FunnyBlog

The Rolling Thunder

This skyline means trouble

There is a hymn that I really enjoy, How Great Thou Art. I am truly grateful that I can now say that I know what is being talked about in this hymn when it states, “I hear the rolling thunder”.

Being a western girl, I never knew what I was missing out on. The best storm that I ever heard before moving to Tennessee was at the beginning of Garth Brook’s The Thunder Rolls track.

When I first moved to Tennessee, we had a brief stay at LG’s deceased grandmother’s empty home. She had died the year previous and it became a very nice stopover for us while we looked for a home to buy. Grandma’s house was two doors down from my in-laws and this too was nice for me since LG was living 90 miles away while attending law school.

The house was a three bedroom rambler and comfortable. It always felt a little empty until LeGrand came home on the weekends. One night, I startled him out of his sleep. I guess I was totally disoriented when I shook him and said, “LeGrand, LeGrand, someone is upstairs. What is that noise? Do you hear it? You have to go and check on it.” Remember Grandma’s house was a rambler: it didn’t have an upstairs.

LG rolled over and said, “Alice, there isn’t anyone upstairs, go back to sleep, it is just the thunder.”

Sisterhood

Sisters (left to right) Shannon, Alice, Sarah, Renee

This is a picture that was taken in 1992 of my sisters and I. Do you know that we all have the same middle name: Elaine? Yeah, my parents figured since they were going to have so many kids that they would keep it simple. Well, Elaine is a good name, but I took on my maiden as my middle when I got married. After all those years of competing with my sisters, I was ready to be an original.

Sisters are the BEST. I know I could call my sisters for anything and they would drop whatever to come to my rescue. Brothers, on the other hand, I am not so sure about.

Well, there was a time in my life when I was VERY angry with my sister Shannon. (Now, Shannon, stop reading, I don’t want you to relive your agony) My brother-in-law told this story last year and it left my sister in tears. It’s 20 years later and she still feels bad. I told her that I forgave her a long time ago and that she has done so many good things for me over the years that this one bad thing really means nothing. But, it is a great story to tell…

Shannon and I always gave my parents grief when it was bedtime. (What kid doesn’t?) When I was about 9 and Shannon was about 10, our room was the last at the end of the very long hallway that I talked about in The Home of the Free and Holes(3/2). We could always hear my dad coming because the keys in his pocket would jingle around when he walked. So, we always felt relatively safe that we could quiet up before he got too close.

Well, this one particular night, my dad was fed up. He had already had to make that very long walk down the hall twice and we still were “monkeying” around instead of going to sleep. My dad had warned us that if he had to come to our room one more time, someone would get spanked with his belt. (This was a HUGE threat, my dad never used a belt) We never thought that he would go through with it, nonetheless, I was afraid and getting tired and so I kept trying to tell Shannon to go to sleep.

I had gotten Shannon so riled up that she didn’t want to sleep and she kept trying to play. She jumped over to my bed and was sitting on top of me trying to wrestle, when we heard my dad coming down the hall. I was petrified and started saying,”It’s Shannon’s fault. She did it.” Well, Shannon was the angel of the family (especially when you compared her to me) But, right at the moment that it counted the most, she made one very CRUEL decision. She grabbed me, got underneath me, and held me on top of her. She started screaming repeatedly, “Alice, get off of me.”

I tried to scream that she was lying, but most everyone in my family had learned to tune me out. My dad was so LIVID by this point that all he wanted to do was follow through with his threat. My dad must not have noticed that Shannon was acutally in my bed. He grabbed me, marched me down the hall, made me watch him get his belt, and I got it good. Let me tell you, getting beat with a belt is not fun. It hurt. It hurt as bad, if not worse than giving birth with an epideral. He only spanked me once, but I felt like I was getting beat. Not only had my sister, my best friend, betrayed me, but my Dad didn’t believe me when I was telling the truth.

I went to bed sobbing and heart-broken. Shannon was forced to sit and listen in all her guilt. She had gotten back into her bed by this point. By the morning, it didn’t matter anymore, but I learned a very good lesson about Sisterhood that night: When I figure out what it is, I will let you know.

