Why can’t you be like the other kids, and just hate me?

Why can’t you be like the other kids, and just lash out at those you love the most? The adults who were there at your first breath, to assume an undeserved place of honor at the epicenter of your tiny world. A position from where later they could and would inflict the profoundest betrayal.

Why can’t you be like other kids, and warm the chill of your broken child with illicit elixirs and other ill-gotten evils?

Why can’t you just steal money from my purse?
Or gamble my savings on the internet?

Sneak out of the house.
Drink my rum.
Mock my parental vanity.

That’d be my preference, you know.
‘Cause then I could count it.
And ground it.
And give it a name.

Medicate it.
Shrinkydink it.
Cry it to my friends.

But you’re not like other kids.
It takes a special wisdom and acceptance and flexibility
To pull a punch like this.
On pristine paper.
Ink still wet.
Near the end of the show.
Near the end of an increase row.

Double spaced.
Through the heart.
Times New Roman.
Et tu, Brute.

Andy: Well, when did you do your last troublecheck?
Barney: Yesterday.
Andy: You didn't troublecheck today!?!
Barney: No.
Andy: Well, let's troublecheck! Sarah, get me 142-R. And put this right through - this is a troublecheck.

I've made some progress on the third sleeve of the Dreamy Creamy (Or is it...oh. never mind.). Three sleeves? How you do dat? Easy. You be a Barney Fifical Knitard. That's how you do dat.



In a Previous Episode: I had to lengthen the arm holes on the body, so the ribbon didn't cut across mid-boobage*. Therefore, I had to adapt the sleeve width to fit the new pits. Easy Peasy? More like Cheesy Queasy. If this doesn't work, I'll be reaching out to my knitting community, with all three arms.

*There's a pattern adaptation lesson here. Boobs are more dimensional than a tape measurement. Boobs have depth and width and volume and length. Yes, I said length. Boobs take up space, therefore they take up fabric. Playtex knows this. Victoria knows this. Marcia did not know this. Now she does.

A Busy Mutha
The weekend seemed to fly by. I took my son on a college visit on Saturday. He approached this special voyage with a less than enthusiastic attitude, on account of having already made up his mind on where he wants to attend, and it wasn't here. After talking to the representatives from his major, however, we were both grinning ear-to-ear and eager to leave the fray of program hawkers to have a chat.

Once outside, Cam said something to the effect of "Well, I started out on this trip thinking it was going to be a waste of time and now I'm thinking this is where I need to be."

This is hard on a mom. I know Cam really, really loves State and he is still feeling torn. Hell, I really, really love State. It's my alma mutha, after all.

But here's the tough part. The part that cries "is there an adult in the house?" State doesn't offer Cam's major of choice (Sport Stu*dies. Yes, it's really a major. I was shocked too.). Central does offer the major and is kind of establishing a name in the field, including a well-connected internship program with semi-pro teams around the state.

We had a mature discussion about this and I am impressed that, although he loves his Spar*tans, he seems to grasp that the right academic program is more important than a month of Saturdays at Spart*an Stadium.

Cam is still going to visit State and I know that someone there will tell him he can patch together a course of study that will get him to the same place that Central's program can. But I also know my boy and that he needs a bit more structure than that. And then there's the internship program, and Central is smaller, which means and he'll get more attention and guidance....sigh...growing up is hard.

And besides, East Lansing doesn't have a Krapohl Ford Dealership.

It's a message from God.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, From My Loins, Passages

Labels: Hustle and Flow, With Grace My Ass

Labels: Hustle and Flow, With Grace My Ass

Throughout the summer, I collected snapshots of my new Northern Michigan neighborhood. I had intended to write this post weeks ago, but what better tribute to mark the end of our first summer in the new community digs?

On the drive to the cottage, we pass through this little town called Mesick. Yes, as in Me Sick. As if the name isn't weird enough, Mesick has annointed itself the Mushroom Capital of the World.

You won't find much else but mushrooming in Mesick. But in the event you got a queer eye for the fungi, you might find this place handy:



After you get yourself fixed up at the apothecary, you can stop next door, for a foamin' shot of deer snot.

Yousick yet? Metoo.

Northern Michigan by the Yard
The following shots were all taken within minutes from our cottage, along the main roads and highways.

