Santa's On My List

It's that time of year again when the 'Is Santa real?' question rears its ugly head and has me dodging questions faster than a politician caught with his pants down.

Captain Studly turned to the dark side several years back, somewhat dishearteningly confessing that he'd given up on the illusion of Santa Claus (but can I still get presents?).  Sure, I wanted him to stay all starry-eyed for as long as possible but by the time he start sprouting facial hair, I'd had to say the jig was up.

The Diva?  Well, THAT one is still clinging, but only by a hangnail or two.  With that one, it's the same routine every...Christmas...season.  Couldn't she at least wait until AFTER Thanksgiving?  The whole conversation is like an endless loop, almost like listening to an elder list all their maladies one after the other ad nauseum.  It gets so you even recognize the pauses and what's coming next.  We humans are nothing if not predictable.

Part of me, when asked if I believe Santa is real, wants to shout:

Do YOU believe the man (or any man, let's be honest) could circumnavigate the globe without Mrs. Claus by his side to read the map-(and forget GPS!  GPS my fat fanny-even your Gramma's GPS can't find out of the way quilt shops-what makes you think it can find every house, hut and hovel on planet Earth); jiggle and shimmy his gelatinous self up and down sooty chimneys without soiling or wrinkling his suit (I don't care if he is laying a finger aside of his nose); and still make it home without being spotted by an eagle-eyed tot...never mind the damn reindeer?!?!  I'm still not convinced it's not Mrs. Claus doing all the flying whilst dear old Santa stays at home to bake cookies with the elves.  Is he real?  I'd say there's a better chance of me waking up tomorrow a size four and discovering your Dad's suddenly morphed into Matthew McConaughey (hey, hey all right).

But I don't.  That'd just be pure mean!  Sure, I'm a schmitty mommy who firmly believes June Cleaver was lying through her damn teeth all those years, but I'm not a complete bitch.  Notice the use of the word 'complete'.  Give it time.

She looked at me kinda funny when I asked if she wanted her picture taken with Santa this year.  Kind of the same look I'd get if I scooped dog doo onto a plate and served it up as dinner.

'Muh-thurrrrr!  EVERYONE KNOWS the MALL Santa isn't REAL!'

'You mean, he's like a representative FOR Santa' I replied.

'EXACTLY!  But the reindeer are real.'

Sigh...

The Diva Will See You Now

Or maybe it's more accurate to say The Diva CAN see you now.

Last week I had a curbside conference with The Diva's teacher who expressed concern that perhaps an eye exam was in order.  I smiled, thanked her and pulled away, chuckling under my breath that my kid surely had enough sense to say 'Hey, like, you know I can't see...right?'

So, not being a parental slouch, I scheduled an eye exam, still chuckling that her blurry vision would turn out to be the result of seasonal allergies.  This is Texas, after all. 

After being put through the equivalent of the Eye Olympics and spending enough dough to make a dent in my fabric budget, I give you...



The Diva



 

She couldn't stop reading billboards as we drove around town.  'I can see tree branches!' she exclaimed.

Maybe now she'll be able to see to pick up her room.

Nah...

While The Cat's Away...

Mama Mouse will play clean out the cesspool that is The Diva's room!  This is exactly how I pictured spending my day off...along with doing laundry, swabbing toilets and generally picking up the homestead.  I have threatened, pleaded and bribed.  Today, I grabbed a Hefty trash bag, checked that my immunizations were up to date and entered The Pit.  Even Captain Studly's room isn't this bad and he's thirteen!

After two hours, the trash bin was well fed...

The neighbors gave me a funny look when I took this picture

and I'd barely made a dent.

I'm not even counting the stuff I smuggled into my trunk for donations.   But, do I feel guilty?

Ummmm...

  That's a negative, Ghost Rider.   The Diva wanted to know if I'd thrown out her most favorite stuffed animals.  No (that's the truth).  Did I throw out other assorted treasures?  No (that's a lie).    Can I live with it?   You bet your happy hiney.   TGIF, y'all!

Then It Cliqued



Ahh, cliques...the hair flipping, eye rolling, lip curling, you can't hang with us because the label on your butt is so last season...'oh. my. gawd Becky, look at her butt..it is sooo big!'

Wait a minute, that last part's from a Sir Mixalot song...oops!

Anyhoo, you get the point.  I thought, erroneously as it turns out, that I was done with cliques once I left the confines of high school.  Stupid, stupid girl.  How could I have forgotten I'm the mother of a girl?

