Does the fun ever stop with Kindsay?, you ask...after reading my blog I'll let you answer that. For you newcomers--NO! With children with special needs, being extremely specific to the details of little consequence, is very important.
Picture it--It's Sunday afternoon and Grandma has taken the children to her house for a "party"--meaning, she took my boys (of course Kindsay declined) and my two nieces and had them over to make cupcakes and popcorn balls. I was not going to turn that down--Sunday afternoon in silence? Beautiful. It wasn't until around around 6:00 PM that they returned, arms full of treats that will eventually make their way to my backside. Chocolate cupcakes and popcorn balls, along with left over pizza oh yeah. Well, actually, the cupcakes were done by the children so you can imagine the ghoulish concoctions they made. Chocolate heapings of icing topped with mounds of candy corn that disguised the cupcake altogether. The popcorn balls, however, were Martha Stewart's marshmallow versions, and I could eat my body weight in those. Won't tell you what that amounts to but it's enough to get a Christmas card from Orville. Man those are good...I immediately made my way to the bag which had about 6 in it. The boys were so thrilled seeing me enjoy their homemade treats. I placed the cupcakes in my cake dish, about eight in all. By the end of the night there were only 3 popcorn balls and 4 cupcakes left...just enough to get us through the next day! We all went to bed with visions of sugary goodness. Well, I usually do anyway, but that's beside the point.
Morning comes, and we wake to a Monday with the usual bustle--getting all kids ready to go to school plus Mom and Dad dressing for work. Feed the kids, get their clothes, get us dressed, find shoes and backpacks...blahhh! Kindsay, where's Kindsay? And where are all the cupcakes? I find her face down in bed, blankets skewed and twisted around her barely dressed body. Kindsay? moan, grunt. I look down at the side of her bed to find a box of poptarts along with wrappers scattered under her table. The boys are hollering, "Where are the popcorn balls?" and that's when I abruptly stop and look into the camera. She ATE THE POPCORN BALLS???? Kindsay, what did you do? "oooh, I don't know, I think I ate all the cupcakes and popcorn balls, I don't know why I did that. My teacher said if I get in trouble that I have to stay home from school. I think I'm in trouble." and the poptarts? "Oh, sorry." Talk about a midnight binge. The boys are wailing because they made cupcakes specially for themselves with extra sugary treats on top. I'm looking at Greg as though he should get in the kitchen stat..."the popcorn balls," I'm whimpering. Apparently, Kindsay somehow heard at school that if you get in trouble, you have to stay home. However, no one gave her enough details to know what that meant. "Kindsay, you only stay home if you get in trouble AT SCHOOL! And that's if you do something REALLY BAD!" She figured if she got in trouble at home she wouldn't have to go school. Au contrair! If that were the case she'd still be in pre-k. In a sugary hangover she lopes out of bed and pulls herself up looking like she'd been in a backseat with all the windows down, hair in all directions. Greg and I just stand there, once again, stumped and dumbfounded, hands on hips or folded and gaping at the amount of food she put away in one sitting. At least the poptarts were FiberOne. Combine that with all the sugar and she'll be empty and ready to go at it again by the time she gets home from school. I don't know how it all gets in there, but I know how it's all getting out.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Kindsay's Island
Some people have heard me say that if Kindsay was left on a deserted island, she could survive just fine. She can't tell you what day it is, what she did last week, answer anything abstract at all, but she can swing a deal. I'm telling you--RESOURCEFUL.
