I'm Convinced They Were Trying to Kill Us

I was reading @burghbaby’s post the other day about 80s toys and how they have led to many failures in life and my first thought was “I’m old”. No really. Because I didn’t have toys in the 80s – I had toys in the 70s When 80’s kids were playing with Strawberry Shortcake, we 70s kids were taking drinking beer in a barn somewhere. When 80s kids were playing with Cabbage Patch Dolls, we 70s kids were taking the SATs. When 80s kids were playing with Transformers, we 70s kids were researching birth control (by which I mean NOT researching birth control – teens are notoriously stupid). And while 80s toys may have caused failure, 70s toys were known to maim and kill. For instance:


Click-Clacks (or Clackers, Klackers, etc):

























They were 2 hard acrylic balls on strings that you would hang on your finger. Then, you’d move your hand up & down and they would “clack” against each other loudly. It was quite fun until you hit yourself in the face with them and broke your orbital bone.



Slime:













This one was only dangerous when you inevitably got it in the carpet and your mom lost her mind.



The Streaker:























This was one of my favorite toys as a child. It was two long nylin ropes threaded through a football-shaped hard plastic ball. At the four rope ends there were handles that each player would hold. You would spread your hands apart, whicih would send the ball “streaking” towards the other player, whou would them send it back. The object of this game seemed to be to get that thing going as fast as possible and catch your opponent off-guard so it would slam against their hands and hopefully break some fingers.



Ice Bird:
























This was a snow cone maker. You froze a block of ice and then used a bird with a scary ass garter on the bottom to shave the ice. I don't know about you, but I have shavced off my knuckles a ton of time while grating cheese, etc. Cheese is soft, and this grater was strong enough to grate ice.



Suzy Homemmaker Oven:













This was similar to the easy bake oven, but it was more awesome, because instead of sliding the cake in a slot, it opened up like a real oven. This meant you could cook whatever you wanted – not just those little bullshit easy-bake cakes. This toy wasn’t super dangerous in and of itself (other than the fact that an oven for children = burns, but it became dangerous when my friend Sue and I cooked up one too many nasty-assed concoctions and my grandma started making us eat them. That? Was deadly.



Creepy Crawlers:















Oh how I loved my Creepy Crawler maker (I had a thing for a lot of “boy toys” – I had about 5 slot car sets). This was a toy that allowed you to make your own rubber-like bugs, by pouring a liquid “goop” into die-cast molds. But see - the metal molds on this thing heated up to approximately 23 thousand degrees. I think I still bear scars from that toy.



Incredible Edibles:
















These were the same as the creepy Crawlers, only you could eat them. Burns on the hands AND mouth.




Paddle Talk:


















This was a plastic paddle that you took in the car. It had different messages that you could flip around and “talk” to other cars. The toy itself wasn’t dangerous, but showing the “Same to You Turkey!” or “Get Off My Tail” to the wrong person could get your ass kicked. Not to mention that the rest of them where in the “You're Cute"/"Hot To Trot"/"Let's Park" vein and could get you molested.




Super Elastic Bubble Plastic:























That shit had to be toxic.



Krazy Kar:















I loved this with a passion. You sat in the middle and “pedaled” with your arms. This definitely wasn’t as dangerous as some of the other toys I owned - it didn’t heat up, or explode, or shoot your eye out, but you sat so low to the ground that no car could ever see you. And it had no brakes, so riding it down a hill pulled your arms off and sent you crashing into the neighbor’s bushes. Not that I’d know anything about that.




Jarts:



















It’s like they wanted us dead. Irwin Mainway would be proud.



But as dangerous as the 70s toys were, it was even worse for the 60s kids. My Aunt Cee, who is a few years older than me, got this for Christmas one year:

The Big Burger Grill

















That, my friends is a real, working grill. To cook burgers on. Somehow my aunt managed not to get 3rd degree burns or set the house on fire. But that may have been because she never really “got” the toy. It was intended to be a Christmas present, but she went snooping and found it before Santa could put it under the tree. Then she proceeded to open it, head down to the fridge for some ground meat, and cook up a burger and eat it. Then, being a child, it never occurred to her to clean the thing before she put it back in the box. Needless to say, when Santa was doing the wrapping, he smelled the telltale smell of cooked meat and got suspicious. Strangely, the box never appeared under the tree.


I could go on forever listing these – like the one I can’t remember the name of which was a silly-putty like substance in bright colors that you would throw against the wall and it would stick. My family was dangerous with that stuff – things got broken, people got beamed in the head. Good times.

But not all of the 70s toys were dangerous. I also have many fond memories of toys like Fidget:










And Shaker Makers:




















And Fuzzy Wuzzy soap:











Tell me – what was your favorite 60s-70s toy? And was it dangerous?

Tick Tick Tick...Boom

On Easter, we sat at my aunt's house, talking about childhood injuries & illnesses and the talk turned to lice. I have been through that devil plague wit my kids and I can tell you that long after the infestation has been cleared, the effects will live with you for a long time - possibly forever. not your kids - your kids will be all, whatever two days later, but you'll be the one who - five years later - still loses my shit every time I feel even the tiniest itch on my head (and I didn't even have them!)

So anyway, I was telling everyone how I'm nuts and obsessive, and how I completely overreact if one hair as much as moves in the breeze and feels like a tiny tickle or itch. I immediately go into a several hour panic, scratching and feeling around in my scalp for what is obviously some kind of creepy crawly. And then we all laughed and laughed at how crazy I am.

And then Monday, I was sitting at my desk at work, ran my fingers through my hair, and discovered a tick.

A TICK!!!

IN MY HAIR!!!!!!!

Who's crazy now, bitches???

(OK, it's me - I'm still crazy. Because once you find a tick crawling around in your hair, it's pretty much crazytown from here on out. Of all thing to be right about, it had to be this one.)

You Call That a Puppy?

Remember him?






























Yeah, me neither.

Conversations

The Girl & friend visiting my SIL, Weenie, at her work (a makeup counter):

The Girl: "Can we put on lip gloss?"
Weenie: "Sure - what color do you want?"
Friend: "We want red!"
The Girl: "Excuuuuse me, Friend, but YOU DO NOT SPEAK FOR ME! We'll take red, Weenie."

