Nature's toliet, people.

Even though he’s not around, there are subtle reminders of my ex-husband everywhere.

My heather gray NAVY shirt, left over from our days in the military, is wadded up in the corner of one drawer. The family photographs, still in their frames, are stacked neatly in another. His permanently flattened pillow (due possibly to the weight of his giant pig head) still sits on my bed, the least subtle of reminders, resting his head on top of it.

In honor of Mother’s Day, last Thursday, Brae had to share something of mine with his Pre-K class. We settled on a picture of me at his age and he took it to school, sharing it with his classmates, before bringing it back home. Later that day, my mom picked it up from the bar and held it beside his face, studying the differences between us, and declared, “take away the long hair and he’s you.”

There is a point to this story.

Brae’s ENTIRE life, people have held him up as a miniature version of his father. Everyone comments on their likeness, and while I see it (sure, there’s no denying the resemblance, he is his father after all), I fight back an involuntary cringe every time I hear, “Oh! He looks so much like X!” If things had worked out differently, of course I wouldn’t feel the same, but as it is- I hate the comparison.

So even a slight recognition that Brae is starting to favor me (albeit, a biased physical recognition from my mom), was enough to put a smile on my face.

But there is no denying the common traits between the two of them. There are things that Brae will say, or a certain face he’ll make (usually one of disgust), that will stop me in my tracks, because- Yes, that is absolutely his father there. And then he’ll turn around and express his love for Wizard of Oz, or curl his tiny fingers over a piano key, and once again- he’s his mother’s son.

At the beach this past weekend, there was no denying whose influence reigned supreme.

I love the beach. The sand, the sun, the sound of the waves breaking on the shore- all cool with me. I’ll even go so far as to admit the smell of the beach (on less fishy days) is something I enjoy.
I do not like the ocean.

I know, it’s kind of a weird thing, right? You go to the beach and expect to be near the ocean. And I like sitting by the ocean. I like hearing the ocean. I can even tolerate the freezing temperature of May’s Atlantic lapping at my toes. But I don’t swim in it. Ever.

And here is where Brae may as well be wearing a dirty mechanic’s shirt and clutching a pack of Bud Light. Because I do not readily encourage his love of ocean water. That came from….someone else.

He spent almost the entire weekend in the water.







My mother pulled him around on a boogie board for two days. He was knocked off of it more times than I can count, but every time, he stood up, shook off the excess water, and hopped back on. I grinned from the shore and saluted him with one sandy hand.



The rest of my family, relatives who had all stayed in Melbourne Beach with us, tried to persuade me to come in. But I had better things to do.



Like build the most bad ass sandcastle this side of the Atlantic. I even convinced Brae to join in on the salt-waterless fun.



Sadly, no camera was powerful enough to capture the full glory of my sandcastle.



(I'm a little embarrassed by how wimpy it looks here.)

Our whole weekend was a series of dripping wet and drying off, with one glorious nap in between. And on the last day there, a few hours before checking out, Brae raced to my side and pulled me with him towards the water.

"Just your toes, Mama?"

So I waded in, all the way up to my ankles...
and then my thighs....
and held his hand as he jumped over the crashing waves.

I was gritting my teeth as each turd brown wave lapped at my stomach. Unidentifiable floating objects brushed against my leg and Brae laughed hysterically at my side, as I flung seaweed out further into the ocean.

But he was laughing. And right then, having a parent that would share in his love of the sea (and all it's dirty fish pooping inhabitants) was all that mattered*.



And that was good enough for me.









* Except for sand boobs, those matter too.

I hear Mac's are less temperamental.

I promised myself I wasn’t going to do this.

This post was supposed to be happy! A joy to read! A positive pick-you-up-and-slap-you-on-the-ass account of my past weekend at the beach. I had pictures to share, stories to tell, and today I give you NONE of it. All because my alarm clock did not go off this morning.

And without it, I woke up too late to beat the computer into uploading my pictures.

I would write off this morning as a fluke, and try again later tonight, were it not that I’m now entirely convinced that my computer is out to wreck my life. That she’s begun recruiting other appliances to join her rank of rogue electronics who are all hell bent on making my life as miserable as possible. And I have evidence to prove it.

