I first came up with the swear jar during the Patriots playoff game. I was upstairs with Daniel when we heard the following come from my very own husband:
"Suck it Tom Brady! SUCK IT!"
Daniel looked at me. Then he snickered. I knew we had a problem.
Today, Kiah kept stealing Ben's lightsaber because she's a compulsive thief who shows no sign of reform even though we've had several serious talks. Ben became irate and called her a stupid idiot. I wish I could blame the public school for Ben's potty mouth, but let's all be honest with each other; John calls Kiah a stupid idiot on a regular basis (albeit affectionately.) In fact, that was the excuse Benjamin used when I chastised him.
So this very night, I invented the game "Gotcha," the rules of which are quite simple. Daddy says a bad word, we yell "Gotcha," and Daddy has to put $1.00 in the swear jar. The swear jar will be a Wegmans Basil Tomato spaghetti sauce jar, washed, with a pretty swirly-lettered label that says "A vessel is known by the sound, whether it be cracked or not, so men are proved by their speeches whether they be wise or not. - Demosthenes ." When we collect enough dollars, we'll have a pizza night. I fully expect pizza night will happen tomorrow, as we've already garnered $3.00.
We had to make a list, of course, of the offending words. They are as follows:
Stupid
Dumb
Sucks
Crap
Frick
Frickin
Freaking
Idiot
Ass
Ben lobbied hard to put "poopstick" on the list, and although it's a word not used in decent conversation, we decided though vulgar, it didn't constitute a "naughty" word.
Caleb is somewhat to very uncomfortable with this game- in fact, after consideration, he has decided he doesn't want to play it at all. Caleb always defers and is respectful to those who are in authority over him, and so this game goes against everything he believes in. John even gave him the go-ahead to play, but our encouragement was to no avail. Not even the promise of pizza night would sway poor Caleb's mind. He did say the following:
"Anyway, I know that even though mom made up this game, she'll forget about it in a few days."
He's eight, but he already knows I have a problem following through with things. Like my scrapbooking projects. My marathon training. Grad school. Flossing on a nightly basis. Things like that.
So, I'm cleaning out another spaghetti sauce jar, which will be labeled: "If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours- Henry David Thoreau." Only I'll change the hes to shes. For obvious reasons.
Every time I don't follow through with something, the kids will yell, "I TOLD YOU SO!" and I'll put $1.00 in the jar. When we save up enough dollars, we'll order out for subs. (I find food is a wonderful motivator.)
I would admit that we're going to be eating a lot of pizza and subs, but let's face facts. This is definitely the year we slap a G-rating on John's mouth. And I'm going to follow through with my grand ideas. Or at least my not-so-grand ideas.
We may be eating a lot of subs.
Showing posts with label John stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label John stories. Show all posts
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Thursday, December 30, 2010
John's "Beard"
Yesterday, I received this amusing e-mail from my father. It is now my first "guest post."
Holly, your portrait of John (saintly, long-suffering) looked so much like a Renaissance-era portrait, probably of St. Jerome or somebody, that I won't be able to rest till I've found the one it's closest to. No luck so far.
John:
Rembrandt self-portrait:
Titian's "Man with a glove":
Titiani self-portrait:
Titian's Portrait of Pietro Aretino:
Another Titian Portrait of Pietro Aretino:
Holbein's portrait of Thomas Cromwell:
John again:
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Now With Better Resolution...
I think one of John’s great disappointments in life is that he married a woman who cannot tell the difference between high definition television and standard television.
John received a blue-ray player for Christmas from his parents and has been downstairs popping various movies in the thing to demonstrate its extraordinary capacity for enabling the ultimate cinematic experience.
“Look! Honey, come see!”
I go look.
“The Star Wars dvds look so amazing with the blue-ray’s up-convert technology!”
“Pardon me there?”
“Up-convert technology. The blue-ray takes our dvds and makes the resolution better than in our old dvd player. It’s not as good as if they were blue-rays, but the picture is much better than before.”
“Okay then. I’m going to finish this here pumpkin pie now.”
“You don’t notice the difference, do you?” The disappointment in his voice is palpable.
“Not so much,” I say.
He proceeds to pop in the new Star Trek blue-ray he bought, and then Cars, which causes a frenzy among the younger crowd dwelling within the confines of these walls.
“It’s so amazing,” John whispers.
Right.
This week, he somehow conned my father out of his old speakers- behemoth monstrosities that now loom over us in the living room.
“The sound is so amazing,” he whispers.
Right.
I can’t complain, however, because my ever-loving other half bought me the yuletide gift of furniture. I now have a micro-fiber loveseat and couch and a bountiful assortment of cushions.
