Dinner Table Conversation

Big Kid:  So I was thinking that we ought to try out the new trampoline park, because . . .

Me:  Yeah, okay.

Big Kid:  . . . it's tons closer than Urban Air, and - wait, did you just agree?

Me:  Yeah, I'm considering it as a venue for an event I'm helping to organize.

Little Kid:  My birthday?

Me:  No, an adult event.

Little Kid:  GOOD.  Because I'm committed to a mad scientist theme, and I don't think that would work at a trampoline park.

[Note:  Little Kid's birthday is at the end of October.  Another note:  Both kids inherited my party-planning gene.]

Me:  You know, back in my day, birthday parties didn't really HAVE themes.  

Little Kid:  HUH?
 
Me:  Like, if you went to the roller rink, the theme of the party was just "roller skating."

Little Kid:  Wow.  You were boring when you were a kid.

Big Kid:  No, she was actually WAY MORE FUN back then.

Me:  Congratulations, guys.  You managed to insult me equally but in totally different ways.  I'm impressed.

Big Kid:  No, what I mean is that you were "normal-for-a-kid fun" - which, sorry, by definition, is more fun than "adult fun" - but Nana, maybe, wasn't fun and phoned in your birthday parties.

Me:  But she didn't phone them in.  That's the point.  NOBODY'S PARTY HAD A THEME.  Unless "donkey pinata" qualifies as a theme.

Spouse:  Donkey.

Me:  Huh?  I said donkey.

Spouse:  No, the default theme was JUST DONKEY.  Donkey pinata, pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.

Me:  OOOH, you're on to something!  I wonder why we were so donkey-obsessed as a culture?  Carter was in office - maybe it was a backlash-against-Nixon, Democrat-versus-Republican thing?  HEY, I JUST REMEMBERED:  SCARY CLOWNS.

Both kids:  WHAT?

Me:  Occasionally, just to mix things up, your mom would spring for a really scary clown.  Possibly a mime.  You know, to make balloon animals and squirt water out of plastic flowers and totally creep everyone out.

Little Kid:  That's horrible.

Me:  No, growing up in the seventies was awesome.  

Both kids:  [Skeptical looks.]

Me:  Okay, you just have to trust us on this. 

Exhibit A, above.  Exhibit B, below.

Spousal Personal Growth

This week's "Mindy Project" turned out to be a repeat - one that I hadn't seen.  Our DVR is only programmed to record new episodes.  (I started to type "tape new episodes" just now, but then the Big Kid's voice-in-my-head reminded me that "people haven't TAPED shows in EONS, MOM."  Yeah, and they haven't "Pulsed" money out of an ATM in eons, either, but I still slip up and say that, too.  I'm [marginally] old, kid - deal with it.)

Anywho.

Sweet Spouse manually recorded the show for me, AND when I called him on the way home that evening, he provided me with a brief synopsis of the episode, confirming that, in fact, it wasn't one that I had actually seen.  He even called the characters by the right names.

Me to him:  You're so sweet.   Did you read that information off of the DVR menu?

Him to me:  No, I actually watched the show.

Me to him:  _________________.

Dead, "I got nuthin'" silence.  Seriously?  Spouse doesn't like "Mindy Project" - or at least he didn't, I suspect, in large part, because one of the characters looks ridiculously similar to my high school-slash-"sorta-continued-to-date-him-in-college" boyfriend.  Spouse has a weird but kind of sweet knee-jerk bias against Italian types of the Chris Messina order:

But then a few weeks ago I pointed out that, in addition to really liking the show for its sharp writing, the developing story of two doctors (one of whom just happens to be played by this guy) who work together, evolve into friends and then realize that they don't enjoy watching each other date other people and, just possibly, want to spend the rest of their lives together is eerily familiar to our own "When Harry Met Sally" story.  (Substitute "law students" for "doctors," and the description holds:  we met when we were both tapped to serve as teaching assistants to the first-year research-and-writing professors, spent a lot of time bantering in the staff lounge, became each other's best drinking buddies, and it all progressed from there.)

Apparently my explanation was some sort of tipping point - because now Boy Child Who I Married actually knows the names of characters - even the name of their fictional medical practice.

So now I can watch my favorite show with the best friend who happens to be just a smidge above the rest of the tier.  And has a lifetime appointment in such regard.

Chair Apple

In the normal world, you might find an apple in a refrigerator, or in a bowl on a kitchen counter or dining table.  You might even find an apple in a backpack, bound for the lunchroom or a teacher's desk.

In Boy World, you find apples in your armchair.

Witness Exhibit "A."

I chased the kids out of the front room the other night, turned off the television so as to bask in blissful silence, settled into the comfy leather recliner-that-doesn't-look-like-a-recliner - and felt a bulge of some sort pushing against my tush.

Tennis ball?  Balled-up sock?  Nope - apple.

Because, DUH, you keep apples in the crack of a chair.  You know, for LATER.

Which is why every surface in our house is (easily wipeable) leather, slipcovered or Scotchgard-ed.

Proof of Life . . . Again

USA Swimming needs to see my 8 year-old's birth certificate.  You know, to confirm that he isn't actually a 24 year-old Chinese woman.

And, of course, I failed to find said birth certificate on my first pass through the stash o' junk that I keep in my office.  I did find a manila envelope stuffed with a bunch of receipts from a trip to DC that we took in 2004.  Hey, I figured out that I was pregnant with the kid on that trip!  Unfortunately, none of the receipts reflect that epiphany.

I'm confident that I had to prove that he exists once before:  last I checked, he was enrolled in school.  However, his "school records" file seems to have disappeared into the ether.  (Of course, I found the equivalent file for his brother IMMEDIATELY, because that wasn't the one I was looking for.)

Clever Spouse has offered to procure a copy from the registrar of the elementary school.  In the interim, I am tempted to send the admin manager of our swim team one of the several date-stamped ultrasound pictures that I found on my work computer.  Because, you know, THOSE I keep readily available.

Proof that I was pregnant with the child in the summer of 2004 is proof enough, right?  USA Swimming can do the math from there.  Or have their friends at Omega crunch the numbers for them.  Those guys build the timers, they can totally figure out the approximate birthdate of a fetus in utero who was 20 weeks-ish in early June.

Wise Words

I am officially in love with "The Mindy Project" - a new episode of which airs tonight, that I will be unable to watch in real time due to a command performance in front of the Junior League Board of Directors followed by a dinner engagement with Woman's Club girlies at Joe T. Garcia's.

But enough about my first world girl problems.  (And, for the record, I'm not actually complaining.  I have a DVR.  And my dinner at Joe T's is being comped.)