In the past few months the following appliances have turned on me:

1) The dishwasher, who technically quit working around Christmastime, but has been steadfast in its commitment to refusing any treatment. We’ve yet to purchase a new one.
2) The a/c in my nine-year-old car, who decided last month, that blowing COLD air was now optional.
3) My blow-dryer, who coughed and sputtered its way through it’s last performance a week ago.
4) And now my alarm clock, who apparently does not believe I deserve a shower or time to apply mascara before rushing off to work.

And I’m positive that the force behind all this treachery is the bulky, black, dust-ridden, agent of evil that sits atop my parent’s desk. It’s drafted a few other neglected electronics.

And now it’s my turn.

(Okay, seriously? I'm going to try to upload those photos again later tonight. But I'm not kidding about my shitty electronic and appliances luck latley.)

Please don't feed the dinosaurs.

This morning Brae bolted upright in bed and declared that he had a nightmare involving our cousin Ean, a school bus and a very large alligator who was trying to devour them both. I snuggled him close and tried to soothe him back into those last 15 minutes of pre-alarm clock sleep, but was no match for the threat of the restless gator waiting just behind closed eyes. He was AWAKE! and reluctantly I got up as well, climbing into the shower while he sat outside the curtain and waited safely for me.

Sixty seconds till coffee, I cursed his nightmare and the sleep-hating alligator who lurked there. I was quick to stick the pointed finger of blame on Indiana Jones and his dangerous follies, (surely one of those movie's featured a man-eating alligator) but then it hit me.

His nightmare had less to do with Harrison Ford and everything to blame on this past weekends activities.

My cousin Ean turned four recently and to celebrate we went to Dinosaur World.

Living in the land of amusement and perpetual tourism, it was quite a shocker to find a park that we hadn't been to before. But it was Dinosaur World! And for those of you who live close by and read this blog, I'm sure you're smiling. Who could forgot the giant neon-orange Tyrannosaurs Rex who lives beside I-4 year round? Who welcomes weary motorists back to town after their Disney travels with that meager smile that seems to say, "Dude, if you had just come here, you'd be home already!"

In my entire 24 years of life in Florida, I had never visited Dinosaur World.

I came to find out that Dinosaur World is actually, you know, pretty fun.

If you have kids. Of course there's not much you can do with it childless (unless dinosaurs are your thing, Ross Geller.)

Here's the scoop. Dinosaur World is basically a very shaded park with sidewalks that run throughout it. There are picnic tables and a few shelters you can even reserve. There's a kick ass playground and the obligatory obnoxious couple who wander around the park hand and hand. Soda machines and restrooms line the walk and you can almost loose yourself and forget that you're only 20 feet from a large frequently traveled interstate. Birds sing overhead and kamikaze squirrels dart under your sneakered feet while you stroll down the gravel path and OH MY GOD IT'S A FUCKING DINOSAUR, RUN!



Just kidding. The dinosaurs are all caged and well feed. They didn't bother a soul.

Brae had a great time pointing out the dinosaurs and laughing as I struggled to read their ridiculous names off the plates in front of them. He was hanging with two of his best buddies, Ean and Ryan, and the three of them ran loops around the adults who where desperately trying to contain them, scouring the park for the treacherous T-Rex. The birthday party package included a fossil dig where the children each sifted sand in an attempt to locate prehistoric bones and teeth. This was a big hit with the kids as it combined their love of getting filthy with the pride of discovering something they did not believe was planted there 30 minutes earlier by a half-baked park employee.



There was even more sand in The Boneyard, an enclosed sandbox that contained the remains of a triceratops just waiting to be discovered. The kids had some of the best of times in here as I cringed with every ounce of sand flung into the air. If the ball pits at McDonald's are bad, I can't bear the thought of what treasures were hiding just beneath the surface of that lovely dune.



While making our second round through the park we ran into my ex-husband, which was quite the surprise. His reaction to seeing us was a little less than pleasant, but I should really just be grateful he's found some work again.



I mean, it's not like employers are just knocking down his door with a face like that. Sharp teeth. Wow.

