Twenty Years

I remember when I turned 20. It was way back in 19??. I’ll let that date remain a secret because I don’t want to ruin the mystery. Anyway, recently I’ve been thinking I should start lying about my age. If I up it by 10 years I’ll probably get a lot of compliments. “Oh, you look so good for your age.” But, what if I don’t? Then I’ll just feel bad, so maybe lying about my age isn’t such a good idea.

Anyway, 20 is a funny age. You’ve finally passed through the fire of adolescence only to find that you still feel exactly the same as you did yesterday. Isn’t every birthday like that though?

My stepson turned 20 yesterday. That’s right. He’s all grown up now. When I first met him he looked like this …


Those where the good old days of grasshoppers and tarantulas. Okay, they weren’t really so good. I’ve never liked tarantulas.

Gone are the tarantulas, thank goodness. Now he wants an outfit like the one Gaddafi used to wear and looks like this …


We haven’t gotten him the outfit yet, but I’m sure Gaddafi wore jeans and a t-shirt sometimes too. Only one of the individuals in this picture was in big trouble for digging a giant whole in the backyard. I’m sure you an guess which one it was, but I getting off topic.

Time flies, as they say. I hope he had a good 20th birthday and has many more to come. Maybe not. Turning 20 every year forever would probably get a bit boring, like Groundhog Day without Bill Murray. I hope he has many more birthdays to come of various numbers in whatever order he wants … 35, 22, 54. It’s good to mix things up a bit sometimes.

Nebulous Mooch the Movie

Clapper Board and ReelOne of the best things about having a life as incredibly interesting as mine is knowing that one day it will be immortalized in a motion picture–a comedy of course. I’ve always known that I would be involved in movie making. I’m not interested in the acting side of things. Halle Berry would probably do a much better job of pretending to be me than I ever could. I know she’s like a million years older than me, but I don’t mind.

I’ll write the screenplay which will be a breeze to do. I think it should feature a lot of slapstick comedy–falling down and pies in the face. Who doesn’t think a good banana cream pie in the face is funny?

Does the lead singer of Coldplay act? I was thinking that he could play my husband. My stepson would play himself, of course. He can really ham it up. I haven’t figured out who would play any of the other characters though. As the screen writer that isn’t my place anyway. I’m sure that once I finally convince Martin Scorsese to direct it, he’ll take care of the casting. I picture the movie being a nice family comedy. That’s right up his alley, right?

Note: I just told my husband about my movie plans and he said that Kevin Bacon would definitely play him. “People tell me I look like Kevin Bacon all the time,” he said. I wonder which people tell him this. I don’t see the resemblance, but who am I?

Photo by M4D GROUP

Our Conversations

This is the conversation we had last night while watching the news. So it makes some sense to you I should let you know that the news stories were about the Boy Scouts discrimination against gays, an asteroid nearly hitting Earth, and the blackout during the Super Bowl.

Me: Don’t you think it’s odd that the Boy Scouts have banned gays yet they have an activity called a jamboree?

My dad: If a gay asteroid wants to join the football team they should let him.

Me: If a gay asteroid wants to be queen of the jamboree I think they should let him do that too.

Okay, maybe knowing what the stories were about didn’t help that make sense. Since when do conversations have to make sense? With me and my dad it’s more like I say something, then he says something totally unrelated, then I say something else, then he says a whole lot of stuff.

If you throw my stepson into the mix then you really have an interesting conversation. My dad says something that is the completion of a thought going on in his head that none of us are aware of. I say something. My dad explains himself. My stepson says something very loosely related that involves mentioning a dictator or political figure’s name. And so it goes in a round of confusion. We do still manage to communicate though.

Note: I have no idea what a jamboree is, but it sounds like a big party where people dance and wear clothing that sparkles. Maybe it’s kind of like a rave with less ecstasy and more neckerchiefs.

Another note: In case you didn’t know, we are still trying to buy a house. That’s why we’re still living with my parents. You can find out about our latest adventures in house buying on my guest post at Aiming Low.

Perfect Potato Chip Fantasy

Me: I just want to lay on my back and have a potato chip fountain drop potato chips into my mouth.

My stepson: I’d be afraid of choking.

Me: This is a fantasy. There’s no choking in fantasies.

My stepson: I’d still be afraid of choking.

Me: I don’t understand how you could be afraid of my perfect potato chip fantasy.

He’s Leaving Home

The American returned to his native country yesterday. It was a cloudy day that he began by loudly singing the Star Spangled Banner in the bath. Then he put on his suit complete with American flag pin, and we headed to the airport. In the car he talked about the beauty of his homeland and sang a few patriot songs.

He’s staying there with his mother to complete the final years of teenagehood. Here are some pictures I took at the airport.

insideboybwHere’s a song too. Just for the fun of it.


My husband who is a professional musician and really should have promotional photograph thing taken care of by now needed a picture for a gig he’s doing next month. So we hung a sheet up in the living room and started taking pictures. Of course, we couldn’t let him be the star of the show. We had to get in on the act too.



My stepson has been having problems reading at school. He’s been complaining of headaches and eye strain, so it was time to take him to the eye doctor. Of course, he needed glasses. Jealous of all the glasses wearing going on in the family, my husband got his eyes checked too. We all knew that my husband needed glasses. He used to have some that he never wore. When we moved we found them under the computer desk with the lenses so scratched no one would ever be able to see out of them. So, he threw them away.

We all have very different approaches to wearing glasses.

Wearing glasses is old hat for me. I’ve done it since I was in 4th grade. My lenses are constantly smeared and smudged and I just ignore it. I’ve learned to see around the smudges. I only clean my glasses about once a week. I figure why even bother, they just get smudged again in a few minutes.

Since my husband’s gotten his new glasses, he spends more time looking at himself in the mirror saying things like, “I really look good in glasses.” He keeps his glasses very clean. He’s always cleaning them. If even the tiniest smudge appears on them, he cleans it off immediately. “How can you see out of those things,” he often says to me while closely examining my glasses.

My stepson’s method for dealing with his glasses is the most unusual. When he does wear them–which is almost never–he puts them up to his eyes while holding the arms. He rarely ever lets them rest on his face. Instead, he holds them up off of his nose takes a quick look at something then quickly removes them, returns them to their case and shoves the case in his pocket. He treats them like some kind of disease.

The reason he was having problems reading is because his bad vision is straining his eyes. If he wore his glasses all the time, he wouldn’t have this problem reading, but of course he won’t wear them. Instead, he’s gotten some reading glasses somehow, from somewhere–the kind of reading glassesĀ  old people buy from the drugstore. He insists on wearing those to read because his eyes are bothering him. His eyes wouldn’t bother him if he wore his glasses, but you can’t tell him anything.

Now that we’re all bespectacled we can go out together as one big, happy nerdy chic family. Some of us are nerdier than others. And some of us are chicer than others. But we can still all get along.