*********************************************

Bathing suit shopping with my mother (gives you chills, doesn't it?):

Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: hmm
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: *rolls eyes*
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: sigh
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: pfft
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: *getting a headache*
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: (silent) omgomgomgomg
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: *trying not to kill anyone*
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: *thinking about killing myself*
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: "Mother - I have had these boobs for THIRTY YEARS - you should have accepted by now that they ARE huge!"

*********************************************

After school:

The Girl: "Mom, someone wrote a bad word on the board today."
Me: "Really?"
The Girl: "Yep. You wanna know what they wrote?"
Me: "Sure - what did they write?"
The Girl" "They wrote the A-word!"
Me: "No way!"
The Girl: " Yes way. AND they put 'hole' on the end!"
Me: "Get out! I wonder who wrote it."
The Girl: "Maybe it was Charley - he probably thinks that's his name anyway, since that's what you call him all the time."

Tomatoes!

When it comes to struggling to manage work, home, kids, etc, something always suffers (I have finally accepted that I cannot be supermom), and for me, that thing tends to be meals. I try – I really do try – to have a healthy, home-cooked meal on the table every night, but I fail by a long shot. Time is a factor – I get home after work and often have a very short time before I have to run someone off to soccer practice or scouts, and that means cooking/eating quickly. And home-cooked and healthy don’t often go hand in hand with quick.

Add in the picky eaters in my house and it’s a recipe for disaster (or crappy, empty meals). When it comes to vegetables for instance, the girl loves green beans – she would eat them every day for every meal. The boy hates them. Mr b loves Brussels sprouts. The rest of us laugh at him when he suggests we have them. They’ll eat raw cauliflower and carrots, but gag at the thought of it cooked. They like broccoli cooked, but raw? No way. It’s enough to make you crazy. Or crazier, in my case.

And if I am being honest, I can be picky, too. There isn’t a lot that I won’t eat, but the things I don’t like, I really don’t like. I will continue to try foods I don’t like, because you never know. I eat a ton of things now that I didn’t eat as a child. Or that I didn’t eat even a few years ago. Beans, peppers & peas, for instance. But other things – not matter how many times I try, I can’t stomach – like peanut butter. And one of the main things that I won’t eat is the girl’s absolute favorite food in the world – fresh tomatoes.

Now, I love tomato sauce and Lord knows I think ketchup is a food group, but fresh tomatoes? I just can’t seem to develop a taste for them. But I try to work them into our meals as often as possible, because tomatoes are quite good for you.

Did you know that tomatoes and tomato products have been shown to help with reduce the risk of certain cancers, heart disease, ultraviolet light–induced skin damage, osteoporosis, and other conditions?

And that tomatoes contain high levels of carotenoid antioxidants such as lycopene, but also serve as a significant source of vitamin C, fiber and potassium (in fact, calorie for calorie, tomatoes contain more than twice the potassium of other common sources such as bananas, potatoes, milk and orange juice).

Tomatoes are so good for you that the 2010 Dietary Guidelines Advisory Committee outlined a new red-orange vegetable sub-group for Americans to provide a greater focus on tomatoes. This guideline can be easily met by consuming just one more half-cup serving of tomatoes each day.

Since I don’t eat fresh tomatoes, though, I thought that I probably wasn’t getting the health benefits, because fresh is always better, right?

Wrong.

It turns out that canned tomato products (which I do use regularly) are not only as good as fresh, in some ways, they can be better. While all tomatoes contain high levels of the powerful antioxidant lycopene – canned products such as tomato paste, tomato sauce and spaghetti sauce have approximately seven times more lycopene than raw tomatoes!

See – you learn something new every day!

Hunt’s has shared this information with me, so I can pass it on to you, along with a recipe showing that even crazy, busy, tired moms of even the pickiest eaters can manage to throw together something delicious AND nutritious and not lose our minds.

The problem with recipes is that I am not a recipe-style cook. I am a throw it together using the “dash of this” and “handful of that” method (which is why I suck at baking – it’s too much of an exact science), but I’m sure you all can figure it out – it’s quick, easy and delicious).

We have this pasta dish once a week, because we all love it (and I did have photos to go along with this, but then I lost all my sense and somehow deleted them from my camera). I dedicate this recipe to my grandma who – for years – watched me pick every tiny tomato morsel out of every dish she ever made.


You’ll need:
• 1 box of pasta (I prefer campanelle – it’s pretty, so it looks nice when you are serving it to guests, plus the shape of the pasta holds the flavors better)

• 3 red peppers, thinly sliced (sometimes I use combinations of red/yellow/orange – it tastes the same, but it’s pretty. And yes, I clearly have a thing about “pretty” food)

• 2 packages of sliced mushrooms (you can slice your own, but my own personal feelings about that are: HAHAHAHAHAHA – pre-sliced it is)

• 2 cans of Hunt’s diced tomatoes (I use the no-salt added because I like to control the salt, plus my family are food-salters, but they have a ton to chose from – they have diced with garlic, or with basil or balsamic or peppers or lots of other combinations - you can see them all here – but definitely use Hunt’s because theirs are the best quality – they go from vine to can in just hours and they use flash-steaming to remove the skins, which many other companies use LYE - ewww)

• Garlic – lots and lots of garlic (you can use fresh & mince it yourself, or do what I do – buy a jar of it already minced. You can use garlic powder if you want, but it’s not the same).

• Minced onion (or fresh, sliced onion if your kids won’t cry and whine and choke and gag and possibly convulse at the sight of an onion in their meal)

• Extra-virgin olive oil. (I suppose you could use the oil of your choice, but I am telling you in all honesty you want the extra virgin for the flavor. Or at the very least some sort of olive oil. Don’t ruin this with canola or vegetable oil – I’m begging you).

• Grated cheese- whatever you prefer – romano, parmesan, asiago (personally, all the cheeses are my favorite – I have made it with fontinella which was delicious, but my kids tasted the difference, and I sometimes make it with crumbled bleu, but only if it’s just for me because if you think the onions will make my kids cry/whine/choke/gag/convulse, hoo-boy, try giving them bleu cheese).

• Salt & pepper


Now here are my very technical directions:

• Cook the pasta to be al dente

• In the meantime, pour some oil in a large pan and throw in your minced garlic. At least a tablespoon, though I tend to use more – garlic is magic.

• Then add your sliced peppers & sauté.

• After a few minutes, add the sliced mushrooms & continue to sauté until the veggies are tender. You can add a little oil or even water if needed.

