Me and the Boys

Peculiar.

I am a peculiar human being. I really am.  Recently I watched an Oprah episode entitled “Am I Normal?”.  I was looking forward to this show, mostly because I wanted to answer the questions as well and see how I matched up.  She asked a myriad of questions, ranging from “Do you pick your nose?” (answer: most people do…about six times a day) to “Do you look at your poop after you pooped?” (yep…most people do that too) to some more explicit topics I’d rather not bring up (my mother reads this blog).  I thought the show would make me feel more normal, but I think it had the opposite effect. For example, I don’t want to know whether or not people pick their noses, I want to know whether or not they eat their boogers. Is that weird?  Probably not normal to wonder how many people do that? 

It is often (too often, I think) that I feel I am the only normal person there is.  Is that weird? Like…everyone else is Koo-Koo and somehow I got stuck here?  But then I start think: I must be the crazy one. It’s like that bad reality show where there’s one person that everyone on the cast hates.  And you know that ten other people can’t be wrong; that one person really does suck.  So I start to be all: I’M CRAZY!  They’re all normal and I’m the weird one!  It’s a chilling realization but it’s also greatly liberating. 

I was running on the treadmill today, trying to think of all the things that plunk me in the sub-normal category.  While I was thinking of my list (and running), I realized that my hands were balled into fists…and that my fingers were TYPING MY THOUGHTS.  The worse part is, I’ve been doing this since about SIXTH GRADE> I mean really. Most conversations I have and most thought processes I have are accompanied by my fingers pressing against my fist or the other given surface…and I’m typing. The conversation.  That’s peculiar, right?

Another thing I do.  I narrate in my head.  Pretty much everything.  It’s kind of hard to explain.  But I’ll try (because I’m weird).  If I’m not talking (please refrain from commenting on this…”the IF I’m talking part,” because believe it or not there are lots of times I’m not talking).  I realize that last sentence was an incomplete sentence but I’ve got to press on.  Really, I do.  So anyway, if I’m not talking, I am watching the interaction in front of me and I’m narrating it in my head. As though I am writing a book.  For example. I see my friend walk over to her kid.  Most people: information in, information out.  Not me…not the peculiar.  ME:  ”Kim picks up her baby Luke and hushes him, sweeping his hair off his forehead.  She kisses him lightly and sets him back down.”  YEP.  I KNOW> It’s actually more of a curse than it is funny, because it’s kind of annoying when my whole life resembles a terrible mommy day care saga. 

I would like to go on and tell you more weird/different/peculiar things about me, but I’d like to come through this blog post with at least a couple of friends.  This is my solace: everyone is kind of strange in their own way, right?

I Hurt.

When you are in a situation, and the only thing you can think is: “there is definitely a blog post here somewhere…,” you have a problem.  You sit there and try to memorize all the things that make this worthy of a blog post, and then when you go to actually post this blog, you can’t remember anything about it.  That’s about where I am now.  You see, the situation was so harrowing that I truly am having amnesia.  Maybe, like all the women who have babies with no drugs (WHY?? Why do you do this? Modern medicine, anyone???), apparently you “forget” how painful childcare was and you want to do it again.  Step class? Yep, I guess I’m thinking I want to do it again. Because I promise you that while doing it I swore on my own grave I would never step foot into that room again. 

I have spent the last 1.5 weeks trying to convince Ryan that we indeed need to be members of the local workout center.  I will work out EVERY DAY!  I will have ROCK SOLID ABS!  The boys will LOVE THE CHILDREN’S PLAY AREA!  I will NEVER BE BORED AGAIN!  You get the drift.  I can be pretty convincing when I want to be.  I swear, I almost have him convinced.

For a short $150/month, you get the following: full access to the local gym. Childcare while you produce rock solid abs (although I found out yesterday you can only drop your children off there once a day.  So there truly is no dropping them off and heading home for a nap.  No need to try it;  it’s already be tried).  Full access to all the classes (yoga, pilates, yogalates, steps, powersomething, you get the drift). 