In honor of my new favorite show, I wanted to share a nugget o' sheer wisdom from a past episode - a line that, possibly, could have been written by another writer, but I would like to think that it was penned by Ms. Kaling herself.  Because, you know, it sounds like her.

(Call me, Min.  We can hang out and surf the Kendra Scott jewelry Web site together.)

I love this line so much that I want to stitch it on a pillow.  And I already sort-of-virtually did:

I [heart] my tier.  Which is modular and could be expanded to fit one Ms. Mindy Kaling.

(Seriously.  Call me.)

Earth Day Observance, and Observations

This was today's installment from my "page a day" Someecards calendar. It made me chuckle, because after church on Sunday the kids and I went to Super Target, and a very chipper woman in a "Target tomato red" apron handed me a (weirdly tiny) reusable grocery sack  - Target tomato red, of course - containing samples of (dubiously) Earth-friendly products and a coupon booklet, all in honor of Earth Week. In the booklet was - wait for it - this coupon for a dollar off of Method hand soap:

 

Is it just me, or does the woman in the calendar illustration look like Princess Leia dressed for a Downton Abbey viewing party?  Possibly displaying jazz hands?

Anyway.

Happy Earth Day, peeps!

PJ McSwagger

I have certain distinct - um - urban contemporary - tendencies.  R&B and old school funk:  pretty much the soundtrack of my life, for as long as I can remember, since I was old enough to express my own musical preferences.  Rap got added into the mix early on - like, The Sugarhill Gang early.  Senior year, my parents had to essentially ground me to keep me from going to a Public Enemy concert - which was kind of hypocritical, given that I get my hood-rat-adjacent tendencies (including my mad booty-shaking skills) from my mother.

PJ also inherited the gene.  For lack of a better description, he is my little funk-soul brother, trapped in a freckle-faced body.

On Saturday, I thanked him for bringing me my phone when it was ringing in another room, and he responded, "No probs, Moms.  That's just how I roll."

On Sunday, I caught him singing Jaheim.   Specifically, Jaheim's "Ain't Leaving Without You":

You're moving them hips
Killing me with every dip, girl
You about to get a tip
Do it girl
Worst that goes down is you turn me down
But, this time around, I got it, shorty
Hey, how you doin'?
Baby, what you getting into?
I don't know what your name is
Or who you came with
But, I ain't leaving without you

Because eight year-olds know the lyrics to obscure (but musically awesome) neo-soul songs.  (At least, eight year-olds in my house do.)

The Sunday before, during the children's service at our church (thankfully, because the children's service is kinda loud and chaotic), the children's minister announced that little pint-sized ushers would be coming 'round to take up the collection.  Prompting my child to blurt out;

URSHUR!

in his best Ludacris voice.

There was a little dance step involved.

And, earlier this evening, I was handed (by his somewhat amused father) what appears to be the first draft of a rap:

I said you were cool
I was kidding - 'cause you pee in pools
Hey, ace
Guess what?
Yo face
By the way
You don't have a base
Just a place
I'm on your case 
By the way, Mom's pretty
You don't have a job in the city
You work on a farm
Bet chickens are your alarm

Okay, so it's a work in progress.  But it amused me.

I love my little funk soul brother.

Looking Outward

When you are forced, pretty much at gunpoint, to remodel the interior of your house, on zero notice and with no construction loan in place, the silver lining is that you end up with nice new digs - whether you particularly wanted them or not.

And then you step outside.  And "outside" pales in comparison to "inside."  Significantly.  On account of how everything inside is all shiny and new, and everything outside - well.  Let's just say that yard maintenance wasn't high on our priority list when we were mid-construction and living off-premises.  Not helping the situation:  throngs of laborers and movers beating a path from driveway to front porch (on days when it rained - ALWAYS on days that it rained, because isn't that just the way?).

So, "outside" - which wasn't looking all that fab when we left - really looks drab now.

But that is about to change.  Mainly, on account of how I have no projects left to complete indoors.  (Okay, I have a few.  I still haven't trimmed out the backsplash, and a couple of doors need new knobs.  The trim for the master bathroom shelves has been painted but not installed.  But, you know, whatever.  I have made it this long without finishing those jobs, and I certainly can push them off a little bit more.)

Onward and outward.

In roughly the order that I intend to complete them:

Project #1:  Prettifying the broad side of a barn.  Because, literally, that is what we are dealing with on the south side of the carriage house.  I don't spend a whole lot of time looking at it, on account of how the south side of the carriage house fronts on a very narrow strip of real estate - really, just enough space between building and fence to accommodate a stone pathway to "The Scary."  (More on The Scary later.)  However, our neighbors to the south just built a very large second-story addition, which, when occupied, will give them a bird's eye view of the broad side of our barn.

Project #1 will be phased as follows:

I'm going to get around to painting the carriage house the same color as the main house.  Really, honestly, I am.  Some EIGHT YEARS after I repainted the main house, and swore that I would paint the carriage house to match.  We even replaced the trim on the sliding barn-style doors on the front.  The trim, like the structure to which it was attached, has remained primer white.

But Olympic's "Prairie Dust" it shall be.  THIS is an image of NOT MY HOUSE, BUT SOMEONE ELSE'S HOUSE painted "Prairie Dust."  (But it gives you an idea.)

It is more of a greenish-khaki in real life.  I expended several months and countless brain cells trying to find just the proper shade of not-too-brown, really-quite-green Army khaki.  I found, basically, the right color on a house that was en route to the Big Kid's preschool (not the NOT MY HOUSE above - a different NOT MY HOUSE).  More than once, I thought about stopping, ringing the doorbell and asking them to share the name of their paint color - but I worried about the homeowners' reaction.  I worried that they might be serial killers.  Then, some months after I tracked down Prairie Dust on my own, one of my friends BOUGHT MY INSPIRATION HOUSE - and informed me that the prior owners were two of the sweetest gay guys you could ever hope to meet (duh - not to stereotype, but I reaaaaaaally should have known, because, after all, they did pick the BEST possible color to coordinate with their brick), who would have welcomed a pop-in and probably given me a tour of the whole joint, and then offered me a glass of pinot.

Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  The carriage house shall be Prairie Dust, with white trim, like in the picture.

Second phase - create a gutter garden to hang below the main gable and break up all that broadness.  It needs the addition of plant life, and there isn't enough space to plant a shrubbery (channeling Monty Python here), so options are a trellis or THIS:

I choose THIS.  Three lengths of white vinyl gutter, some chain and some bedding plants or herbs.   The troughs will echo the white house trim and pop against the khaki paint, and the plants will create "visual interest" (a phrase that makes Spouse roll his eyes - kinda like "pop").