Her birthday was Oct 2, and we gathered as a family at a restaurant. I offered her cash or a friend party and she threw her friends out the window without a tear in her eye or a glance backward. She pretty much made the rounds with my family that she wanted cash. Hi--how are you? yeah, yeah..for my birthday I want cash. Bye. End of conversation. My brother, my sister, my parents, everyone was included. There we sat at lunch on her birthday--Kindsay of course was in a ball chewing her nails off. After we ordered we handed her our gifts--all cards. She knew what was inside. One by one she ripped them open, smelled the cash that fell on her lap, glanced over the card for politeness sake, and went on to the next. By the end she had $115 in all kinds of bills, and she smelled them in their fullness throughout lunch as the rest of us ate. She didn't touch her lunch, didn't even give her cake (a Cold Stone cake, mind you) the time of day, but smelled the cash that would soon go into the little change purse she brought strapped around her wrist. Why, after the cards/gifts/money, she was done and over with her party--"take me home!" That was the end of her birthday.
or was it?
My mom asked her to go to the movies with her, and Kindsay declined every invitation and went right to her room, door shutting behind her. Greg and I shrugged and went off to take our weekend naps. Sunday rolled around to business as usual, until Monday morning came. Now, a typical school day morning consists of Kindsay face-down in bed, parents begging her to get up, parents threatening her to get dressed, and shoved off out of the bathroom, where she now spends half her day, and onto her bus. This particular Monday morning wasn't a typical day. Greg and I got up to find her already dressed and pacing the house. We looked at each other with puzzled bewilderment (is there another kind?), but began the morning routine. We were so baffled, though, that we stopped her pacing and asked what the deal was? The deal...well she blew up at us as though we took away a teenager's cell phone. "Just because I bought a dog--You said I could have a puppy--you said someday! I'm not having this--this is getting old!" Puppy..dog? wh..? WHAT? What puppy? "I bought a dog and he's coming in the morning from Cassie!" Cassie? Who is Cassie? "It's $25 and it's my money--I'm tired of this--stop talking to me!" Love how she turns her bad deeds into my fault, right? We had a little "no you aren't getting a dog" talk, finished the morning routine, and all of us went off to school, except Bek who doesn't have school on Mondays. Greg and I felt like we'd dodged that one...and what was she talking about anyway? Beats both of us (please, with a stick), so we went on as though it was typical Kindsay ranting in La-La land (remember, she's good friends with Justin Beiber too.)
then we got a call.
Greg called me about 10AM that morning. He is terrible when it comes to breaking news. He hesitates, beats around the bush, like a horrible suspense movie that makes you topple out of your seat in anticipation. "We have a...um..well, there's a new...uh--Kindsay bought a dog." What? When? How? Apparently, Bek heard whimpering in the house and found the dog shut away in Kindsay's room. It was a 3-mo-old rat terrier that had peed itself and was starving. What...were we never going to discover this? Bek took care of it while Greg and I scrambled to uncover the mystery of how this deal went down. I phoned her teacher who could get Kindsay to admit to shooting JFK, and she was on it. Turns out, Kindsay got on Craigslist, found a dog she liked, texted the woman, made arrangements to meet out front our house at the crack of dawn, and had cash ready for delivery. I was, as you can well imagine, livid at the idiocy of a grown woman. and livid, terrified, and impressed that my special needs child who has a cafeteria of disabilities could pull off such a stunt, and without us knowing! The school psych even had to talk to her to get her to understand the very dangerous thing she had done. After the long talk, reviewing scenarios of what could-have-been, Kindsay gushed, "do you want to see my puppy?" Teacher and psych exchanged looks of concern, knowing that I was in for a real treat that night. Even if I wanted to keep the dog, I couldn't because I can't affirm the actions Kindsay took. It had to be a life lesson for her. I phoned the woman and told her she sold her puppy to a child with disabilities who killed her last four pets. "I'll be by after 7 to pick it up." 7:30 PM she came, apologizing profusely, and exchanged puppy for cash. No, I did not chew out the woman. I figured she'd never forget this incident and learn to ask for an adult next time. Besides, her punishment is the fact that she has to live with the kind of rationale that says, "sell to a minor without parents' permission." Scary. I can't stand the thought of another dog, especially with short hair that gets left on EVERYTHING. And a puppy? Chewing, potty-training..ugh. The dog, named Brandon/Shadow/Midnight (yes, they went through all those names in the time of about 3 hours) had peed on multiple things in my house, which confirmed my convictions NOT to keep it. Kindsay cried the first part of the afternoon, called everyone to tell them what a bad mother I am, but was chewing her toenails off in typical nervous fashion by the time the dog left...oh well. So long. Unfortunately, picking up the dog so late allowed my four children to bond, and left me with the original yet unfairly appointed nickname "Cruella"...a short-haired rat terrier fur coat? Hmph...I don't think so.