A few minutes later I ran into some of his friends. Two years later and they're still making my stomach turn, wouldn't you know.



We wandered through the park for hours, pausing to eat lunch and feed the koi fish, sing Happy Birthday and open presents. I took an insane amount of pictures that forced a half-plastic smile on my son's face and a shoulder that suddenly became glued to his ear.





The birthday party was a big hit and I definitely recommend that if you live in the area and have kids (or Ross Geller) you go check it out.

You never know, you may even have a chance to spot the elusive Nonapacrankipuss.

Little Indy

I’m not sure how Brae’s recent infatuation with this little guy developed.

In fact, I’m pretty certain that when The Crystal Skull was released on DVD, I had to beg him to just SIT STILL for a few hours so that we could be disappointed watch it together. At the time, he was completely uninterested in any movie in which the characters were not at least partially animated. And I’ll confess, The Crystal Skull was not exactly the best choice to try and build that bridge over to the land of real actors, but regardless- he wasn’t into it.

As opposed to now, when it’s THE ONLY REASON HE EXISTS ON THIS PLANET.

So what’s changed? Nothing as far as I can tell, but from the moment he spotted the Indiana Jones Legos at Target, he HAD to have them. And then he HAD to come home and watch Raiders of the Lost Ark. And then The Temple of Doom. And then that one with River Phoenix and even more Nazis’. He even took on the underachieving Crystal Skull again.

I’m slightly embarrassed to admit that I allowed him to A: watch Indiana Jones in all his pistol-whipping-throat-punching-just-generally-violent- glory and B: Spread these movies out over the course of only two days, watching them back-to-back and pausing only to eat and sleep. I’m not sure which makes me worse of a parent, but there it is. He’s obsessed.

And wouldn’t you know, again I am encouraging his new obsession.

Because anything is better than monster trucks.

I'll also be dispensing hugs today

I had planned to write a post today about how all the appliances in my life are conspiring against me, but then I realized something: today is actually shaping up to be an okay day. And days like today need some form of acknowledgment. So hats off to you, Wednesday. You do me well.

Things to feel good about today:

1. Schoolwork (almost) complete. With the exception of one short story that needs to be revised and turned in tonight, I am finished with ALL of my writing classes. And now have nothing to look forward to. Great.

2. Wait a second, I DO have time now to do all the research for which graduate programs I‘ll be applying to. This is good. My original choices have somehow fallen off the grid, which means I need to do some serious digging over the next few months before making any final decisions. And then harassing people for letters of recommendation. Watch out.

3. I’m back at work full-time which means my paycheck will once again be more than the price of a dinner at Taco Bell.

4. Speaking of food- the combination sun-dried tomato and sour cream and onion whole wheat bagel I had for breakfast this morning.

5. My tan. Which if you’ve seen me in the cooler months; you’ll know why this made the list.

6. That I made it through the entire Kindergarten open house last night without crying in public. (I should stress that last part since the moment we arrived home I started weeping and felt slightly ridiculous. Rites of passage: I cry for thee.)

7. And last but not least- the poster in the health clinic’s examination room that reminded me once again that jumping around after sex does not prevent pregnancy. And I’m not a damn kangaroo.

I always have such a hard time with the second part of that last one.

\

If it makes you feel better, I'll be losing a lot of sleep too.

I'll go ahead and apologize now because posting is going to be light over the next few weeks as this semester's classes are winding down. As much as I'm looking forward to having my free time back, I'm feeling a little sad at the thought of leaving classes (yet again). I love the college atmosphere, the relaxed and breezy all-in-the-name-of-education attitude that spikes the Kool-Aid 'round here. And it's not just because I'm lazy and like the excuse.

Though I did enjoy working part time. A LOT. I'm really going to miss that.

This past year has been challenging. The writing program at the University of South Florida is no joke. I've produced a lot of material over the year that I'm really into and feel like I've made some significant progress in my work. I'm now looking forward to the painstaking process of filling out graduate school applications and watching my son enter kindergarten in the fall.

And maybe even moving out of my mother's home at the end of summer. Who knows? Lets go crazy!

