Monkey see, Monkey do WHAT?!

So I want to talk a little about this photo.

We Are Awesome!

It has been on the front of my fridge for about 4 years, so yes, I’ve glanced at it hundreds of times. So why did I never notice before today that my son is giving HIMSELF rabbit ears?! Really? So basically he took a moment to consider his options, and the best candidate ended up being HIMSELF?! Knowing my son, it sort of makes sense…but still.

There’s one in every group, but since when is it this child of mine?

About 3 weeks ago, my friend Laura was visiting from out of town (her kid is the one front and center) and we were discussing how this photo captures perfectly the personalities of this group of neighborhood kids back in the day. Jonathan (Laura’s son) front and center, taking charge and challenging the photographer to dictate his next move, Brandon (far right) relinquishing the attention, doing his own thing in his own little world, but still making futile attempts to earn a smile, Ryan (second from left) flailing around like a monkey on meth, and most likely singing the Pokemon theme song as loud and repetitiously as possible in order to clown his way into the spotlight, and Tyler (far left) the quiet, unsupervised country boy from down the street who stares in awe at the other three thinking…”Hey ya’ll quit posing and let’s go blow up a bull frog in the ditch behind the house and build a fort in the woods.”

These little monkeys have since grown apart and gone their separate paths into their teen years…it’s probably a good thing. Maybe Brandon won’t be THAT one in his next group, but then again…I sure love that kid.

Laughter is the Best Medicine, Just make sure you identify the pill before you swallow it

For real! All of the following ACTUALLY occurred within the last 5 days. At least I’m well practiced in laughing at myself.

Top TEN Reasons I need another VACATION!

10) Passed up my own driveway and pulled into the neighbor’s garage before realizing I was at the wrong house.

9) Pulled too hard when opening a mini bag of pretzels and ended up with salt in my hair…and pretzels in my bra.

8) Was in my car in the bank parking lot talking on my cell phone to my friend Marci and (after dumping my whole purse out on the floor board) I was like, “Awe maaaaan! I must have left my cell at the office. Now I have to go allllll the way back just to get it. Ugh!” and she was all, “Aren’t we talking on your cell phone now?”

7) Was sore from a hard core workout with my trainer and went to sit on the toilet. Misjudged the height, sore muscles gave out, my butt was on the floor, hair clip was in the toilet. I just left it there.

6) Was leaving a house warming party and took off my shoes to walk through the muddy yard on my way to my car. Stepped to the left to avoid a mud puddle, sunk my foot into some poo instead. They don’t have any pets! I don’t even wanna think about whose poo it was.

5) Was leaving a voicemail for a friend and left the wrong name. Luckily she recognized my voice and called me back to pick on me for not remembering my own name.

4) Was on my cell phone with the pizza place ordering dinner while frantically looking through my purse for my “lost” cell phone (yes, I DID do this twice in one week. Don’t judge people!)

3) Was going through the normal morning routine, went to take my vitamin and dropped it on the floor. I picked it up (because the 5 second rule applies for vitamins too), dusted it off and swallowed it. Later, while getting ready for bed, I found my vitamin on the floor. So what in the WORLD did I swallow?!?!

2) Was posting a top ten list...copy and paste is obviously too complicated for me right now so I duplicated one of the list items and now I'm correcting it...anyhoo item number two SHOULD have read as follows:  Poured muscle milk in my coffee instead of half and half...drank it anyway.

1) I was reading an article online about Sasquatch Festival, when all of a sudden office phone rang, and instead of the normal greeting, I read aloud, “Sasquatch Sweepstakes” OMG “I mean Tudor Law Office, can I help you?” *thankfully I knew the person on the line and after a good laugh, we just discussed why we should go to the Sasquatch Fest next time around. Just sayin’

Haha Check out the kid covering her ears in fear
while her parents are all, "Sasquatch Rocks Man!!"

BTW...Just so you know, I totally got confused at least 3 times doing this top ten because I kept forgetting the numbers were SUPPOSED to be counting DOWN and I was correcting them line by line.

A Classy Place to Poo

This past weekend included a 6 hour road trip to Austin, Texas to drop Brandon off at camp for the next two weeks. For fun, I brought along my sister Annie and a friend whose identity will be kept anonymous to protect the reputation of the ashamed innocent.

