Mrs. Magoo

I’m pretty frugal when it comes to purchasing beauty products. My cosmetic supplier is typically Wal-Mart, with an accompanying coupon. And it shows.

As a birthday splurge a couple of months ago, I ordered make-up befitting the older generation. You know, that gorgeous 60-something year old model who sells a line of makeup called “Boom?” The idea is that older women should actually be wearing less make-up and should never ever wear powder.

I’ll second that. I made that horrific discovery after putting on my 2.5 readers out of curiosity to see what I was really looking like up close.

Powder was not my friend.

I’ve taken to calling my new make-up “old lady make-up” mostly to thwart my teenagers from getting into it. That did not work. I recently found the shimmer tube of my Boom trio in my daughter’s purse. It does not matter that I mark all my personal make-up with a sharpie that says MOM’S. Nothing is sacred.

Cailey celebrated her 16th birthday this week (I know….hold me…..). She is a gifted make-up artist, and for her birthday, she wanted to go make-up shopping at Ulta. I did try to extol the virtues of make-up shopping at Wal-Mart, but she scoffed.

I followed her around the softly lit aisles of Ulta, musing at her knowledge of make-up blenders, highlighting sticks, bronzers, contour brushes, and the like. She had a small laundry list of needs and wants. None of which I’ve ever laid eyes on in the cosmetics aisle of Wal-Mart.

She talked me into purchasing something called “pore filler.” For a cool $13.99. I told her I could get a tub of that stuff for half the price in the hardware aisle of Wal-Mart. I call it spackle. Not amused, she determined that she might borrow my “pore filler” and she would allow me to use her matte finishing spray. To seal it all in. Like an acrylic top coat. Krylon comes to mind.

Cailey informed me that she was going to leave the finishing spray on my bathroom counter so that I could try it out. And so this morning at dark-thirty, I took her up on her offer, reached down and went to town setting my freshly applied old lady make-up. With eyes still closed I wondered, “why is my face stinging?” I put on my trusty 2.5 readers and looked to see what was in my hand. The label on the bottle read “Magnesium Oil.” This is what Fiddledaddy uses to ward off leg cramps at night. I refuse to use it because it burns my skin like the flame of A THOUSAND FIRES. I’ll take the leg cramps, thank you. And now it was on my face.

It could have been worse, I suppose, the travel size bottle of Downy Wrinkle Release was right next to it. But then….

I relayed my experience to Fiddledaddy as he drank his brown hot water (not-caffeinated tea). And then I made the mistake of admitting that I’d also nearly brushed my teeth with Benadryl. In my defense, a travel tube of toothpaste can look very much like the Benadryl tube. If you refuse to wear glasses. Luckily I noticed in the nick of time that the toothpaste on my toothbrush was sickly yellow in tint.

I fear a trip to the eye doctor is imminent.

This could derail my favorite parenting coping mechanism. If I can’t see it, it’s really not happening. But then again, with some groovy new spectacles, I’ll never have to worry about mistaking the wasp spray for Aquanet again.

October 20, 2017

Angry Birds

This morning, I was out on my walk (I know, RIGHT?) and was heading back homeward.  I noticed something in the distance that looked like a black cat, with short stubby legs, crossing the street.  Followed by another one.  OTTERS.  The were ambling down my sidewalk.  Just then, the two Sandhill Cranes that loiter at the end of our street noticed the otters.  I see these birds most every morning while walking.  They ignore cars and humans, but still, I give them a wide berth.  Then with outstretched wings, they took chase after the Otters.  And they were angry.  I suspect there was some bad history between those two Otters and the embittered Sandhill Cranes.

And what luck, they were all heading towards ME.  I was immobilized.  I have a healthy fear of potential alligators when I’m out on my morning walk, but Otters have never given me pause.  However, LARGE ANGRY BIRDS THAT ARE MY HEIGHT AND HEADING RIGHT FOR ME, well, I may have issues with that.  I saw Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds.  I’m all MY EYES, MY EYES.

And with that I sprinted across the street to watch the spectacle unfold.  My earbuds kept me from hearing the sound of my own screams.

