were no visible scrapes or bruises but yes, LOTS of tears.  Thanks to the volunteer for holding her hand and walking her back to the start area.  

THIS was MY "make it or break it" moment.  I knew if I picked her up and soothed her, she'd stay a puddle of pitiful in my lap for the rest of the event.  I bent down, wiped her tears quickly and said, "You okay? Okay?  Let's do this."  And we ran.

I grabbed her hand.  We didn't talk.  We didn't walk.  We didn't trot or jog.  We RAN.  I pulled her fast until she got up to her own speed and we ran hand in hand, racing around all the other kids.  Bobbing and weaving around the other little bodies (oh, there were eventually over 120 kids running around this circle at once) just as fast as we could go.  We did this about 4 laps before I let go of her hand.  Then we talked about running.  "Pump your arms . . . keep them low . . . kick your feet out . . . breathe steady."  She is fast, I have to admit.  We raced each other.  Passed every kid that there was to pass.  We lapped kids.  And kept going.  At one point, she said to me, "Mom, I just want to walk like my friends."

This sounds strange, but at about lap 8, I began to count this as my workout for the day and I did NOT want to stop running and if I left her to her walk by herself, she'd probably stop and at this point, that was just not an option.  "Baby, what are we doing?  We are RUNNING.  I am out here, supporting you and we are running.  We are not walkers, we are Sandy's, and Sandy's are RUNNERS.  We'll stop running when we're done.  So, can you keep going?"

My baby looked at me with red cheeks and a sweaty head and said, "I can beat you, let's race!"  And off she [we] went . . . for 10 more laps.  We didn't stop until they blew the whistle.

In hindsight, looking at her, I think I may have pushed her too far.  She was beet red and really sweaty.  I was so proud of her.  She crumbled slightly at first, but I gave her a little bit of tough love and she shined, shined, shined.  She was pretty proud of herself and all the money she raised for her school.

Did I mention, that I was the ONLY mom out there running with her child?  There were plenty of people out there on the sidelines giving high fives and cups of water but there was no other parent out there in the pack.  I could really have given a rat's butt about that little fact because while I was one lone mom, racing 120 Kindergartners, there was only one I needed to catch . . . only one that needed to find her pace, needed to be pushed, needed a little helping of tough love to realize what she could accomplish.

After I sent her back to her teacher and her classroom, I walked back to my car, sweaty and red faced too, shedding my own little Mommy "Trail of Tears" thinking about my precious girl's tender heart, wondering just where she gets it?

Who am I? I'm Your Worst Nightmare

I don't know where they're coming from.  Maybe the attic?  We've lived in our new house for over a year and this is the first time we've ever had more than a singular winged intruder.  Yesterday, I killed two big ass wasps in the living room and another one met his maker today.  Me think-eth that it's too much of a coincidence that there have been three wasps in 24 hours that would have meandered into the house.

Being pretty lucky, I've been stung only two times in my life.  The first time, I was five and minding my own five year old business blowing lovely and innocent five year old bubbles.  Apparently one of my beautiful bubbles angered or threatened a bald faced hornet and he felt it necessary to attack my five year old face and sting me just under my eye.  Here is a picture of a bald faced hornet:

"I'm a stupid head Bald Faced Hornet"

The second time, a wasp stung me in the ass after I opened a storage bin that had been the wasp gang evil lair.  They were probably hanging out in there getting high, plotting a bank robbery or something and I lifted the lid and the one sober wasp ran into my butt and managed to sting me.  That hurt like crap and left a lump in my butt cheek for a week.  When my husband got home and I showed him my lumpy butt, he swiftly executed some mammal justice on the wasp underworld and sent 3 death bombs into their hideout.  Yeah, GIT SOME, wasps!

Fast forward 8 years to last fall when our sweet one year old boy was playing in the garage.  A humongous orange wasp crawled in his shirt and lit.him.up.  Stung that poor kid SEVEN times on his flank and stomach.  I wasn't home at the time of the attack but later witnessed the nasty red welts on my baby and that said it all.  Oh, Mr. Wasp.  It's On.  It's On, like Donkey Kong.  You done stung the wrong little dude.

Normally, we're a "Live and Let Live" kind of folk.  Mother Nature has a plan, a job, a role for every living creature and so who am I to interfere with an agent of Mother Nature?  Well, let me tell you who I AM.  Mirror, Mirror on the wall, I am the Baddest MOTHER of them all . . . when you mess with my kid, that is.