He moved the recliner from the living room into the already crowded library/ dining-room/ piano room. I am opposed to this. Really opposed to this. But I can’t say anything because HE BOUGHT ME FURNITURE! I am in such a state of bliss that I am letting this go. (Until a couple of weeks from now when he starts traveling for work. Then, I will simply move the recliner back to its rightful spot in the great room and he will inevitably become annoyed and move it back next to the piano and then I’ll move it back where I want it and this will go on until he gives up because I am more stubborn than he is. And more right than he is, too.)
Ahhh, the holidays. No better time to have meaningless, trivial battles of will with one’s spouse. No better way to end the year, either.
Merry Christmas!
John received a blue-ray player for Christmas from his parents and has been downstairs popping various movies in the thing to demonstrate its extraordinary capacity for enabling the ultimate cinematic experience.
“Look! Honey, come see!”
I go look.
“The Star Wars dvds look so amazing with the blue-ray’s up-convert technology!”
“Pardon me there?”
“Up-convert technology. The blue-ray takes our dvds and makes the resolution better than in our old dvd player. It’s not as good as if they were blue-rays, but the picture is much better than before.”
“Okay then. I’m going to finish this here pumpkin pie now.”
“You don’t notice the difference, do you?” The disappointment in his voice is palpable.
“Not so much,” I say.
He proceeds to pop in the new Star Trek blue-ray he bought, and then Cars, which causes a frenzy among the younger crowd dwelling within the confines of these walls.
“It’s so amazing,” John whispers.
Right.
This week, he somehow conned my father out of his old speakers- behemoth monstrosities that now loom over us in the living room.
“The sound is so amazing,” he whispers.
Right.
I can’t complain, however, because my ever-loving other half bought me the yuletide gift of furniture. I now have a micro-fiber loveseat and couch and a bountiful assortment of cushions.
He moved the recliner from the living room into the already crowded library/ dining-room/ piano room. I am opposed to this. Really opposed to this. But I can’t say anything because HE BOUGHT ME FURNITURE! I am in such a state of bliss that I am letting this go. (Until a couple of weeks from now when he starts traveling for work. Then, I will simply move the recliner back to its rightful spot in the great room and he will inevitably become annoyed and move it back next to the piano and then I’ll move it back where I want it and this will go on until he gives up because I am more stubborn than he is. And more right than he is, too.)
Ahhh, the holidays. No better time to have meaningless, trivial battles of will with one’s spouse. No better way to end the year, either.
Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Zombified
John called me about twenty minutes ago.
"I have incredible news," he said.
YESSSSS! I thought. He got his bonus and it's, like, really, really HUGE! Snuggies for EVERYONE!
"Natalie Portman has agreed to star in the film version of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies," he said, almost gleefully, I thought.
Well, I had guessed Jennifer Garner for the film version, but Natalie Portman is pretty darn close.
Christmas sure came early this year. (Sarcasm intended.)
Sunday, September 27, 2009
The Golden Boy
This morning, I was awakened by an inspiring version of “The Star Spangled Banner” sung by Caleb at 7:30 in the morning. It was a little startling, but I did find myself thinking good thoughts about America all day long.
On a different topic entirely, last night, John received his G.O.L.D. award, which you may remember stands for Graduate of the Last Decade, and NOT Good Old Lager Drinkers. There was a dinner at our college alma mater, RWC, which stands for Roberts Wesleyan College and NOT Radioactive Waste Campaign (I could go on like this all day…) in our old dining hall on campus. It was a full room: other awards were presented and there were speeches from those celebrating various milestone reunions. The guy from 1959 should totally have his own reality t.v. show. It could be like an edgier version of Andy Griffith with butt grabbing and another mildly inappropriate jokes.
The best part about the whole evening was having our family all together to celebrate the wonder that is John. John’s brother Scotty Karate and his wife drove in from Philly, his little sister Mary came up from Lancaster, and his parents drove from the not-so-far-away corner of Lockport, NY. My parents and stepmother also came, and his fave professor from college came, accompanied by his most awesome wife , which meant a lot to John.
The second best part of the evening was this layered, lemony cake that had sufficient icing to make me very happy.
John’s friend and colleague Kelly introduced John and spoke of his feats during and since college (should I list them all? Would that be obnoxious? Well… it’s my freakin’ blog, I guess I can if I want.) Actually, his feats are kind of obnoxious. (College senate, Senior class president, RA (which stands for resident advisor and not Random A-h***), magna cum laude grad in college and law school, editor-and-chief of the Buffalo Law Review, attorney for THE FIRM, pro-bono award recipient, political town leader, adjunct professor, father of four, husband of the best trophy wife a guy could ever have.) The last one is not so obnoxious.