I'm happy now. Happier now than I would have thought a year ago. And things are okay.

That's a little sappy, I know. If I had a good fart joke I'd insert it here.

Brae's now playing T-ball and had his first game last Saturday. I'd like to point out that while he just barely managed to hit the ball, he was able to engage the female 2nd baseman in a lengthy conversation, thereby diverting her attention from the game. He's a slick one, that little fox.

The Pigeon Books

Mo Willems is the author and illustrator of my current favorite children's series of books- the pigeon books. Brae and I read one of the pigeon books almost every night. His current favorite, and newest addition to our growing collection: The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog, has been on repeat for the past several weeks. This would normally bug me, as I like to vary the books we read before bed, but because these books are short and funny, I gladly welcome them into our nighttime routine.

Willems is a former writer for Sesame Street as well a comedian. His humor is wonderfully appropriate for those who have yet to master wiping their own butt as well as those who are skilled in it. In other words, you don't have to be a kid to appreciate the pigeon's witty dialogue and humorous illustrations.

Also, these stories have a charming interactive element. The pigeon speaks directly to the reader, trying to convince them to allow him to do something he should not. Of course, the correct answer to most of the pigeon's questions is "No", something I'm sure most kids would say when asked a question such as, "Hey, can I drive the bus?"

Only my son would shrug at this question, smile and reply, "Sure. Why not? Could be fun."

Uh oh.
Someones getting home schooled.

Dead as a Doornail by Charlaine Harris

rating: 2 of 5 stars

Oh, Sookie. I just don't know anymore girl.....

It could be your horrific eighties wardrobe or that damsel in distress attitude you carry so well. It could be the fact that EVERY man you become involved with is some special half-breed of human (or dead altogether), but something has me a little less than enthused about you and your supernatural follies this time around.

I went right into reading Dead as a Doornail, the 5th book in the Sookie Stackhouse installment, after completing the last one. I was starting to really get into it- the previous book had hooked me and incredibly enough, I was into the whole witches/shifter/vampires/ fairies (yes, fairies) thing.

But then I finished this one and had to take a break.

Reading some of the other reviews on Goodreads, I can see that I’m not alone on this. I wouldn’t say the book was awful, or that it deviated much from those before it, but for some reason, I just couldn’t wait to get through it and move on.

I was disappointed by the lack of plot. The story centers around a sniper who is targeting shifters in Bon Temps. The mystery is slightly intriguing, although I didn’t feel like there was enough of a developed sub-plot to help tow it along. Jason, Sookie’s brother, is one of my least favorite characters and also one of the main characters in this book. Of course, there is the classic twist at the end, but this one was definitely more predictable than previous conclusions.

Honestly, that could be one of the main reasons I was less enchanted by this one.

I’ll keep reading the series regardless. I don’t like to give up on a series. I’d rather wait till the end and be completely let down.

(I’m not there yet Sookie! Change! Evolve! DO SOMETHING)

If you're reading this series now, let me know what you think.

View all my reviews.

I question those who wear animal ears regardless.

With each passing day, I'm becoming more aware of just how much of a curmudgeon I really am.

And while my birth certificate may try to point out that I'm only twenty-five, my actions suggest that inside this young exterior, lies an irate geriatric soul. Like there's some pissed-off ninety-year-old woman lurking inside of me, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to jump out and cane you to death.

I'd like to think that if she were a real person she'd be named Bev and look like Estelle Getty.

"Fucking kids!" Bev screams, when I'm cut off in traffic by a Volkswagen Beetle whose stereo is pumping out Britney Spears’ Circus.

Bev trips unwieldy children who run through restaurants and stores without their parents.

She spits gum in the hair of people who have cut her in line and revs her engine when the person in front of her at the toll booth takes more than 5 seconds to count out their change.

She's a smart ass to people who are rude to her for no reason and throws half-sucked Sour Patch Kids at the chatty teenagers in movie theatres.

Bev's really kind of a bitch.

And I don't know how to silence her.

Monday was my brother's 20th birthday.

Disney's current promotion for Florida residents is a free ticket on your birthday. The catch: you have to go, like, ON your actual birthday. Not get the ticket and save it for a far more convenient day, like the weekend. But show up at 9 am on a rainy Monday morning when you should be at work.