So, the wasps that like to land on the water and drink in our pool . . . FWAPPP . . . meet my friend, Mr. Oversized Skimmer.  He's about to make sure you get a good loooooong drink.  Oh-big-ass-mean-looking wasps that have buzzed their way into our house . . . THIS is what the COUPON CLIPPER magazine looks like - up. close. and personal.  Yeah, GIT SOME - 40% off Mexican food.  In Your FACE!

To say this behavior (mine, not the insects) bothers my husband is an understatement.  He actually told me he was disappointed in me and that I didn't need to kill the wasps . . . "There's no food here for them in the house, they're just going to die eventually anyway.  Your Rambo-esque vengeance is not necessary."

Well, to this I say, "What Evs, Husband! And, might I remind you about the Wasp War Waged in 2002 against those that stung me in the butt!?!  This one's for Jake.  'They drew first blood, not me.'  And I'm just sayin', Don't Start Nothin', Won't BEE Nothin'!"

So I will locate said source of the wasp invasion (probably in the attic) and deal with it swiftly and with EXTREME prejudice.  And just to give credit where credit's due, thanks to the fine folks who stuff the Clipper Magazine in my mailbox each month.  Thank you.  Your fine advertising vehicle swats and squishes wasps very nicely.  The last thing to go through these wasps' mind?  Clipper Magazine . . . followed by his own ass.  

The Best Local Advertising In America. Period Instrument of Wasp Death Ever.  Period!

The Sounds of Saturday . . .

Mike works every Saturday.  It sucks and it doesn't.  It sucks for him but he takes Thursdays off.  It will probably suck big time when the little ankle biters start playing sports and such (those of you who know our daughter can laugh here-but you never know, she may have a Cha Cha recital on Saturday).


Anyway, Saturdays are kind of a special day for me.  It's MY day with the kids.  All mine, just us.  Nothing scheduled, no agenda.  Just me and my peeps.  We can kick it in jammies all day playing blocks and watching cartoons, go to the park and terrorize other nice children or swim or do art projects . . . whatever we want--well, as long as Momma wants to do it.  


Today was a pretty awesome Saturday.  I made applesauce pancakes and just for giggles, covered them with Halloween sprinkles.  We pulled out all the toys, played on the porch and covered paper, the counter and little arms and faces with lots of pretty marker colors (that last part was all on the boy).  It doesn't take much to impress this crowd and that's how I like it.  Thinking about how much I treasure these Saturdays of gold - before we get wrapped up in sports and sleepovers and such - this time is all mine for the keeping.  I'll admit it, I'm selfish as hell about protecting these days.  I don't plan play dates, go to community events or generally like to share this time with anyone else.  I know these carefree, unscheduled moments are going to decrease and eventually fade away so I'm trying to hold on as long as I can.  


Today, I decided to log some of these sounds of Saturday as it does get a bit crazy with the three of us, given how young and let's just say, "needy" the kids are.  If you were a fly on the wall and I didn't manage to whack you with a copy of the latest American Girl Catalog, you would have heard the following today . . . 


"Jake, get Cinderella out of your mouth." (mom)


"That's a 2 minute penalty for running down your brother!" (mom)


"We wash our eyes and we wash our penis." (jake)


"My eye's been hurting for a while now.  I think Daddy should examinate." (soph)


"Jake, don't eat that Smurf!" (mom)


"Smurfs do NOT go in the dishwasher!" (mom)


"On the paper, ON the Paper, ON the PAPER!" (mom)


"Push your pee pee down.  No, down, no, DOWN.  Don't point it in the air!" (mom)


"Get back in here and put on panties.  We don't leave the house without our underwear!" (mom)


"Mom, Jake just jumped on my face!" (soph)


"Momma, you need a pac (ifier)." (jake)


"Get the baby head out of your mouth and put it back on the body." (mom)


"Somebody is a Mr. Stinky Pants." (soph)


"Stop licking me.  Seriously.  Stop licking me now." (mom)


"My cheek hurts.  Can I sleep down here tonight.  Hey, is that licorice?" (soph)


"Scooby doo, scooby doooooo, scooby doooooooooooo . . . needs a pac (ifier)." (jake)


"Is this a Japanese color?" (soph)


"Soph, thank you for encouraging him but move back or you might get peed on."  (mom)




Ah, that's the good stuff!  I look forward to reading these scribbled notes many years from now . . . and probably bawling my eyes out at the memories of these awesome Saturdays.  For now, they're mine, all mine and I'll keep them for myself as long as they'll let me.  