Poor Bambi

The Classic: Bambi

On Monday, I took the kids to Sam’s Club. I ever so slyly put the newly released Bambi in the bottom of the buggy (that is what they call a shopping cart in TN). I even turned it upside down, so that if the kids did see it, tbey wouldn’t know what it was. (I wanted to give it to them for Easter from the Easter Bunny)

I succeeded at hiding it from them for about 15 minutes. As soon as we stopped at the snack bar, it was over. Abigail, caught eye of it, picked it up, and announced to her sisters: “Look you guys, mom is getting us Bambi.”

About an hour later, after I had managed to put several other things in the buggy too (including Abigail and Sophia), I started to feel guilty about the money I was going to spend. I put several things back, including Bambi. The girls were sorely diasappointed, but I told them that we would come back and get it when dad was with us.

As we were going to check out, Abigail and Sophia glued themselves to the TV monitor that was playing Bambi. (Aren’t those Sam’s Club people smart?) It was at this point that all of my guilt subsided. (I knew that I would have to buy Bambi, if I ever wanted to get out of the store) I told Abigail to get Bambi off the shelf again, and after the girls cheered for a second or two, we were off.

Buying a new movie is HEAVEN to a mother. When we got home, the baby went down for a nap and Abigail and Sophia proceeded to glue themselves to our TV. I was able to get some cleaning and other household duties accomplished without any interruption.

Well, later, as we sat down for dinner, I asked Sophia what she thought about the movie. I fully expected some kind of reaction. I was totally traumatized by the show when I was little and Sophia is my most sensitive child. I was totally taken off guard when I heard her response.

Sophia said,”I like Bambi.” I happily said,”Good, what was your favorite part?” I thought that she would say Thumper or Flower the Skunk. No, this is what my twisted child said,”My favorite part was when Bambi’s mom died.” What in the world?!?! In a worried tone, hoping that she could redeem herself somehow, I asked her frantically, “Why was that your favorite part?” She said,”I just like it because I don’t want Bambi to have a mom.”

Who knows? Maybe my-three-year old was going for the reaction or maybe she needs some serious therapy. Maybe Sophia should grow up to be a hunter and join the Bambi Killers Club. I could only conclude one thing from the conversation, Disney has a conspiracy against mothers. First, they force us into buying their movies with their very skilled marketing. Second, mothers are allowed a false sense of relief when the kids happily sit and watch a Disney movie for hours on end. Then they pump anti-mother doctrine into our kids…think about it:

Disney killed Bambi’s mom. Cinderella’s step-mom is EVIL, and who knows what happened to her real mom. Belle doesn’t have a mom. Mulan wants to be like her dad. The only conversations between Ariel and her parents were with her dad. Sleeping Beauty’s mother poisons her with an apple. Tarzan’s mom got eaten by a tiger. Nemo’s mom…. well, you get the picture. Poor Bambi. Poor Mother of Bambi!!

Man in Uniform

My favorite D.A.R.E. Officer

There is something about a man in a uniform. The uniform seems to have magical powers that make any girl go weak in the knees. That is unless the uniform is a bit too tight.

This is Officer Kowalski. He was on the Carlsbad City Police Force back in 1991. For all I know, he could still be there. I am sure that if anyone there gets a hold of this entry, life could get a little interesting for him.

When I was a Senior in High School I had a MASSIVE crush on this favorite local Mr. Friendly. The picture above is from the morning of my graduation. I am sure I was thinking how bummed I would be because I wouldn’t see him any more. The summer after graduation, I used to drive crazy on purpose hoping that I would be pulled over by Officer K, so that he would finally have an opportunity to profess his undying love for me.

Well, there is a funny story about Officer Kowalski and it goes something like this. One day, I was in Health Class and my teacher asked me to help Officer Kowalski carry some things in from his patrol car. He had boxes of drug paraphernalia that he needed for the presentation that he was to give our class.

He walked ahead of me on the way out to the car and I watched his backside the whole way. He was so fine! He popped the trunk and bent over to get one of the two boxes out. I stood back and watched only to have one very delightful surprise…..his back seam split right open. The noise was something like this: RIIIIIIPPPPPP. Now, a lady would have kept her hysteria to herself…I guess I am not a lady. I laughed hard out LOUD.