What Kelly didn’t mention, and what John didn’t tell her, is my favorite of John’s most recent accomplishments. A picture of John pretending to jump out of THE FIRM’s legal library window graces the cover of THE FIRM’s recent brochure. Because that is often what one feels like doing when one is a lawyer. I believe most of our lawyer friends can attest to this fact. (Picture forthcoming: I have to find it).
My favorite comment of the evening came from my mother-in-law, who told John: “I didn’t even know half of those things!” We were shocked that she didn’t know we had four children, but this is what happens when you yourself have to keep track of five kids, so we forgave her.
My second favorite comment came his fave professor, who incorrectly guessed what year John had graduated. (This in itself is funny since he only had to subtract ten years, but I suppose math is not a strongpoint of humanities professors.) John told him the correct year, and the prof said, “You’re lucky I remember you at all!” I think these humbling statements are good for John.
A woman approached me after the dinner and said, “Behind every great man is a…” This is when I butted in and said, “an even better woman.” Ha ha! I’m also a big fan of that joke about Adam, you know, the first man created by God. God created man, stepped back and took a good look and thought to himself, I can do sooo much better. Thousands, maybe millions (yeah… I went there) of years later, Holly was born.
John now has a huge plaque that he is going to hang in his office at THE FIRM so that the next time his boss berates him for something or other he can point to it and say, while sniveling a bit, “Some people out there actually appreciate what I do!”
John gave a speech about the importance of having Christian liberal arts colleges, and he didn’t say um too many times, which is a problem of his. What makes a Christian liberal arts college different than other Christian colleges? Well, at Roberts, we were allowed to walk with members of the opposite sex on the sidewalks, to form our own opinions about Christianity, and could wear t-shirts that made political and social statements. At the same time, we had chapel requirements, a faith-based education, and a selection of quality liberal arts programs to choose from.
Caleb was the only child to accompany us, and he behaved beautifully. He was distracted by a loose tooth and spent the evening taking bite after bite of a rather large apple in hopes of painlessly extracting it.
I am sorry to say that I must rescind my application as next year’s G.O.L.D recipient, largely because I don’t think I could get my family to sit through all of those speeches for a second year in a row. To those in charge of selection, I know this comes as a great disappointment, but I must stand by my decision. I guess I’ll just have to be satisfied living with the golden boy, who is at the Bills game right now but will be home in a bit. I hope in time to give the boys a bath, because golden boys do these menial chores better than trophy wives do. Just a little information for all you trophy wives out there…
On a different topic entirely, last night, John received his G.O.L.D. award, which you may remember stands for Graduate of the Last Decade, and NOT Good Old Lager Drinkers. There was a dinner at our college alma mater, RWC, which stands for Roberts Wesleyan College and NOT Radioactive Waste Campaign (I could go on like this all day…) in our old dining hall on campus. It was a full room: other awards were presented and there were speeches from those celebrating various milestone reunions. The guy from 1959 should totally have his own reality t.v. show. It could be like an edgier version of Andy Griffith with butt grabbing and another mildly inappropriate jokes.
The best part about the whole evening was having our family all together to celebrate the wonder that is John. John’s brother Scotty Karate and his wife drove in from Philly, his little sister Mary came up from Lancaster, and his parents drove from the not-so-far-away corner of Lockport, NY. My parents and stepmother also came, and his fave professor from college came, accompanied by his most awesome wife , which meant a lot to John.
The second best part of the evening was this layered, lemony cake that had sufficient icing to make me very happy.
John’s friend and colleague Kelly introduced John and spoke of his feats during and since college (should I list them all? Would that be obnoxious? Well… it’s my freakin’ blog, I guess I can if I want.) Actually, his feats are kind of obnoxious. (College senate, Senior class president, RA (which stands for resident advisor and not Random A-h***), magna cum laude grad in college and law school, editor-and-chief of the Buffalo Law Review, attorney for THE FIRM, pro-bono award recipient, political town leader, adjunct professor, father of four, husband of the best trophy wife a guy could ever have.) The last one is not so obnoxious.
What Kelly didn’t mention, and what John didn’t tell her, is my favorite of John’s most recent accomplishments. A picture of John pretending to jump out of THE FIRM’s legal library window graces the cover of THE FIRM’s recent brochure. Because that is often what one feels like doing when one is a lawyer. I believe most of our lawyer friends can attest to this fact. (Picture forthcoming: I have to find it).
My favorite comment of the evening came from my mother-in-law, who told John: “I didn’t even know half of those things!” We were shocked that she didn’t know we had four children, but this is what happens when you yourself have to keep track of five kids, so we forgave her.