Kickin' it, Sandy Saturday Style.

Investors, Get Out Your Wallets!

Here's another slice of pie that I baked up in my head spending so much time on 4 wheels touring this lovely area of the Delta in my mobile office or, as I like to call it, My BGID (Bad Ass Get It Done Factory).  I drive here, I drive there, I drive everywhere.  Business is in the good, the bad, the ugly and in the "don't come to a complete stop unless you're packin' heat" parts of town and so, you go where the business is.  I'm in the habit of constantly scanning the sidelines to look for new businesses--those potential gold mines waiting to be "saved" by this salesperson.  This particular "habit" came from my TV days where my first introduction into sales was walking into my cube to a giant phone book and my manager saying, "okay, start dialing".  Being in the square cell dialing for dollars drove me insane so I perfected the art of prospecting and cold calling. 

Anyway, that's how I came to drawthis point of which I shall share.  Perk up your ears and if you've got any cash stuffed under the mattress.  Get. it. now.  I'm about to give you THE NEXT BIG THING.  The next hot investment in retail franchise opportunities. 

Well no, they have not actually been Franchisisized yet but as I am a gracious ideator (see previous post, "Hear This Detroit"), I give these to you fine folks who can take these ideas and run with them.

Cupcakes Schmuckcakes . . . Gigi's, Muddy's, Sprinkles . . . make way for the newest bite sized bakery phenom, "Boutique Brownies".  Yeah, that's right.  Blondies, Brownies, Double Fudge, Nutty, Chewy . . . the possibilities are endless here.  You can smather them with frosting, get crazy gourmand on the flavor combinations (Dulce de Leche with espresso cream cheese frosting?) and on the bright side, they are a heck of a lot easier to transport and eat than the cup cake.  Sorry Cupcakes.  You're cute and all but Brownies . . . they're rich!

Yogurt places . . . I just don't get you.  Frozen yogurt, do you know you're NOT ICE CREAM!?!  Perhaps I'm missing something.  I probably am . . . it's called ICE CREAM!  Perhaps we are in love with the frosty frozen treat concept.  31 flavors, TCBY, snowcone shacks . . . meet your newer, prettier little sister . . . "Popsicle Panache".  She's stylish, she's cute, she's simple and yet can be very complex (strawberry zinfandel zinger?).  Customizable molds for parties . . . large sculptures and installations in buffets . . . I could keep going here.  This one has infinite frozen slurpy possibilities . . . just watch out for the BRAIN FREEZE - THAT's the title of my store!

Burrito - Fast Casual Tex Mex places . . . you just really hack me off.  Why don't I just go in the back and make my own damned food?  Here's what I find irritating . . . I either want it fast, casual and cheap, or if I'm going to pay $12 for lunch, I want someone to bring it to me AND refill my drink.  And laugh at my jokes.  And bring me a box for my leftovers.  I don't actually have an idea here.  I just find these Swanky, QDoba Booya's places irritating and confusing.  Food's good.  Just wish someone refilled my drinks for the $12 I just dropped in thier drawers. 

Edible Arrangements . . . whenever I hear this store name, I always think of "Edible Underwear."  I know it's fruit but really, that's where my mind goes.  Any how, Edible Arrangements have a healthier leg up on the yogurt and cupcake franchises but let's take this one step further and add a Vegetable Arrangement store like maybe, "Cucumber Cuties" or "Lettuce Celerybrate Arrangements". 

Hmmmm . . . maybe I'd better stop while I'm ahead . . . although, who could resist these cuties rolling into your office with a card that said, "Happy Birthday from the guys at the 'plant'!" 



How DO you cook eggplant, anyway?

What do you think?  Any other Entrepreneurial folks have an idea for the next big franchise opportunity?

Signs Your Child is Destined to be a Vegas Showgirl . . .

So, I believe in all my heart that people should be allowed to make their own choices, follow their own dreams, change their minds, reinvent themselves and pursue their passions.  That being said, I'm pretty sure my sweet daughter will end up being a Vegas Showgirl, run away to join The Circus or (crossing my fingers here) become a Cirque du Soleil performer.  I've intentionally avoided the performance category of "Stripper" because, well, I can't go there.  Neither will SHE.  Even though she runs around naked a LOT, I'm hoping that's just because she's 5 and has no shame about her body yet.  A little bit of shame or, let's shoot for humility, could have us bypass Stripper or Pole Dancer and take the exit on further up the road to Feather Frocked Headliner for Celine Dion's come back come back come on waaaaay back show.