A few hours into our trip, somewhere near Huntsville, we collectively decided there was a need for a pit stop. I was asking where we should stop in this small town and my friend chimes in with, “I don’t know I just need to poo.” So I’m all, “Okay look, there’s a Shell station. We can stop there.” And she emphatically rejects my suggestion by yelling, “No! The gas station is disgusting! I need a classy place to poo. “, So I’m like, “A CLASSY place to poo?” And she’s all, “You know, somewhere clean and spacious. Where I can relax and concentrate.”

Realizing now that she was absolutely serious, the other occupants of the car are throwing out suggestions through their laughter.

Annie: “How about that Golden Corral?”

Classy Poo: “That’s no good. It’s a restaurant. People are eating and they might smell it when you come out. It would ruin their meal.”

Brandon: “There’s an office building right there, they would have a bathroom.”

Classy Poo: “Oooooo Brookshires, that looks like a nice place.”

Me: “No, that is a grocery store…they probably don’t specialize in classy bathrooms or feng shui atmosphere.”

Classy Poo: “Oh okay, well just stop at that McDonalds on the left. We can go there.”

So we all file inside so my friend could take a dump for rest and relaxation, and as everyone gathered back at the car, Brandon comes out and says “I don’t know about ya’ll, but my classy bathroom had KKK scratched into the toilet lid.”

That's one classy gal on the door!

On the road again...

My street cred is dead ya'll

So every Wednesday night, I serve at my church as a youth leader for our Deeper Youth (the high school and college age kids). We have our own worship and church service independent of the adult service that night of the week in the family life center. As usual, the teens file into the gym before service in small clicks and make their way to their preferred places, and I made my way into the gym this evening for supervising and socializing with the teens. My son, of course, was in the auditorium dominating the ping pong tables. I try to give him as much space as possible when he’s with friends…a luxury I apparently deny the teens of other parents.


So I’m standing there, having little conversations with groups of girls giggling on the sidelines as the athletes of the crowd parade around the basketball court doing their best to mimic the NBA All Stars in a half-court game and catch the eye of female onlookers. And the longer I stood there, the more impressed I became with the skills of some of these boys. They were pretty good. I watched them spin, dunk, fake out their opponent, shoot from half court…nuthin’ but net, baby! Immediately I had my favorites…and then…and then…there he was…the underdog…a little tiny thing, who hadn’t yet hit his growth spurt. He was at least 2 feet shorter than all of the other players, but the kid was a great ball player. He faked to the left…faked to the right…they were all over him…he lost his balance, and in mid fall he shoots…swish.

I jumped to my feet like a proud mama at the ballpark. “Great shot! Woohoo! You rock!” Clapping my hands wildly, grinning ear to ear…and then time stopped, or so it seemed. Silence filled the room. The basketball bounced un-rebounded into the corner. It was then that I noticed all eyes were on me…the crazy mom. Who was she and why was she cheering like a banshee on parade? They all had that look, you know, that “What’chu talkin’ bout Willis?” look. (Although THEY wouldn't know that either because they weren't BORN yet when that show was out)

I sat down quietly…playin’ like nothing just happened. But definitely sure that I just lost some cool points. I probably lost cool points for thinking about it in terms of cool points. I don’t guess they do cool points anymore. Is it street cred, or is that over, too?

Apparently there is an age where composure is cool…not fanatical whimsy. Oh well, they’re just gonna have to get over it and deal with this oddity that is me.

Stupid is as stupid does

Let me take a moment to introduce you to Maggie “Doodlebug” Miller.  The photo here pretty much sums up our little simpleton…so cuddly, so sweet, and oh so very DUMB.  This was her response to the “SIT” command.

Sit Maggie

We first learned of her condition a couple of weeks after we adopted her.  Concerned about a guttural hacking noise she kept making, I brought her to be examined for what I suspected was some sort of respiratory infection.  After careful observation and testing, the vet was like, “Maggie here is perfectly healthy.”  And I’m like “But what about the horrible hacking noise?” And, as if on cue, Maggie takes a few steps, trips over her own foot and let’s out that sound.
 
Me: “See?! That’s the sound!”

Doc: “Well that’s just a bark.”

Me: “A bark…really?  It sounds more like she's chaneling the spirit of a toad with laryngitis.”

Doc: “It seems as though Maggie has what is called an abbreviated mental capacity.”

Me: “Are you saying my dog is retarded?”
Doc: “Basically.”

Me: “And that affects her bark.”

Doc: “You’ll probably find many idiosyncrasies as she develops.  But as far as her health goes, she’s good to go.”

Great.  Just what I needed. The Forrest Gump of cocker spaniels.