Third phase (really more of a Phase 2B) is to find some rubber doormats at the dollar store that look like scrolled ironwork, give 'em a hit of spray paint, and mount them above and on either side of my gutter installation.

Cute, right?  And guaranteed not to rust, and cheap to replace when the time comes.

Fourth phase is to tame, once and for all, the unruly landing strip o' weeds that runs along the Broad Side.  Black landscaping plastic is in hand, as are step stones and mulch, and I am thinking of sinking some old, starting-to-crumble faux plaster pots in the ground here and there, like this:

Again: cute, right?  And tidy.  But how to keep the mulch from sliding into the neighbor's yard?  Given that we live in an old city neighborhood, we have cyclone fencing, not wood fencing as is typical in more suburban areas.  This means that we have problems with materials migrating from one side of the fence to the other.  A walkway border like the one above would be difficult to pull off without help. 

I present to you . . . GUTTER PROJECT NUMERO DOS.  Don't have an image of this one, because I made it up.  I'm going to hit some more vinyl gutter with a little brown vinyl spray paint (so it blends in with the mulch), drill in some drainage holes, and sink the gutter all along the length of fence.  A little soil, some bedding plants, and you have a floral border that will stay put.

At least, that's the theory.


Project #2:  Creating shade on the patio.  I really want a pergola over my backyard patio, which sits in front of and along the length of the carriage house, but figuring out where to put the footings for a pergola is an issue.  I really DON'T want to drill into my existing, attractively stamped and stained concrete.  So I'm thinking about a triangle shade, in a khaki color to match the carriage house's new paint job.

Two corners can be easily anchored to the side of the carriage house - but where to anchor the third?  This got me thinking about one of my mom's upcoming yard projects, which is to cement a patio umbrella inside a very large planter pot, and plant flowers on top of the cement, creating a sturdy base for her umbrella which is also green and pretty.  Basic idea is like the one below:

Theoretically, what is to stop me from cementing a redwood fence-type post into a pot like this, and anchoring the third corner of the sun shade to the top?  Nothing, Spouse tells me.  Bonus:  if you want to take the shade down in the winter you can roll the stand out of sight and out of mind.

Yeah, this is so happening.  Existing redwood dining table with umbrella will create height (and shade) in the southeast corner of the patio), and the new shade structure-of-sorts will offset it in the northwest corner.

Project #3:  Achieving sustainability on the Near South Side.  Sounds like some sort of city initiative, right?  Our front porch wraps around the house at the southeast corner, and there's a little terrace area between the porch and our master bedroom, bordered by two large raised planters.  Nice in theory, but the sun beats down on that little terrace area like no one's business, and logistically it's difficult to irrigate over there - options are to drag a hose from the front, or one from the back.  Another triangular sun shade, coming off of the back of the porch, will add both visual interest (there's that phrase again!) and relief from the heat.  And then I'm adding one of THESE bad boys:

DIY RAIN BARREL!  DIY RAIN BARREL!  I love all three of those words.  And the gutter downspout just so happens to come down in the perfect spot.  Spouse is not only on board with this concept but thinks it's a pretty fab idea.  Not that we get THAT much rain to make this a consistent watering solution, but it will help some, and it's certainly environmentally friendly.


Project #4:  Tackling The Scary.   "The Scary" is my name for the rather large area behind the carriage house - said carriage house having been built, rather inexplicably, in the middle of  our backyard, the result being to create a large, unseen and unutilized VOID between the carriage house and the back fence.  It's not completely hopeless - there's a big shade tree in one corner, and a funky bois d'arc tree in the middle, and the areas in between get enough sunlight during the day that I am thinking that I could do some vegetable gardening back there. Weedy grass is an issue, but if I utilize raised beds, and underline them with black plastic, then I can choke out weeds and grow veggies at the same time.

Project #5:  Creating a succulent Death Star.  Because, seriously, why not?

I have a ton of unused shepherd's crooks hanging around, and at least one hanging basket.  I may even have two of the same size.  I just need to buy new coco husk liners, some soil and some succulents.

It's supposed to be a really nice weekend, so I think that I'm going to drag the boys to ReStore to look for used gutters and other raw materials, and then we will shop the carriage house for fun and funky stuff to repurpose.  Hoping that I find an old faucet and a rusty old bucket, because I know that I have an old chandelier crystal that I could turn into a drip, like this:

Hmm . . . Carriage House Scavenger Hunt.  Coming soon to a sunny weekend near me.

He Who Shall Not Be Named

When it became apparent that the end was near for my dad, I did a little research into the grieving process as it manifests itself in mid-elementary school-aged kids and teenagers.

The last time we went down this road, Big Kid was a not-so-big-kid of six, and Little Kid was a mere eighteen months.  Big Kid's reaction to the news that his dad's father had passed away was philosophical:  "Well, I'm sad, but that's kind of selfish of me, because I know that Granddaddy is in Heaven, and he's with his parents, so he's probably really happy, and I should be happy for him."

And so he was.

I am told by my sister-in-law's mother, who was watching PJ in the waiting room while we were saying our goodbyes in ICU, that PJ looked skyward and let out a happy chortle of laughter at pretty much the exact moment that his granddaddy passed.  Having always suspected that young children still have a hook-up with "the other side" (having so recently come from there), I am 100% convinced that this confluence of events wasn't coincidental.  Pretty clearly, the kid was tuned in to something.

Years later, PJ advised that he remembered well "the day that we strapped Granddaddy to the top of Grandma's SUV and drove him to Heaven.  It was me, Daddy and Grandma in the car, and we drove him to Heaven and then came back."

Um, no.

"Oh, you're right.  I wasn't there.  But you told me about it later."

Ohhkay, sure.

This go-round, the Big Kid was provided with a heads up that we were approaching a crossroads.  He only stayed in the denial phase for a split second before proceeding to bargaining:  "Well, if his heart is failing, can't they give him one of those pacemaker things?"  No, I explained to him as patiently, and gently, as possible.  He wasn't healthy enough for surgery, for starters.  And, if a device could resolve any of his issues at all, it couldn't eliminate the root cause of those issues.  Notwithstanding that his tumors were actually on the retreat, the combined effect of cancer and chemo had nudged him into a downward spiral, and everything was contraindicated by something else:  feed him what he needed to bulk back up, and his sugar would spike, or his kidney function would drop.  Keep him on a diabetic/renal diet, and malnutrition would be the result.  "Wasting" was the term that they used, and - realistically (and I was trying to be realistic for my child) - the process could not be reversed.  We weren't talking about if, we were talking about when.