The Diva got her first taste of one of these coteries last year when she was painfully excluded from playing with the cool girls because she was too 'tomboy'.  Frankly, this just means she could beat the snot of out 'em and go on about her rat-killin'...but was still so uncool that to be seen in the same day with her would've sounded the death knell for everyone else's social life.

Imagine my surprise (and skepticism) when she announced last week that she'd been assimilated into the in-crowd because she was now considered 'friendly' to the group.  Sounds like the Collective from Star Trek.  Or the U.N.

Funny how you don't hear about male cliques, now that I think about it.  Nuh-uh.  Guys have gangs or if they're honorably inclined in the behavior department, 'bands of brothers'.  Girls?  They have Estrogen Posses.

It's woefully inadequate to tell The Diva to just be the same sweet girl she's always been.  "Just be you and remember when it was you on the outside.  Don't be mean to the non-groupies, okay?" I lectured from the driver's seat.  Cue her eye roll.

If she starts wearing skirts and headbands and gives up her dream of being able to pee while standing, I'll give 'em a ringing endoresement.  Until then, The Estrogen Posse rides again!

Wish her me us luck!

Professor Bead-it

Yesterday, the Diva decided to teach me how to make the scrumptious felt tea cakes she'd made at Hip Stitch Studio awhile back.  I was a tad apprehensive as the Diva is alot like me in that she lacks a certain amount of, ahem, patience. 

Professor Bead-it

Here, the Diva's showing me how to sew sprinkles (beads) onto the tea cake icing.  The cake in the background is one she made at Hip Stitch.

Here, I'm getting a lesson on the blanket stitch and applying icing to the cake.

Uh-oh..she's pursing her lips.  I'm in trouble now.


Our completed tea cakes...don't they look awesome!

She made it...she taught an old dog tricks she already knew new tricks and looks quite pleased with herself! 

Frankly, I like playing dumb. On the one hand, it means a confidence booster because they're teaching me something and have to be patient because I'm old and feeble.  On the other hand, it means the Co-Defendants underestimate me and don't get away with near as much as they'd like...but that's fuel for another post.

Happy Wednesday, y'all!

The Diva Did It

My mom took a tatting class this morning at Hip Stitch Studio while The Diva tagged along.  When Mom mentioned she'd be doing this, I thought it had 'disaster' written all over it.  But look what Miss Joan at Hip Stitch taught her to do while the grownups tatted...

Each cookie (?) has a bit of beading sewn on and they're just a bit stuffed.  She's not sure what they're supposed to be, but I think they're really cute and she's very proud of herself.  You go, girl!



The Diva



Memory Lane, Anyone?

Anybody out there remember what this is called?

Record player courtesy of Gramma

Yes, it's a record player and photographic proof that we had music before the iPod!  I miss records...go ahead, call me crazy!  Michael Jackson sounded sooo good on my Dad's old turntable.  Of course, that was before he got weird.  Michael Jackson, I mean, not my Dad.  There's something soothing and methodical about the whole process of putting on a record...kind of like I imagine high tea is for the British.  Go ahead and snicker...I'll wait while you catch your breath.

The records are the same record story books I listened to as a kid back when television was black and white and we had to wash our clothes in the stream out back.  Yes, these are questions my own children have asked me, the little twerps!

Know what these are?

The Diva and Captain Studly..getting along


Happy Thursday, y'all!

Bowlin' With My Homies

Captain Studly decided he wanted to go bowling for his birthday (which is tomorrow, if anyone's curious) so this morning, after everyone was medicated, I packed us into the rolling marshmallow and off we went to the bowling alley.  Mind you, my visions of bowling alleys are somewhat fanciful and colored by memories of my youth since I was about twelve the last time I was in one.  I fully expected herds of chain-smoking elderly men, shirts stretched tautly across beer bellies and the lovely smell of stale sweat.  Oh, happy day!  What we got were alot of mommies trying to escape the heat and wear their little darlings out in the process.  We mommies can be so e-vil!

I had coupons for free games for the kids and managed to finagle all our games at a discounted rate (Nana, you'd be so proud of my thriftiness!) and I must say, I found bowling shoes to be somewhat retro chic.  Weird, but there it is.

I fully expected to be sporting that orange ball in my forehead.  The kid scared me!

The Diva had a tough time and resorted to rolling the ball 'like a baby'...her words, not mine.

If it weren't for the bumpers, none of us would've hit a pin!  Thankfully, there are no pictures of me.  I felt like a baboon in stilettos.  However, bowling proved to me that my children can get along with one another and be generally supportive of the family unit.  Or maybe that's just 'cause we were in public.