• (This will sound weird, but I tend to let my veggies start to brown/scorch a tiny bit, then I will throw in a little water – it will give everything a nice flavor and color)
• Mix in your Hunts diced tomatoes & sauté for a minute or so (they don’t really need to cook, so much as just incorporate the flavor.

• Once the veggies are done, add a little more oil and dump your drained pasta into the pan & toss it all together (this is why you need a large pan – of you don’t have one, you can always do the mixing in a large serving dish, but I like to get the pasta in the pan for a minute or two to really get the flavor in there), adding salt & pepper to taste.

• Before serving, I usually mix a little bit of the cheese into the pasta to get some melting cheesy deliciousness, and then have more on hand for each person to add some of their own.

• Enjoy!

• Also – you can use the veggie part of this recipe as a bruschetta topping and it’s delicious - just cut everything up a tiny bit smaller.


OK – here’s the legal stuff: I was contacted and am being compensated by Hunt’s and The Motherhood to do this post, but the opinions expressed are my own. We really do eat this recipe once a week and we love it. And I really do use Hunt’s tomatoes because they are the best. My grandma used Hunt’s, my mom uses Hunt’s, and now I do too.

Maneater

I was emptying out The Girl's folder this morning and I came across a note written by her so-called "boyfriend". It read, "I'm sorry I made you mad. I will do anything!"


OMG

Like No One Is Watching

It started back in December with a tweet from @unclecrappy that Furthur was coming to Pittsburgh. I have a tendency to see that a concert or a play or a musical is coming to town, think yeah, I’d like to go to that, then go on to either forget all about it until it’s sold out, or decide to be “responsible” and not spend the money. I can’t tell you how many things I have missed this way (and regretted it afterward). I’m sure if @unclecrappy had left it at that, I would have done the same as always, skipping it and kicking myself after the fact. But he didn’t leave it at that. Instead, he sent me a message that he wanted me to come along with him and @mrscrappy and offered to get the tickets. And for the first time in a long time, I thought, the hell with it, I’m going. And I am so glad I did.

These days, not a lot of people know that I’m a Deadhead – I dress for work, and don’t generally blare my music at my desk. I have to fight for radio time in the car with three stubborn people. I don’t have the time or freedom of my late teens and early twenties to take off to parts unknown to see a show (or in some cases, camp out for tickets). But those who knew me “then” had no doubt – I was a Deadhead. It’s not just a love for a band and their music (although for me, that’s how it started), but it’s a way of life.

I liked the music when I was still in high school, but I didn’t know anyone else that did. And lord knows if there’s ever a time when you want to “fit in”, it’s high school. Sadly, for most of us, no matter how badly you want to and try to fit in, sometimes you just don’t. So imagine my delight when I went away to college and found my people. What a difference a year made for me. In high school, I had friends, but the majority of them weren’t real friends – they were the kind of friends that you have to actively work to keep – always watching what you say and do and wear. Always watching who else you befriend. And anyone who knows me knows that this is simply not the way I live my life. I have never been dazzled by an in crowd. I have never held back my feelings or actions for fear of someone liking me. To keep from hurting someone – sure – we have all done that. But to impress someone into being my friend? No thanks. Needless to say, by the time I graduated. I had a lot of acquaintances, but probably 3 or 4 true friends.

But then I went to college & met a deadhead and we became friends. And slowly but surely, I met more and more. And I knew I had found my tribe. Never in my life, had I come across a less assuming bunch of people. They cared about each other. They loved each other – and me – without judgment. Their doors were always open to whomever wanted to come in. They weren’t impressed by money or clothes or status, but by kindness and compassion. I was home. The next 10 years of my life, I moved around, changed schools (twice), had relationships, and lost and gained jobs. But one thing was always constant – the Deadhead friends I made in each place.

I grew up being criticized a lot, and that made me a pretty self-conscious person. I was comfortable enough with myself to not let it show – to not care what anyone thought of me, but even if I didn’t care about being judged, I still felt self-conscious much of the time. but around my deadhead friends, that part of me would disappear. And it wasn’t just my friends, it was that community in general. The community of Deadheads was like that – you didn’t need to be self-conscious about anything. I went on vacation by myself to visit my aunt and looked in the paper for something to do. I found a band called New Potato Caboose (a Dead song), and went with my aunt to see them. Before the night was over, I met some folks who invited me to hang out with them that weekend. By the next day, I had extended my vacation, changed my flights, and had a great time with my new friends.

I moved to a new city and heard about Dead night at a local bar. I headed there alone, but by the end of the night, I had made friends that I had for many years afterward. I once got separated from friends at a show and within five minutes of looking lost and alone, I was asked to join a group of folks sitting nearby and I spent the entire evening with them and had a great time. This - this - was what being a Deadhead was to me. I even found myself a more tolerant person in that environment. And another concert, people bumping into me and squeezing through the row of seats where I sat would irritate me. Not there. At any other concert, people standing up and dancing the entire time would frustrate me. Not there. There, it was expected, encouraged. I joined them.

But then Jerry died and the shows came to an end. They regrouped and started back up again, but by then I had had my first baby and then my second. Suddenly finding time or money for a concert was hard. By the time, I could finally go again, I always seemed to be on vacation or broke, or something, and I never managed to make it. And I lost touch with most of my Deadhead friends. And the old self-conscious me took hold again. I am constantly down on myself – I am too fat, my face is breaking out, my clothes are out of style, I’m out of shape, my hair is a mess. I miss out on doing things because of it. The thought of wearing a bathing suit in public makes me feel queasy (though I push through that one for The Plunge), I rarely appear in photos, though I happily take them of everyone else. I don’t dance unless I (or maybe everyone else) have ample alcohol to forget about my lack of rhythm and how awful I must look.

So last night, as I was walking into the venue with @unclecrappy, @mrscrappy and @cjyohe, surrounded by people – young, old, thin, fat, black, white and everything in-between, I suddenly realized I was feeling…I don’t know…weird. And then I realized that it wasn’t what I was feeling, but what I wasn’t feeling. Not one of those people cared about my hair looking bad. No one was offended that my t-shirt was a little clingy, showing off my belly. No one even noticed the ripped hem of my jeans. No one looked me up and down (except the one old guy who did and liked what he saw, as evidenced from his somehow inoffensive, “ooo, mama, you look good) And no one gave a damn whether I could dance or not. And dance I did. For the first time in a long, long time, I danced like no one was watching.