My second favorite comment came his fave professor, who incorrectly guessed what year John had graduated. (This in itself is funny since he only had to subtract ten years, but I suppose math is not a strongpoint of humanities professors.) John told him the correct year, and the prof said, “You’re lucky I remember you at all!” I think these humbling statements are good for John.
A woman approached me after the dinner and said, “Behind every great man is a…” This is when I butted in and said, “an even better woman.” Ha ha! I’m also a big fan of that joke about Adam, you know, the first man created by God. God created man, stepped back and took a good look and thought to himself, I can do sooo much better. Thousands, maybe millions (yeah… I went there) of years later, Holly was born.
John now has a huge plaque that he is going to hang in his office at THE FIRM so that the next time his boss berates him for something or other he can point to it and say, while sniveling a bit, “Some people out there actually appreciate what I do!”
John gave a speech about the importance of having Christian liberal arts colleges, and he didn’t say um too many times, which is a problem of his. What makes a Christian liberal arts college different than other Christian colleges? Well, at Roberts, we were allowed to walk with members of the opposite sex on the sidewalks, to form our own opinions about Christianity, and could wear t-shirts that made political and social statements. At the same time, we had chapel requirements, a faith-based education, and a selection of quality liberal arts programs to choose from.
Caleb was the only child to accompany us, and he behaved beautifully. He was distracted by a loose tooth and spent the evening taking bite after bite of a rather large apple in hopes of painlessly extracting it.
I am sorry to say that I must rescind my application as next year’s G.O.L.D recipient, largely because I don’t think I could get my family to sit through all of those speeches for a second year in a row. To those in charge of selection, I know this comes as a great disappointment, but I must stand by my decision. I guess I’ll just have to be satisfied living with the golden boy, who is at the Bills game right now but will be home in a bit. I hope in time to give the boys a bath, because golden boys do these menial chores better than trophy wives do. Just a little information for all you trophy wives out there…
John and his trophy wife.
From bottom left, going clockwise: Scotty Karate, Michelle the belle, Richie Retardo, Mama II, Pa, Sigrid, Mary without Carl (sniff sniff), and Lisa from New Jersey. I would have had a picture of table #2, but my better camera was recently stolen, along with my memory card, and I ran out of memory on my stupid old camera. I await the pics from the Dad, who has a kick-butt camera.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
A Marriage in Trouble
Today I fought with a thistle and lost. (This has nothing to do with my marriage, btw. I do not regularly call John a thistle.)
I did a lot of yardwork. I also cleared off our white-trash front porch, taking time to move the woodpile from the porch to the side of the house. Ella and Daniel then took it upon themselves to move the wood from its new location to the middle of the driveway where they stacked it like blocks. It kept them busy, happy, and in my eyesight, so I let them do it.
Holy cow those two can stack kindling like it's their job. This winter, I'm totally sending them out to get wood for the fire. By the time I was done pruning the bushes, pulling out a zillion weeds, cleaning up the garage, and tending to my thistle wounds, I really didn't feel like picking up the little village they had created out of firewood.
Again, it kept them entertained and kept Ella from playing in the ant colony by the sidewalk, so it was worth it. (I was seriously afraid she was going to eat the ants. She eats dirt regularly. I'm beginning to suspect she has pica.)
We all went out to get ice cream at Tim Hortons. The Tim Hortons in Chili now has a Cold Stone Creamery. I have to say that the employees didn't seem so thrilled about their new ice cream shop. One actually said to me, "are you sure you don't want a donut instead?" I guess hand-mixing ice cream all night is hard work, to which I say, try having twins and make me a cone, buster.
After our outdoor adventures, all of the kids looked terrible- dirty fingernails, ice cream dripping down their shirts, hair sticking out in all directions... and they smelled a bit earthy. Caleb and Ben haven't quite gotten the ice-cream cone thing down yet. This is me when they eat an ice cream cone:
"Lick over there! Now the other side is dripping! Lick all around the bottom! Not the very bottom! The bottom of the ice cream part! Don't bite down, just lick around! Oh, just give me the cone."
And then I devour the whole thing.
It's times like those that I look forward to our impending anniversary cruise the most. It will be a lovely timewhere I can eat food without eight little eyeballs staring at me, pleading with me to share a bite. You'd think I lived with four starving puppy-dogs.
John and I really need to get away. Our marriage is in peril. John has done something unforgivable. We might not even make it to our ten-year anniversary.
John has brought video games into our marital bed.
It was late at night and he was waiting for a load of laundry to get done so he could throw it in the dryer. I was tired and ready for sleep. He brought his laptop into our bed and played Civilization while he waited.