Within thirty six hours of this conversation, we had moved Dad to hospice and been handed the rather heavy piece of information that he might not make it through the night.  We scrambled:  everyone grabbed toothbrushes and pajamas, and Mom and I headed to hospice while Spouse and the kids bunked in with my grandmother.  The next morning, Dad was still with us - and the Big Kid announced that he wanted to go to church, which I considered an incredibly healthy thing.  I had already notified his youth minister of the situation, which turned out to be a mistake on my part, because C walked in, people reached out to him, and outreach was not what he wanted at that particular moment.  On the way home from church, he announced to his father that he would not be attending his youth group's "Thrift Shop Prom" (only one rule:  attire can't cost you more than ten dollars, inclusive of accessories) because he couldn't stand people being so nice to him.

At this point, I made one of those tough sandwich-generation choices and left hospice for a bit - checked in with my grandmother and Spouse (not so much because I was worried that he wasn't taking good care of her, but because I was worried that perhaps Spouse was feeling the need to kill her) and kidnapped the Big Kid for a half hour.  We drove to our house, I took a much-needed shower, and we assembled his Thrift Shop Prom outfit (burnt orange skinny jeans - there's a story behind those that I will share at a later date - and a purple-sequined puffy pirate shirt that was part of Spouse's "pimp daddy" costume a few Halloweens ago).

"Mom, I don't want to go."

Fully understood.  The first time my dad fought renal cancer, I was a freshman in college.  He was diagnosed over Christmas break and had his kidney removed shortly after New Year's.  I went back for spring semester unsure of how things would play out for him.  The last thing I wanted to do was talk about my situation, but there they were - my well-meaning dormmates and sorority sisters.  Some of them got it exactly right:  "Hey, I'm here if you want to talk."  Simple, to the point.  Others were more awkward and tried to force me to talk about my feelings.  Or touched me a bit too much.  Or tried to draw parallels to events in their life that were not, even remotely, similar.  Some planted their feet firmly in their mouths,  Others were afraid to make jokes around me, and a few avoided me entirely.

It was agonizing.  But, with the benefit of hindsight, it was also beautiful.  Because it's very affirming to know that people care about you - even when that care is making you, kinda-sorta, miserable.  So you have to take the attention in the spirit in which it is attended, and you have to shape it.  Thank people (because, above all else, you should always be gracious), and then tell them what you need:  "I appreciate your prayers, but right now I just need things to be as normal as possible."

Big Kid nodded.  Then we talked about his granddad, and how the knowledge that his condition was making loved ones put their lives on hold made his situation seem that much worse.  Granddad would hate the idea that C was missing a fun night with his friends because of him.  (Another nod.)  I opined that the one mistake that kids consistently make when a loved one is sick or dying is to assume that they are no longer allowed to have fun, or be joyous.  Being joyous is not disrespectful.

"No, Mom, you're right - it's the opposite."

So Big Kid put on his wildly clashing shirt and pants, accessorizing with a pair of electric blue lace-up Vans.   (With his then-still-shaggy hair, the overall effect was pretty Mick Jagger-ish.)  Spouse was pulling out of the driveway with him when I made the call:  Dad had just passed away.  We decided that now was not the time to make an announcement.  Big Kid was deposited at the door of the youth building.

An hour or so later, the text messages started to come in:

"Is everything okay?"

We considered our responses very carefully.  Yes, everything is okay (because it was).  Mom says to quit worrying and have fun - but if you can't have fun, call us, and we will pick you up early.

He stayed until the end of the event.  He filmed (badly) his friends performing (slightly less badly) their version of the Harlem Shake.  His youth director drove him home, based on arrangements that we had made in advance - so when we broke the news to him, she was there, and can I tell you what a huge blessing that was?

Little Kid got the news first, before his dad had had the opportunity to return from Prom drop-off duties.  My mom and I arrived home at the same time, and - being pretty much in shock - my mom started disclosing details about what had happened to her own mother, so I made the executive decision to talk to PJ before he heard something that confused him.  His responses, in order:

"Oh."  [Oh, indeed.]

"Does my brother know?"  [Gotta love sibling rivalry.]

"Maybe I should be there to help break the news to him."  [Thanks, but we've got this.]

Over the next few days, he processed the information out loud, as I guess eight year-olds are wont to do.

"My granddad's dead."  [Yup.]

"Now that you-know-who is dead, I don't have any grandfathers."  [No, you still have them - you just can't see them.  And, also, HE'S NOT VOLDEMORT.  YOU CAN SAY HIS NAME.]

We have had some positive conversations since.  Silver lining has been discovered:  Granddad is no longer suffering, and Nana no longer has to drive him to two doctor's appointments a day.  She will finally have the opportunity to visit the new herpetarium at the zoo, and see the elephant and the lemur that Granddad sponsored for her this last Christmas and the Christmas before.  She can take advantage of the science and history museum charter membership that she and my dad purchased but never got to use.

Summer is coming, not a lot of structured activities have been planned, and that's okay - Camp Nana will be in full effect.  With reciprocal therapeutic benefits for all.

And hopefully by then, PJ will deem it permissible to name He Who Shall Not Be Named.

Hair Issues

So, in preparation for my dad's memorial service, I took the Big Kid to get a haircut - on account of how his grown-out shag was threatening to completely obscure his eyeballs, and the overall dimensions of his head were approaching parade balloon proportions.

I did not take him to his regular stylist.  Mistake #1.

When Not-His-Regular-Stylist asked if she could use electric clippers to take out some bulk in the back, I assumed that she was referring to tapering the shape at the very bottom.  Mistake #2.  She made her first cut just under his occiptal lobe - right about where you would shave things if you were giving a kid a chili bowl cut.

Big Kid has not had a chili bowl since age five or so.

I tried to keep my freak-out on the downlow, so as not to alarm my son who was already twelve shades of ticked about having to have ANY of his hairs cut.

"Um, you're going to blend that in with scissors, right?"

Oh, she blended - and blended, and blended, until he, basically, had a short haircut in the back, but a really, really choppy short haircut.  Meanwhile, everything in the front was still flopping over his eyes and ears.  It was like a reverse mullet, or something that you might see on a terrier at Westminster.

At this point, I was, I think, in shock.  I mumbled a suggestion about trimming his sideburns a bit, to connect what was happening in front to what had happened in back.

It didn't make it better - just a different kind of worse.

Still in shock, I allowed myself to be talked into purchasing anti-chlorine shampoo for the kid, and I ended up overtipping her (tipping 20% of the bill inclusive of product).