His Sister Loved Her Windfall

I am being driven slowly insane by a condition known as Having Children. It’s a vicious circle – The kids drive me crazy, which stresses me out and makes me less tolerant of their nonsense, which stresses them out, so they act up more, which stresses me out even more, and so on.

I have been harassing the boy to get room clean once and for all. Every time he cleans it, he ends up sitting there doing nothing until he hears you walk up the hall, then he looks busy. This goes on for hours until those 2-minute bursts of activity result in a room that is “clean” rather than clean. Things in drawers, under the bed, in the closet – whatever it takes to make it look clean. And by the time he’s done, it’s late, I’m tired, we have somewhere to go, I’m stressed – a million reasons to just let it go.

But a couple of weeks ago, I reached my limit – that room was getting cleaned no matter what. He had to go to play in the pit orchestra for the school musical that evening, and he was supposed to have a friend stay over afterward, so I told him he needed to get the room cleaned before he had to leave or his friend wasn’t coming. He started off in his normal, sitting on his ass way, until I made it clear that his friend would not be allowed to come over if he didn’t get it done. Suddenly he kicked it into high gear.

He was working and cleaning and doing what I asked. The girl was even helping him. I gave him garbage bags to get rid of the 600 pounds of paper and crap and broken stuff that he had been shoving in the closet and in drawers and under the bed for the past god knows how long. I was happy to see the first bag come out of there. And the second. And the third. I praised him and said, now doesn’t it feel good to get that done?

He admitted that it did and kept on going. And then another bag came out. And another. And I started to get suspicious. I asked him if he was just throwing stuff away because he didn’t want to clean it. He insisted he wasn’t and that he was only throwing out old, broken stuff and garbage. I was skeptical, but given the amount of stuff I had recently seen under his bed and in his closet – it was possible. Finally, after many hours (and seven bags), he was done. He got ready and we dropped him off at the school.

After I got back, I happened to glance into the last bag he brought out, which he hadn’t tied shut. And my head exploded into a million I-Will-Kill-That-Kid shaped pieces. Right on top, I found a game. A game that had never been opened – that still had the plastic shrinkwrap on the box. And a science kit. And a sculpting book & set. And a set of good (and very much not cheap) artist pastels. And a robot-building kit. None of which had ever even been opened. Some of these things, I tried to donate to Toys for Tots the previous year, since they were still brand new, but he insisted he was going to play with them, so I didn’t.

By now, it was clear that I was going to have to go through every single bag. I understand if he had outgrown something and didn’t want it anymore. But there is no way in hell I was going to let him throw away a bunch of perfectly good stuff that we could donate or sell, or give away to someone who would love to have it. So this week, I spent hours going though those bags. And oh the things I found.

In addition to the previously mentioned items (and lots of broken stuff and garbage), I also found: the remote control car we paid about seven bajillion dollars for him to build, another remote control car, a set of air hogs helicopters, a paintball gun, a sweater, two t-shirts and a hat that he just got for Christmas (that still had TAGS ON THEM!), Several other articles of clothing – some outgrown, but in pristine condition, and some which still fit – including brand names like American Eagle, Gap, and Calvin Klein. Several baseball hats, including two scout hats and a Gap hat with the tags still on it. A favorite pair of MY sandals that have been missing for a couple of years. One of my hiking boots. A pair of his father’s shoes. A couple articles of his sister’s clothing. Approximately 1,000 marbles. His entire keychain collection (which his sister has been eyeing for years). A pair of roller blades. About a dozen books, including a boxed 3-book reference set. A Lion King collectible. A Pirates collectible coin book with several coins. The same with Steelers coins. A Sidney Crosby trading card in a protective case. A huge box of trading cards, including sports, pokemon and yugioh. Three brand new packs of pencils. A brand new pack of pens. A stapler. A calculator. Several scouting/camping items. Two scouting books. Two souvenir baseball bats – one from the final game at Three Rivers. A small piggy bank (with some money in it). A brand new set of markers. A brand new set of colored pencils. An electronic door alarm kit. A Steelers sign. Karate pads. A giant ear of corn hat (a treasure that should never be thrown away). And a whole bunch of other things that have no business in the garbage.

I gathered up all the goods and waited until he got home. Then I watched while he noticed the huge bin of cool stuff and approached it. And then I attacked: “BACK OFF! That is not your stuff!”

“What? This is stuff from my room!”

“No – that is stuff you threw away, so it isn’t your anymore”

“No way! That’s not fair! I didn’t mean to throw that stuff away! Come on, Mom!”

“Forget it, Pal.”

And then I happily gave a bunch of the stuff to his sister while he watched. Sometimes I love being the mean mom.


PS. I know that he didn't throw this stuff away out of pure ungratefulness - he was in a panic that he wouldn't get to have his friend stay over so he started throwing stuff out without even looking at it. But it's still no excuse.

It's Hell Getting Old

I make a lot of jokes about getting old, and most of the time they are just that – jokes. But lately, I find myself finding a little truth underneath the silliness and the sarcasm and the self deprecation. I can remember as a child my great grandmother (who we called Nana) saying, “It’s hell getting old” and I never really understood what she meant. As I got older, I decided that she must be talking about the aches and pains of getting older. I can understand that. While I’m not yet ancient, I’ve reached the age where although I can still do certain things in my mind (like back walkovers and roller skating backwards and reverse 1-1/2s off the 3 meter board), when it comes to reality I can just forget it. And I know what it feels like to be tired, and to have an aching back, and to wake up in the morning with injuries incurred while sleeping. Obviously, that is what she was talking about, right?

But now that I am a little older than when I decided that was the explanation, I realize that wasn’t it at all. Sure – the physical aches and pains can be a real bitch, but hell? No, that’s something else.

Though beautiful and wonderful, it’s hell to watch your kids grow up. To watch them lose every little bit of that baby you carried and held and nursed. It’s hell to not be able to instantly picture their baby faces in your mind. It’s hell to realize you aren’t perfect in their eyes anymore. It’s hell to think about them leaving home and going where you can’t protect them. It’s hell knowing that your time with them is short.