But you know, free is free and Mickey Mouse is like a 4-year-old's crack. So the family went.

Stepping into the gates at Hollywood Studios, I was reminded of how much I HATE Disney crowds. I guess being a Florida native; I am less prone to the shock and awe of the whole experience. Whatever, though, I get it. It's a bit overwhelming and HOLY SHIT ITS CASEY THE POWER RANGER! Grab the camera Mom!



It was slightly sprinkling as we arrived; the black clouds leering from above were threatening to open up on us all. In a way though, we were fortunate. If you know Florida weather in March, we like to dip down into the 7th circle of Hell right about lunchtime, so the clouds, though menacing, were a nice reprieve.

Plus, do you really want to know what the armpits of 50 different countries smell like?

I didn't think so.



Brae is reaching the age (and height) where he can start riding some of the bigger rides. Like the Tower of Terror- a ride he entered enthusiastically and left a little...um, LESS than enthusiastically....

Ok, so he kinda hated it. And I kinda laughed. Because, even though he was warned about the drop- his face screwed up in the most fantastic combination of horror and shock I've ever seen. It was like his brain was bouncing back and forth.

FUN/HORRIBLE
GREAT/TORTURE
THRILLS/CHILLS
YAY!/OH MY GOD, SHE'S TRYING TO KILL ME!

In the end, his inner Bev won out and he declared that "NO. I DID NOT LIKE THAT RIDE AT ALL!” Which was too bad I think.

I’ve never enjoyed that ride more!



Apparently the “hot” ride at Hollywood Studios right now is the new Toy Story ride. We were over there fairly early to get a fast pass (you know- the butt-everyone-waiting-in-line-because-you-were-careful-and-planned-ahead-pass) and they were gone. Like, really GONE. Out for the entire day. And it was only 11 am.

So we waited- checking back intermittently throughout the day to see if the wait had decreased. But it remained a steady 2 hours. I was convinced we wouldn’t be able to ride it and was kind of bummed. Sure I wanted to see Beauty and the Beast. The Great Movie Ride was fun and the fake Indiana Jones was still hot. I had a park full of memories and reminiscing- but I wanted the new.

I had done fairly well containing myself throughout the day. No child was tripped and I refrained from walking through the park with my arms held out at my sides (I just don’t like my personal space invaded, okay?).

And then some bitch in Tigger ears stepped in front of me at the Muppets 3-D.



I was walking, holding Brae’s hand as he trailed behind me. The rush through the doors had just begun—you know that rush, the stampede of eager participants that happen once the doors are finally opened and you can sit down. Like everyone is terrified they won’t get a seat even though that goofy-looking kid standing at the door with the clicker in his hand had tracked every single person who shuffled through. You’re gonna get a seat, idiot.

We were at the entrance to a row of seats in the theater, our 3-D glasses already positioned on our face, when Tigger woman jumped in front of me. I didn’t see her coming and was sideswiped by her presence. She cast a quick look back at me and stopped, causing me to almost bounce off her stalled ass. My Bev flared up.

“Um, excuse me?” I said

“Yeh, if you could just hang on. C’mon over here, Daisy*, Boomer*. This way! C’mon ya’ll I got us some seats!

I looked back at my mother who was standing behind Brae.

“She’s not serious, right? Really? REALLY? SHE’S GOING TO CUT IN FRONT OF ALL OF US AND THEN INVITE HER FAMILY TO JOIN?!”

Just then a parade of ears pushed passed me, squeezing Brae and I into the back of the seats in front of us.

We walked down the aisle and of course I ended up in the seat beside her. I looked to my mom and sighed loudly, “I don’t get it. How is it that Disney attracts all these RUDE people. Do they recruit for them or something?”

Mom shook her head and laughed. Familiar with my passive aggressive tendencies, she said, “and you get to sit next to her,” just loud enough for Tigger Woman to hear.

Yeah, lucky me.

When really she's the lucky one-lucky I didn’t have any Sour Patch Kids.



