Ready Position.

His daddy was a baseball player. His grandpa was a baseball player. Only made sense that Ben would be the third generation to lace up his cleats.

TBall is a little-known life lesson: Be ready.

These preschoolers spent inning after inning in ready position. But you know what? Ready as they had been positioned, I didn't eyeball one time in a season of Saturday & Sunday morning games that they were ready. Ready for what was coming right at 'em [usually a ground ball rolling in the powdery-fine dirt of the diamond]. And it didn't get them down. They chased down what they were after - and got right back into ready position.

Long story short: you can spend your whole life in ready position, but you can't be assured that you'll be ready for what it throws [or rolls off a tee] your way.

I thought I was ready for T-ball season. But I never expected that lesson to be thrown at me.

The MomStache

okay. my time recently spent in retail may best be described as a career digression. but wow. do i get a bird's eye view of the public. all shapes. sizes. demeanors. sexual preferences. but i digress...

tonight it was literally christmas in july. bizzy. people were declaring independence from a friday of work with a selection of summer reads. some paperback. some porn.

it was tonight i saw what seemed to be a parade of women. with moustaches. God bless the ones that tried out the tried & true sally hansen bleach. or those that just go all madonna au natural [i'd hate to see 'em in a tank top] and maybe a few like me are good at masking those moustaches [it's in my genes, along with these bushy not-quite brooke shields eyebrows] with wax.

but it's time for me to come clean about my momstache. tom tried to make fun of my bushy [not to be confused with republican] upper lip. but i'm not to proud to say it. i shave it. with an electric razor. tom's, at that. wow. what a win-win marriage we have where hygeine is concerned.

so from hair, i mean here, on out - let it be known that the battle with the momstache has been fought, but not necessarily been claimed a victory.

2 Cool.

2. Wow.

Margie,

May every memory be as sweet as this.

Giddyup Class of '88

Tom is older than you all think. His 20 year high school reunion was o'er the weekend. We had fun, we aren't fuddy-duddies. There was keg beer and stories about keg beer parties. Class photos, slideshows & such. And keg beer. And more keg beer.

As the keg beer settles in Tom's tummy he decides to take himself to the dance floor. He rocked it, of course, as the blackest white boy you'll ever see. But during the lone [yuk] country song, "Save a horse, ride a cowboy" [always a crowd pleaser when Bud Light is involved] he decided to drop to the floor on all fours. Um, okay - he's being a horse. He's not that drunk, I assume.

Before I can turn around & walk away [too sober to ride bareback] I see someone take what Tom SO WRONGLY assumed was my place atop the cowboy/horse. And she proceeds to giddyup on my husband for at least 40 beats/measures/whatever. And then I see a half-dozen digital camera flashes go off. And then I go off.

Come to find out, once a high school tramp - always a tramp.

Congrats, class of '88. Helluva party.

The scenery is here. Wish you were beautiful.

I had to post a photo in a rush to update this dusty blog. This one makes me laugh. The kids in their sweet, cheezy, "someone who loves me went to the virgin islands and drank a lot of boat drinks and played a lot of shuffleboard and ate a lot of midnight buffets and all i got was this stupid Tshirt" Tshirts from "Aunt" Linda & "Uncle" Don. Margie's pose might be best left for a still shot in the 1920s. Ben looks like he's in a Kmart ad...

Retro Bloat

Sure. I planned to post something witty and cute about Margie's sassy "spoil your dinner!" cupcake & crossbones birthday party.

But that was before I woke up bloated. And bitter.

Why must a woman nearing [only nearing] her mid-30s be flogged by aunt flo so? I can't believe that the bloat of 1985 is still afloat in my midst. My middle ain't takin' kindly to things that button or zip. I'm finding myself weeping in the closet to Tom and Margie about water retention - and lack of exercize and healthy eating - that has led me to this point. Woe is me. Whoa is my waist.

WTF?

So, for the first time in over 20 years [have I not suffered this whole menstruation charade long enough?] I bit the bullet [no, not the ob kind - although I'm proud to say I bleed green - no applicator is good for the environment] and bought a bottle of Pamprin. It's still available at local pharmacies. Still a horsepill. And, lucky for me, still attempting to keep the bloat at bay.

This ain't the cheeriest post - but it's the hormone-iest.

'night.

Little girl lost

Nope. I'm not talking about Margie in the toy aisle at Target. I'm talking about my own self. I've been MIA [however, unfortunately, not mysteriously at all] for damn near a year. My bad. My bad ass. I've been busy keeping up with life and all its little details. In the meantime, Ben's a year older, Margie too - myself and Tom [he hits the 20yr high school year reunion mark this weekend] and I find myself vowing to find myself starting today.

I'll be back to post my days away - what can I say?!