It’s hell watching your parent age. Not just get older, but get old. It’s beautiful to be old enough to see past your differences and remember when they were perfect in your eyes, but hell to watch them change into something else. It’s hell to see your friends lose their parents and to know that someday you will too. It’s wonderful if you still have your parents to lean on, but hell to realize that soon they will be leaning on you. It’s hell to wonder who you will lean on then. It’s hell knowing that your time with them is short.

It’s hell when you hear about an old friend or classmate with cancer or heart disease or diabetes and realize you’ve gone from feeling shocked because he or she is too young to be affected by something like that to feeling sad and upset and outraged because it’s so unfair, but no longer shocked. It’s hell to lose friends. It’s hell knowing that your time with them is short.

It’s hell when you find yourself occasionally giving your age and then finding yourself for even a brief instance thinking, “Wait, am I 42? Or is it 43?” It’s hell to feel like your life is flying by too fast and you can’t find the brakes. It’s hell to panic because you have so much left to do, but less time than think you need. It’s hell to suddenly feel mortal. It’s hell knowing that your time is always too short.

You were right, Nana. It is hell getting old.

Scooter Wars

There’s a been a bit of drama going on over a blog post about obese people using scooters in Walt Disney World (which I’m not linking to). The post itself bugged me a little (for various reasons), but it wasn’t the thing that got me fired up the most. As usual with “controversial” posts, it’s the comments where people lose their fucking minds. They take it as a license to completely bash people, based on their attributes or politics or beliefs. In this case, their weight.

Admittedly, I have a hard time staying neutral on the issue, because I am fat. I have been fat and I have been thin and I can tell you without a doubt that people treat you better, with more respect and kindness, when you are thin. So reading the horrible comments about disgusting fat people was pretty hurtful.

But I don’t want to lose sight of the point here. I understand where the author was coming from with the post. To me, at least, the problem isn’t fat people using scooter unnecessarily, but anyone using a scooter unnecessarily. I’m going to pretend that the original post had nothing to do with obesity and give my take on the scooter use in Disney World.

I’m not going to lie to you – I have had occasional thoughts like the author's – I’m human after all, and I get frustrated. And frustration often makes us irrational, angry and yes – mean. I’m no exception. The first time we took the kids to WDW, it was after mr b had a devastating accident. Although he had mostly recovered, he still had a hard time being on his feet for long periods of time. And walking around WDW for five or ten (or more) miles every day definitely was out of the question. The day we arrived, by the time we checked into our resort and hopped a bus, we didn’t arrive at the Magic Kingdom until around noon. Our first stop was the scooter rental. Unfortunately, on many days the scooters are all rented by that time, so we couldn’t get one. Mr b could have gotten a wheelchair, but he had spent quite enough time in one and had no intention of starting again. So he decided to tough it out and head back to the resort early if he got too uncomfortable.

Because of the fact that we couldn’t get a scooter, I noticed how many of them were around. And yes – like the author of that blog, I got frustrated. While there were some people who were elderly or clearly handicapped, it seemed like the majority of those using them were folks who didn’t really need them. Some were seemingly healthy adults. Some were groups of giggling teens piling on and taking turns. And yes – some were obese. And I’m not proud to admit it, but I got mad. I found myself thinking unkind things about these people. In my defense, it wouldn’t have bothered me except for the fact that if these people hadn’t needlessly been using them, my actually handicapped husband would have one. But it’s no excuse.

The next day, we got to Epcot early and there were scooters available. Mr b got one and we headed into the park. He never once used the handicapped entrance – he had no intention of going to the front of the line. There are people who need to, but he isn’t one of them. Standing in a line wasn’t a big deal – it was getting from line to line that was the problem for him, so he’d park it, get in line with the masses and then get back on the scooter to head to the next attraction. However, what he thought was a good thing seemed to work against him. People would see him walking (seemingly) normally, then getting on a scooter which he obviously (to them) didn’t need. And they would give us dirty looks, and made under-their-breath (but still audible) comments about “lazy people.”

It was a damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation – people that saw us heading from ride to ride assumed we were going to cut in their line. People who saw us park the thing and get in the line to wait looked at him with barely concealed disgust. It was obvious that both groups thought he was just lazy.

And that is why the kind of judgment going on over on that blog is dangerous. Because no matter how someone looks to you, no matter how normal, or how healthy, or yes - how fat - they look – you don’t ever really know the reasons behind their “lazy” use of the scooter. Many handicaps aren’t visible. Maybe that person in the scooter had a physical impairment that you can’t see – like mr b. Maybe they have severe, debilitating breathing problems, or a heart defect. Maybe they are weak from radiation or chemotherapy. Maybe that child has autism and can’t wait in lines like your child. Maybe that stroller isn’t actually a stroller, but a kind of stroller/wheelchair that makes it easier for the parents/child to get around. And any of the things I just mentioned can happen to a thin OR a fat person. But just because they are fat, it doesn’t mean they don’t deserve the same respect and kindness you would give to their thin counterpart.

And yes – maybe they are just lazy. I know firsthand that it is frustrating to watch an entire family on scooters (complete with kids piled on) bypass the line and get great seats while you and yours wait in the long, hot, miserable (and sometimes stinky) lines. But I made the decision then and there to not be the person who gets upset about it. I decided to see those people and instead of feeling like I am missing out on something, to feel thankful that I am missing out on whatever pain or discomfort or ridicule they are experiencing. And I think I’m a better person for it.

My Weekend Getaway

This weekend, mr b and I enjoyed a nice getaway. I was lucky enough to win a weekend trip to Seven Springs from 96.1 Kiss (I won it on twitter, resulting in a hilarious conversation with my mother where I tried to explain what twitter is – good times). All in all, it was a great time – we got away from the house and the kids and the farting, pooping, destructive beasts. We got a bunch of awesome free stuff. We had lots of good meals and a ton of free beer (YAY!).

I got to people watch, which is always fun. Especially when there is Crazy in attendance and let me tell you – this trip did not disappoint. The night we had passes to a lounge with a live band, Crazy was in the house. My personal favorites were: Peek-a-Boobs (who “danced” with every guy she could get her hands on and then gave one “lucky” gentleman a lap dance and then – true story – spent some time licking his face and bald head; Captain Skanky (who was dressed like a deranged pirate); 80’s Dude (complete with cut off t-shirt); Fu-Manchu Mustache; Girl Who Left Her Spanx on the Bathroom Floor; Tambourine Chick; Sequined Shirt…Dress…Wait, that’s a scarf…no a shirt...Wait – it’s attached? WTF?; At Least 40, But Still Wearing His High School Letter Jacket & Hoodie; Guy Who Kept Screaming “38 Special!” at the Band All Damned Night; and Drunk Dancing Guy (who got right next to our table and did some kind of solo version of the forbidden dance, took off his hat, swirled it around in the air and then SLAMMED IT on our table before charging the dance floor). I was in Crazy People Heaven!