Bottle Tree very pretty.
And the bottle blossom is neat.
But the fruit that has fallen,
Can be murder on bare feet.


In the same yard as the bodacious bottle tree were two driveway posts, each wearing a bowling ball. Because the residents of the mobile home were in (therefore, not mobile), we could only get a quick shot of one ball. But as you know, in bowling, a split shot is the most difficult.



On the road to town from the cottage, we're greeted by this imaginative menagerie. They are all made from hot water heaters or propane tanks.



Is that Who you think it is?

Why, yes it is. Tank You, Jesus!

::You'd think with all those hot water heaters, they'd have at least one Mary in a Bathtub::

Okay Kim, before you start having im-morel thoughts of an autumnal voyage, this is a mushroom carved from a tree stump. I call him Well Hungus Amongus. ::No, really, it's just a mushroom.::



And what some yards lack in fungal stature, they make up for in well-capped quantity. Mmmm...pass the butter fried steak.

::No, Kim...just mushrooms. ::

Oh Deer, I almost forgot.

You can't drive a half mile around here without seeing some rendition of the white tail fakeout.

Nope, the little fluffins' aren't real. I know. Those bogus, bovinous beauties fool me every time.

And that's the end of my tail.

Without BeLaborin', I wish you all a restful holiday weekend.

Labels: Giant Mushrooms, North

It just keeps comin'round.

This past weekend at the cottage was pretty nice, despite the nasty weather and some other, ahem, issues. My in-laws doted on the Cakers, while Eric worked and I knit a bit. And worried a lot, about that that other matter. You know, the matter matter.*

Early Saturday afternoon, I happened upon a whisper fest between my husband and his parents. I didn't know what they were talking about until I heard my mother-in-law say, just above a whisper, "Well, can we flush or not?"

What???!??, said I.
Oh, nothing, she said, as all three exchanged don't feed the crazy lady glances.
Tell me! I shrilled.

My husband approached me in a gentle, calm manner, much as one would the mentally infirm or the divorcee in the throes of a Bacardi Limon psychosis as she dangles your only set of Cobra Mustang keys over a sewer drain.**

He then held me by the shoulders, looked me square in the eye and said "The alarm went off. The tanks are full. We're at defcom 4."

I'll spare you the remaining details of that particular exchange. I will say, however, that it was more than alarming to learn that a heavy rainfall can cause water to pool in the poop chopper. Apparently poop choppers, dukey tanks and related alarm systems don't know shit from rainola.

So, in addition to prevalent preoccupations with salmonella and e-coli and cottage guests with compulsive flush disorders, I now have to be concerned about pissing off mother nature.

My father-in-law quickly (too quickly?) made the call to our guy. After a brief exchange of info(including the query regarding how many people are pooping in the house) our guy assured him we could hold it until Monday. While we didn't speak of it again for the rest of the weekend, neither did anyone shower or run the dishwasher, or spit.

Truthfully, I think everyone was a little nervous, which somehow made me feel less a case.

Who You Calling a CoHo?
To keep our minds out of the sewage, we headed into town, to the Annual Coho Festival, where the highlight of the day was the Annual Coho Festival parade.

First of all, I am a happily married woman. But being happily married doesn't preclude me from an active fantasy life. Right?

That being said, this bad boy on parade immediately captured my fancy. I mean, honey, you can do burnouts on my lawn patch any time.



But quickerin I could say "Deere John" my father-in-law nudged and whispered..."there's our guy."



Mmmmm..be still my whizzin' heart. Right then and there, I decided I was a little old for riding bitch on a souped up lawn tractor.

Right then and there, I decided my next Secret Fancy is gonna be about power.
Big, strong, long, round, reliable power. Pumping power. All at the drop of a dime. ::Get a load of that hose...sigh::

Okay, this cornball parade has one last corner to round. So bear with.

And what would the Coho Festival be without the Coho Queen and her court? (My husband thought there should be two queens for some reason.)



For the record, being the Queen of the CoHo festival is not just about the glamour and prestige, although there is plenty of that. What folks don't realize is that being the Coho queen also involves great personal sacrifice.

You see, at the completion of the parade, this float is pulled directly to the Queen's birthplace, where she will spawn and..well..I just can't say it. Too tragic.

I guess it's time to roe this boat ashore.

Humpy Wednesday!

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Cottage, North