I never took photos

http://shitmykidsruined.tumblr.com/

This link made me laugh.  I could have contributed many times, but it never occurred to me to photograph things I'd rather forget....

• Like when the Larger Hooligan sharpie'd the bed, carpet, and walls in our guest room when he was 18 months.  Nail polish remover got an amazing amount of it out.  
• And the time he dropped our friends' cordless phone in a bucket of water.  
• When he was 3, he was trying to help us in the basement.  He dropped a heavy can of paint ("It was grown-up paint, mom.").  It splattered everywhere.  Fortunately, it was not a finished basement.  His clothes were ruined, but otherwise, no harm done.
• Oh, and this was a doozy:  When he was 18 months, the Stinkin' Aunts (My sister and Ilene) used to let him play in their parked car, which kept him busy and happy, so I let him play in our car while I worked in the yard. He had a grand time, honking the horn and poking all the buttons.  But then something in the electrical panel broke and had to be replaced ($300). 
•  In first grade, he was racing with his friend on their bikes and he bashed into a parked car's rearview mirror, breaking it off.  Miraculously, no one was hurt.  It cost $152 to replace the mirror.  He's paying me back by picking up all the dog poop in the yard until he moves out.  I may come out ahead on that one.....

I know I will miss my children when they move out and the house will seem dull and empty...I think.

Hardcore parenting

Since when is parent a verb, anyway?
And how hard am I supposed to be working at it?

Because the Larger Hooligan thinks he wants to sign on for the serious soccer league.....and they kind of make it seem like they're doing us a favor by allowing him to join (Check, please soccer mom, and sign this medical release form).

So on one hand, it's healthy to run around for two hours two times a week plus games on the weekends....year round.   But on the other hand, he is only 10.  Can't he just run around the neighborhood?  Does he need a coach? Is it necessary to be so regimented?

I need a coach to (a) tell me what I should do, and (b) make me go run around.  A sort of therapist/ trainer combo.  There's a niche market.  Somebody fill it and I will hire you.

Modern primitive grandparents.

My parents are reluctant adopters of new technology.  I got my mom a cordless phone for her birthday in about 1992 when they were becoming a common thing.  She was insistent that she neither needed nor wanted it.  After about a week she called me:  "Well you won't believe what I'm doing!"  What might that be, mom?  "I'm weeding the garden and talking to you!"  She was positively gleeful.  She values efficiency and likes multi tasking (Virgo!).  I knew she would love it. Of course she still has that same phone, even though it is huge and clunky.  It falls off the cradle if you happen to brush past it on your way out of the kitchen.  It was not very well designed.  But it still works, and God forbid she upgrade.

The computer was similar.  They got one when my mom started doing my dad's bookkeeping.  And they felt they had to get to know this internet/email thing before they kicked the bucket.  Now if you're visiting them and my mom disappears, she's probably playing computer solitaire, or checking the weather in Michigan where she summered as a child, or sending on a mass email to everyone on her list ("Well I thought it was just hilarious.").  We may have a little intervention.

She has yet to start a blog or discover facebook, but it could happen.  She should start a blog:  then she could refute me--and promote her artistic endeavors.  Are you reading this, Mom? Here's one of her paintings:

This one is called String Trio,  It's at the Rental Sales Gallery at the Portland Art Museum.  She's a Pro.  And i'm proud of her. Don't let her self-deprecating "It's just a hobby" attitude fool you.  Next time I'll plug my sister--she's a genius.

I don't even want to talk about her talking/driving habits.  At least she doesn't know how to text.

Last time they came to spend the day with us, they spent quite a bit of time passing one of our IPhones back and forth:  "Look at this!"  "Would you look at that." "Now how does that work?"  In an earlier era, I think they would have gladly signed over their all holdings and grandchildren in exchange.  No wonder beads and bits of copper bought the Dutch the island of Manhattan.

Midwestern roots: embrace them or deny them?

Option A: Embrace them in lovin' spoonfuls

My mother (from Indianapolis) believes that a can of cream of mushroom soup will make a meal out of most anything.  If she's feeling fancy she might use a packet of french onion soup mix. My father (Marshalltown, Iowa) heartily agrees, and always asks for seconds.  While they elected to leave the midwest, they remained true to it's food culture.

When Mamie (we didn't know she was Bad Grandma yet) came to help us when the larger hooligan was born, she was horrified that my pantry did not contain either of these essential ingredients.  She took care of that--I think she bought us a case of each.  We gave it away when we moved.  I had a lot of pot roast and tuna casserole post partum, and it was strangely delicious, under the circumstances.

The hooligans LOVE Mamie's food.  They ask me to make it.  And while I would not wish to eat canned-soup-based meals multiple times per week (as I did growing up), I do find a nice tuna casserole to be very comforting on occasion.  I make a white sauce from scratch, though--it takes very little time.  I don't think you really need the can of soup.