It's not exactly what I'd choose for the girl but early signs suggest she's headed in this direction.  Signs such as . . .

• The child doesn't just walk or run, she shimmies, Cha Cha's or saunters from point A to point FABULOUS.  Oh, she's fast and can run like the devil if she wants to . . . but chances are, it's because she doesn't want to miss "So You Think You Can Dance" - - - especially if it's the Cha Cha, Salsa, Mambo or something with a skimpy, shiny twirly costume.  

• Playing "dress up" . . . well, what can I tell you here.  In her closet, there are princess costumes, fairy wings, and plastic dress up heels.  They are patiently waiting for some other little girl to put them on and play in the castle.  My little girl prefers yards of gauzy fabric, satiny belts, frilly fringe from the fabric store and silk or lace castoffs from my closet.  She twists and maneuvers, ties, somehow incorporates a beaded necklace headpiece and voila, she's Carmen Miranda, Madonna, Liza Minelli or (gulp) Gypsy Rose Lee, the burlesque dancer.  

• Her "pretend" names sound an awful lot like "stage" names.  Yesterday she announced her name was Jezebel . . . that one made me choke on my coffee and question how a waffle that was previously swallowed could make it back up my nose.  Jezebel was a new one on me.  Her go to name is usually something like Sparkle Crystal Pearl Shimmer Diamond Tiffany Rose Summertime Sandy.  

• We tried ballet class for a year.  She loved the outfit.  She liked the teacher - the teacher was pretty.  She did not, however, like ballet.  It was "slow and I have to wear the same outfit every time."  She was eventually a little disruptive to the other children and that was the end of our little Nutcracken' dreams. 

• We went to a few gymnastic classes.  She liked gymnastics.   Especially when they got to climb the rope to the ceiling and twirl on the bars.  Sigh.  Outside of those two circus-like activities, she was once again, distracted and that led to being disruptive.  Perhaps being distracted and disruptive is merely a symptom of being five years old and not that her mind is wandering off doing the cha cha or planning where to sew on her sequins and feathers.  

• The girl loves to swing.  Upside Down.  And Dangle from one Leg.  We have a playset.  It has a slide, a playhouse, two swings and a Trapeze bar.  The Trapeze bar is this child's favorite.  Nay, her ONLY method of swing.  

I could go on and on.  I could tell you that she has been this way since birth.  Or that I hope I'm just imagining this crazy future for her and that she may out grow it.  Or, I could encourage her and support her just like I did when she showed signs of wanting to crawl or walk and talk and use the potty.  She's still so little so I have to keep in mind we have many, many, MANY milestones to go before we're doing handstands on elephants or seeing her name up in lights on the Great White Way.  I need to stay true to letting HER choose her own dreams, shape them and pursue her passion--whatever they may be.  I'll even sew feathers on to the caboose of her costume or help her scrub the glitter off her beautiful face and I will always, ALWAYS buy a ticket to her show.  I will, however, draw then line when she asks for an elephant or to add a trapeze bar to the living room ceiling fan.  She'll have to get her own place for those particular things.    

And with that, I leave you with a video of my child.  Mexico, 2010, 4 years old.  Called to get up and "Cha Cha" with her own fashion creation made from a Mexican dress, a bathing suit cover up, a sarong and accessorized perfectly with light up sandals.  

Enjoy.  (It was windy.  She's cute . . . you'll have to get over it.)

Anatomy of an ER visit . . .

Recently, there was a bit of a big "ta-doo" of sorts and the Sandy HQ.  It started with a BANG.  Yes, quite literally.  Many of you have heard the story of how the Hubs tried to blow himself into meaty man bits and bones and yes, it was scary and terrifying and all that . . .

Being several weeks post explosion, we can look back and laugh a little.  Not like a chuckle.  That would be inappropriate, you freaks.

Anyway, when Hubs tells the story it's all about the explosion.  When I recount the events, I think about the sequence of things and what exactly ran through my head during those moments as I've not experienced the likes of such an emergency that we had on that sunny summer Saturday afternoon.

1.)  I'm in the living room folding laundry.  Watching "The Blind Side" for the first time.  Working hard to keep it together and not cry like a baby all over little people's socks and underwear.  She soooo deserves that Oscar.  Mike and the kids are swimming in the back yard.