The downside of the weekend was that it seemed to be part of a vast conspiracy to make me feel old. To wit:

*The morning to night free beer wore me out much faster than it did “back in the day”

* I talked to a young guy who asked how we won the contest and when I told him on twitter, he replied, “YOU have a twitter account? I don’t even have a twitter account. The unspoken “But you’re so old” came through loud and clear.

*Skiing – Good lord the skiing nearly killed me. Don’t get me wrong – I loved it. I used to be a pretty accomplished skier (having learned from my dad when I was very young), and I skied several times a week all through my teens. I went as often as I could in my twenties, but then life and kids and money (and a spectacular crash resulting in a snapped-in-half boot) got in the way, and I just never made it out to the slopes again. It had been about ten years since I had been on skis and I was nervous. First, I had to wait in the ENDLESS, ANNOYING, BLISTERINGLY HOT rental lines, the whole time my leg muscles burning just from standing in ski boots (next time, I am renting before I get there). Plus everything had changed so much since the last time I was there that I spent about 15 minutes at the bottom of the mountain trying to figure out where to go, which lift to take and to psych myself up. The good news is that after all the fretting and stressing (and wondering if I was going to be the one that falls getting off the lift, causing the whole thing to shut down), as soon as I got on the slopes, it was like I never stopped skiing. It all came back to me. I knew what I was doing! I felt like a teenager again! That is, I did for approximately 4 minutes, at which time my thighs started screaming something like “Ouuuuuch” (and shortly afterward morphed into “OuuuuuchMOTHERFUCKER!”) and my knees just looked at each other and said, “Bitch CRAZY!” But even though I could only do two runs at a time and had to rest in-between, and even though I stuck to trails, rather than the black diamond slopes of my youth (I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid, I had a great time. The weather was amazing, the conditions were perfect, the solitude was awesome (mr b didn’t ski), and I loved it. I can’t wait to go again (though it might not be until next year).

*In addition to the long lines and sweltering heat of the rental lines, I also had to REPORT MY WEIGHT!

*Aaaaand when I got my printed rental ticket, I discovered that their program uses only the year of birth to calculate how old you are and it ROUNDED UP MY AGE!

*The following sentence may have possibly passed through my lips, “Three dollars for a bottle of Coke? I remember when it was a damned quarter!”

But the best part of the weekend was the random acts of kindness that I got to do. The sponsors of the contest gave each of us a book of passes for activities like skiing, tubing, bowling, skating, mini-golf, meals, drinks, parties, etc. And no one (especially anyone my advanced age) could fit all of it into the weekend (after which the passes expired). So mr b and I had a great time picking out non-jackhole people to give them to. I loved seeing the look on people’s face when they realized they didn’t have to shell out an arm and a leg for a lift ticket, or that they could surprise their kids with tubing or bowling or skating. It made an old lady’s weekend.

Weeding

I have to weed out Google Reader a good bit. I realized recently that I am missing some of my favorite blogs because I lost my mind for a while and started subscribing to a whole bunch that I don't even like that much, so now, every time I open Reader, I see 1000+ posts and I get overwhelmed and I shut it back down. So today, I am cleaning house. So, if I used to be a frequent reader/commenter to yours and you haven't seen me in a while, I am sorry - especially to those of you who still come around here even though I appear to have abandoned you. I'm going to weed out a bunch of bullshit and I'll be back.

A Typical Conversation with my Mother

Me: We had a great time!

Mom: That’s nice.

Me: There was so much to do – skiing, tubing, bowling…

Mom: Hmmm…

Me: We couldn’t possibly do it all! I mean, we went from the room to the bar for a…

Mom: That’s nice – so what do you think about these shoes?

Me: They’re cute. Anyway, there was a party in the bar and then we went to another bar to see a band, it was gr..

Mom: Do they look OK? I like them. They were more than I wanted to pay, but I couldn’t pass them up.

Me: They’re great – I love them. So, anyway, the band was great and we enjoyed it. I was tired on Saturday, but I was bound and determined to go skiing. I was nervous, since it had been so long, but I sur…

Mom: Oh. So, how about this cover-up? Isn’t it pretty?

Me: Yes – it’s lovely. I really surprised myself with how well I did on skis. I was tired, though, so I skipped the tubing – besides, we still had a ton of other things to d…

Mom: That’s nice. Look at this dress I got! It was on sale so cheap – unbelievable, right?

Me: Un-freaking-believable is right.

Mom: Does it fit OK?

Me: It’s fine. Anyway, I have to go. I just thought I’d tell you about the weekend.

Mom: What? I’m listening.

Me: It’s OK. All in all, we had a good time- they really took care of us – a nice room, freebies, lots of activities, breakfast, lunch and dinner on them, and…

Mom: Did you really eat all those meals? That’s too much. I could NEVER eat that much. Hmmm.

Mirrors

I’m not sure when I first started avoiding mirrors, but one day, I realized that I was. It’s not that I never look in a mirror – I’m human – I need to see to fix my hair or put on makeup or make sure my clothes aren’t on inside-out or something – which I have failed at twice in the last six months or so (though if it’s dark, I really do avoid them – a leftover fear from my jackhole neighbor boys telling my Mary Worth stories when I was five).

It’s less about avoiding the mirrors, exactly, and more about the way I cringe when I do look in them. I see a face that doesn’t look like me – or like the me I used to be. The me I want to be. I see gray hair and huge pores and bad skin and dark circles. I see tired eyes and sagging boobs. But mostly, I see fat. This isn’t who I want to be – not the fat woman, really (though I don’t want to be her, either), but the woman who hates herself, the woman who hides from mirrors because she hates what she sees.