We ran three errands after that, and the entire time Big Kid was whining:  about having gotten a haircut of any sort, and about THIS haircut in particular.  While he was whining, I was stifling the bout of word vomit that was threatening to erupt outward through my mouth parts.  In the middle of errand #3, I found that I couldn't keep it in any longer:

"You got a bad haircut, okay?  In fact, it's a HORRIBLE haircut.  Actually, it's TWO horrible haircuts - a horrible long haircut in the front, and an attack-with-a-weed-whacker short haircut in the back.  You look like a mashup of Suze Orman and real estate expert Barbara Corcoran.  But it's DONE.  Either we live with it, or we take you someplace else and have it fixed - and, likely, that's going to mean losing more hair in the front.  Pick your poison."

He picked option B.  Actually, Dad picked option B, because Big Kid was too busy wailing and gnashing his teeth.  It took 45 minutes to fix the mess.  He ended up with a little length remaining in the front, which wouldn't have been my choice - if you are going to have a short haircut, commit to it - but the overall effect is far less offensive than version 1.

At some point in the middle of Hairgate 2013, it occurred to me that this whole snafu had my dad's name written all over it.  I truly believe that deceased relatives mess with you from Heaven, always with a wink and a smile.  For years, I felt the presence of my dad's father every time I drove the car that he handed down to me.  (Wood-paneled station wagon.  Best car to take to college EVER, particularly if you happened to go to college in Austin.  You could fit a keg AND a fully inflatable raft in the back.  I always had to have a raft handy, in case my day took me to Barton Springs - which it frequently did.)

My granddad was born and raised in the Deep South and, therefore, was fully immersed in a culture of "separate and not entirely equal." Case in point:  while he was fond of his "yard boy" - who was in his sixties when I first encountered him and, therefore, not technically a "boy" - Tee was never allowed to step foot in the house, even on the hottest of days, and my grandmother always served Tee water in the same plastic cup.  A cup that, one day, I retrieved from the cabinet, intending to drink from it.  "That's Tee's cup."  That's okay - Tee's not here, and I don't think he will mind.  I mean, I'll wash it and put it back and stuff.  "No, you don't understand - Tee DRINKS OUT OF THAT CUP."  So what?  It's not like he has cooties - oh.  Wow.  Okay.  (But not okay.  I drank out of the cup.)

Thus, it was terribly funny to me when I came into possession of my granddad's old car, and discovered that (1) only the AM radio receiver chose to work and (2) the only station that came in clearly was a funk/soul station.  NO MATTER WHAT RADIO MARKET I WAS IN.  Austin, Houston - didn't matter.  One station, and one station only.  And the first song that came on, every morning like clockwork, was the theme from "Shaft."  I took all of this as Granddad's way of saying, "Hey, I'm up here, and I'm enlightened now, and - well, I get it."

So I totally think that Big Kid's botched haircut was my dad's way of ensuring that he would look clean-cut at the memorial service.  After all, I come from Pentagon people - both sides - and long-haired hippie freaks draw raised eyebrows.

After C's hair was, sort of, fixed, the whining continued:  "People will laugh at me."  No, they won't, because you will tell them that you cut your hair out of respect for your grandfather.  Period, paragraph.

New Haircut made its debut at Youth movie night at our church Sunday evening.  When C got home, I asked him if he told people about his granddad's passing.

"No, it was like they already knew.  Oh - because you told my youth minster last Sunday before church."

No, I didn't tell your youth minister that your grandfather was deceased last Sunday before church, because last Sunday before church he was, actually, factually, still alive.

"Oh, but they knew because it happened during Thrift Shop Prom last Sunday night."

Correct, he did die in that time frame - but we didn't tell YOU about it until you got home, remember?

"Huh.  Well, somehow, they already knew."

Did anyone comment on your hair?

"No, because I announced upfront that I had cut it short for Granddad's memorial service."

Wait for it . . . .

"OH.  They probably figured out that he was dead when I mentioned that we were having a memorial service for him."

Proof that the blonde goes all of the way to the roots.  It just doesn't have that far to travel these days.

Back On the Grid

My father passed away a week ago Sunday, after battling Stage 4 cancer for 21 months.  I saw him take his last breath, and it was both sad and beautiful at the same time.

I will talk about the sadness, and the beauty, later.  For the time being, though, I plan to focus on the funny.  Because deaths affect families, and family interaction is (at least in my personal experience) inherently funny - perhaps never more so than during times of stress.

If You Give My Eight Year-Old a Piece of White Felt Glued to a Dowel

We decorated two tables for Reading Rocks this year, one of which was inspired by "If You Give a Cat a Cupcake." In the spirit of that book series, I present to you:

IF YOU GIVE MY EIGHT YEAR-OLD A PIECE OF WHITE FELT GLUED TO A DOWEL

If you give my eight year-old a piece of white felt glued to a dowel, and tell him that he is supposed to glue blue and red felt pieces to it to make an American flag (in keeping with the overall theme for this year's event, celebrating author Candace Fleming and her book, "Imogene's Last Stand"), he will notice that the blue felt has not yet been cut into squares and that the precut red felt strips come in a variety of sizes.

He will ask the facilitator of the craft room to cut him a blue felt rectangle instead of a square.  When she hands him the blue felt rectangle, he will glue it to the center of his white felt flag, and he will ask his mother for some of the white paper that he is supposed to cut stars from.

Because he does not recognize the concept of supposed to, he will tear the white paper into pieces and glue it, collage-style, to the blue felt rectangle.  He will superimpose the shape of a white cross over a white X.

When he is finished gluing white paper to his flag, he will glue red felt strips over the white paper, and announce, "DONE.  UNION JACK." 

Then he will ask to go to the book fair.  At the book fair, he will select no less than two Wookiee-themed books.  Because he is a boy.  He will also prevail upon his mother to buy him two young adult novels about dragons, a graphic novel about sharks and a glossy coffee table book titled "World's Worst Monsters and Villains."

His mother will acquiesce, because she is a boy mom.  Apparently, a fairly indulgent one.

Once he has obtained said books, he will want to look at them.  He will put his flag down on the table to allow the glue to dry, and he will spend fifteen minutes debating the relative merits of the cthulhu and the camazotz bat-monster, in terms of overall scariness.

When he is finished thinking about monsters, he will want to have his picture taken in the photo booth.  At first, he will want to pose behind the prop cannon.  But then his mom will ask him if he wants his (now-dry) flag, and she will offer to retrieve it for him. 

While his mom is retrieving the flag, he will have a thought. And when he returns, she will find him posed thusly:

In the stocks, like any good prisoner of war, or student of Revolutionary War history.

God, I love this kid.  Love spending Saturday mornings with him, enjoying literacy-centric events, and watching the way his brain works.

(By the way, points to whichever organizer figured out that foam pirate hats, if stapled together JUST so (with the skull and crossbones obscured within an interior fold), make excellent tricorns.  The casually dangled hat really makes the picture.)