2.)  "BOOOOOOM" from the back yard.

3.)  My first thought was, Damn, those birds running into the windows keep getting bigger.  Wait, that sounded like a Hippo hitting the glass.  Better check it out.


4.)  I head to the back yard and hear my little Snake wailing.  Hubs is carrying him.  I don't know why but I thought the loud sound and my baby Boy crying had something to do with him potentially falling off the roof.  Yeah, he's just that kind of boy.

5.)  Now, at this point, I cannot give you exact sequence of dialogue because it's a bit fuzzy but I'll do my best  to recall it for you:
      Me:  "What happened"
      Hubs:  "Take him"
      Me:  "What happened!"
     Hubs:  "Is he okay?  Check him!"
     Me:  "What the F*&# happened!"
            "What am I checking him for?"
             "Why is he crying?"
              "Is he hurt?  Did he fall"
   Hubs:  "Turn on the hose"
     Me:   "Okay - - - What the $&*+ happened?"
   Hubs:  "$0d #%$$+"
    Me:   "Where's Soph?"
  Hubs:  "She's swinging"

6.)  I look out and She is in fact, still swinging.  Apparently oblivious to the emergent situation that has just unfolded 25 yards in front of her.  So, she may not have a career as any sort of "First Responder".

7.)  Looking back over to the husband, I see him pretty much shoving the water hose into the giant hole that once was his entire shin.  I believe I again screamed, "WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED!"  Oh, and the boy is still screaming and crying and shaking in my arms.

8.)  I gathered from the bits of communication that there was an explosion of something over in the pool pump area.  Husband received the brunt of the damage but the blast picked up our son and deposited him back down several feet behind him.

THEN, something (or someone else) took over my self because I don't know how we calmly did what we did but it goes like this . . .

9. - 14.)  HUBS gets into the shower as there are bits of plastic and chunks of chlorine burning through the blasted flesh.  I instruct little daughter to get clothes on as we're going to the hospital.  This excited her beyond reason.  Baby boy reaks of highly concentrated chlorine so I hose him down, whip off his wet clothes, diaper and change him like he's a NASCAR and I'm the pit crew and then locate medical tape while also throwing juice boxes and a snack and the portable DVD player in my purse, confirm with sweet daughter that "Yes, that outfit in fact does look good to wear to the hospital and they will all love it and I don't know what kind of toys they have there" and then load kids into the car - helped bandage husband's leg with paper towels and tape and get him to the car and get to the emergency room.

That was the craziest 15 minutes of my life.

15.)  The ER is very close and being a hospital in the suburbs, thankfully seeing very little action on a Saturday night.  They did, however, seem a little too "laissez faire" about treating my husband so I asked him very loudly if he had in fact, explained to them that chlorine was "BURNING THROUGH HIS SHIN GUTS" as we speak.  That got Delores (seems like a good ER name) to get him back to Triage faster.

16.)  We were only there for 2 1/2 hours.  While husband was back getting his tetanus shot, 20 shots of lidocaine, stitches and chunks of plastic and chlorine extracted from his meaty gross wound . . .

17.) WE, the lucky and unscathed (especially the boy whom I thought had kartwheeled off the roof) sat in the waiting room watching the same 3 episodes of Scooby Doo and dining on an entire box of My Little Pony gummy snacks and Cheeze Its while the boy proceeded to touch everything that could possible be covered in germs, hazardous waste, snot or Lord help me, Poo.  Thus, it was a pretty rockin' evening for the kids.  We even got to visit Daddy back in the triage room.  Sweet daughter was so thrilled she didn't stop grinning the whole time.  The boy, ugh, more touching of all gross things.

In the end, everyone is okay.  Sweet husband has a huge shiny new pink scar after all the scabs have been scraped off and has taken a lot of crap about not making the best use of his chemistry degree.  He did drive around to reassure the neighbors who seemed very concerned that our explosion could be the sign of a Meth ring in the burbs.  He's so thoughtful like that.  I learned that we can be calm and cool in a crisis . . . even the kids.  Well, they weren't "calm and cool" so much as excited and well behaved.  I've also learned that if you're going to blow up your leg, do it in the suburbs where there's not much else going on in the ER but a few dehydrated stomach virus stragglers.  Oh, and bring your own snacks and juice boxes.  Just don't blow through them in the first 10 minutes.  Ha, no pun intended!

Ewwww.