Do Sandhill Cranes even eat otters?  I knew that I didn’t want to bear witness to THAT.  But still, I was curious.

The otters cut through some bushes and made haste down into a canal and subsequent storm drain.  The Cranes, with their long spindly legs, made their way down into the shallow canal and cornered the otters, now safely behind the gated drain.

This was the only picture I captured.  Because what with fearing for my life and all.

The birds, intent on waiting them out, stood beaks pointed to drain.  Unmoving. I stood in relative safety on the other side of the street, hoping to witness the outcome.  As long as it wasn’t gruesome.

However, near starvation and thirst won out (mine).  I lost focus and headed home.

Fiddledaddy’s observation when I retold the saga: “I’ve got to train you to forgo your safety, in order to capture the photo.”

Otters in the hood.  I’m pretty sure our intrepid homeowners association will never approve.

We’ll just file this under “only in Florida.”

Bowling Tales

Our Summer O’ Fun continued with a trip to the bowling alley with friends.  Friends who bowl.  Friends who wheeled in fancy bags containing their own bowling balls (with finger holes drilled to perfectly fit their fingers) and their own sanitized bowling shoes.

It seems there has been some sort of homeschool bowling league which I’ve managed to ignore, but most of my teenager’s friends have frequented.

The most important aspect of bowling to one of my teenagers was the outfit. This would be the teenager who came up with this ensemble for 4th of July:


Patriotic shoes courtesy of Goodwill.

For her bowling debut, she wore a polka-dotted vintage inspired dress, with matching hair tie.  I wish I had a picture.  But just getting that one out the door takes every one of my very last nerves and I cannot in the heat of the moment even think about preserving said moment in picture form.

The other teenager can throw herself together in five minutes (she’s still in the will) and the boy child likely wore whatever it was he wore to bed the night before.

I found a bowling shirt on Fiddledaddy’s side of the closet.  If I’d had a cursive “D” I would have stapled it onto the front.

I’m here to tell you that I birthed 3 of the worse bowlers in the history of all bowling.  Emme SKIPS up to the line and tosses her ball into the air willy nilly.  She would turn and refuse to even look to see if she hit anything.  She relied instead on her friends to give her a thumbs up or down.

Cailey  tiptoed up to the line and let her ball fly.  I’m not sure she even broke 20.  BUT SHE LOOKED GOOD.  And that’s what counts.

Jensen’s ball often ended up in the lane next to ours.  In a bid to use the LIGHTEST BALL POSSIBLE, his fingers got stuck, so where his ball would end up was anybody’s guess.

No one was killed.  I’m happy to report that.

I, on the other hand, was in rare bowling form.  The following was captured by my nephew:

While I didn’t break 100, I did make up for it with enthusiasm.

And now I’m getting nice and familiar with the business end of the ice pack.  The children were all complaining today about various muscle aches and states of exhaustion.  They are going to be BEGGING ME to start school next month.

Mission accomplished.



Fireworks by
After nearly 10 years of over-sharing blogging, I may repeat a story or four.  This may be one of those times.

Fiddledaddy and I were discussing the 4th of July and our plans.  I decided to stroll down memory lane.  “Remember when Cailey couldn’t say FIREWORKS?”

Indeed, when Cailey was very small, and she tried to say fireworks, she would throw her chubby little hands up in the air, and in her little girl cartoon voice would shout “F*** UP!”  I wish I were kidding.  It’s not an expression that she had EVER heard, but that was her interpretation of fireworks.  And we usually began the sentence with “LOOK UP! Fireworks!”  She was simply abbreviating.

When various aunts and uncles discovered this fun fact, it became a party game for them at all family gatherings.  “Cailey, say FIREWORKS!”  Awesome.

And all was well and good until one fateful Sunday morning when our church displayed a picture of fireworks on the giant overheard screen.

We miss that church.

Not really.  But whatever.

Fiddledaddy asked me when we should reveal this intel to Cailey, and I said when she is grown and has children of her own.  It is then that I will be awaiting the weekly phone call apologizing for everything she has put me through.

Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest.

Have a very blessed Independence Day!  And thank you to the men and women who serve our country so that we can enjoy the freedoms we hold so dear.