Yesterday, a friend and I tried the pilates class.  Before heading to said class, I shaved (you are welcome, everyone else in the room).  I put on the cutest workout outfit I have, and headed to the gym.  Apparently, no one warned me about yoga and all the freaky positions you must muster yourself into.  Because I wore some short shorts (I’m WORKING OUT for goodness sakes. Everyone wears short shorts!).  Note to Bree: they’re called yoga PANTS for a reason.  Has anyone ever heard of yoga shorts? Nope.  Upon walking into the room, I positioned myself at the back of the room, not wanting anyone else to see me during my first session.  In walks pilatesteacher…and she positions herself RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME.  I am now in the front of the room. So I manage to make it through this class, but just barely. 

That was yesterday. Today, every time I laugh or talk or frankly, just breathe, it hurts.  It’s fine because today I decided to take a stab at the step class.  I knew the step class would be less embarassing because  how hard can stepping be?  Again, I take my place in the back of the classroom. Some know-it-all comes up to me and tells me “you-are-on-the-instructor’s-step-so-moveit-sister” so I take another step that is already put together.  The other know-it-all in the room takes one look at me, huffs, and grabs another step from the pile of steps in the back of the room and sets it up on the OTHER side of her. Huffy’s friend walks in, glares at me, and positions herself on her newly set up step.  A girl can’t win, I swear.

I wish this was the end of my stepping story. To make this less boring for you, dear reader, I am going to give you the abbreviated version.  Stepping is not for the faint of heart.  Having had two children, I am not overly embarrassed of my physique.  Well, I thought that until all the college girls walk in (i.e. Huffy) and start prancing around on their steps. The lady who leads the whole charade starts going through these routines that are HARD and MAN was I just ridiculously not good at stepping.  She is gyrating her hips every which way, and by the time she has told me the next step she has moved on to the NEXT step which is altogether extremely frustrating.  All in all, I totally made it through the 55 minutes of stepping without crying.

I have to give just one more detail of the step class: we had to do jumping jacks in the middle of the whole thing (yep, stepping includes all SORTS of things that don’t include steps).  I am doing my jumping jacks and I REALLY have to pee.  I’m having a hard time accomplishing both of these things simultaneously when we take a short 30 second break. The lady next to me says “how are you doing” and I answer “well it’s fine but I just had a baby so all this jumping is kind of difficult” meaning: “bladder control, lady!”  She looks at me sympathetically and says, “awww how old is your baby?” and I smile sweetly and say, “sixteen months.”  She was not impressed by this…not at all.

I intend to go back to the classes, but tomorrow I am thinking about trying the syncronised swimming course. Let me know if you want an update.

A Childhood Playground Memory

Have you ever tried to think back to your earliest memory?  Because recently I saw an article in which the author said, “I remember when I was three…”  I was like…huh! This means that Cash will be able to remember these days later in his life?  And then followed a panicky: CASH WILL REMEMBER THESE DAYS> BETTER SHAPE UP.  Better make these days good, mama.  So obviously I started thinking back to my earliest memories.  There are few things I think I remember, but good sense tells me there’s no way I recall something from when I was 18 months old.  My mom has told me that, before I could really walk, I would lean on the screen door watching my brothers play outside.  My face and hands would lay flat against the screen.  The story goes, my brothers would run inside, and forgetting I was there, pull open the door.  Well, of course, I would fall flat on my face onto the concrete.  My dad said I went to church for months with a hug bump and scab on my forehead. 

The weird thing is, I feel like I remember falling. I can picture the door, the backyard, and the moment they’d come flying to the door.  I know this is impossible…I guess I’ve been told the story so many times that I actually made it real in my mind.

I have one childhood memory that is very strange. I’ve actually never told anyone this before.  Again, as with the Cats play, some of the details are a bit sketchy.  I had to have been at least 6 or 7 at the time, so it is definitely a legit memory. 