Her birthday was Oct 2, and we gathered as a family at a restaurant. I offered her cash or a friend party and she threw her friends out the window without a tear in her eye or a glance backward. She pretty much made the rounds with my family that she wanted cash. Hi--how are you? yeah, yeah..for my birthday I want cash. Bye. End of conversation. My brother, my sister, my parents, everyone was included. There we sat at lunch on her birthday--Kindsay of course was in a ball chewing her nails off. After we ordered we handed her our gifts--all cards. She knew what was inside. One by one she ripped them open, smelled the cash that fell on her lap, glanced over the card for politeness sake, and went on to the next. By the end she had $115 in all kinds of bills, and she smelled them in their fullness throughout lunch as the rest of us ate. She didn't touch her lunch, didn't even give her cake (a Cold Stone cake, mind you) the time of day, but smelled the cash that would soon go into the little change purse she brought strapped around her wrist. Why, after the cards/gifts/money, she was done and over with her party--"take me home!" That was the end of her birthday.
or was it?
My mom asked her to go to the movies with her, and Kindsay declined every invitation and went right to her room, door shutting behind her. Greg and I shrugged and went off to take our weekend naps. Sunday rolled around to business as usual, until Monday morning came. Now, a typical school day morning consists of Kindsay face-down in bed, parents begging her to get up, parents threatening her to get dressed, and shoved off out of the bathroom, where she now spends half her day, and onto her bus. This particular Monday morning wasn't a typical day. Greg and I got up to find her already dressed and pacing the house. We looked at each other with puzzled bewilderment (is there another kind?), but began the morning routine. We were so baffled, though, that we stopped her pacing and asked what the deal was? The deal...well she blew up at us as though we took away a teenager's cell phone. "Just because I bought a dog--You said I could have a puppy--you said someday! I'm not having this--this is getting old!" Puppy..dog? wh..? WHAT? What puppy? "I bought a dog and he's coming in the morning from Cassie!" Cassie? Who is Cassie? "It's $25 and it's my money--I'm tired of this--stop talking to me!" Love how she turns her bad deeds into my fault, right? We had a little "no you aren't getting a dog" talk, finished the morning routine, and all of us went off to school, except Bek who doesn't have school on Mondays. Greg and I felt like we'd dodged that one...and what was she talking about anyway? Beats both of us (please, with a stick), so we went on as though it was typical Kindsay ranting in La-La land (remember, she's good friends with Justin Beiber too.)
then we got a call.