This has never happened before.
I think playing video games in the marital bed is akin to going to the bathroom in front of your spouse. When these things occur, the marriage is in big trouble and drastic measures need to take place. I don't care if your husband claims he's close to being the ruler of ancient Greece, keep it out of the bed!
I gotta go now. I'm an emotional basket-case, as you can imagine and Shark Week is happening as I write this. Goodnight.
I did a lot of yardwork. I also cleared off our white-trash front porch, taking time to move the woodpile from the porch to the side of the house. Ella and Daniel then took it upon themselves to move the wood from its new location to the middle of the driveway where they stacked it like blocks. It kept them busy, happy, and in my eyesight, so I let them do it.
Holy cow those two can stack kindling like it's their job. This winter, I'm totally sending them out to get wood for the fire. By the time I was done pruning the bushes, pulling out a zillion weeds, cleaning up the garage, and tending to my thistle wounds, I really didn't feel like picking up the little village they had created out of firewood.
Again, it kept them entertained and kept Ella from playing in the ant colony by the sidewalk, so it was worth it. (I was seriously afraid she was going to eat the ants. She eats dirt regularly. I'm beginning to suspect she has pica.)
We all went out to get ice cream at Tim Hortons. The Tim Hortons in Chili now has a Cold Stone Creamery. I have to say that the employees didn't seem so thrilled about their new ice cream shop. One actually said to me, "are you sure you don't want a donut instead?" I guess hand-mixing ice cream all night is hard work, to which I say, try having twins and make me a cone, buster.
After our outdoor adventures, all of the kids looked terrible- dirty fingernails, ice cream dripping down their shirts, hair sticking out in all directions... and they smelled a bit earthy. Caleb and Ben haven't quite gotten the ice-cream cone thing down yet. This is me when they eat an ice cream cone:
"Lick over there! Now the other side is dripping! Lick all around the bottom! Not the very bottom! The bottom of the ice cream part! Don't bite down, just lick around! Oh, just give me the cone."
And then I devour the whole thing.
It's times like those that I look forward to our impending anniversary cruise the most. It will be a lovely timewhere I can eat food without eight little eyeballs staring at me, pleading with me to share a bite. You'd think I lived with four starving puppy-dogs.
John and I really need to get away. Our marriage is in peril. John has done something unforgivable. We might not even make it to our ten-year anniversary.
John has brought video games into our marital bed.
It was late at night and he was waiting for a load of laundry to get done so he could throw it in the dryer. I was tired and ready for sleep. He brought his laptop into our bed and played Civilization while he waited.
This has never happened before.
I think playing video games in the marital bed is akin to going to the bathroom in front of your spouse. When these things occur, the marriage is in big trouble and drastic measures need to take place. I don't care if your husband claims he's close to being the ruler of ancient Greece, keep it out of the bed!
I gotta go now. I'm an emotional basket-case, as you can imagine and Shark Week is happening as I write this. Goodnight.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Pure Gold: One Wife Disguises her Pride by Raving Like a Lunatic
If you are a Roberts Wesleyan College alumnus, you may have heard that my husband was selected as this year's G.O.L.D. recipient. G.O.L.D. stands for "Graduate of the Last Decade" not "Grand Opening Looks Day," or "Global Organization for Lysososmal Disease." When John first informed me of this award, I immediately asked if there was a cash prize, because I am shallow like that.
Guess what? There isn't! You'd think the G.O.L.D. award with come with some shiny stuff, too.
So, I put the whole thing out of my head. But people keep asking me and John about it. He keeps getting congratulated and stuff! At first I was proud, but sheesh... John's already largish potato head is getting even bigger.
So here's what's been perculating in my small brain. As the supportive wife behind the "Graduate of the Last Decade," the one who bore his four children (one of the twins was breach, btw) and who supported him financially through law school, I am putting myself forth as a candidate for next year's G.O.L.D. award. I feel strongly about this. If I am not selected to be the G.O.L.D. recipient for the class of 2000, there is going to a huge fallout. It could get ugly. I might do something unspeakable if not selected... like write about it on my blog. So watch out, people. Watch out.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
A Great Dad Lives At My House
On Sunday we celebrated both Father's Day and Benjamin's fourth birthday. Now, you may remember that I, as do many other mothers, celebrate Mother's Week. Unfortunately, John only gets one Father's Day and this year, it was overshadowed by Ben's birthday. It is not anyone's (namely my) fault that there is not a Father's Week, it is simply a cultural phenomenon.