Option B:  Deny Deny Deny, and learn to cook Italian, and Indian and Thai (Pass the hot sauce, please)

The Man Who Lives In My House finds these meals abhorrent.  Like my parents, his mom was a Midwestern Refugee.  For her, fresh, delicious ethnic foods full of exotic spice and flavor represented a narrow escape from a life of bland canned casseroles. When Granny came to meet the larger hooligan and help out, she made us ratatouille from scratch.  It was delicious under any circumstance.  (My Father in Law is from New Orleans, and therefore is exempt from casserole issues.  His food culture is enviable.)

The Man tells a funny story about going with his mom to visit family in Oklahoma.  The Tulsa Paper had just published a recipe for an innovative new dish:  Chili-ghetti.  That would be a can of chili mixed with a can of spaghetti sauce dumped over macaroni. EEeeuuuw!  They were served Chili-ghetti for three or four nights running, as they made the rounds visiting aunts and cousins.  If you can do an Oklahoma/North Texas accent, say out loud, "Guess what Ah made fur dinner! Chill-Lee Ghetti!!" You can see why he would prefer to repress these memories.


Man Who Lives In My House was out of town for 3 days..  The Hooligans and I enjoyed pot roast and tuna casserole.  I draw the line at Chili-ghetti.  But my guess is the Hooligans would love it.  

We must do this more often!

The Man Who Lives In My House has the great good fortune to also be a Man Who Likes His Co-Workers. Twisted, huh? I mean, this never happens. I am not kidding when I say we would be friends with these people anyway.  Actually, we ARE friends with these people.  In observance of this, we went out on a triple date on Friday night.  Adults only.

THAT got your attention.  I am serious.  We PAID sitters so we could go drink beer and eat burgers.  And it was totally worth it except that it rained--we had to drive instead of riding the tandem.  Rob (that would be the infamous "mother of all fathers" Rob.  Scroll back about a month.  You'll find it.),  made me laugh so hard that I had a little asthma attack. How suave.  At least I did not (quite) snort beer out my nose. Since I was wheezing, it's good we weren't on the tandem.  We just swung by the house so I could get a hit off my inhaler (sounds more fun than it is) before going to our next stop.

What kind of excitement do adults pursue after burgers and beer in Eugene, Oregon? That is such a good question.  It's kind of like high school--if no one's having a party, options can be quite limited.  Thank   goodness for that crazy Rob.  He made us go bowling.

I'll have to do this again, to asses whether I actually like bowling. Possibly I was in such a great mood that anything would have been fun (Could it have been my inhaler?  I've been using it for years.  It's never been fun before.).  I'm still giggling.  Maybe we should form a team.  We could have a team name. How about The Snorting Wheezers?  We will need bowling shirts with our names embroidered on them.  I would want a special name for bowling.  My bowling name is Louise- rhymes-with-wheeze.

The younger hooligan's soccer team is called The DRAGONBALLS.  I'm still giggling about that, too.

Punk Rock Girl

This is a transcription of an interview of the small Hooligan, and his best buddy, whom we'll call Wingnut.

Cathy And Brook (Wingnut's parents) asked them about school over dinner:
Cathy: "Who is the funniest in the class?"

Wingnut: "Sm.Hooligan."

Brook: "Who is really creative?"

Sm.Hooligan: "Wingnut."

Brook: "Who is the prettiest girl in your class?"

 "J--. She's so punk."

And on it went...."

my subconscious is bored

I dreamt I was lecturing the Hooligans re: picking up after themselves.  There were socks and legos on the floor (in my dream and in reality) and I was outraged and nagging (in my dream and in reality).  It was so realistically mundane that when I awoke I was surprised to find myself in bed.

Aren't dreams are supposed to be freaky and interesting?  That was pathetic.  Even my subconscious thinks I am understimulated.  Clearly I need to take on something difficult and absorbing:  something beyond laundry.  At the very least I need to blog more, or go to the library, or law school (joke!).  But first I MUST mow the lawn.

Speaking of mundane,  Bad Grandma's sister, Conservative Great Aunt, shared this comment via facebook:

 "There's no such word as "snuck"...to think that my very own niece with an off the wall I.Q.* used such a non-word is appaling!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Appaling", is that spelled correctly?   I think not, and Bad Grandma  will let us know for certain.  Clearly, excessive concern with issues of minor import runs in my family.  Socks don't belong on the floor!  Snuck is not a word!  You misspelled appalling! The lawn is too long! Why on earth do we care?  


But hey, at least we're not all republicans.  

* ("Off the wall IQ"   Huh.  I'm not sure whether she means I am clever or nutty, but I'll take either as a compliment.  Thank you, Conservative Great Aunt.) 

Here is Conservative Great Aunt holding the large hooligan when he was a large infant....