My little girl was about 7 or 8, I think, in this picture.
Today my darling little girl started her last semester in college. In about months, she will have her BA in English Lit, and God willing, will have a job working in publishing. I’m so proud of her.
Here she is at The Londoner celebrating her 22nd birthday.
Going over Noah’s backpack, I see he got marked down in conduct for saying, “What the heck” in class. I asked him why he said it, and he said:
“Trinity was looming over me and I said, ‘What the heck?’”
“She was looming??” He got mad at me and said, “You don’t get it.”
“No, I do and I am so proud of you for knowing the word ‘looming’ and using it correctly.”
He’s nine and said, “She was looming.” Who cares about getting marked down in conduct when my little boy with Central Auditory Processing Disorder used the word looming correctly?
——
Later, we were getting in the car to head out to school. Noah has his own planet, Treenix, and has a made up language, Foo Language, that the people on Treenix speak. It tends to be a lot of baby talk type sounds – merp, ferb, meep, barm – stuff like that.
As we were getting in the car, he said, “Marmer harmer. That means, okay, Mommy.”
I said, “How do you say Mommy in Foo Language?”\
“Harmer. Daddy is Darmer.”
“Why does he get a D and I get an H? Is it ‘harmer’ because I’m mean?”
“There’s actually a G in it but it’s silent.”
——————
So, see why I’m laughing today?? 
…when it’s not National Novel Writing Month, which I won, by the way!
I actually got to over 50,000 words on Tuesday (thank you, Rowdy Girls), and felt miserable yesterday with what I think is a sinus thing as I had a headache for three days.
Anyway, I had a brief doctor’s appointment this morning and headed off to the mall to do some Christmas shopping. Oh, I did get about two pages written in the waiting room of the doctor’s office where I found a convenient outlet, so yay!!
I got some gifts at the mall and came home by way of our local Target to get wrapping paper and some other gifty/Christmas-y stuff.
Tangent – What’s with the Justin Beiber wrapping paper and ornaments???? Seriously???
I get Toy Story, Thomas the Tank Engine, even Sponge Bob. Those are kid things and cute, for the most part.
But Beiber??? And there was blue Beiber paper that said Happy Holidays??
I just don’t get it. I don’t get the pink, orange, blue and teal ornaments, either nor the glittery fish ornaments in those colors, but whatever….
Anyway, I went to the checkout and chatted merrily with a wonderfully friendly woman, and it was looking to be a fabulous day.
Until I ran my RedCard through.
We got an email a while back saying we were late a payment on the RedCard. I didn’t see how that could be as I pay every bill when it comes in, but when I paid bills two weeks ago, I sent in the full amount and thought no more about it until today.
I came home, called Target and found out that they haven’t gotten ANY of our payments!!!
Six months ago, we had this issue with payments for the RedCard were going to my husband’s old Target Visa card. That was settled easily, and I changed the bill payment record with our online banking to the RedCard number.
Turns out I typed an 8 where there should have been a 9.
That’s an invalid number and our bank should have been redepositing the payments because Target should have been bouncing the checks, but that hasn’t happened at all.
Now it’s only three months worth of payments but it is enough to damage our credit rating.
After I talked with a nice Target woman on the phone and went through the online banking screens and discovered that the money was not put back in our account, another woman came on the phone and said she had to talk to Steve. His name is on the card, he’s the primary account holder and he needed to just tell her that he’s aware of all this.
I guess we have to find out where the money went – who’s been cashing these checks and get our money back and our account dealt with.
That’s why I didn’t come home and dive right back into The Pigsty Princess!
Yesterday afternoon, I “introduced” Noah to a bunch of toys he hadn’t played with since he discovered the “joys” of the DVD player and Netflix Instant Queue, not to mention the Wii.
He went nuts, and I had to put new batteries in a very annoying truck that makes obnoxious sounds when you push buttons, but it was not a problem for me. I would rather have those sounds filling the house than him sitting on the couch watching old Power Ranger episodes over and over.
So this morning, after he finally got his breakfast eaten, he got out his trucks again and came into the room where his dad and I were and said, “Mom, where’s the screwdriver?”
Dad: Why do you want the screwdriver?
Noah: I want to play.
Me: Your VBS shirt is in the dryer. Get dressed.
A few minutes later (he’s not dressed).
Noah: I need the screwdriver.
Dad: You’re not going to play with the screwdriver.
Me: No. He wants it to take off the back of some toy to put batteries in.