So the memory begins at the playground.  How did I get there? Who knows. Who was I there with? No clue.  I just remember being on a merry go round.  I was having the time of my life.  Just going in circles…in circles…in circles.  Well, there was this boy next to me.  At some point, he began looking a little green.  And then. He threw up. On me. 

Mortification does not begin to describe my reaction to this moment.  I about died.  Now I told you the details are hazy, but I do remember a woman coming up to me, presumably the woman who had brought me to the playground. Now remember, this kiddo threw up on me.  But the woman somehow made me feel as though I had done something wrong. Suddenly I felt a little bit gross, and a lot embarrassed.  I wanted to go home.  She wiped me off with something (I told you I can’t remember it all!!!).  This is the part that is most clear in my mind: she looked me in the eye and told me “do not forget to tell your parents that this boy threw up on you when you get home.”

Up until this point it had not crossed my mind NOT to tell my parents.  But all of a sudden she had me doubting myself and my parents’ reaction to this. Would they be angry wth me?  Would I not be allowed to go to this playground again?

So, I’m going to end this completely pointless story in a way that will not leave you with any resolve. Sorry.  I got home, avoided telling my parents about the throw uppy boy, and went to bed. No shower. No telling the parents.  Just went to bed. 

Isn’t that a weird memory???  I had the best childhood, I really did. Why do I not remember so many amazing moments but I do remember this…and insist upon writing about it?  UGH I have no idea. I do know that this is a secret I’ve been carrying for a long time, and boy does it feel good to tell somebody.

A Schedule Revised

We had the best weekend.  We started out with lots of big plans and ended up executing none of them.  I know…doesn’t sound like the best weekend, right? 

As of Friday morning, the plan was:

Friday evening: Make Cash’s day, no LIFE, and go see Toy Story 3.  Finish up the evening with a family McDonalds date.  You may believe it or not, but our entire family eats at Mickey D’s for under six dollars. Yep.

Saturday morning: Get up and drive to Holland State Park. Set up tent. Go to beach. Come back to tent, grill hot dogs, let boys play, put them to bed in tent.  Drink some wine with husband while sitting next to an incredibly romantic fire.  Go to bed in tent with aforementioned boys. Sleep until 10 a.m. (I TOLD you it didn’t work out this way…) and then go home.

Sunday: come home from camping, laze around….and that’s it.

So, this is how the weekend REALLY went:

Friday afternoon: yard work while the boys played with bubbles outside. I can’t remember what movie I saw that had this quote, but they said it SO well: “I wish I were half as excited about anything in my life as those kids are about bubbles. Those kids go **wild** for those bubbles.” It’s so true. We thought about going to see Toy Story but why would we when we were outside and so happy with the bubbles???  So after they exhausted themselves they were put to bed.  Later that evening, while hubs and I were watching TV, my friend Michele came over for a spirit and lively conversation. i LOVE that she lives so close and can ride her bike over to see me. It’s the best! And, since I don’t have a bike and can’t ride one anyway, she just comes to me:)

Saturday morning: Our camping trip has been postponed as it is supposed to rain all day and night.  We end up going to Eastown and walking around.  We decide to have lunch at a little spot called the Electric Cheetah. We are walking toward the restaurant and I find fifteen dollars on the ground. RIGHT??  There was no where to return the money, as it was just laying there.  To assuage my guilt, we tipped the waiter extra big.  (Even if he did ask if he we’d rather have fries with our sandwich…and then upcharge EACH of us $3 for that kind favor. HMPH!). After naps, while hubs is posted up on the couch watching both the World Cup and TCU play baseball, the boys and I go outside for…more bubbles!  Our neighbor/Ryan’s colleague walks by and invites us over to grill out. Of course we’ll come!  So we all head over there…come home and go to bed.  Great evening!