The rest of the day was fairly uncomplicated. We decided that standing in line for Toy Story was necessary one hour before the park closed and HOO BOY! That ride is every bit as fun as it shouldn’t be for a 25-year-old.

In fact, I think I even heard Bev squeal.


*Der, I totally don’t remember what names she called her little human kittens. I do remember that I laid a curse on each and every one of them as they walked by me though.

Eleven on Top by Janet Evanovich

My review

rating: 2 of 5 stars

*NO Spoliers*

I've taken to listening to audio books in the car- my Lincoln library on wheels.

I know that this probably elevates me from the semi-dorkish category to a full blown NERD ALERT! But I don't care. I'm comfortable enough in my geekality to totally embrace this new habit. Brae supports it as well. He sits in the back seat, totally absorbed in the story and for this reason; I have to be careful what I listen to.

Take for example this book I just finished.

Eleven on Top is the 11th (shocking, I know) Stephanie Plum novel by Janet Evanovich.

The main character, Stephanie Plum, is a single, sweet and attractive bounty hunter who finds herself entangled in awkward and often dangerous situations as she attempts to crack the current case.

I've already read several of the Stephanie Plum novels.

No.

Wait.

I've listened to several of the Stephanie Plum novels before and enjoyed them all. They are the perfect audio book. Interesting enough to keep you focused, yet basic enough that you can detach yourself from the story long enough to lean out your window and flip off that idiot who just pulled out in front of you.

Stephanie's kind of a hapless character. She's always involved in some mess or another and is often the target of some maniac’s revenge. But she never loses her cool, always bounding back from whatever current crisis she finds herself in with a smile. For Stephanie, the saying "roll with the punches" is actually, quite accurate, seeing as how she's often banged up one way or another.

In this novel, Stephanie tries to give up the bounty hunter life and quits her job working for her uncle's bail bonds shop. She attempts to find employment elsewhere and discovers that although she can escape the official title of "bounty hunter", it's not as easy to shed the lifestyle. Or the maniacs attempting to blow you up.

My favorite character in this series is Lula- an obese, spandex-loving, ex-prostitute. As Stephanie's former sidekick, she's promoted to a bounty hunter when Stephanie leaves. The sub-plot in this novel is quite hilarious, with Lula attempting to take down a former pro ball player who outwits her every time.

Lula's funny one-liners, coupled with Evanovich's descriptions of her- make Lula a character whom you’d love to actually be friends with.

But, you know, Lula likes the F-word.

Which is why I've had to ban her from the car on the ride home from daycare.

View all my reviews.

Closetmaid, you're my hero

This summer it'll be two years since the night I packed up my Mr. Coffee, dumped my dresser into giant garbage bags and strapped Brae into his car seat, locking up my former house for the last time.

I'd just left my husband, Brae was about to celebrate his 3rd birthday and in less than the 24 hours it took me to pack, I had become a single mom.

We moved into my old bedroom at my parents house, the same bedroom that I had slept in since 6th grade. I have a full bedroom set, complete with a queen-sized bed, that we were able to somehow manipulate into the small space, and I set up Brae's toddler bed beside mine (under the silly impression that he would actually sleep in it).

Time passed. I went back to school. The toddler bed was disassembled. My brother moved to Spain. Pictures were hung on our walls. My father moved to California. Shelves were put up too. My brother returned from Spain. Braeden grew.

And two years later- we're still here. Still crammed into my childhood room and space is an issue. I feel guilty sometimes. I've appropriated our living room into a play room- Speedracer tracks, train tables, Hulk hands, Playdough carts and big ass play tents all live here. I've removed so much of Brae from our communal room, that sometimes I feel like maybe it's a bit unfair.

And then I remember that I'm bigger than him.

Hooray rationale!

Remarkably enough, one thing that I'm pretty liberal in sharing is my our closet. Half of the closet is home to Oshkosh and 4T Levi's. The other half holds my work apparel, or really anything that is attractive enough to be seen outside the house in.

Not like the Size XL cotton promotional shirt I am wearing as I type this. This baby comes from the dregs of the dresser. It works well when you're not in the mood for pants. Oh, yeh.