Dad: Oh. Noah, get dressed.
Dad headed off to the Y to lift weights.
Me: Noah, did you take your medicine?
Noah: I need the screwdriver. You don’t want me sitting, just watching TV, do you?
( so proud – he gets blackmail at the tender age of nine.)
Me: get dressed.
Noah: I think you have to help me. I don’t know where my shirt is.
Me: (I just got my mouth open)
Noah: Wait. I know. You told me. It’s…
Me: In the dryer.
A moment later, he has his shirt on but hasn’t changed his pajama pants.
I’m glad he’s playing and I think I can tune the obnoxious sounds out. But taking him to Bible School in his pajamas won’t work.
My son is OBSESSED with Mustangs (the car).
Whenever we’re driving, he points out every single one that passes us.
I drove my husband to the airport for a business trip and our son was in the backseat. I was telling my husband about the bank his father had given The Boy and that The Boy was saving up for a Mustang and had asked me how much one cost.
Me: I told him it was a couple of thousand dollars.
Steve: You mean a couple of tens of thousands of dollars.
Me: It doesn’t matter to him. He’s nowhere close to having even one thousand dollars.
Noah: Well, I will be getting a Mustang soon, you know.
Me: Soon? Really? How do you figure that?
Noah: I am almost 16.
Me: You’re almost 16?
Noah: Yeah. Look, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17…16…see? I’m almost 16.
My son is on a punishment today because he was mouthy and defiant last night getting ready for bed. He can’t watch TV which is a hard one for me to enforce since my office/work area is two rooms away and he likes to turn the volume way down so I don’t know the TV is on.
Anyway, he’s been pretty good today and I told him that if he turned on the TV he couldn’t play with his friend.
So, I was sitting at my desk and suddenly I hear the back door slam. I figured he’d seen a friend outside but decided it would be a good idea to just go check.
I went out and saw him getting his bike while his friend, another little boy about 8 or 9, had his bike and was waiting. They both looked at me when I came out of the house.
Me: I just heard the back door close and I wanted to see what was going on. I guess you’re going to go play.
His friend: I wanted to tell… (He stands with his arms spread wide.) How do I look?
Me: You look fabulous. (He’s got on a blue and yellow striped shirt and blue shorts.)
He: You…I like your shirt (my old pink flowered T) and you look beautiful. (He dropped to his knees and bowed.)
My son watched all this, kinda confused.
Me: Noah looks fabulous. You look fabulous. We all look fabulous.
He: I think so.
Then the boys rode off talking about bowling parties for their birthdays.
I love days that start like this!
This morning, I went into the kitchen to make my usual morning smoothie and Noah was watching some TV, as school is out for summer and his friends hadn’t started ringing the doorbell and banging on the front door.
Me: Did you finish your breakfast?
Noah: Yes. Can I have some milk?
Me: Sure. Bring the dishes into the kitchen.
As he brought his plate in, I poured him a glass of milk. I took the plate.
Me: Here’s your milk.
He turned and walked back toward the living room, without the milk.
Me: Noah, here’s your milk.
He turned back to me and said:
“Oh, I thought you gave the Vashta Nerada the milk.”
I took Noah to Chick-fil-a after he got out of school at noon for the next to last day on Tuesday.
I hadn’t packed him a lunch as I figured he’d come home and I’d take him out.
In the car, he told me that they’d had eggs and bacon at school. Don’t really get that and he isn’t always the most reliable witness, so I was confused, but then I always am with school stuff.
Anyway, we went home and he changed his clothes. When we got to the restaurant, we saw lots of cars with stickers from his school, so I told him maybe changing hadn’t been necessary and he’d have lots of friends to play with.
Now, normally, the lure of the playplace is too much and he doesn’t always eat all his lunch. Also, his ADHD meds sometimes take away his appetite, so I didn’t expect him to eat much. And if he’d had food at school…. It didn’t matter. This trip was just so he could play and he and Mommy could do something special together.
At one point he told me he was ready for his milkshake, which is a traditional end of our trips there. I asked him if he was done eating and he showed me that he’d eaten everything.
“Wow,” I said, “you scarfed down those chicken nuggets.”
“I was hungry,” he replied. “That’s what a Noah is.”
My father-in-law in very involved in the Marine Corp League. He was commandant of the detachment in New Jersey at the time that we moved from the Philadelphia area to Baton Rouge. I remember this because he drove down here with me and we jokingly called my van “Bulldog One” when we’d call home.