Sunday morning:  As we are SUPPOSED to be heading home from our camping trip, we are getting ready for church instead.  Parker has a complete meltdown as we are heading out, so I stay home while he naps. Ryan and Cash head to church.  Ryan comes home 1.5 hours later and reports the topic of the sermon: laziness. Great…I wasn’t being lazy! My 14 month old was freaking out!  Anyway, we are going to read one Proverb a day for the month of July.  That is the pastor’s prescription to cure spiritual laziness> I’ll let you know how it goes.

Sunday afternoon: naps and a TV marathon. We just discovered we get this On Demand business with millions of television series shows.  Right??? So obviously, to cure our laziness, we watch like a hundred episodes of Entourage in a row.  Then we head over to our friends house for dinner, The DeKorne’s.  This was the first time we had hung out as couples (Heidi and I hang out every week during playgroup, but the boys have something called work during the week).  It went pretty well…I think we might ask them out on a second date:)  They fed us and then took us on a ride on their pontoon boat.  Is that redundant? Is a pontoon a boat? So then “pontoon boat” would be like saying “Coke soda.”  Right?  Whatever…anyway we went on a long ride with them.  Parker decided to take his FIRST STEPS on this boat.  He took two, maybe three, while trying to get from me to Ryan.  YIPEE! He is, after all, fourteen months and I’m starting to wonder if he’ll ever walk!!! 

So the boys went straight to bed last night…and we watched just a little more Entourage on TV. SUCH a great weekend! I know this is a weird blog post…I’m not usually into mentioning every detail of our schedule. But it was just such a great weekend, I had to share.  Hope yours  was just as good:)

Things You Should Not Eat

You know the feeling.  You’re sitting in an organized setting of some sort:  a business meeting, a graduation ceremony, a church service.  You get the drift.  Someplace where, most likely, someone else is speaking or it is supposed to be quiet. 

At this point, if you are me, something will strike your funny bone.  All of a sudden you picture somebody naked in an inappropriate setting, or a hysterical joke comes to mind.  Or, again, if you are me, you start to laugh for no other reason than because it is not appropriate to laugh at that moment.  It starts as a little gasp: HA!  You are able to stifle it because OF COURSE it is supposed to be quiet on the western front, so SHHH.  Your eyes dart back and forth uncomfortably as you scan the room, wondering if anybody saw your giggly blunder. You’re clear.

Or so you think.  The image simply won’t leave your mind.  It’s as though a permanent impression of that joke/naked person/ridiculous situation is at the forefront of your mind.  After your initial HA that has been pressed down, a giggle begins at the bottom of your belly.  Your body shakes a little bit, up and down of course, as the belly laugh works its way up your stomach and esophogas.  It’s at the back of your throat.  It’s all you can do to keep your mouth shut, trying like heck to keep that noise inside your mouth.  Oh, mouth, dreaded mouth, why can’t you stay closed? Because while you are usually great at keeping the ole pie hole shut, it opens up and the giggle escapes.  You turn red but for the life of you, you cannot stop laughing. At this point I believe it is 100% involuntary.  You either count your losses and get the laugh out, or you run from the room and try to save face.

The worst part is, if you choose the second option and run, you get outside the room and suddenly it’s not quite as funny anymore.  You can’t really remember why you were giggling in the first place. 

At this point, you are wondering about the title of this blog. Things You Should Not Eat?  Shouldn’t the title be, When You Should Not Laugh?  Nope. Because again, if you are me (which you’re not but this blog is mine so I can say that), the two titles are intertwined.