Greg called me about 10AM that morning. He is terrible when it comes to breaking news. He hesitates, beats around the bush, like a horrible suspense movie that makes you topple out of your seat in anticipation. "We have a...um..well, there's a new...uh--Kindsay bought a dog." What? When? How? Apparently, Bek heard whimpering in the house and found the dog shut away in Kindsay's room. It was a 3-mo-old rat terrier that had peed itself and was starving. What...were we never going to discover this? Bek took care of it while Greg and I scrambled to uncover the mystery of how this deal went down. I phoned her teacher who could get Kindsay to admit to shooting JFK, and she was on it. Turns out, Kindsay got on Craigslist, found a dog she liked, texted the woman, made arrangements to meet out front our house at the crack of dawn, and had cash ready for delivery. I was, as you can well imagine, livid at the idiocy of a grown woman. and livid, terrified, and impressed that my special needs child who has a cafeteria of disabilities could pull off such a stunt, and without us knowing! The school psych even had to talk to her to get her to understand the very dangerous thing she had done. After the long talk, reviewing scenarios of what could-have-been, Kindsay gushed, "do you want to see my puppy?" Teacher and psych exchanged looks of concern, knowing that I was in for a real treat that night. Even if I wanted to keep the dog, I couldn't because I can't affirm the actions Kindsay took. It had to be a life lesson for her. I phoned the woman and told her she sold her puppy to a child with disabilities who killed her last four pets. "I'll be by after 7 to pick it up." 7:30 PM she came, apologizing profusely, and exchanged puppy for cash. No, I did not chew out the woman. I figured she'd never forget this incident and learn to ask for an adult next time. Besides, her punishment is the fact that she has to live with the kind of rationale that says, "sell to a minor without parents' permission." Scary. I can't stand the thought of another dog, especially with short hair that gets left on EVERYTHING. And a puppy? Chewing, potty-training..ugh. The dog, named Brandon/Shadow/Midnight (yes, they went through all those names in the time of about 3 hours) had peed on multiple things in my house, which confirmed my convictions NOT to keep it. Kindsay cried the first part of the afternoon, called everyone to tell them what a bad mother I am, but was chewing her toenails off in typical nervous fashion by the time the dog left...oh well. So long. Unfortunately, picking up the dog so late allowed my four children to bond, and left me with the original yet unfairly appointed nickname "Cruella"...a short-haired rat terrier fur coat? Hmph...I don't think so.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Here I Am!
Summer is over and I'm back into the grind. I go home after work and literally topple over. For some reason, my job is mentally and physically exhausting. Updates? Here ya go:
Bek is a college girl! Yessirreeee....at Reedley City College she goes full time. It looks good on her since she seems to get hit on everyday at school, she tells me...yikes. She has NO idea what she is aiming towards, I keep pushing the dental field so I can have nice teeth when I'm old, but she ignores me. Heck, I'd like some teeth now for the love. We did get her another car, though not as nice as the last one, but she loves it--a Dodge Neon that zips around still insured but better-be-accident-free-or-else. Job? anyone have a job for this girl?
Kindsay is in 8th grade. and still naked. Not kidding--sports bra and panties around the house. It wouldn't be so bad except that she pulls her panties clear up her behind giving her a full blown wedgie. She won't wear pants because she doesn't want something up her butt, yet her underwear spend all their time up there...hm. I buy her boy shorts type underwear so she covers more, and yet we wind up seeing butt cheeks all day. I assure you, I plead with her to get dressed and somehow she eludes my pleas. She is on the phone non-stop! She talks with her friend Alli who seems to be personal friends with Justin Beiber and takes frequent "day trips" to Mexico. Will they ever "get" it? *sigh* Funny--I have the dialogue between Gingy and the bad ruler on Shrek as my ring tone when Greg calls me. It's Gingy giving in to where the fantasy creatures are. It starts out, "OK, I'll tell you, Do you know the muffin man?" the muffin man? "The muffin man" yes, I know the muffin man, who lives on Drury Lane? --Gingy is my favorite character and I love that exchange, makes me laugh. So my phone starts ringing this morning with Gingy speaking "OK...I'll tell you..." and I hear Kindsay, startled, respond "what? what?" then Gingy continues, "Do you know the muffin man?" I can hear Kindsay still not aware of what's going on answer back, "yeah, I know the muffin man. what? oh. oh. oh. oh." She finds my phone and realizes her dad is calling which puts her over the moon as she answers. I just thought it was interesting that she answered this mystery voice about a muffin man...and then she admitted to KNOWING the muffin man...does she REALLY know the muffin man? I don't even know the muffin man.