His wife and my daughter weren’t as amused as we were.
Anyway, they moved down here about two years ago and the first thing he did, even before they actually moved, was to find the local Marine Corp League detachment.
After they moved, we started getting invited to the MCL parties. He would buy us tickets and include us at his table. We’ve been to two Christmas parties, and as Noah is usually the youngest person there, he always helps Santa pass out gifts. We’ve won door prizes at the Christmas party. It’s actually pretty cool.
Well, a week or so ago, my mother-in-law told us that there was a dinner for the installation of the new officers and my father-in-law has been selected as commandant here. I understand how this stuff works; he the newest guy and no one else wanted it, so he got it. (That’s how I ended up a President of HeartLA for two years!)
She told us it would probably be boring for us, but it’s a big deal to him so we said we’d go.
Turned out that was the day our son threw up in school and consequently, my husband stayed home from the dinner and just Juliette and I went.
As usual, this dinner was held at a local beer bottling plant. The owner is a big support of the League and his conference room/meeting space is very nice. The Christmas parties are held here, too. The bar is always free, but it only offers the brands of beer made there. Wine and water is available, too, but the beer is always SUPER cold and yummy.
Anyway, when Juliette and I got there, everything was set up the way it usually is, including a long buffet table to one side of the room. It took up about half the wall and was covered with a black cloth. At one end were two small steam trays, covered, and the plates and utensils.
I figured we were late, but since the food hadn’t been set out, I figured we were okay.
There was some socializing and my mother-in-law talked to Juliette about school and such for about 15 or 20 minutes. Then the guy who was the commandant stood up and had the chaplain lead us in prayer and then he said we’d start the buffet with the head table. And he pointed at Dick.
My father-in-law stood up and glanced at the still nearly empty buffet table and said, “Shouldn’t we wait until the food comes out?”
Well, the woman who, I presume, was the caterer, came out and uncovered the two small steam trays. There was roast beef in one and mashed potatoes in the other.
That’s it.
That was the dinner.
No salad.
No green vegetables>
No rolls.
Not even cookies for dessert.
Roast beef and mashed potatoes. The was the whole “buffet.”
As we were the head table, we finished our dinner long before the last table had even gotten theirs. When the line finished, Juliette went to the table again and said there was only potatoes left.
We decided that she and I aren’t Marines and we wouldn’t be missed if we went out and got ice cream for our table! We didn’t, of course, because we didn’t want to miss Dick’s installation.
But on the way home, when we stopped to get some ginger ale for my poor sick son, we did get muffins at Target and ate one each as our dessert.
So, what was the worst catered meal you’ve ever had? Or maybe not even catered. What’s your worst “horror” story about dinner out?
…or was it, “A Timelord walks into a church…”
Anyway, if you have been on my Facebook page much or know much about me at all, you know that my family are Doctor Who fanatics.
And as much as we love the 900+ year old TimeLord (last of), sometimes there are more important things in life.
The Boy is going to be doing his first communion in May, and therefore, he needs to study the elements of the Mass.
This morning, while he ate his Cheerios, I was going over the elements of the Mass and the items the priest wears. He is having a little trouble but we’ll work on it.
At one point I asked him what a chasuble is. He calls it the priest’s “holy shirt” which is fine, if not totally correct and WON’T be on the test that way, but I asked him what color a chasuble is.
Me: Does the priest just get to wear whatever color he wants?
The Boy: No. It might be Advent or Day of the Dead or Ordinary Time.
Me: So he wears the color of the Liturgical season?
The Boy: Right and if it’s the day the Doctor is coming, then he wears Blue! ::giggles::
See, you didn’t know Doctor Who is everywhere, did you?
On another Doctor Who related Mass situation:
Last Sunday I was sick and couldn’t make it to church so The Girl sat with the Boy while Beloved sang in the choir. The kids sat in the cry room (which frankly is a mistake if you ever want to pay attention or teach your child that Mass is NOT a time for playing!) and at one point, the Boy was muttering, “So no jo ho po to ro so.” (Confused? See video and explanation will follow.) (I guess you have to click the links to see the videos. I don’t know why it won’t just have them embedded, but whatever. They’re funny. Watch. I’ll wait.)
The Girl then turned to him and said, “Stop that.”
A moment later, he did it again.
The Girl: Stop being the Judoon.
The Boy: I’m not being the Judoon.
The Girl: Stop being the Doctor talking to the Judoon.
The Boy: ::giggles::
Life is fun at our house.