At this point, I’d like to digress and talk about Splat Mats, but I’m not going to do that. This post is getting long and Interventionis having a marathon on A&E.  I’ve got priorities.  For brevity’s sake, and for those of you who do not have kids under the age of 3, a Splat Mat is a wipeable piece of material that goes underneath a high chair or booster seat.  It keeps food/drink/indistinguishables from ruining the floor beneath the seat.  Anywho…

I am sitting at the dinner table and my then 2 year old is in his booster, Splat Mat below him.  Persons A* and B** (both adults) are sitting at the table with me, waiting for me to get my child in line before we bless the food.  I rummage around the floor, trying to get the Splat Mat straightened out so the floor doesn’t get messy.  You can imagine what accumulates on this mat: dried milk, day old raisins, turkey, goldfish, WHO KNOWS?? While down there, I find a piece of indistinguishable on the floor.  It is about two inches long, shriveled, and black/orange in color.  It is also very hard, with a consistency not unlike beef jerky.  While my arm is bringing the piece of indistinguishable up toward the table, Person A begins to pray.  Not having many options, I stick the jerky-like substance on the table in front of me, planning to dispose of it after the prayer is over.  Nope…that indistinguishable piece of food has better fortune than that.  Out of nowhere, I see Person B’s arm fly across the table and grab that delicious piece of indistinguishable.  And put it in her mouth.  Now you realize the prayer is in full throttle at this point.  But, like a bad accident you can take your eyes off of, I can’t stop watching Person B trying to chew the 7 day old piece of ??? from the floor. 

And I start to laugh.  It starts soft and low, but as the prayer reaches its climax, so does my laughter.  Tears flow from my eyes as I try to respect the situation.  Person B, at this point, is so embarrassed that she too is laughing.  Person A quickly wraps up the prayer and wants to know why we are laughing.  It was wrong on SO many levels, but the worst of it all is that B has, in her mortification, swallowed the unknown item. 

There is not a time that this comes to my mind that I don’t laugh until I cry. Obviously we talk about it for awhile, and the biggest question is why, oh WHY has B grabbed this item and chewed it.  Worse…why did B swallow it?  Who knows, who knows. All that matters is that this gives me that guttural belly laugh every time I think about it.

*Names have been changed to respect privacy.

Things that Should be Tossed

I’m a purger.  I mean, I have no problem throwing anything away.  I am a therapist’s dream client: I can unclutter my life with one swift motion of the arm.  While some (many) people cannot throw things away and hold onto them for years and years, if not life, I can get rid of most anything without another thought about it.  I get this trait from my mother.  She is also a purger.  Why keep it when it will just bug us by its presence??? My thoughts EXACTLY.  Sure, there’s the slight possibility you might wish you had what you purged six years earlier…but oh well, right?  Along these same lines, clutter is my nemesis.  I hate things on the countertop, things on the coffeetable, things…anywhere.  A place for everything, and everything in its place. Good motto, right?

When my husband and I first started dating, he would wear these jeans.  I have been looking at google images for the past fifteen minutes, trying to find a picture that would do these jeans justice.  Of the 9 million plus images that showed up when I googled “terrible acid wash jeans,” not one of them held a candle to my sweet husband’s white/baby blue acid wash jeans he wore while he courted me.  When we were dating, my then boyfriend was perfect. He said everything right, did everything right, etc.  My one complaint was those darned jeans.  As mentioned, they were white/baby blue acid wash, had holes in places men should not willingly expose, and tapered off at the ankle, a definite no-no for any guy and, to be honest, most girls.  They were plain terrible. Even my roomates agreed: the jeans had to go.  So, one time when then BF came to visit, the jeans went into hiding. Looking back, it is my thought that I meant to just “hide” them for a joke. Thing is…the jeans have never resurfaced.  I must’ve “purged”…they sprouted legs and walked into the trash.  Gone, for good. This did not do wonders for our relationship, but clearly, all is well. The BF is now a husband indeed.

Fast forward 5+ years.  Today I took my darling babies to the park with a friend.  It was a last minute decision to go, so I loaded the boys up and left.  When I arrived at the park, I realized I looked like a little bit of a bum.  I was wearing a pair of shorts that Ryan hates.  It is a parallel of sorts…He hates these shorts as I hated his jeans.  He has asked me repeatedly to “purge” myself of these shorts, but clearly, I’ve had a tough go of it. They are so darned comfortable!! ***

***I just spent the last six minutes trying to attach a picture of said shorts, but true to my style, I cannot figure out how to get a picture in this post. Sorry; use your imagination, plus the following clues: they are baby blue, very short, and have holes EVERYWHERE.