So I present to you the list of “idiosyncrasies” revealed:

-at adult growth, she is 20 lbs dwarfed from her normal breed size

-one ear is half the size of the other, this is typically disguised by her long hair, but sometimes we ask for a summer cut at the groomers, and she pretty much just walks around looking like her head is cocked to the side all the time.

-sudden energy bursts cause her to run wildly back and forth across the yard, sometimes colliding with the columns on the back porch

-she usually barks ferociously at her reflection in the glass door as she walks by

-one time she charged at her reflection and became so frightened by the display that she avoided that room for the rest of the day

-she humps our other dog, Mojo, when she wants to play because to her it is a form of wrestling

-she runs through the dog door at full speed and sometimes misses the hole

-when she hears Mojo alerting with his bark, she mimics the barking, but instead of focusing on the cause of his barks, she swings her head in a Stevie Wonder-like motion while staring off into space

-she pees herself a little every time someone with a baritone voice greets her

"Ooof!"

Over the years we have adapted to our doodlebug.  Her antics warm our hearts, but the grunt-barks are still so annoying.

Cooley Deal

So on a recent trip to Alaska with my father, I had an experience I’ll never forget. Well, I had TONS of experiences I’ll never forget, but THIS one in particular REALLY sticks with me. It was the realization of the vast span of the amazing life of my dad, Charles Murphy Miller. I mean think about it…he was born BEFORE the television was an appliance which could be purchased for the home! And now…here we are, in the twenty-first century…and he’s STILL so cutting edge! Okay, so maybe not “cutting edge”, but he sure does give it his best effort…


Picture it: A chilly summer day in Valdez, Alaska 2010, picturesque views from our RV campsite of an eagle’s nest, a glacier pool, and mountains as far as the eyes could see.

My dad and I were sitting in lounge chairs. I, with my laptop resting upon my legs as I uploaded that day’s photo journal of sites; Dad, sipping his diet coke in intervals between tales of mayhem back in the day with his good ole buddy, Daniel T. Cooley. And that is how we will refer to him for this story, because it is important that you understand that, although my father was commonly known as “Chuck” among his Marine friends, he refused to reference his dear friend without using his full name, middle initial separation included.

“Boy me an’ Daniel T. Cooley was in a MESS uh trouble then!” or “That Daniel T. Cooley just grabbed that son-of-a-gun and ran!”

Anyway, a brief period of silence induced by a man lost down memory lane was suddenly broken by his peaked curiosity. “You still savin’ pictures?” he asked. “No,” I replied, “just checking my Facebook for a sec.” Leaning over he made his next inquiry, “What does it do?” So I proceeded to explain to my father the revolution of social media and the convenience it provides when one wishes to stay in touch with friends and family far away. I showed him how you can upload photos, drop someone a message, follow their day to day goings on, etc. His response to the wealth of knowledge I had just shared? “Well, I wonder….what my friend Daniel T. Cooley is up to. I hadn’t seen ‘im for at least 35 years. He may even be dead by now. Abby…look on that there Spacebook and see if you find a Daniel T. Cooley.”

“It’s FACEbook, Dad,” I corrected, “but it may be worth a try.” It was only a matter of minutes before I was staring at a list of people…four to be exact, Dan Cooley, Daniel Cooley, Dan theMan Cooley, and Daniel T. Cooley. Of course none of them had a picture that was usable for identification purposes, but dad chimed in anyway, “It’s THAT one! I know it for sure! He ALWAYS goes by Daniel T. Cooley. Nuthin’ else. That’s him alright! Text ‘im and tell ‘im Chuck is trying to see if he is the same Daniel T. Cooley that skinned 3 rabbits with his bare hands on a bet in Okinawa, Japan after the bar brawl.” So I messaged this stranger, word for word as I was instructed. And wouldn’t you know it wasn’t 10 minutes before I had a notification that Daniel T. Cooley had replied to my message. His reply read “Abby...thanks...glad to know he is doing good...I don’t get on FB much…does Chuck have a Skype account? tell him setting up Skype is a lot easier than running a Jetcal on a J65 engine! So he should be able to figure it out! Anyway, I'll look forward to talking with him on Skype.”

Well obviously I don’t need to explain how I was instantly setting up a new Skype account for my dad, all the while explaining yet ANOTHER social media concept to him. And then…ring…ring…ring…”Huhllo?!”

Dad: “HELLo!”

DTC: “Huhllo?!”

Dad: “HELLo!”