Garon is in 4th grade and told Ty that if he needed to know anything about 3rd grade that he'd be glad to help him out seeing as how he's a professional 3rd grader now. He's in cross country and a sweaty ball everyday after school. He ran a lemonade stand the other day with his friends. He comes in my room and asks if Grandpa can come over for a visit. Huh, why? I ask, seeing as how he's never asked so randomly to have Grandpa over. "I just haven't seen him in a while, I'd like to hang out with him. Call him, will you?" OK...I still don't understand what's going on...you want Grandpa to come over and hang out? What's this all about? "OK..well, see if he'll at least come and buy some lemonade...then you can talk with him, have a visit while he drinks it!" Ahhh, ever the senator in the making, Garon thinks if we casually invite Grandpa over he'll buy up the stand and make Garon rich, in the meantime getting some quality time with his 2nd oldest child (me).
Ty, now in 3rd grade, is too busy being "popular" to sell lemonade, he says. Do my kids really care who is popular? Oh no. Ty can name every girl in his class, but only one boy, am I worried? His teacher wants to know if there's anything she should know about him in order to serve him better as his teacher--yeah, he's IN THE CLOUDS ALL DAY, you might want to get a long stick and have it leaning against your desk so when you need to tap him to rejoin the class you won't have to go far to do it. Well, as long as he's still not embarrassed to kiss me in public, I'm good.
Greg and I are still married, in love, and locking ourselves away in our room so we can have peace and quiet, only to have all my children inquire about the lock-down as we drive back home from lunch. My husband answers them, "Well, we lock it because sometimes Mom gets dressed without clothes on." hm...that didn't make any sense and then my children started gagging, why did he say that? Couldn't he just say we wanted privacy and leave it at that? My 18-yr-old is over voicing him, "Change SuBject!" Good thing I was devouring my Cold Stone favorite otherwise I would've given him no reason to ever lock the door again. hmph!
Bek is a college girl! Yessirreeee....at Reedley City College she goes full time. It looks good on her since she seems to get hit on everyday at school, she tells me...yikes. She has NO idea what she is aiming towards, I keep pushing the dental field so I can have nice teeth when I'm old, but she ignores me. Heck, I'd like some teeth now for the love. We did get her another car, though not as nice as the last one, but she loves it--a Dodge Neon that zips around still insured but better-be-accident-free-or-else. Job? anyone have a job for this girl?
Kindsay is in 8th grade. and still naked. Not kidding--sports bra and panties around the house. It wouldn't be so bad except that she pulls her panties clear up her behind giving her a full blown wedgie. She won't wear pants because she doesn't want something up her butt, yet her underwear spend all their time up there...hm. I buy her boy shorts type underwear so she covers more, and yet we wind up seeing butt cheeks all day. I assure you, I plead with her to get dressed and somehow she eludes my pleas. She is on the phone non-stop! She talks with her friend Alli who seems to be personal friends with Justin Beiber and takes frequent "day trips" to Mexico. Will they ever "get" it? *sigh* Funny--I have the dialogue between Gingy and the bad ruler on Shrek as my ring tone when Greg calls me. It's Gingy giving in to where the fantasy creatures are. It starts out, "OK, I'll tell you, Do you know the muffin man?" the muffin man? "The muffin man" yes, I know the muffin man, who lives on Drury Lane? --Gingy is my favorite character and I love that exchange, makes me laugh. So my phone starts ringing this morning with Gingy speaking "OK...I'll tell you..." and I hear Kindsay, startled, respond "what? what?" then Gingy continues, "Do you know the muffin man?" I can hear Kindsay still not aware of what's going on answer back, "yeah, I know the muffin man. what? oh. oh. oh. oh." She finds my phone and realizes her dad is calling which puts her over the moon as she answers. I just thought it was interesting that she answered this mystery voice about a muffin man...and then she admitted to KNOWING the muffin man...does she REALLY know the muffin man? I don't even know the muffin man.