So I showed up at the park today with a baggy white t-shirt and these shorts. Just terrible.  I was embarassed to be WITH me, let alone to BE me.  My kids have no sense of fashion or self and THEY were pretending that Miss Michele was their mother and not me.  I think it’s time to get rid of the shorts, I really do.  I just can’t.  WHY?? I can throw ANYTHING away, even to a fault! What is it about these shorts??? 

As I type this, I am wearing the shorts.  Somebody MUST dispose of them for me. Maybe…just maybe, sweet BF turned hubby will grow tired of them and “lose” them. It would be deserved, really. But we all know he is much, much nicer than me. 

I guess they will stay.

Try This on for Size

My favorite food? Sandwiches. I love them.  Not peanut butter and jelly sandwiches…like REAL sandwiches. I love veggie sammies, paninis, turkey sandwiches…I think the thing I love the most about sandwiches is condiments. Ryan says the only reason I like sandwiches so much is because I need an avenue for condiments to get into my mouth.  Like it would be inappropriate for me to stuff ranch or pesto directly into my mouth, so I use a sandwich to make it more proper.  I like them hot more than I like them cold…but boy do I love them.  Ryan is not my sandwich guy.  If I serve sandwiches for dinner (the same goes for salad) at 6:00, Ryan is in the kitchen (again) by 7, claiming to be hungry because all he had for dinner is a sandwich.  He just isn’t my sandwich man.

He is, however, a bikini guy.  Let me explain…

So the other day I ordered a bunch of swimsuits from Victoria’s Secret.  It was an online order, so I decided on some suits and then entered my credit card information.  After a short contemplation that my husband might kill me, I decided to risk my life and pushed “submit order.” I then moved on with my day.  Not four minutes later, my cell phone rings. 

“Hello?”

“Hey…what did you buy at victoriassecret.com for $297.83?”

“What…? How did you…?  I ordered like nine bathing suits. I only want to keep one, but I need to try them all on and then I’ll send eight of them back.”

It’s hard to type what came out of his mouth next, but it can be mostly clearly described as “ahhharghhhhhoookkk….”

Said bathing suits arrived today.  They arrived while I was hosting playgroup at my house.  My friends boosted my ego by oohing and ahhing over them.  Obviously I did not try them on for my friends, as it is only the beginning of June and my body reflects the months I have spent indoors. Literally…my body is reflecting light.  I am that pale.

After watching the Bachelorette on TV, I asked my hubby if I can try on these bathing suits for him…and involve him in the choosing of THE suit.  I’d like to know his taste in bathing suits.  His eyes light up as though a V.S. catalogue has fallen into his lap and I have fully sanctioned an hour long perusal of it.  He responds with a happy yes and I move to our bedroom to begin the fashion show.

His response to the first suit is positive…”yes, I like that one.  I like the color…”  The second suit gets a less excited but still positive resopnse: “yes. the fit is nice.”  And it was downhill from there.  I mean, by the time I get to the last suit, his eyes are inverted in his head and his fingers are stuffed so far down his ears I can hardly see his elbows.  What started out as an exciting fashion show (for him) has turned into him needing to give fashion advice that he simply does not have in him. 

Ahhhh so we finally lay all the suits out on the floor, and, by process of elimination, choose a swimsuit. 

Not an hour later, a commercial comes on TV.  As I am reading about what so-and-so thinks about who-cares-what on facebook, I hear Ryan murmuring about how delicious that looked. How delicious what looked? I grab the remote and rewind (thank goodness for dvr) to see what perked his tastebuds. 

Oscar Meyer microwavable deli sandwich.  Really? Really.