I try to raise my daughter to never be that person. I never want her to hate herself, hate the way she looks. I never want her to be ashamed of what she looks like instead of proud of who she is. I refrain from talking about how I look in front of her. I teach her about loving yourself and the way you look. I stress to both of my kids that kindness and compassion are important and looks are not. And even though I do all that. I still worry that they will realize how I feel – that I’ll give off some vibe of self-loathing. That’s they’ll be able to read my face; pick up on my looks of disgust in the mirror the way I picked up on the looks of disgust my mom gave me as a teen, even when she wasn’t calling me fat (when I was 104 pounds – a whole other story).

I want to love myself – I really do. Ironically, when I had someone constantly telling me I was fat or trying to force me into unrealistic diets or buying me too-small clothes, I did love myself – it hurt that she said it, but I never believed it. Even after I started gaining weight (and losing and gaining again and again), I still felt strong and confident – I felt better during the “losing” times but during the “gaining” ones, I still had it in my head that I was OK – that I was a good person, that I had something to offer, that I was...well…pretty. But somewhere along the way something changed and I became the tentative, un-confident, self-conscious, self-loathing person that I don’t even recognize anymore – neither by the way I look nor the way I feel. The one who doesn’t show up in photos anymore. The one who wears the same things over and over because she doesn’t feel good in clothes anyway. The one who hides when she sees an old friend – or even worse – an old boyfriend out in public because she is too ashamed (not self-conscious, but ashamed of how she looks. How did I become this person? Where did the real me go?

I took The Girl out for lunch the other day and the wall next to our booth was a mirror and I watched as my beautiful, silly, kind, funny, wonderful daughter spent an hour looking into that mirror. Not looking and sighing in disgust, but looking and loving what she saw. She made silly faces. She posed. She laughed. She waved and kissed and fixed her hair. And she smiled. Something I haven’t done in the mirror in a long time.

I spend a lot of time trying to teach her, but watching her that day made me realize how much she has to teach me.

Still My Baby

My children are seven years apart in age. I didn’t really plan it that way, but that’s how it happened. Having them far apart like that has both pros and cons. A few of the pros are: I never had to worry about the sibling jealousy that arises when you bring a new baby home to a two or three year old, it was easier going out – it’s hard to hold on to a toddler and an infant, but a seven year old can generally be trusted to walk alongside you without you needing to keep a death grip on him. And if I’m being totally honest, it was nice to have a child old enough to go get me a diaper/wipes/binky when I needed one for the baby. (One thing I thought would be a pro was that I figured that with the age difference, they wouldn’t fight as much as close-in-age siblings do. OK, you folks with much older/younger siblings, get it out of your system: HAHAHAHAHAHA. But what did I know about siblings fighting – I’m an only child.)

But then you have the cons: while they DO play together, it’s not the same as having them a year or two apart when they have the same interests or abilities. And then there’s the schedules – they aren’t on the same sports teams or school schedules, so I often feel like all I do is run back and forth from one’s practice/game/school event to the other’s. But for me, the biggest con of all is the fact that I sometimes feel like I was cheated out of my second child’s babyhood.

When my son first said “Mama”, I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I couldn’t get enough of being called Mama (although I admit, there were times after I had heard it for the 275,329,842nd time that day when it wasn’t quite so sweet). And he called me Mama for a long time. In fact, when the girl was born, he was still calling me Mama most of the time, though he was heading into the more “big boy” habit of calling me Mom. Not that I don’t like Mom. But it just doesn’t quite tug at the heartstrings the way Mama does. And when she started calling me Mama, I was just as excited as the first time around. But with her, it didn’t last seven years like it did with him. In fact, with her, she started calling me Mom when she was just a toddler. And it broke my heart a teeny tiny bit.

The same goes with a lot of things – the cute mispronunciations, the outgrowing of “baby” shows and games and toys – she just seems to be growing up so much faster than he did (admittedly, some of it may be from my perspective of OMG – my last baby

One of the sweet habits she had started when she was a tiny baby. One day when I was nursing her, she reached up her hand and grabbed my earlobe and hold on. From then on, my ear (or the ear of whichever loved one was holding her) became her version of the security blanket. When she was taking a bottle, when you were snuggling, when you were reading her a story – any time you were close, she would comfort herself by holding on to your ear. Once she was talking, she would even ask for it – her sweet baby voice asking “ear?” almost made my heart explode. But like most childhood habits, she outgrew it.

But last night, we were lying on the couch together and she was reading me a book, and suddenly – without even realizing that she was doing it – she reached up and softly grabbed my ear. And my heart just melted. She may be growing up, but I’m glad she’s still my baby.

Your Funny Misunderstanding Can Win Big

We’ve all had one of those moments when we said one thing, but the person we said it to heard (or understood) something else entirely. It can be funny, frustrating and embarrassing. But usually, it’s pretty funny.

Regional dialect or slang can play a part in it – I know a lot of folks in the Pittsburgh area who have had a similar experience as mr b, when his friend from North Carolina came to visit. My MIL was making them sandwiches for lunch and asked if he wanted a jumbo sandwich & he replied, “No thank you, ma’am, a regular-sized one will be fine.”

Song lyrics often cause confusion, too. I remember riding on the bus to a football game, and my friend and fellow majorette had her walkman on and was singing along to REO Speedwagon’s Take it on the Run (I told you I was old). We all cracked up when we heard her sing (at full volume), “But I’m telling you, babe, that I don’t think it’s true, babe. And even if it is, keep kissin my hind.” (the real lyrics being “keep this in mind”). Of course, now “my hind” is forever burned into my brain and that’s how I sing it now, making me look stupid in front of anyone who is around.

Alka Seltzer is currently looking for the best or funniest story of just such a misunderstanding. If yours gets picked you can win a trip to NYC to star in an Alka-Seltzer online video featuring your miscommunication. Plus, you’ll receive $5,000 to spend towards whatever you wish. Sounds like a good deal, right?

All you have to do is leave me a comment with your miscommunication and then head over to the facebook page for the contest and enter it there as well (limit 1,000 characters). The contest runs through February 25, after which the winner will be picked by Alka Seltzer based on Creativity/Originality (25%), Writing Quality (25%), Humor (25%), and How well the Submission translates to a Video Vignette (25%).

Come one, funny people –I want one of my readers to win!

Go Now!

NO PURCHASE NECESSARY. Legal residents of the 50 United States (D.C.), 18 years or older. Contest ends 2/25/11. To enter and for Official Rules, including prize description, visit http://www.facebook.com/AlkaSeltzerOriginal?v=app_7146470109&ref=sgm. Void where prohibited.