Running Amok

Since I’ve been feeling better, I started walking early in the morning.  Exercise was one of those things that I knew I needed to do, but near-debilitating joint pain and discomfort stood in the way.

Not all that long ago, it occurred to me that nothing hurt.  I stood still, closed my eyes, and had a revelation that I was not experiencing any pain.  At all.  And that feeling continued.  One of the only two supplements I’ve been taking is CuraMed (for inflammation and it includes Curcumin) and Vitamin D.  This is a very different regimen from when I had to take upwards of 70 pills a day including antibiotics and various herbal medications.

So now I walk.  I do kind of a fast/slow interval walk, replete with 70’s music piped in.  My children would be horrified.  I really have perfected speed walking, even what with my stubby legs and all.  Fiddle daddy calls me Shorty McShorty.

He gets really agitated when he climbs into the van and I have the seat set to “crush upon impact” so that my feet can reach the pedals.  He has bruises on his knees that he will show you if you ask.

So I was on my walk yesterday and I had a thought.  “I want to run.  On purpose.”  Anyone who knows me well knows that I don’t run.  Even before the Lyme Disease, and even before two unnecessary knee surgeries left me with a severely thinned ACL, I didn’t run.  And if I did happen to run, you needed to run too because something really really bad was coming.

So I took off running.  And to the naked eye, it might have looked more like Phoebe from Friends attempting to run.  (Look it up on youtube.)  That’s what the neighbors were treated to.  But still, I ran.  Not far. Not fast. Not pretty.  But I ran.  And I didn’t break anything.  Except a sweat.

I returned home looking more disheveled than usual.  I informed a child that I ran.  “MOM RAN?”  As other children heard this they repeated incredulously, “MOM RAN????”

Word got around to my dear friend and partner in crime, Andrea, who I talked into coming to the beach nice and early with me the next morning.  She and I have always stood in solidarity that we don’t do the beach.  And yet, there we were sitting in our beach chairs, watching our teenagers surf, while facing the ocean and beautiful billowy clouded sky.  I audibly noted how nice the sand felt on my toes.  She shifted uncomfortably.  Then she remarked that I was eating something that looked like a delicious dessert concoction, but I told her it was a salad.  After a few moments someone offered me a chocolate-filled donut, which I politely declined.  Just then a bike rode by in front of us, and I mused that it might be fun to ride a bike on the beach.

She couldn’t take it any longer.  She turned to me “WHO ARE YOU?”

I chuckled.  I KNOW, RIGHT?

I’m just someone who is anxious to do a lot of catching up on life.  I will simply need to do it in my orthopedic sneakers.


In the Driver’s Seat

Somewhere in the blink of an eye we’ve gone from this:

To this:


In the spirit of full disclosure, my Dad has never actually allowed his granddaughter to commandeer his beloved ’31 Packard, but he has let her sit in the drivers seat a time or two.

In the Spring Semester of her Freshman year of high school, Emme began taking Driver’s Ed through Florida Virtual online classes.  I had been hiding my head and dragging my feet about the fact that she  turned 15 and could take the class and potentially get her driving permit.  She wasn’t pushing it until a few months after turning 15.

The instructor told me it would likely take her 8 to 10 weeks to complete.  She did it in 4.  With an A. Why can’t that happen with Math?

And when she wanted to go take the written test I said “ok” knowing that many of my friends had kids who had to take the test 4 and 5 times….  She passed it the first time.

Then it all got real. Fast.

Right out of the gate I informed Fiddledaddy that since I taught her how to read, it was only fair that he teach her to drive.  The first few driving lessons went well (I only know this because no one died) and eventually I took a valium and sat in the passenger seat of the van while she steered a two-ton vehicle down the road at a rate of speed that would make it difficult for me to jump out if I felt the need.

It really was close to impossible to hand the car keys to her.  I had even more issues with riding shotgun.  And the thing is, she is a really good driver.  I had to admit to her that perhaps I have control issues.  “Ya THINK, MOM?”

Her 16th birthday came and went and she was content to hold her permit and not go for the license yet.  In the state of Florida, you have to have your permit for a full year before taking the actual driver’s test.  We’re now past that.  And she’s turning 17 in a few months.  SEVENTEEN.