Cats…or something like it

So when I was in 7th grade I was in an amateur production of “Cats.” And by production I mean I was in my junior high drama club’s production of “Cats.”  I’ll begin this story by saying that I hate cats, always have.  That in itself should have been a sign.  Looking back, I cannot begin to imagine how I got roped into this. I mean, I was like 12, right? So you’d think I’d have some memory of someone pressuring me to be a part of it, or me thinking that I’d get my big break, or something.  Nope…I was just in the chorus line in the back of the stage. In a musical. To me, that in itself is amusing enough to end the story there. But no, there’s more.

My 7th grade drama teacher’s name was Ms. Elzinga.  She was really pretty and smart. I remember thinking that at least.  I remember the drama room clearly.  It was a triangular shaped room.  Ms. Elzinga would stand at the door as we walked in and greet us.  She always used to brag about being a foot model.  She would show us her feet and be like, “don’t you think I have pretty feet? I have modeled them before in commercials.”  At the time I didn’t think much of this; I mean, what does a 12 year old girl say to a grown woman who is bragging about being a foot model? 

To digress, my senior year in high school I was named “best personality” by my fellow classmates.  Until last year, I silently believed I was amazing because of this award. I mean, who doesn’t want to have the best personality in their class???  That is, I was proud of this until my brother found out about it over Christmas (almost 10 years after the award was awarded).  He was like, “best personality?? You’re proud of that? You know they give that award to the fat girl who fails to garner any other award?”  Picture my pride deflating like a balloon on the 5th of July.

Anyway, it makes me want to tell Ms. Elzinga that if you are a foot model, there is probably something wrong with the remaining 85% of your body.  But time heals all wounds, right?  Not so much…

Back to Cats.  Obviously, Cats was the big ticket in town.  We had like three productions in a row, Thursday through Saturday evenings.  I am guessing this all went down on Saturday night, the big night. The best night.  I had absolutely no big role in this play.  In fact, I cannot recall anything about the play at all, set or storyline, except that I wore an extremely tight bodysuit that was grey and brown with a tail attached. 

Apparently, on the last night, we were being taped by a local TV show or something. This one was being broadcasted…it was going into the archives.  This is what Ms. Elzinga would show her grandchildren when they were big enough to appreciation such art.  So it’s the big night. Everyone seemed to realize this except me. Maybe it was my lack of appreciation of art, but something in my brain missed the message about the recording.  I have always had a hard time remembering the difference between stage left…stage right…and, apparently, stage center.

You see, it was my moment. We were being taped…this was my moment.  My group had our dance/song, and we were to exit the stage. It was the moment the camera would capture my fluid motion from stage to offstage.  So what went wrong? Really, I am trying to remember…what went wrong?? 

All I can tell you is this: as the rest of my cast exited stage right, as practiced, I panicked.  I mean, my heart was hammering, sweat was flowing, mind was wandering. Where was I to go?? Was it left…or right?  You’d think I’d just pick one of those and run. Nope, that would be too easy.  That would mean I’d have nothing to write about 15 years later.  I freaking went straight. As in center stage. Down the front of the stage, through the center aisle…and smack into the camera-man.  And then I crawled around him.  I finally found the dressing room, or whatever it was called.  I breathed a sigh of relief. I was safe and free.  No more renditions of Cats, ever.

Except that Ms. Elzinga was pissed.  I mean…pissed enough to leave the production, mid-production, head to the dressing room, and stick her feline claws into my forearm.  She whispered fiercely into my ear that she was going to kill me after the show.  I had ruined her moment…and mine.  It’s no wonder I am not on broadway today!  Ok, so she didn’t tell me she was going to kill me. But she did leave claw marks in my arm and a permanent scar in my heart.  I was totally incompetent in the area of fine arts. So marked the end of my theater career.

Oh well, at least I have my personality to fall back on, right??

I’m really doin’ it!

Funny…this is post number three. I am actually writing a blog! I get uneasy thinking about it still. Again, I get nervous while logging on that I won’t have anything to say, interesting or not.  But here I go with entry number three, which means I might be a bona fide blogger. Maybe I’m jumping the gun.  Perhaps when I get to entry…42. That means I’m really doin’ it.