I could write pages about why my hubby is one of the world's top-notch dads, but I would hate for anyone to feel resentful or even, God forbid, jealous. I will just say this: every morning, John rouses all of the children (there are four, in case you had lost count) out of bed, gets them dressed and feeds them breakfast just so that I can sleep until 8am. He puts Caleb on the bus and leaves the house dressed in a stiff Brooks Brothers suit while I sit languidly at the table eating my Wegmans Honey Wheels, still in my pajamas.
Sometimes I stay in my pajamas all day. If John gets home and I'm still in my pajamas, he doesn't say anything about it at all. And it's not because I wear sexy pajamas, mind you. My pajamas are generally a lovely combo of my old maternity sweats and one of his t-shirts. You may argue that there is nothing sexier than a woman wearing a holy t-shirt that says "the sports team from my area is superior to the sports team from your area" but I'm sure John would beg to differ.
He does these things not only for me, but also because he works long hours and actually, get this, wants to spend all of the extra time that he can with his kids. Really! Sometimes I have to force him to say goodnight to Caleb and Ben so we can put them to bed at a reasonable hour. He would stay up goofing off with them all night if he could. Is this because he's a wonderful father or because he's just a big kid himself? I'm not entirely sure, actually. Probably a little bit from column a, a little bit from column b.
Regardless, Mr. John Mark Jennings, if there was such a thing as a Happy Father's week, I would wish you it right now. Since there is not, and I reiterate that this is NOT MY FAULT, I will just say thank you. You are an unbelievable dad.
I could write pages about why my hubby is one of the world's top-notch dads, but I would hate for anyone to feel resentful or even, God forbid, jealous. I will just say this: every morning, John rouses all of the children (there are four, in case you had lost count) out of bed, gets them dressed and feeds them breakfast just so that I can sleep until 8am. He puts Caleb on the bus and leaves the house dressed in a stiff Brooks Brothers suit while I sit languidly at the table eating my Wegmans Honey Wheels, still in my pajamas.
Sometimes I stay in my pajamas all day. If John gets home and I'm still in my pajamas, he doesn't say anything about it at all. And it's not because I wear sexy pajamas, mind you. My pajamas are generally a lovely combo of my old maternity sweats and one of his t-shirts. You may argue that there is nothing sexier than a woman wearing a holy t-shirt that says "the sports team from my area is superior to the sports team from your area" but I'm sure John would beg to differ.
He does these things not only for me, but also because he works long hours and actually, get this, wants to spend all of the extra time that he can with his kids. Really! Sometimes I have to force him to say goodnight to Caleb and Ben so we can put them to bed at a reasonable hour. He would stay up goofing off with them all night if he could. Is this because he's a wonderful father or because he's just a big kid himself? I'm not entirely sure, actually. Probably a little bit from column a, a little bit from column b.
Regardless, Mr. John Mark Jennings, if there was such a thing as a Happy Father's week, I would wish you it right now. Since there is not, and I reiterate that this is NOT MY FAULT, I will just say thank you. You are an unbelievable dad.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Oh to be trendy and hip...
Do you like my new blog layout? I've been playing web designer. I can call myself a web designer now because I actually edited html. I did! I went online and learned how to turn a two column layout into a three column layout! AND I learned how to make my own header! I like the girl on my new header, although I can't decide if she's pregnant or is just sticking her stomach out there for the fun of it. I also can't seem to locate her second arm. I'm afraid it might be down her pants. She's a funky chick who is sticking her tummy out with her hand in her pants. OR she's a one-armed pregnant lady. I don't care. She's hip and trendy, and that's totally the image I am going for.
I got a new haircut. It's quite short. I can no longer pull my hair back into a pony-tail. My hair continues to fall out, although not nearly as much. The idea behind the cut was to lessen the gross-out factor by reducing the length of the hairs that come out in droves. (It's disconcerting to see what looks like a bird's nest hovering at the drain when you're done taking a shower.)
I liked my haircut. I thought it was hip and trendy. I got mixed reactions from friends and family. I got tight smiles paired with the words, "it's nice" and big grins paired with "I love it!" The reaction I was most concerned about, of course, was John's. I know he likes my hair long, but he's always been up for a change. When he saw it, he said, "it's cute," so I immediately knew he didn't love it.
His true feelings came out later. I mentioned to him that I had received mixed reactions about my new look. I asked him in a pitiful, whiny voice, "what do you really think? Do you hate it???" To which he responded, "it's cute." Then there was a pause. He said, "I think I know why you received negative feedback about your hair." This statement certainly caught my attention.
"Go on..." I said.
"It's the sort of haircut that women get in their mid-thirties when they just don't care anymore."
"Really."
"You can pull it off, though. It looks cute on you."