Now, remember the poor guy was responsible to give my class a presentation for the next 30 minutes. He turned and handed me the box, and said,”What is so funny?” I was startled that he was trying to play it off. I said,”Nothin.”

We walked back into the classroom and he strategically kept his backside to the outside walls. I was forced to try and keep a straight face during his whole presentation. I wasn’t always successful. I am sure everyone else was thinking what in the world is so funny about marijauna and drug needles. For all I know, they thought that I was a drugee.

Officer Kowalski, on the other hand, knew exactly what was so funny.

Alice

An adult female louse

I hated my name while growing up. I was always the only ALICE, among many Alissons and Ali’s. I was called Allison more often than I was Alice. I had serious conversations with my parents about legally changing my name, but I never did.

I have now grown to love my name. My campaign theme, “Alice in Lancerland”, won me the title of Sophomore Class President. Alice is a good classic name and I guess my parents were wise in their choosing. Even if I was the only child who bore the name of a Sr. Citizen, it is o.k. now. I grew into my name somewhere between 25 and 30.

As you can see from my previous post, Cialis, my name tends to get me into trouble.

One of the most memborable examples was the 4th grade. My sister and I made some new friends down the street and were reluctantly allowed to spend the night. We took home with us some new teeny friends….headlice.

Well, when I was in elementary school, about every 6 months, the school nurse would come into the classroom and perform a mass screening. You know, the nurse would come in with her gloves on, holding her stash of long Q-tips, and each of us would get a chance to sit in her special chair and have her pick through our hair like a chimpanzee.

To my complete humiliation, I was called out 30 minutes after the screening was through. EVERYONE knew exactly why. I was the kid with the headlice. When I got up to the school office, I was totally relieved to see my sister got sent out too.

Well, my sister had fine slick hair, and getting rid of her lice was easy. When we went back to the office the next morning for our readmittance test, she passed with flying colors. I, on the other hand, with my course, thick, long hair, was sent home again. This happened the next day also. Finally after 15 bottles of RID, and a really short hair cut, I was allowed to come back to school.

You may wonder how this has anything to do with my name…..well, here is the sob story. Really, it is going to break your heart. Oh, by the way, the Harvard School of Medicine calls these mass screenings totally unacceptable. (I suspect one of their doctors had as much of a traumatizing experience as me. – although, I don’t know who could top mine)

Man, my head is itching right now, just thinking about it. So, you would think that I was redeemed when I went back to school, right. NO WAY! The kids were terrified of me. They wanted nothing to do with me and my head cooties. For the rest of the school year, whenever I was privileged enough to be addressed….I was affectionately known as “A – lice”. How quaint.

Oh, and if you don’t think that stereotyping happens in the classroom. You are dead wrong. My teacher, Mrs. Steadleman treated me like the TRASHIEST kid. Even though I was very bright, my report cards always reflected the detest that she had for me. The only thing I could figure is that she was terrified by headlice, just like the rest of the kids in my class.

Cialis

For erectile disfunction….Cialis!?!?!?

A while back LG and I were watching TV. We had tuned out during the commercials. All of the sudden we hear, “For erectile dysfunction, See Alice.”

Come to find out it was really “Cialis“, the new viagra. We weren’t sure who should be more offended, ME or LG!

Loads and loads

Say Downy!

You can’t tell from this picture, but here lies at least eight loads of clean laundry that I have to fold today. I don’t want to admit it, and I am sure that I will get some kind of mean comment for even posting this, but this is a common occurence around here. This is the result of being too busy to actually tackle the laundry correctly, and I am a freak about keeping it all clean.