Garon is in 4th grade and told Ty that if he needed to know anything about 3rd grade that he'd be glad to help him out seeing as how he's a professional 3rd grader now. He's in cross country and a sweaty ball everyday after school. He ran a lemonade stand the other day with his friends. He comes in my room and asks if Grandpa can come over for a visit. Huh, why? I ask, seeing as how he's never asked so randomly to have Grandpa over. "I just haven't seen him in a while, I'd like to hang out with him. Call him, will you?" OK...I still don't understand what's going on...you want Grandpa to come over and hang out? What's this all about? "OK..well, see if he'll at least come and buy some lemonade...then you can talk with him, have a visit while he drinks it!" Ahhh, ever the senator in the making, Garon thinks if we casually invite Grandpa over he'll buy up the stand and make Garon rich, in the meantime getting some quality time with his 2nd oldest child (me).
Ty, now in 3rd grade, is too busy being "popular" to sell lemonade, he says. Do my kids really care who is popular? Oh no. Ty can name every girl in his class, but only one boy, am I worried? His teacher wants to know if there's anything she should know about him in order to serve him better as his teacher--yeah, he's IN THE CLOUDS ALL DAY, you might want to get a long stick and have it leaning against your desk so when you need to tap him to rejoin the class you won't have to go far to do it. Well, as long as he's still not embarrassed to kiss me in public, I'm good.
Greg and I are still married, in love, and locking ourselves away in our room so we can have peace and quiet, only to have all my children inquire about the lock-down as we drive back home from lunch. My husband answers them, "Well, we lock it because sometimes Mom gets dressed without clothes on." hm...that didn't make any sense and then my children started gagging, why did he say that? Couldn't he just say we wanted privacy and leave it at that? My 18-yr-old is over voicing him, "Change SuBject!" Good thing I was devouring my Cold Stone favorite otherwise I would've given him no reason to ever lock the door again. hmph!
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Foot Meet Mouth
I am the first person to admit I am a social moron. I hide from social activities for that purpose. I don't know what comes over me, but I almost can't act right in public so I avoid it altogether. I remember reading somewhere that kids who were super smart academically were usually lacking in social skills, and I, having gone to special schools for smart kids, fit that description neatly. You can almost picture us brainiacs wandering around the school yard, bumping into each other and not knowing how to get around the awkwardness of it all. No, they didn't teach us how to deal with each other interpersonally in school, only how to program computers and dissect starfish. Enough said? I think not. Case in point:
It was a warm spring day, and I was attending a baby shower with one of my best friends being held for gal I had known for a few years. She was having her fourth child, and a baby shower was necessary because she hadn't had a girl in enough years to have had any hand-me-downs. The house sat in a cul-de-sac in a new neighborhood next door to the honoree's new home. The houses were single level spreads with the finest in decor and landscaping and of course every car out front was only within a few years of the Toyota factory. I didn't quite fit in as I care very little about this and that for the sake of appearing well to do and being pretentious is not what I believe to be a weakness of mine. Other weaknesses I have, however, and one is that my mouth is unusually large in the state of being flappy in a figurative sense, which unloads a tremendous amount of irony in this case, soon to be revealed.