DTC: “Huhllo, CHUCK?!”

Dad: “HELLo!”

Me: “Dad! Say SOMETHING else, PLEASE!”

All the while I’m making screen adjustments…sound was working well (as well as can be expected when the Skype session is between two battle-proven, hard-of-hearing men over 70), but no picture on his end yet.

DTC: “Huhllo CHUCK?!”

Dad: “Yeah! How you doin’ Daniel T.?”

And then the video stream from Okinawa, Japan fades in. A withered man with receding hairline white as snow and a crooked solid white beard is peering through some lenses at his long lost friend, my dad. It was Daniel T. Cooley…in the flesh. My dad looks at his friend a moment…then turns to me and says, “Man, he looks soooo OLD!”

OMG... “DAD!” I returned in a strained whisper, “He can HEAR you!”

Alas…I was wrong…the conversation went on without a hitch. Although the sound was working on Skype, good ole Daniel T. Cooley apparently needed a new hearing aid. All was well with THIS friend connection.

So very proud of my dad, for not letting the technology advancements scare him into submission.

Do NOT Touch the Girl's Cookies!

Brandon is currently attending cotillion. For those of you who are not familiar with this program, it is one in which children (usually pre-teens or teenagers) attend classes where they learn patterned social dance or “ballroom style” dance (i.e. fox trot, waltz), in addition to learning gentlemanly\ladylike manners, etiquette, and formal dining. For those of you who are familiar with cotillion because you too were subjected to this humiliation as children…my son sends his sympathy. The students are “rewarded” for their efforts with two or three formal balls held in the fall, winter and spring.

So as I impatiently wait for Brandon to adorn himself with the suit I had purchased at the last minute before his first class, I began to wonder what exactly I had committed myself to as a parent. The responsibility begins as follows: spending an obnoxious amount of money on formal attire for a child who has grown 5 inches and 2 shoe sizes this year alone and will probably surpass that by Christmas, chauffeuring service to several 3-hour lessons, chaperoning 3 formal balls, purchasing proper attire for myself to wear to said formals, constant negotiation and threats directed to my uncooperative 11 year old, etc...etc…etc.

As I pondered the mess that I had gotten myself into, I glanced at the clock on the mantel and realized quickly that we were on the verge of being tardy (a violation of rule number 3 of the manual for proper etiquette). The obsessive compulsive in me, who is NEVER late for ANYTHING, began barking orders in the direction of the house from which faint grunts and grumbles were resonating. “I’m Coming!” he said in a voice of defeat.

Then there he was…emerging from the hallway… a stranger…a young man with whom I had not yet made acquaintance. Where was my little boy who used to let me call him “baby bear” and give him public displays of affection? Where was the child who would yell “Mommy, watch this!” from across the room and I would hold my breath in anticipation of another trip to the emergency room?

As I drove to the class I was suddenly saddened with my realization of how quickly time was passing by. My impromptu pity-party was abruptly halted when we arrived and Brandon told me to just “drop him off near the front”. Apparently having me watch while he was forced to dance awkwardly with random girls would only multiply the intensity of his embarrassment. As I loitered near the front entrance concocting a plan to spy on the class, I was joined by 15-20 other rejected parents with peaked curiosity. We devised a plan to come back 30 minutes early (by accident) in order to catch the last part of the class.

Once I returned, I found my place among the eager onlookers, poking my head ever-so-carefully around the corner of the room. There he was…Brandon was dancing with the tiniest little girl. Unfortunately, he was paying no attention to his dance partner at all. Instead, my son, along with several other boys, were snickering and whispering to their friends as they passed on the dance floor. Then I watched as the music ended and the children were all seated. The instructors muffled voice echoed from the speaker system. “Okay gentleman. It’s time to escort the ladies to the refreshment tables for cookies and punch. Remember to escort the lady on your RIGHT arm and hold the plate for her as she chooses her refreshments. Remember gentleman!! DO NOT…TOUCH…THE GIRLS’ COOKIES. The girls do not like it when the boys touch their cookies.”

It was at this moment that the crowd of adolescent boys began giggling and chattering amongst themselves. The instructor, apparently unaware of her double entendre, continued to guide the kids to the refreshment table, then dismissed them for the evening.
On the drive home, I inquired of my son as to what part of the evening he enjoyed most. The cookies, was of course, his absolute answer. It was then that I realized he was not so grown up after all…and when I tucked him into bed that night, his Scooby Doo pajamas confirmed my conclusion.