She did discover that she might have a little bit more work to do.  A few weeks ago, Fiddledaddy came in looking a tad disheveled.  It seems he had to grab the wheel to avoid certain collision.

Him:  “She may have to review the lesson on adjusting the sideview mirrors.”

Me:  “She knows how to set the mirrors.”  That’s the first thing she does when she gets into the drivers seat.  I take comfort in that.

Him:  “She adjusts them SO SHE CAN SEE HERSELF.”

Blink.  Blink.


Back to the drawing board.

At dinner tonight, Cailey casually mentioned that she will be turning 15 in a few months and was looking forward to taking Drivers Ed.

I look forward to hyperventilating in the corner in a fetal position.


Running the Dogs

My girls have had an action packed June which began with High School Youth Camp in North Carolina, then a week of VBS volunteering, followed by a week of Surf Camp.

All in a bid to WEAR THEM DOWN.

What I’d like to discuss are the joys of Surf Camp.  This is a camp conducted on the campus where our Co-op meets one day a week during the school year.  The church has been offering this Surf Camp for 18 years.  Happily, the building is right across the street from the actual ocean.

I want to say something about moving near the ocean 18 years ago.  I was not happy.  I’m not a beach girl.  Give me wide open spaces and tall trees.  If it weren’t for the sand, the beach, I suppose, would be tolerable.  Fiddledaddy still wonders how we ever got together, as this factoid never came up in premarital counseling.

Neither did his obsession with medical knowledge and his desire to pass on EVERY MINUTE DETAIL OF THE HUMAN FRAILTY to me in email form.  But you don’t hear me complaining.  He can actually say, before giving unsolicited advice, “I’m not a doctor, but I have played one on t.v.”  (Which is true.) Like that works with me.  He has also been known to inquire, “Did you BLOCK MY E-MAILS?”

Where was I?  Oh yes.  Fiddledaddy grew up locally, a few miles from the beach.  Although he never picked up surfing, he did rock the tan and groovy feathered long blonde hair.  He dearly loves the beach.

I signed the girls up for Surf Camp before the end of the school year, because A) a number of their friends were doing it, and B) I wanted them to be tired for a week.  Plus Surf Camp involved some really awesome evening worship music and a fantastic message from the pastor.  You can never get enough of that as a teenager, I always say.

At first they were dubious because, you know, A NEW SPORT.  I stuck around on the morning of the first day of camp and enjoyed the pastor’s speech on ALL THE RULES.  First rule, NO PURPLE.  What that means is that the boys are blue and the girls are pink.  And if the two mix, purple (this is not true as my art teacher friend informed me).  But the kids got the idea.  There were also rules about modest bathing attire, clean language, and no smoking or drinking.  I think just the moms applauded, but whatever.

They run a really awesome surf camp, comprised of 300 teenagers and many many volunteers.  I was impressed.  And my girls were hooked on surfing that very first day.


The week culminated with a surfing contest.  In the Beginners/Intermediate Division, both of my girls made it to the semi-finals, and Cailey advanced to the finals.  That night, Cailey learned that she had placed 4th in her division.


Pretty much all they’ve been able to think about is surfing since the camp ended.  And over the weekend they spent some of their savings on two starter surf boards.  We’ve hit the beach with their other surfing buddies several times since surf camp.

It should be noted that we have purchased Cailey’s weight in sunscreen products.  She turns pink if she saunters past a window.  One salty old surfer noticed her gliding through the parking lot with her board and hollered to me, “HOW DO YOU KEEP HER SO WHITE?” She was not amused.

And guess who shuttles them to and fro?  Me!  A funny thing has happened in my Lyme Disease journey.  I’m actually feeling good.  Good enough to haul a bunch of kids and their surf boards to the beach and back.  And guess what else?  I’m starting to actually be OKAY with my toes in the sand.  In fact, right now, there is sand all over my mommy van.  AND I’M NOT FREAKING OUT!

Because here is one of the joys of a day spent at the beach:

Those comatose lumps on the couch are my daughters. They’ve looked like this for the last couple of hours.  Periodically, I check for a  pulse.