The sort of haircut women in their mid-thirties get when they just don't care anymore. His words. Verbatim.
So if you see us in the next couple of weeks and wonder why he seems more like my man-servant than my husband, you will know why.
Oh, and 31 is definitely NOT mid-thirties. Sheesh.
I got a new haircut. It's quite short. I can no longer pull my hair back into a pony-tail. My hair continues to fall out, although not nearly as much. The idea behind the cut was to lessen the gross-out factor by reducing the length of the hairs that come out in droves. (It's disconcerting to see what looks like a bird's nest hovering at the drain when you're done taking a shower.)
I liked my haircut. I thought it was hip and trendy. I got mixed reactions from friends and family. I got tight smiles paired with the words, "it's nice" and big grins paired with "I love it!" The reaction I was most concerned about, of course, was John's. I know he likes my hair long, but he's always been up for a change. When he saw it, he said, "it's cute," so I immediately knew he didn't love it.
His true feelings came out later. I mentioned to him that I had received mixed reactions about my new look. I asked him in a pitiful, whiny voice, "what do you really think? Do you hate it???" To which he responded, "it's cute." Then there was a pause. He said, "I think I know why you received negative feedback about your hair." This statement certainly caught my attention.
"Go on..." I said.
"It's the sort of haircut that women get in their mid-thirties when they just don't care anymore."
"Really."
"You can pull it off, though. It looks cute on you."
The sort of haircut women in their mid-thirties get when they just don't care anymore. His words. Verbatim.
So if you see us in the next couple of weeks and wonder why he seems more like my man-servant than my husband, you will know why.
Oh, and 31 is definitely NOT mid-thirties. Sheesh.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Let go of my Mojo
My little slumdogs. Tell meit doesn't look like she has
slumdog millionaire-girl hair. AND
he's 2! Shouldn't he be done drooling
at this point?
Last night, John and I watched Slumdog Millionaire. I had to trade him a movie in order to get him to watch it with me. Soon I will have to watch No Country for Old Men, a movie based on a novel by Cormac McCarthy, a man whose novels and movies I generally avoid on principle.
Before the opening credits, the 21st Century Fox music filled the room. As it was playing, there was the sudden pitter-patter of little feet up scurrying to the top of the stairs. John immediately knew what was going on. "They think we're watching Star Wars," he said. If you do not think of the Star Wars theme right after you hear the 21st Century Fox music, I'm afraid the force is probably not with you.
We had to explain to Caleb that no, we weren't watching Star Wars without him, that we do not generally wait until he goes to bed to watch Star Wars, and WHY THE HECK WAS HE STILL AWAKE ANYWAYS? He seemed appeased and actually appeared a bit sheepish. He promptly went to sleep.
After the 21st Century Fox music came the Warner Brothers Music, which is really the music to "As Time Goes By." Ella started squacking in her crib because SHE though we were watching Casablanca without her. She has a thing for Humphrey Bogart. I know this because she often babbles "Bogie bogie bogie bogie..."
This weekend, we took our annual treck out to Medina to say hello to the very blue Thomas the Tank Engine. John took the boys on the train ride while I sat with Ella in the van, where she snoozed peacefully. Then the worst thing happened. The horrible thing I hoped would never happen. I locked my baby girl in the car on a muggy, sunshine-filled day.
You know what I learned from that experience? That it is positively frightening how fast the police are able to break into our mini-van. Ella never woke up. The staff from A Day Out at Thomas and the police were so efficient that I didn't even have time to cling to the window of the van and choke out remorseful sobs of woe. It was amazing and I am extremely grateful to them.
After we hobnobbed with Thomas, Sir Topham Hat, and the Medina police department, we ventured off to Rudy's diner in downtown Medina. John ordered a Mojo burger, the diner's specialty. On the wall, the waitstaff has written the names of those who have finished what we thought were five Mojo burgers in a row. Turns out you get your name written on the wall if you finish ONE Mojo burger. You get a t-shirt if you eat five. You don't even have to eat them on the same day! In fact, I think it's illegal in the state of New York to eat more than one in the same day.
The burger came and was quite large. As the waitress approached our table, a hush fell over the diner. "Oooooh... he ordered the Mojo!" we heard people murmur. John felt pressure to finish it, which he did, and I'm hoping he'll wake up from the coma brought on by the pound of beef he ingested within a couple of days.
Daniel also ate a Mojo burger. And a grilled cheese sandwich, a large shake, and some fries. He's a growing boy, you know.
Ben had something else on his mind.
Can you guess it was?
1/2 pure Mojo
Look! John's famous! The circle drawing next to his name is not the Greek symbol Theta, but a depiction of a burger. And I don't know who Mike Boorom is, but I do know one thing.