Now, unless you have three young children or more, you have NO idea about the huge vastness of laundry that I face on a constant basis. I feel like I am accomplishing something by just keeping it all clean, and it at least gets folded and put away on a weekly basis. (Usually, AFTER the kids go to bed so that they won’t sabotage my folding by undoing it all when they jump on it…..as shown above)

When I was a teenager, whenever my friends would be at my house waiting on me to get ready, they all knew that a “SOCK HUNT” was inevitable. My friend, Kristen, named the ritual. The ritual was this: go out to the garage, wade through the mound of clothes on the garage floor (usually at least 20 loads of laundry) and try to come up with two matching socks that Alice could actually wear.(The socks came in all shapes and sizes in this pile because every family member’s laundry ended up in the same place…on the garage floor) This ritual could take anywhere from 2 minutes to 30 minutes. You can’t even imagine the high that we would get when one of us would find two matching socks in a close vicinity.

My mom just could not keep up, and I understand, she had the same mentalilty as I have adopted… at least it is clean. My dad would get so frustrated at times, especially when our piece of junk washer was broke again. He would take 2 or 3 of us kids to the laundromat for a five hour task. We would fill the back of the station wagon FULL of anything that needed laundering in the house. We children would have the joy of, on the way, trying to find a place to sit among the stinky laundry. We then would get to unload it all at the mat, sort it, and fill every available washer and dryer. This may not sound like fun, but we LOVED it. We would get some treats from the vending machine, and feeding those quarters made us feel like we were at the arcade.

The best part of going to the laundramat was knowing that when we got home, everyone would be forced to finish ALL of the folding. Then for a brief hiatus we each could get socks out of our drawers instead of going to the garage floor for a “sock hunt”.

Goodbye

Good news….you have the advantage over the telemarketer

One of the joys of having a husband in law school is screening all of his calls from loan consolidation firms. Because he is rarely home, they are unlikely to ever get a hold of LG here, but it doesn’t stop them from trying.

After a semester of an average of three calls a day, I got fed up. These people just were not getting the clue. They would ask me,”When is the better time to get a hold of him?” I would tell them, “Never, he is NEVER home.” I always suggested that they give me their number and that I would have him call them back. They would always end up hanging up on me and calling ME back again a little later. UGh! They had the resiliance of a dandelion.

So, I came up with an ingenious plan. Whenever a telemarketer would call and ask for LeGrand Gold, I would say, “This is him.” Now, I do have a low voice, but it isn’t THAT low. They would always say, “Excuse me.” I would say with the upmost confidence, “This is LeGrand.” Then, the telemarketer would stumble into their spiel. I would then gladly cut them off, tell them that I wasn’t interested, and kindly instruct them to take us off their calling list.

One time this guy called and he had the nerve to say, “You have to be kidding; You are not a man.” Oh, this made me REALLY mad! How dare he say that I have a woman’s voice!? I gave him a piece of my mind for his insult and then gladly instructed him to take us off his calling list.

THIS IS PRECISELY THE ADVANTAGE THAT YOU HAVE OVER THE TELEMARKETER. They don’t know you, therefore, they cannot tell YOU what your voice should sound like! Face it, we all know a man with a mousy voice of a whimpy woman and visa versa. Just the other day, I was caught off guard when I called a new friend. I said, B*** (Her husband’s name)?” , only to find out that it was her mother-in-law (quite the smoker).

Well, I must have been successful in my strategy. We are now the proud receivers of less than one student loan call per month. They may have won the battle, but we won the war.

If you have trouble with telemarketers and you can’t come up with as elaborate of a plan as above to get rid of them, may I kindly suggest what my witty father-in-law does to get rid of them?

He cuts them off and says, “Let me ask you just one thing?” The say, “What is that?” He then inquires,”Is this a good buy?” They say,”Of course it is a good buy?” He then says, “O.k. goodbye.”

John Denver

John Denver is the man!

When I found out that LG shared my love of John Denver, I KNEW he was the man for me. I thought that I had an unusual upbringing because my parents were always exposing us to JD’s music. Come to find out, my upbringing was pretty normal. LG was growing up 2,000 miles away and he had just as much exposure to the King of country-folk music.

While I lived in Alaska, mom and dad would put us to sleep with John Denver. They would play him as loud as he would go on their little portable battery operated tape player.