Even as Sally Sharenice, I struggle with the closet space. It's obvious we both need to use it. Only finding a way that we could use it without having to dive into it every morning, was proving to be quite difficult. I decided to do the massive closet cleanout- weeding out the older clothes and dumping them into garbage bags bound for the donation center. It helped A LOT. Suddenly there was space. Room to breathe. And holy shit you could see THE BACK OF THE CLOSET. Amazing!

But we had a shoe problem. Originally, I thought this could be solved with a simple over-the-door organizer. We bought this one from Target and I hung it up as soon as we got home. But then I noticed something.

You couldn't close the door.

Well actually you could close the door, it just required standing on your toes and pressing in the metal tabs that rested on top of the door while you pulled the door close. Not so bad, I thought. Annoying, yes. But I can live with annoying. Hell, I already have!

And then I opened the door.

Have you ever heard those birds whose shrieks sound just like someone being hacked to death with a rusty axe? And you're kinda terrified for a moment, wondering if you should call 911 before you realize that the shrieks are actually coming from the tree over your head?

Imagine that with the volume cranked up to an eleven. I've been living with this horror for several weeks now.

"Take it off!" Mom shouts.

"I can't just take it off. I can finally see my shoes and I can't turn back now. It's clean!"

"But the noise!"

Yes, the noise.

Over the weekend I went in search for another solution. You wouldn't think it would take me so long to get back to Target, but it did, and lucky for me, I was able to find something else I thought could work.

No metal death-screaming hooks over the door, I thought as I surveyed the packaging. That was good enough for me. So I bought it.


So far, so good. Though it seems that I need one more already. And even with a second one, there will still be shoes strewn about the closet floor.

I think I can be okay with this too. After all, I can't pack up all the shoes and move them into the living room/playroom.

I've already tried.

Maybe brains, but certainly not brawn

Lately we've been spending our evenings playing racquetball at the neighborhood courts. I'm using the term "playing" loosely here. Because I'm not quite sure if we fall into the "players" category yet. I'm more inclined to stick us somewhere in the "slightly better than your drunk cousin Junior whose missing a shoe and is also blind" category.

Yes, we are THAT GOOD.

Okay, so our family has NEVER been known for any remarkable athletic talent. As kids, my brother and I dabbled in most sports. There were Saturday morning soccer/baseball/softball/football games. Swimming competitions and karate tournaments. We were always involved in some type of athletic endeavor, often lasting only one season before moving on to the next one. My parents made us commit to finishing out the season, but never pushed us one way or another. They were the athletic equivalent of Switzerland.

So it's not totally shocking to learn that I have absolutely no coordination or athletic savvy. And apparently neither does my mom.

And now I know who to blame.

Brae sits behind us, slightly off the court, and retrieves our balls whenever they go out of bounds or over the wall. He's up-down-up-down-up-down every 5 seconds and laughing at us the entire time. He's favorite is when we hit the balls over the wall into another court that is occupied and the ball is magically returned over the wall.

"It's the spirits," I tell him. "So you better watch it, or they'll send you flying over that wall too."

Yesterday we were playing our normal sucky game when we had a few good hits and returns. For a solid minute we were able to keep the ball in play. Brae was jumping up and down, antsy that he wasn't needed, and shouted out, "Go mamma, it's your birthday, shake your booty, like Sha nay nay."

I turned to look at him and started laughing. He was dancing behind us, certainly shaking his booty like Sha nay nay.

"Go!" He commanded, "shake it!"

So we shook it. Right there on the racquetball court.

We suck at racquetball. Granted, we've only been at it a few weeks, but I can't see us improving much beyond where we're at now. We're not going to be good at it and we don't have the dedication to work at becoming good. By the time we start to improve, we'll have lost the interest in it, moving on to something different.

But we can laugh while playing. And we can entertain a 4-year-old who loves nothing more than to have a good time.

Later that night, as I was tucking him into bed, Brae asked, "Momma, whats a Shay nay nay?"

And it occurred to me.

I have no fucking clue.

(and I can't find it/her/him/them on Google either)

But I bet he/she/they sucked at racquetball as well. Or at least this is what I will tell myself.

originally uploaded by See_Kirby.