He's kind of a pig.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
The Day John Planted a Garden
This morning I gave Ben some shorts to put on. He looked at them and said indignantly, "These are baby pants." It has been so long since it has been this warm outside that my little man has forgotten what shorts are.
John took advantage of the lovely weather and started our vegetable garden. Or perhaps I should say his vegetable garden, since he did not buy any of the vegetables I specifically requested, namely peppers. He does not like peppers. They make his insides feel funny.
To be fair, he did all the work today tilling and planting while I came by occasionally and made encouraging comments like, "Hey baby, you and that hoe look hot together!" I don't know anything about gardening. I can't even take care of a houseplant. They wither if I put them in the sun and perish if I keep them in the shade. If successful care of plants was a prerequisite for having children, I would living in a studio apartment in the city with no plants, no children, and no multi-colored goldfish crackers in my cupboards. However, if my clematis had howled when thirsty, I probably wouldn't have forgotten to water it. If I neglect to water Daniel, for instance, he reminds me by screaming and chucking his sippy cup at my head. (His accuracy is frightening.) So it's not really my fault at all that my houseplants have languished under my care; it was their fault for being passive-aggressive.
I'm a bit excited about having fresh cherry tomatoes and swiss chard and green beans to eat straight out of my very own garden. (Even though it lacks peppers, it's really only "John's" garden in theory. Most things we possess are "John's" in theory. The garden, the house, and most everything else are mine, the wife's, because that's the way a good marriage works. Ask any female.)
I have one concern about the garden, and it regards the bunny rabbit that likes to squeeze through our fence and into our yard, though it is a rather plump bunny and I'm not sure HOW exactly it squeezes its girth through our fence. My concern is that it will feel obligated as a bunny to eat our veggies and that John will be tempted to... I can't even write it, it is too horrible to put down.
Did I mention John planted radishes in my garden? It's like he's begging Peter Cottontail to nibble away. Just begging. I can feel a confrontation brewing, and I don't like it one bit.
Ella and Daniel love the bunny, by the way. They stand at the sliding glass door and bounce up and down and squeal just like John does on Christmas morning. So this spring, I hope we can all find a way to live in harmony: me, John, the bunny, and our vegetable plants. I'll keep you updated.
Oh yeah... I changed my font. After all that hemming and hawing- I like the default font "font" because it's a default font and I don't have to actively click on a different font, which suits me because I am by nature an extremely lazy individual.
John took advantage of the lovely weather and started our vegetable garden. Or perhaps I should say his vegetable garden, since he did not buy any of the vegetables I specifically requested, namely peppers. He does not like peppers. They make his insides feel funny.
To be fair, he did all the work today tilling and planting while I came by occasionally and made encouraging comments like, "Hey baby, you and that hoe look hot together!" I don't know anything about gardening. I can't even take care of a houseplant. They wither if I put them in the sun and perish if I keep them in the shade. If successful care of plants was a prerequisite for having children, I would living in a studio apartment in the city with no plants, no children, and no multi-colored goldfish crackers in my cupboards. However, if my clematis had howled when thirsty, I probably wouldn't have forgotten to water it. If I neglect to water Daniel, for instance, he reminds me by screaming and chucking his sippy cup at my head. (His accuracy is frightening.) So it's not really my fault at all that my houseplants have languished under my care; it was their fault for being passive-aggressive.
I'm a bit excited about having fresh cherry tomatoes and swiss chard and green beans to eat straight out of my very own garden. (Even though it lacks peppers, it's really only "John's" garden in theory. Most things we possess are "John's" in theory. The garden, the house, and most everything else are mine, the wife's, because that's the way a good marriage works. Ask any female.)
I have one concern about the garden, and it regards the bunny rabbit that likes to squeeze through our fence and into our yard, though it is a rather plump bunny and I'm not sure HOW exactly it squeezes its girth through our fence. My concern is that it will feel obligated as a bunny to eat our veggies and that John will be tempted to... I can't even write it, it is too horrible to put down.
Did I mention John planted radishes in my garden? It's like he's begging Peter Cottontail to nibble away. Just begging. I can feel a confrontation brewing, and I don't like it one bit.
Ella and Daniel love the bunny, by the way. They stand at the sliding glass door and bounce up and down and squeal just like John does on Christmas morning. So this spring, I hope we can all find a way to live in harmony: me, John, the bunny, and our vegetable plants. I'll keep you updated.
Oh yeah... I changed my font. After all that hemming and hawing- I like the default font "font" because it's a default font and I don't have to actively click on a different font, which suits me because I am by nature an extremely lazy individual.
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