Around here, we like to call this phenomenon RUNNING THE DOGS.  And it’s going to make for a great summer.  Cowa. Bunga. Dude.


Starting off the New Year on the Wrong Foot

Over the weekend, I was afforded the rare opportunity to slip out of the house and do something on my own.  I chose to visit our local Goodwill.  (Keep the bar low.)  Without the minions.  Who, by the way, have not discovered the joy of the hunt for uncovered treasures, that await most every visit to Goodwill.

To bad for them.  And not having anyone trail me with the repetitive “ARE YOU DONE YET MOM?” was icing on my cake.  My mother and grandmother introduced me to thrift stores, garage sales, dumpster diving, and auctions before I ever cut my first tooth.  And I was hooked.

The Goodwill was unusually crowded late in the afternoon.  I had to abandon my cart midway through the store.  Generally I have a few things on my wish list when I enter the store.  On Saturday that list included, but was not limited to, calf high black boots, and some cute tops to wear over stretchypants.

Immediately I headed back to the shoe rack.  And there they were.  Or rather, it was.  On the top shelf sat the perfect black boot.  Brand: Candies (can never go wrong there), rubber sole in perfect shape.  Quickly I checked the size.  EUREKA!  WHAT LUCK.  IT WAS MY POST-CHILDREN size of 8.  I was a 7.  Until 3 pregnancies.  I’ve heard it’s an old wives tale that your feet spread during pregnancy.  I’m here to dispel that idea.  They not only swell, but permanently change zip codes.

BootNotice a problem?  There was only one boot.  ONE BOOT.  I searched the black shoe/boot aisle high and how.  Not an easy feat since there were two women who took up residence in that tiny space trying on EVERY black stiletto they could find.  And then discussing them at length. I went to the other shoe aisle just so that I could reach through to the black shoe aisle, searching for the boot.  I got down on my hands and knees and looked underneath all the racks.  Nothing.

I tried perusing the reading nook, where the only chairs are located, in case someone tried the boot’s mate on.  Nothing.

I looked in the golf bags, located next to the shoe aisle.  (At this point I was getting desperate.)  I then reclaimed my cart and decided to go in search of the cute tops to wear over stretchypants.  Still, I kept the lone boot with me in case I were to discover the other in another part of the store.  At one point I stopped an employee and asked her if a boot was missing, where I should look for the other.  She shrugged, “It could be anywhere.”  WHERE WOMAN?  IN THE STORE?  IN THE CITY?

A good hour and a half went by.  Still no boot.  At last it was time to try on the 3 lonely shirts that I found.  Which, btw, would have looked FANTASTIC with the boot.  Nothing can ever prepare me for what I look like under the fluorescent lighting in a Goodwill store.  No shirt, no matter how cute, or what size, will EVER look decent on me in that lighting, in front of that fun-house mirror.

Depressed, I left that room of horrors.  And reluctantly, I took the lonely boot back to the top rack of the black shoe aisle.

I left the store, only purchasing a package of neon #2 pencils.  The clerk gave me the senior discount.


I think crawling around on the floor of Goodwill for an hour plus change can render one rather haggard looking.

When I got to my car I discovered that Fiddledaddy had been trying to reach me.  I may have been hyper-focused in my search, and didn’t hear the 3 phone calls.  Or the 4 texts.  Evidently the children were in a state of panic, thinking their mother was dead on the side of the road leading to Goodwill.

However, this is what Fiddledaddy posted on his Facebook page.  With the caption, “She’s gone shopping and left me with all three children. No really, I’m fine.”

Tom_selfieTo appease the offspring, he called Goodwill and asked to have me paged.  The clerk answering the phone asked him, “Sir, is this an emergency?”  He looked at the starving/worried faces of his 3 children.  The answer of course was YES, but he replied, “Never mind.”  Then he called me once more, and this time I was in the parking lot, forehead on my steering wheel, wherein I answered the phone.

I like to think of myself as the anti-Cinderella.  My Prince was back at the castle minding the children, but my glass slipper eluded me.



January 4, 2016