And now the fine print: I am being compensated by Alka Seltzer and The Motherhood for posting this. All that means is that I can’t win. But one of you can. So once again: Go Now!

Defending Bieber

I found myself in a very strange position this past weekend – defending Justin Bieber. I KNOW! But the point of this post really isn’t about Justin Bieber and how much he sucks or doesn’t suck. It’s really about teenagers and how much they suck.

Now, I’d like to claim that I was never like that as a teen, but I have to be honest – I was. I can clearly remember what a big asshole I was. And all my friends were. We were the good kids – we got good grades, and were kind to people, and didn’t cause trouble. But we were still assholes.

I remember the days of thinking my parents were old-fashioned idiots who didn’t know anything about the world and wouldn’t know good music if they heard it. I remember thinking how unfair everything was. I remember always having to get the last word. I remember swearing to God and Buddha and Magnum PI that I would never be like my parents.
Hello? Gina, meet karma.

The boy is a teenager now and he’s pretty much killing me. He is all those things I remember being: stubborn, a know-it-all, contrary, lazy, smartass, OMG SO SLOW, and a general pain in the ass. And yet, he’s still a pretty damned good kid.

That said, his anti-Bieber campaign is really getting on my nerves. Now don’t get me wrong – the mere thought of Justin Bieber makes me gag. But the girl loves him, so he’s in my life – in my ears, hanging on my walls, in my laundry (on her shirts and jammies – obviously, he’s not actually in my laundry – that would be weird), so I deal with it.

I don’t recall my parents being big Shaun Cassidy fans, but they still bought me the albums and clothes and posters and jewelry (which I still wear), and my dad (bless his heart) even took me to his concert. And my aunt didn’t swoon over Andy Gibb, but she still sat in the second row at the Syria Mosque and happily(ish) got trampled on my a bunch of screaming girls and (her least favorite part) hit by flying Gibb sweat, because I did swoon over him.

Anyway, the girl has Bieber Fever. And the boy has IHateBieber Fever. And being a smartass, know it all, stubborn, contrary teen, feels the need to express his anti-Bieber feelings every time he sees, hears, or even thinks about anything remotely related to Justin Bieber. Which triggers the screamy, Bieber-Fever, 7 year old crazy. Which in turn triggers my nervous breakdown.

I finally told him, “Enough! Enough with all the bad-mouthing and mocking and negativity!”
His response – of course (being a self-righteous, know it all teen), was “Jeez, mom, I’m entitled to my opinion!” He was feeling very proud of himself for that response until I told him that while he is entitled to his opinion, if that opinion is the opposite of the opinion of someone he cares about, and if that opinion is hurtful to someone he cares about, then perhaps he should keep it to himself, and that if he thinks I am stupid enough to think that he really cares all that much about Justin Bieber in one way or another, rather than expressing his goddamned opinion for the sake of making his sister scream, the he is sadly mistaken. And the next time he thinks about trying to stir up shit and ruin my peaceful evening/dinner/car ride by making the screamer who screams scream even more, he better think twice, because I WILL KILL HIM.

And then, because there is obviously still a teensy-weensy touch of stubborn, oppositional, know-it-all, smart ass, contrary teenager in me, I followed up with, “JUSTIN BIEBER IS AWESOME AND YOU’RE JUST JEALOUS!”

Sigh. I’ve turned into my parents and my kids.

Also? Bieber sucks.


.

I Blame Twitter

Once again, I find myself going weeks at a time without posting. I think part of it is being crazy busy all the time, but I've come to another conclusion: It's Twitter's and Facebook's fault. No really - I have something to say, I condense it down to 140 characters, I put it out there, and then it's gone. I knew no good could come of me jumping on those bandwagons.

Anyway, what's going on in my life? Let's see...nothing there...not much about that...not really anything there. Fuck - my life is boring. I still ride everyone's ass to practices and parties and games. I still don't get enough sleep. I still have 183,472,965 stink bugs in my house. I still pray for lots of snow every day so I can legitimately stay home (which may not be worse, since if it's that bad, my kids can't go to school, either, and then we're all cooped up in the house while I try to work - that's a barrel of monkeys.

You know - who ever came up with that term and decided it meant fun: A barrel of monkeys? Meanwhile, a barrel of mokeys is nothing but trouble and pain and destruction. Because monkeys are badass motherfuckers. And if you shove a bunch of them into a barrel? You're going to end up with a barrel full of pissed off, stinky, badass motherfuckers And those pissed off badass motherfuckers are not going to be happy when you finally let them out of the barrel. They are going to come flying out and tear your face off. Then they'll destroy everything they can get their little foot-hands on. Then they'll finish it off with a big poop-fight. I don't know, but that doens't sound like fun to me.

Personally, I can think of a ton of things that would be more fun than a barrel of monkeys. Like a barrel of money. Or a barrel of rum. Or a barrel of My Kids Are Sleeping At Grandma's Tonight. I almost said a barrel of puppies, but then I rememberewd that I have a puppy and despite the fact that puppies are cute and soft and (seemingly) fun, it turns out that puppies are dicks. They poop on your floor. They pee on your carpet. They eat your coffee table. And your shoes. And entire rolls of paper towels. And cat litter. And cat poop. And the cat.

And the particular puppy that I am referring to also stinks. He gets baths more frequently than the adult dog, and yet he stinks more. At first I couldn't figure out how something so sweet and (previously) tiny, and cute could stink so bad. But then I remembered that his day goes pretty much like this:

I'm a puppy! YAY! Hey - there's a cat! YAY! I'm gonna chase him! YAY! Now I have to pee! I think I'll pee here on the carpet! YAY! And now I'll run and slide through it for fun! Wheee! YAY! A dog! His BUTT!! YAY! Stinkbug! YAY! Poop! YAY! Dead thing! YAY! Rotten leaves! YAY! Someone peed here! YAY! Snow! YAY! The toilet! YAY! Garbage! OMGYAY!

Hmmm...now that I think about it, maybe a barrel of monkeys isn't so bad.















































.


Don't let the cuteness fool you


.

Snow & Siblings

The kids had a great time playing in the snow on Tuesday.

Of course right after these were taken, he threw snow in her face. And then she screamed. And he laughed and laughed. Until she picked up a handful of snow, blew her nose into it and threw it at him. Then she laughed and laughed.

And don't tell anyone, but I may have laughed a little, too.