Plan B

First night of "gymnastics for diving" . . . resulted in no gymnastics being performed.  Well, other than the mental kind.

Notes to file:

1) Signing the kids up for a gymnastics class taught in a suburb of Fort Worth because it was significantly cheaper than the equivalent class in Fort Worth:  great idea on paper, horrible idea in reality.

2)  Given the ongoing construction of the Highway 121 project in North Texas, relative distances are not an accurate predictor of actual driving time.

3)  I really, REALLY hate I-35 northbound.

4)  Particularly at night, when big eighteen-wheelers ride your bumper.

5)  The only thoroughfare that I hate driving more than I-35 northbound is, apparently, Golden Triangle Boulevard.  Having never driven Golden Triangle Boulevard until last Thursday night, this was news to me.  Per the City of Keller Web site, the driving Hades that I navigated Thursday night represents a "$19 million project [that] will turn Golden Triangle Boulevard into a four-lane divided concrete roadway with traffic signals, raised medians, left and right turn lanes, curbs, gutters and a storm drain system. . . .  Road construction on this major project began in October 2010, and the projected end date is early 2013."

6)   It is, apparently, not "early 2013" yet.

7)  The precursor to a "four-lane divide concrete roadway with traffic signals, raised medians, left and right turn lanes, curbs, gutters and a storm drain system" is a "nightmarish two-lane roadway with no buffer between you and oncoming traffic, no shoulder and zero visibility, because that part of Keller isn't built up yet, and you might as well be driving through a cow pasture for the lack of available illumination."

8)  People in Keller drive really, REALLY fast.  Maybe it's the close proximity to Texas Motor Speedway?

9)  I don't particularly like playing chicken with wannabe NASCAR drivers on an unlit two-lane road with no shoulder and two children in the backseat.

10)  Sometimes buildings that exist on paper don't exist in actual reality.  Or, at least, don't correspond to their street addresses.  This seems to be a very suburban phenomenon.  It is also a reason why I don't venture out into the suburbs very often.

11)  Thirteen year-old copilots don't really "get" the concept of maps.

I had to remind myself of #11 several times when copilot C was melting down because he had been charged with trying to find our destination on Google Maps and he could not figure out which icon represented our moving vehicle and which represented the gym.  More fundamentally, he could not figure out which end, literally, was "up."  It didn't matter.  Even after I made a semi-illegal turn into a gas station and enabled the voice-activated GPS, we made no progress.  GPS told me that the gym was where Google Maps said it was, which is where I thought it was going to be in the first place.  Except, it wasn't actually, factually there.

Thirty minutes after the class was supposed to start, and after our fifth round trip through the parking lot of where the gym was SUPPOSED to be, C ran into the lobby of 24-Hour Fitness, found a mom who purported to have a daughter who was a student at the gym, and came back out and reported, "Get back on the highway, take the second right turn, and [blah, blah, blah]."  I stopped listening, on account of how:  (a)  she didn't specify, and therefore he didn't know, which highway; (b) ditto which direction to go; and (c) what was being described had ZERO relation to the street address assigned to our "destination" (in quotes, because I am now utterly convinced that the concept of this gym was a figment of my imagination).  At this point, I decided to give up almost entirely on principle.

Observations:

Life is too short to risk life and limb trying to save a few bucks by driving dark-and-scary roads at hours that kids ought to be in bed (seriously, a gymnastics class that starts at 7:30?).

We have gyms in Fort Worth.  And they are open in the summer.

Life for the McGlincheys going forward will be tremendously simpler if we focus on swimming this spring and pick up gymnastics actually during summer dive season, when swim practice is in the mornings and our afternoons and evenings are more open.

A few bucks lost on a Groupon is nothing compared to the Zen-like calm that descends upon you when you give yourself license to simplify.

We took a vote (me, the kids and Dad via telephone - caught him on a changeover, mid-tennis match), and it was unanimous:  our days of playing chicken on Golden Triangle Boulevard were over.  Make that "day."  On the way home, God let us know that we made the right decision by playing "Thrift Shop" and that ridiculously catchy Will.i.am song that I let the kids sing, provided that they sing it, "Will.i.am and Britney BEEEEEEEP."  We did a little car-dancing while we were stuck amidst the eighteen-wheelers.  All was right with the world.

And things got right-er the next morning when C announced that he did not want to run track, because he had had his own epiphany:  going to a magnet school across town makes AM track practices, basically, unfeasible.  "I would have to be up at 6 every morning, and we would have to leave here shortly after 6:30.  EVERY MORNING.  You don't want to do that, I don't want to do that, and I KNOW that Dad doesn't want to do that.  [He's not wrong.  Spouse:  not a morning person.]  It would make getting PJ ready for school a nightmare.  I would be tired all of the time, between getting up early, and running track for two hours, and then swimming in the evenings.  And it would eventually all be for nothing, because if you miss practice, you get cut, and you know that we would end up missing practices."

Yeah, that particular apple didn't fall far from this here tree.  I applauded him for being realistic, and for speaking out for what he wanted, which was to swim.  Spouse, I think, was a bit disappointed that the kids have once again veered away from the sports that he played growing up, in favor of aquatic pursuits.  See, he's never been a fan of the water:  I think he can count the number of times that he's been on a boat on one hand, and his idea of pool time involves a noodle and a beer.  (In his defense, he's ridiculously Irish.  In my experience, "Irish" and "aqua-nut" are two separate circles on a Venn diagram.)  However, even he agreed that C's "do even less" proposal was a healthy extension of Mom's "don't do as much" plan.

So, Plan B:  no one drives anyone anywhere in the AM, unless C misses the bus, or it's raining and no one feels like walking PJ to school.  PJ swims twice a week, C swims three or four times, with some flexibility as to what nights he has off.  Dad can go to tennis secure in the knowledge that Mom is not cursing his name while dodging big trucks on the freeway.

Liking Plan B already.

Our "Simplified" Life

Brutal honesty:  the kids in our household have taken a backseat to Mom and Dad for a lotta years.  Let's modify that:  Dad and the kids took a backseat to Mom, while she "president-ed" Junior Woman's Club and did a bunch of stuff for and with others who were not kin.  And they were pretty accommodating about it, the kids in large part because they are, at their cores, kind of lazy, as all kids tend to be.  Mom's not forcing us into a lot of activities, because they conflict with her schedule?  AWESOME!  Dad was a bit more inconvenienced - but he played the role of good soldier, most of the time. 

And then, around the time that my tenure as immediate past president was ending, Dad announced:

"I'm going to start playing tennis on Thursdays."

