Sorry bloggy buddies. I know I have been an extremely lax blogger of late. Not that things haven’t been happening which would make great blog fodder. I have just been way too distracted.
Tomorrow is my Quantitative Chemical Analysis class final. I have a B+ going into the class. There is not enough points possible on the final to earn an A, even if by some miracle I get a 100%. Hell would have to freeze over before that could happen. But, if I can manage not to totally botch the final I can hold on to my B+ and be quite satisfied.
So thanks for all your comments. I’ve been reading them, but the whirlwind of summer school and the Spud and it now being Flea Market season has me totally slacking here.
Hopefully after tomorrow I can regain some scraps of sanity.
The spud is officially a tween, or preteen, or what ever they are calling youth on the cusp of puberty these days. We had to go shopping for feminine foundation undergarments. I told the Spud yesterday we were going shopping for bras, and she burst out “Mooooooommmmmaaaaaa! Don’t say that! It’s embarrassing!”
I would like to point out to the jury, there was no one else around. We were in the privacy of the living room where I have my room in town. I could not help but be amused by her reaction.
Me: Embarrassing? Why.
Spud: Because it IS.
Me: You think going shopping for a bra is embarrassing?
Spud: Mommmaaa! Please!
Me: You, who rip farts in public and laugh. You, who force belches out in busy restaurants, think a bra is embarrassing?
Spud: Well, yeaaah.
Me: Sorry. We are going. And, it’s perfectly natural, so I’m afraid you will have to get used to the idea.
However, I was a little concerned that she would suddenly become so mishish and prude-y that she would make the whole excursion a frustrating debacle and then refuse to wear her new, and much needed, undergarments.
We headed out first to Target and their girls underwear departments. She was a little reluctant. Never having shopped for little girl size bras, I had no idea how they were sized. Some looked a little “mature” for little girls, so first we started with items that were basically sports bras. I figured these you put on rather like an undershirt, no hooks or straps to adjust. They had some pretty colors which apparently made her a little less reluctant. She apparently liked a teal green one with a decorative band around the rib cage. We talked about how we would try on a few styles find the kind that felt most comfy then she could pick out her favorite colors. I did grab a few kinds with adjustable straps and hooks just to try.
In the dressing room we talked about the reason for bras and how to put them on. We talked about how important it was that they didn’t wiggle, that they covered the important areas. I told her to wave her arms around, jump up and down and touch her toes to make sure it wouldn’t slide around. I think she enjoyed being told jump around as spasticly as possible.
Then we tried on one of the more mature styles with the hooks and adjustable straps. These looked more like bras, and had just a little padding in the cup. She tried one with a little pink bow. She liked the bow.
So when we were done she asked, “When do I have to start wearing my new bras?”
“Well, you should wear them every day. You can put one on as soon as we get home if you like.”
Purchases made, we met Leif who was waiting for us in the Starbucks at the Target store. And apparently she was so excited she wanted to show Uncle Leif, who of course was quite scandalized. “Janie, you need to discuss what is appropriate in terms of showing off her new underwear to boys and men.” Well, I suppose I didn’t expect her to go from being embarrassed to an exhibitionist in one shopping trip. But I am very glad she’s enjoying her new bras. She even wanted to sleep in it.
Road to adulthood, Mile Marker I. Check!
I also got to laugh at the JC Penneys we cruised through yesterday. I noticed a young man of about the same age with his head and arms up the skirt of a mannequin.
The birds and the bees indeed.
Last week I wanted to wear a particular pair of brown linen short pants. Generally I would hang my short pants on hangers. I used to have way more closet space than drawer space so I used to hang pretty much every thing except socks and underwear.
Now, I don’t wear shorts that are shorter than mid calf length. These kinds of short pants go by way too many different names for me to keep up. What are they called this season? Capris? Pedal-pushers? Cropped pants? Knickers? Breeches? Ankle pants?
Whatever. I have hideous varicose veins and misshapen knees. I wear shorts that come to some region below the knee and above the ankle. Linen is my summer short fabric of choice. Cool. Light. Drapey.
Anyway, I digress. So, I used to hang my below the knee length short pants in the closet. Here in my tiny room in Big City space every where is lacking. But, instinct first drove me to look for said shorts hanging in the closet. No particular brown linen short pants. Hmmn. That’s right, here I put all my short pants on the shelf in the closet. Yet, no particular brown linen short pants. Huh. Well, perhaps they are in a storage tub under the bed. No time to search there. Wear the other brown linen short pants that are a hair on the snug side.
Over the weekend I was out at the farm. Much of my apparel is on a garment rack in my room there. So, I took a gander. Perhaps the particular brown linen short pants I was looking for was there. Nope. Still no particular brown linen short pants. But wait. There’s a box of short pants in storage under the bed in my room at the farm. Maybe last summer in the midst of my mental break down trying to decide what to unpack from the first move and what to repack for the second move I put those particular brown linen short pants in the box with the shorts under the bed at the farm. Alas, pulling out the box and sorting through did not turn up the particular brown linen short pants, but I did find the black linen short pants I bought at the same time and forgot I had bought. And then I began to wonder where the ivory pair was that was also bought at the same time as the brown and the black pair.
Back in town Sunday afternoon I was putting away some clean short pants on the shelf. Once again I thought of those particular brown linen short pants. So I pulled all the shorts down and re-stacked them one by one. Well, there was the ivory pair I couldn’t remember what I’d done with. How’d I miss those? *Sigh* The ol’ brain box is not what it used to be.
The full on derp-a-derp moment, though, hit this morning. I was reaching for a pair of blue jeans hanging on a hook in the closet. I had worn them a few days back for just a couple hours and while they didn’t need to be washed, I was feeling lazy and didn’t want to hang them up. As I pulled them off the hook I noticed something else hanging on the hook behind them.
The particular pair of brown linen short pants I’d been searching for.
Only, they weren’t brown.
They were olive green.
I suddenly realized that the pants I had been searching for didn’t exist. They never existed. I had bought three pairs of linen short pants a few summers ago: black, ivory and olive green. I forgot I bought the black ones, and somehow substituted the green for brown.
Now don’t ask me why or how I only just remembered. But for about 5 or 6 days I really, really thought I had that particular pair of brown linen short pants instead of green, even though I had worn that green pair only days before I went looking for the brown pair that never existed.
It’s not really funny anymore. I want my brain back.
Leif’s chickens have turned out to be very profitable; his first year on the farm has shown the egg business to be quite good. Unfortunately he did lose about half his flock to hawks and natural causes, so, he has placed an order for a new batch of birds. All this talk of chickens has reminded me of this cartoon:
Leif and the spud heard Vera barking yesterday, and upon going over to see what was up they found her trotting along with a turtle in her mouth. Apparently she thought it was a self propelling Frisbee. Or maybe she thought it would make a good lunch if she could just figure out how to chew through the packaging.
The petrified turtle was rescued and released into the bog, but not before being tortured with a quick pic:
Why is it when you tell smalls to smile they grimace like they can’t decide if they are about to laugh or cry?