I just realized that I began both posts #1 and 2 with “I’m cracking up…”  The funny thing is (to me, at least), I actually was cracking up while thinking about and writing each of those entries.  I honestly was cracking up.  I still giggle when thinking about poor Peter Sea being thrown up against a tree, trembling for his life.  (If he ever reads this, I’m sorry!!!)  Humor is a funny thing (is that a pun?).  Obviously, it’s in the eye of the beholder.  Obviously Peter didn’t think that situation was quite so amusing.  But it’s just so interesting what will strike someone as comical.   

Do you want to know one of my top three pet peeves?  It is when you say something, and someone says in response, “that’s funny.” But there is no laugh from that person. No chuckle. No gleam in the eye. Just a statement qualifying the previous statement as “funny.”  Excuse me, sir, but if you truly thought that was funny, you wouldn’t have had to say so, your laugh would have given you away.  I know I have said “that’s funny” before, and I’ll probably say it again without laughing. But please correct me. Because it’s annoying.

Now I need to go think about my other two pet peeves. I don’t even know what they are, to be honest. I just didn’t feel like people saying “that’s funny” and then not laughing could truly be named as my top pet peeve. 

In other news, this afternoon Cash told Ryan that he looked “fatter than a house” today.  Now that, my friend, is funny.

Which Came First?

I’m cracking up…This weekend the Ytterberg family was all sitting around my parents’ dining room table, having a marathon six hour lunch/dinner as is custom in their house. I mean that literally…when you have lunch, dinner, breakfast, or let’s face it, ANY kind of drink or meal at my parents’ house, it ends up taking hours.  As a Bethany Beach friend aptly quipped this past weekend, you get “swallowed into the black hole” in that house.  A little background…

So I have a two brothers who are two and four years older than me. I love them both for very different reasons. I am like each of them in very different ways.  As most siblings can say, we have all three been through the wringer and back with each other.  They were protective of me in very very literal ways when I was younger. One time when I was in 7th grade, this boy pushed my bike over after school. I mean, in front of me, pushed my bike over. I know…the nerve, right??  So I went inside the nearest friend’s house (this was the 90′s…no cell phones!), called my mom crying, and told her about my lopsided bike. I guess I was on speaker or something, because in four seconds flat, I hear wheels screeching and loud music approaching.  It was like a fairy tale: my brothers both jump out of their Jeep wrangler (obviously it had no top and obviously they weren’t wearing seat belts…my house was like six houses down).  They grab Peter, the bike pusher, and had some serious words with him.  Let me just tell you this: that boy never spoke to me again, good OR bad.  That was good…the down side was that all the other boys in the neighborhood were then afraid of me as well. 

I love that story, not because it proves to the macho-ness of my brothers, but because it speaks volumes about their character and love for me. But you know what? That’s not really what makes me love them the most.  You’d think it would be my favorite thing to do…watch them protect me.  But you know what? My favorite thing to do is make them laugh.  I feel like I actually store up jokes and quips and unload them all at the said dinner table. 

It’s like they are my gauge for whether or not something is actually funny.  There are never less than 6 people at the dinner table…most times there are 12 or more, not including the 6 munchkin babies we have amongst us.  So obviously I have to wait for a good break in the conversation to add my aforementioned joke I have stored up.  I try to unleash it with master timing…sometimes it works, others it doesn’t. 

I feel like I’m exposing my M.O. at this point…and that anyone reading this who actually sits at the table will now be onto me. That’s okay though…that’s ok.  As long as the jokes are funny. And you know who decides whether or not the jokes are funny? You know who decides whether those jokes enter my repertoire or not?  The brothers: their laugh, or sadly, blank stare, decide if I try to pull that one out again.  Because, while I may not need a savior in a jeep anymore, I do need someone to laugh at my jokes. And that, my friend, I will always need.