Thursdays had always been Mom days.  Junior Woman's Club Board of Directors met on Thursdays, and so did Junior League.  I'm still not quite sure if Spouse's Thursday-centric assertion of dibs was a passive-aggressive means of saying, "Your reign of terror is over" or if he simply wanted to play on Thursdays because Thursdays is beer league.  All I know is, Spouse now has Thursdays.  I have Tuesdays, twice a month.  And believe you me, two Tuesdays a month is a far cry from the four-night-per-week schedule that I was running a few years ago.

I thought that I would miss all of the activity, but truth be told I was due for some homebody time, particularly after being deprived of my actual home for the better part of the year.  While we were fighting our battle to preserve and reclaim the McGlinchey homestead, I grew to appreciate the simplicity of coming home and hanging out with my family - even if "home" wasn't really home.  Time with Spouse and the kids was restorative.  And, now that the house is new-and-improved, I actually enjoy being there more often than not.  (Having financed a major "kitchen-and-other" remodel on the fly, I am also far more aware of the economic impact of girls' night out:  even at happy hour prices, those two vodka well drinks translate into two kitchen cabinet knobs, and did I mention that two of our kitchen cabinet knobs adorn a quite spacious, and fully-stocked, liquor cabinet?  Fortunately, I have had little trouble convincing my running buddies of the benefits of girls' night in.  Particularly when I am "buying.")

So, for awhile there, I was coming straight home from work most nights, and cooking a square meal, and things were simple.  And then, right around the time that Spouse started playing on the traveling tennis squad for our club, I decided that the kids had been denied the opportunity to do certain extracurriculars, because Mom's schedule didn't allow them, and it was high-time to rectify that.

Specifically, I concluded that we needed to transition into year-round swimming.

If you are a parent, then you may recognize that "year-round swimming" occupies the same parental commitment space as competitive gymnastics, figure-skating and really hardcore Little League.  But, hey - the kids had expressed a distinct, and mutual, preference for swimming over other sports, and also for diving, and I'm a big fan of lifelong athletic pursuits that one can continue into adulthood, for exercise and/or recreation.  (I have no illusions that either of my children has a future as a professional shotputter, but if they keep swimming they just might decide to tackle an Ironman one day, which would be kind of cool, and, worst-case, a well-executed inward dive at the company pool party might buy them some street cred.)

No sooner had we committed, theoretically, to signing up with a particular swim program in town than that program offered a Groupon that was too good to pass up.  On the same day, another Groupon popped into our inboxes, offering eight weeks of tumbling for two kids for a very reasonable price.  Hey, didn't the boys say that they wanted to take some tumbling classes for the purpose of developing diving skills?  Done and done.  We bought both Groupons, intending to knock out two months of gymnastics, followed by swimming. 

The thing is, we're US, and old habits die hard, and long story short we didn't pull the trigger on either Groupon until a week prior to expiration.  And, as luck would have it, both Groupons needed to be used right away.

Right around that time, Big Kid's Whiz Quiz team made the finals, and, while I was waiting for the final match to start, and thanking God in my head that one after-school activity was coming to an end, one of Big Kid's teachers turned around in her seat and said, "Oh, now that Whiz Quiz is over, we can start getting ready for UIL.  We've recruited your son for science and social studies."

Greaaaaaaat.

Oh, did I mention that track and field season starts next week?

So, our "simplified life" is morphing into something like this:

AM:  Someone drives Big Kid to school at oh-dark-thirty (it's a magnet, so it's across town - bus is available, but not for early AM athletics), while the other someone gets Little Kid dressed and out the door.

PM:  Big Kid has swimming at dinner time.  Mom drives, except for the one week a month that she has a Junior League commitment.


or

PM:  Dad drives Little  Kid to swimming.  Then someone drives Big Kid to swimming, because the boys' respective practice times are an hour and fifteen minutes apart (and Big Kid's bus splits the difference).   Mom is on the case on odd Tuesdays, and Dad covers even Tuesdays while Mom is at Woman's Club.

or

PM:  Little Kid has Student Council.  Big Kid has UIL practice, which means that he misses the bus, which means someone has to retrieve him from his campus WAAAAAY over there, and then drive him to swim WAAAAAY over THERE. 

OR

PM:  Swimming for Little Kid.  Tumbling for both.  Dad leaves for tennis at some point in between.  Mom has the proverbial football for the duration.

One night a week, nothing happens.  ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.  Pure bliss.

Saturday AM:  Dad has tennis, again.  And, apparently, Big Kid is going to have UIL practice.  Really?

Sunday AM:  Mom and Dad get out of church twenty minutes before Sunday School and Youth get out.  Going forward, I think that this time slot may be utilized for sleeping standing up.

Sunday afternoon:  Big Kid has to be driven to church a second time, to play basketball in a church league.  And, sometimes, Dad has a makeup tennis match.

Sunday PM:  Would you believe that Big Kid goes to church again?

Meanwhile, Little Kid has inquired as to why he isn't playing soccer this spring.  Seriously?  Mom is on record that she is already weary of driving people to athletic events, because the irony is not lost on her that everyone else is getting in better shape while she is getting flabbier.  She has expressed a desire to take a page from her children and start swimming on a regular basis, with a goal of joining a Masters program at some point in the future.  Which will mean logging hours in the pool - at the same time, probably, that someone has to be driven somewhere.  That's okay.  I SHALL OVERCOME, one way or the other.

Photo at top  is of the giant mug of oatmeal that Spouse shoved in my hand one eveing as we were passing like two proverbial nocturnal watercraft.  "Here, eat this on your way to the natatorium."  It was oddly touching.  And quite delicious, once I got the hang of juggling the mug, spoon, a cell phone, my purse and a gear bag.

I have resigned myself to the fact that our lives will always be, more than a little bit, crazy.  The nature of the craziness just seems to evolve over time.

Yelling and Selling

THIS . . . is a "red box."

(Okay, you'll have to take my word for it that the box is red.)

Once a year, I spend three hours standing in one of these and "yelling and selling" Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo programs.  On account of how I am an obedient and enthusiastic Junior League member, and the Junior League gets a dollar out of every program sale.  (They were $2 back when this picture was taken, and I am pleased to report that, notwithstanding a whole lotta inflation in the market generally, the price has only risen to $3.)

Actually, it isn't guaranteed that I get to sell out of a red box, but it is my preference to do so, and, thankfully, a lot of my fellow Leaguers seem to be a bit afraid of them, so I usually get what I want.  Many ladies actually volunteer to walk the aisles inside the Rodeo arena and sell programs to patrons in their seats.  I dread seat-selling, particularly in the boxes at arena level, because I married into a Stock Show family, and I have a full appreciation of the fact that the people in those boxes: (1) most likely have attended multiple shows, and therefore already own a program, or two, or three; (2) actually care a whole lot about who and/or what just came out of the chutes (and may have a vested interest in same); and (3) would rather not have me constantly obstructing their view.  And I do mean "constantly," because Fort Worth Junior Leaguers are nothing if not insistent:  didn't want to buy a program from me the last ten times?  Perhaps my eleventh pass will be the charm.