I still love John Denver. LG and I carry on tradition and listen to him while we take road trips with our girls. We teach them to sing the lyrics to his songs, which are quite uplifting. Here is one of my favorites:

Perhaps love – 1980

Perhaps love is like a resting place,
A shelter from the storm,
It exists to give you comfort,
It is there to keep you warm,
And in those times of trouble
When you are most alone,
The memory of love will bring you home…

Well, I was grief-stricken, like many others, when Denver died in a plane crash, October 12, 1997. I was mostly bummed because I never got to see him in concert.

At the time, I was taking a course in college, Public Speaking. Each student was to give a speech on a self-chosen topic. I did a bang-up job with mine on the life of John Denver. Did you know that his birth name was Henry John Deutschendorf Jr.?

Well, during my speech, I touched on Denver’s act of adopting two children with his first wife, Annie. In explanation of the adoptions, instead of saying, “They thought that John was sterile.” I said, “They thought that John was impotent.”

Hello, they THOUGHT that John Denver was IMPOTENT…isn’t that something that someone either knows or they don’t?

I still got an A on the speech. No one even snickered when I said it. I didn’t even realize what I had said until I was doing my mental speech replay later on during the day. I was mortified at what I had done. Luckily, most of the students in the class were really naive 18 year old Mormon girls. But, surely my hot young male professor from Michigan realized what I had done. I couldn’t believe it when I got my grade. Either the teacher was really impressed that I was the only student who accompanied my speech with a Power Point presentation, or he was so entertained that he decided to let my mistake slide.

Soccer Moms

Sophia and Bella with Soccer Balls

Soccer moms aren’t what they used to be. Soccer has become something that parents do so that they can put it on their own “parental resumes”. “Oh look at us, we are good parents. We drive our SUV’s to pick up our well-dressed kids from their state-of-the-art daycare. Then we cart them to their private tutor, piano lessons, and soccer.” Whatever happened to actual interaction between parent and child? Now, we pay everyone else to teach our kids the things that we are too busy to do oursleves? Whatever happened to playing soccer so that the family can spend time together?

Soccer started for us on Monday when we went to buy Abigail’s equipment. She wanted the pink ball but the black and white was $4 cheaper. I told her that if she would get the black and white one, I would let her color it with my Sharpies. She always wants to draw with my “off-limits” permanent markers and she totally fell for my ingenious manipulation. Sophia brought her ball to me on Tuesday and asked if she could color hers too. I had to let her. (see the pic above)

Abigail’s first practice was a blast. It was typical of any other like it across the country. You could spot the coach’s kid: she was the only one in full uniform. Then there were the three moms who are so insecure that they kept to their little clique…they are the mom’s of the girls that are the friends of the coach’s daughter.

One of the cliquee moms must have been coerced into letting her daughter play. You could tell because her daughter was the chubby kid who kept interuppting her mom’s “mommy” time on the sideline. She just had to tell her mom that she didn’t like soccer and wanted to go home. Her mom would just embarassingly shoo her daughter back out on the field.

Abigail was the “girly girl” of the bunch. She is taller and faster than the rest of the kids, but doesn’t dare go for the ball. She just kept running out in front of the rest of the herd, looking pretty. LG says that she will be really good at soccer if we work with her to be more agressive. I agree, but, surprisingly, part of me wishes that we could afford ballet instead of soccer. Although, Abigail loved it. She is too young to care about the competitive stuff. She just likes to be with the other girls and squeal as they run.

Bella hated soccer yesterday because she wanted a piece of the action, and wasn’t allowed on the field to play with the sister who she idolizes. As for Sophia, she was traumitized by a fall at the playground. LG and I were pushing her back and forth on this sliding pulley. She hung on to it with her feet dangling 3 feet from the ground. At the end of her longest ride, LG let her plummet to the ground. Sophia screamed in disbelief. She face planted. The poor girl trusted her dad to catch her and all she got was a scraped forehead, a broken ego, and a mouth and nose full of dirt.

I later questioned LG as to why he didn’t catch her. I assumed that if you are a parent trying to let your child hold on as long as she can, that you keep a constant eye on her grip. I assumed wrong. LG said, “I didn’t see her hand slipping, I was waiting for her to tell me when she was going to let go.” He should know better. The kid is as quiet as her dad, if not more quiet. Poor Phia. I don’t think she will ever want to go back to the soccer field.