The shower was held outdoors in a setting found on after school specials. White tables with white linens and centerpieces of pink made with great care and detail were carefully organized throughout the well-manicured yard. A table for the honoree and her closest friends sat beneath a canopy to keep the expectant mom-to-be (again) cool from the late-morning sun. Another table off to the side held the beautifully wrapped packages that seemed to get larger as the eye strolled along the length of it. My gift, which was shared with my friend and fellow attendee, only appeared lamer and lamer as I noticed the luxury gift wrapping and professionalism in the formation of the bows. My own homemade concoction wasn't anything to ponder, and I was starting to wonder if the extra five bucks wasn't worth the relief from gift-wrap humiliation. Inside the House Beautiful was a quaint, and healthy I might add, potluck of finger foods and salads. As the party started, we ladies of leisure and class assembled inside to help ourselves to a polite mixture of the treats. The majority of us knew each other from church, including the woman of honor, but the woman in whose home we were standing was a stranger to us. As we chatted in small ways with each other, we slowly began to pull the home owner into our conversations as we introduced ourselves in various ways. The woman, in her mid-thirties, was a beauty and looked incredibly familiar. It dawned on me that she looked like a friend we all had in common (apparently not in common enough to have been invited though). "You know who you look like?" We had all agreed that she had a great deal of familiarity written into her features, but couldn't pinpoint it until genius here spoke up. "You look just like our friend Shireen!" The women around me chimed in their agreements, discussing with each other how right on I was. Shireen's twin looked at me and smiled, not knowing how that worked in her favor. Another woman piped up, "and you also look like Rita Wilson!" again with the chimes of agreement and awareness by the other party goers. "Yeah!" I said, "that's it! You, and Shireen for that matter, resemble Rita Wilson! You all have those sparkling gray eyes!" Women repeating my words around me, nodding their heads to each other as the light bulbs went off over their heads. I persisted, "You have the same high cheek bones..." murmuring of agreement..."the hairstyle and color is almost identical" (oh yes, the hair! the eyes, cheeks and hair! mm hm, yes I see that.) Shireen's twin is looking around at the women seeing the conformity in their decision and seeking, perhaps, a way out of this attention...yet I persist. "you have the same smile too! The same smile with the same big mouth!" oh!, the expecting mother places her hand over her mouth and gasps. It's quiet for about 10 seconds as the twin looks at me with a smile painted on by her now "big" mouth in all its big glory. "No, I don't mean big, wide...large, no,..." No word seems to satisfy anyone and my moment to pull my large foot out of my mouth is yanked away as over half the women chime in, now against me, backtracking my words by soothing her with statements of the twin's unmatched beauty, and how Shireen is also beautiful and Rita Wilson a stunner. Their words intend comfort as their hearts resist the need to shun me. In the next instant, the attention is turned to the food, which is where mine usually is and SHOULD HAVE BEEN all along. The group disperses and the twin is left standing there looking for a way under a rock. As the party moves outdoors to the seating areas, I find the twin filling up a plate. I come in next to her and tell her my word choice was terrible and that she is more than lovely. She nods with pleasantries spewing from her big mouth as she delicately places a few items on her plate, most likely to prove to us that nothing on her is really big. I load up my plate with anything sugary available, only proving once again that my mouth is not only literally big, it is figuratively big and ready to accept anything large enough to keep it busy from talking for the rest of the day.
And yet my question remains, aside from the proverbial big mouth, what was wrong with having a physically BIG mouth? They are sexy and sensuous yet classic. They create the most amazing smiles and create envy in everyone. Is the word "big" so horrid or tacky? Can I have big eyes and be okay, or big lips? It's not like I said "big behind" or "big teeth" or something unflattering. Maybe a big mouth is associated with Mick Jagger, at which point the mouth becomes freakish. Anyone know? In any case, I can admit that I wish my mouth was physically big in that supermodel sexy way, and not figuratively big, at least not enough for my size ten shoes that I manage to chew on a regular basis. So in my house I sit, safe from my own big mouth. Y me?
It was a warm spring day, and I was attending a baby shower with one of my best friends being held for gal I had known for a few years. She was having her fourth child, and a baby shower was necessary because she hadn't had a girl in enough years to have had any hand-me-downs. The house sat in a cul-de-sac in a new neighborhood next door to the honoree's new home. The houses were single level spreads with the finest in decor and landscaping and of course every car out front was only within a few years of the Toyota factory. I didn't quite fit in as I care very little about this and that for the sake of appearing well to do and being pretentious is not what I believe to be a weakness of mine. Other weaknesses I have, however, and one is that my mouth is unusually large in the state of being flappy in a figurative sense, which unloads a tremendous amount of irony in this case, soon to be revealed.