When I was a provisional member, I had to work the boxes one shift, and, after being heckled a couple of times, I was sorely tempted to switch my sales pitch to "BUY OUT MY PROGRAMS, AND I PROMISE TO STOP WALKING IN FRONT OF YOU!"  Problem with that strategy is that, if I had sold out, an enthusiastic Rodeo Committee member acting as shift supervisor would have patted me on the back, handed me more programs and told me to make yet another pass.

So - I really like red boxes.  Others don't like them because they require you to be an extrovert, but extrovert is kind of my middle name.  I have fun with it, and with the patrons -  particularly the older gentlemen with the big cowboy hats and equally big belt buckles.  For this reason, I tend to seek out the matinee shifts:  lots of retired rancher-types, some accompanied by wives, and others attending in large groups.

I have fun with the groups.  "HEY, YOU IN THE HAT, WITH THE BOOTS - DON'T YOU DARE TRY TO AVOID EYE CONTACT WITH ME.  Your momma raised you better than that.  COME OVER HERE AND TALK TO ME.  I can't help but notice that you don't have a Rodeo program in your hand.  Suuuuuuuuure, you bought one yesterday.  That was YESTERDAY.  Today is TODAY.  And your community needs money EVERY DAY.  Plus, you need today's schedule.  Yesterday's program had YESTERDAY'S schedule.  What, you just want to buy the schedule?  Okay.  THAT WILL COST YOU THREE DOLLARS.  And don't be thinking that you're going to buy one to share.  NO SELF-RESPECTING TEXAS GENTLEMAN SHARES HIS PROGRAM."

You get the idea.  Intimidation?  Flirting?  Tomato, tohmahto.

My general sales pitch goes something like this:

"PROOOOOOOOOGRAMS.  GIT YOUR ICE-COLD PROGRAMS HERE!  CHEAPER THAN A BEER AND GUARANTEED TO LAST YOU UNTIL THE END OF THE SHOW."

Or:

"RODEO PROOOOOOOOOGRAMS.  THREE DOLLAHS!  TWO FOR SIX, OR THREE FOR NIIIIIIIIIIINE."

[There are three reactions to that last statement:  some people get the joke immediately, and immediately laugh; others get two steps away, and then look back  at me when the joke sinks in; and, tragically, a few folks think that PRICES THAT ARE MULTIPLES OF THREE ACTUALLY REPRESENT SOME SORT OF BULK DISCOUNT.]

If someone walks by with a bag of peanuts, I may tell them that programs go great with peanuts.  (See also:  corny dogs.)  If they have nachos, I point out the utility of program-as-lap-tray-and-liquid-cheese-spill-catcher.  (See also:  corny dog mustard.)  Groups of mature women are pegged as looking like civic-minded folk who surely want to support the good work of the Junior League in their community.

Hey - who said that dung-slinging had to be confined to the exhibition barns?

This week's red box experience was highly entertaining.  I made friends with the purveyor o' souvenirs across from me, and his smoke-break buddy who works for the physical plant and whose job, apparently, consisted of standing next to the ATM (for what purpose, I cannot tell - tech support?).  Two hours into my shift, Mr. Souvenir Seller asked me if I could watch his booth while he and Mr. ATM ducked out for a quick smoke break.  Being tied to my box (not literally, but figuratively), and not being an employee of Cheap Junk R Us, I wasn't in a position to make sales for him, but I told him that if someone tried to make off with any of his loot I would use my "yelling and selling" voice to alert the sheriff just down the concourse.  I kid you not - TWO MINUTES AFTER THEIR DEPARTURE, they were back.

"I told you we would be quick."

Seriously?  Those ciggies are expensive - and you're tossing them away after two minutes?  I mean, not that I am supporting your habit, but, if you're going to commit, COMMIT.

After my shift, I went back and purchased two hats from Mr. Souvenir Seller - a sort-of-University of Texas ball cap for the Big Kid, with burnt orange and white fake fur where the crown should be, and a blue squid hat for the Little Kid.  I actually had my eye on the Mardi Gras squid for most of my shift, but at the point of purchase I decided that a solid blue hat was "more versatile."  I actually expressed this opinion OUT LOUD.

Little Kid loved his squid, considering how he is obsessed with all things aquatic.  Big Kid asked why HE didn't get a squid, too.  Um, because I was pretty sure that, at thirteen, if I presented you with a giant squid hat, you would roll your eyes, or say "Seriously?" or do both, or worse.  Damned if I did, damned if I didn't.

"But the furry hat is kind of weird, Mom."

Right, because THAT'S THE POINT.  Spouse explained that it was a crazy hat, suitable for crazy hat days at school or at church Youth functions, and was not intended to be a substitute for a ball cap that you might wear, say, on an outing to a museum.

"I don't wear hats to museums."

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I BRING YOU THE SECOND COMING OF SHELDON COOPER.  BAZINGA.

In addition to acquiring two pieces of questionable headgear, I received:

1) An invitation to dinner, from a gentlemen who I would peg as being around eighty, and who patted me on the hand and said, "I like you.  You're fun."  [Yes, I am.  Thank you for noticing.]

2) An inquiry as to whether I was married.  "Oh, too bad.  But, you know, I'm married, too.  Doesn't mean we can't date."  Suitor #2 was, probably, mid-seventies.  Ever contemplated the fact that the same comment, when delivered with a wink by an older gentleman, comes across as flattering, but, when delivered by a younger guy, makes your skin crawl?  Eligible to draw Social Security:  feel free to greet me with "Hello, darling.  Don't you look pretty today?" when I get on the elevator.  Younger than that:  DON'T.  EVEN.  GO.  THERE.  Heck, yes, it's a double standard.  But I stand behind it, 100%.

3) An offer to bring me a beer.  Suitor #3 wins the prize!  I don't think he actually intended to follow through with it, because he followed up the offer with, "Oh, you probably can't have a drink back there."  Actually, there's a little shelf, and as long as I keep it in this red Solo cup with my name on it, we have plausible deniability, don't we?  He looked a bit gobsmacked, so I let him off of the hook:  my red Solo cup was filled with water, and I was good in the hydration department, but the gesture certainly was appreciated.

All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable yelling-and-selling experience.  Nothing like flirting with older guys to make a middle-aged gal feel purty again. AND IT WAS FOR CHARITY.