The shower was held outdoors in a setting found on after school specials. White tables with white linens and centerpieces of pink made with great care and detail were carefully organized throughout the well-manicured yard. A table for the honoree and her closest friends sat beneath a canopy to keep the expectant mom-to-be (again) cool from the late-morning sun. Another table off to the side held the beautifully wrapped packages that seemed to get larger as the eye strolled along the length of it. My gift, which was shared with my friend and fellow attendee, only appeared lamer and lamer as I noticed the luxury gift wrapping and professionalism in the formation of the bows. My own homemade concoction wasn't anything to ponder, and I was starting to wonder if the extra five bucks wasn't worth the relief from gift-wrap humiliation. Inside the House Beautiful was a quaint, and healthy I might add, potluck of finger foods and salads. As the party started, we ladies of leisure and class assembled inside to help ourselves to a polite mixture of the treats. The majority of us knew each other from church, including the woman of honor, but the woman in whose home we were standing was a stranger to us. As we chatted in small ways with each other, we slowly began to pull the home owner into our conversations as we introduced ourselves in various ways. The woman, in her mid-thirties, was a beauty and looked incredibly familiar. It dawned on me that she looked like a friend we all had in common (apparently not in common enough to have been invited though). "You know who you look like?" We had all agreed that she had a great deal of familiarity written into her features, but couldn't pinpoint it until genius here spoke up. "You look just like our friend Shireen!" The women around me chimed in their agreements, discussing with each other how right on I was. Shireen's twin looked at me and smiled, not knowing how that worked in her favor. Another woman piped up, "and you also look like Rita Wilson!" again with the chimes of agreement and awareness by the other party goers. "Yeah!" I said, "that's it! You, and Shireen for that matter, resemble Rita Wilson! You all have those sparkling gray eyes!" Women repeating my words around me, nodding their heads to each other as the light bulbs went off over their heads. I persisted, "You have the same high cheek bones..." murmuring of agreement..."the hairstyle and color is almost identical" (oh yes, the hair! the eyes, cheeks and hair! mm hm, yes I see that.) Shireen's twin is looking around at the women seeing the conformity in their decision and seeking, perhaps, a way out of this attention...yet I persist. "you have the same smile too! The same smile with the same big mouth!" oh!, the expecting mother places her hand over her mouth and gasps. It's quiet for about 10 seconds as the twin looks at me with a smile painted on by her now "big" mouth in all its big glory. "No, I don't mean big, wide...large, no,..." No word seems to satisfy anyone and my moment to pull my large foot out of my mouth is yanked away as over half the women chime in, now against me, backtracking my words by soothing her with statements of the twin's unmatched beauty, and how Shireen is also beautiful and Rita Wilson a stunner. Their words intend comfort as their hearts resist the need to shun me. In the next instant, the attention is turned to the food, which is where mine usually is and SHOULD HAVE BEEN all along. The group disperses and the twin is left standing there looking for a way under a rock. As the party moves outdoors to the seating areas, I find the twin filling up a plate. I come in next to her and tell her my word choice was terrible and that she is more than lovely. She nods with pleasantries spewing from her big mouth as she delicately places a few items on her plate, most likely to prove to us that nothing on her is really big. I load up my plate with anything sugary available, only proving once again that my mouth is not only literally big, it is figuratively big and ready to accept anything large enough to keep it busy from talking for the rest of the day.
And yet my question remains, aside from the proverbial big mouth, what was wrong with having a physically BIG mouth? They are sexy and sensuous yet classic. They create the most amazing smiles and create envy in everyone. Is the word "big" so horrid or tacky? Can I have big eyes and be okay, or big lips? It's not like I said "big behind" or "big teeth" or something unflattering. Maybe a big mouth is associated with Mick Jagger, at which point the mouth becomes freakish. Anyone know? In any case, I can admit that I wish my mouth was physically big in that supermodel sexy way, and not figuratively big, at least not enough for my size ten shoes that I manage to chew on a regular basis. So in my house I sit, safe from my own big mouth. Y me?
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