The Girl With The Purple Streak

Speaking of Jacquie's girl . . .

Last week I reminisced about Jacquie and her girl and her boy's lovely visit to New London last summer. And I noted my niece's fabulous Purple Streak. And frankly, I think the acquiring of said streak deserves a little more attention.

Before.

Not only is she streak-less, but I don't think 
she's combed her hair in a week.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

And they're off. After lunch at the Tavern, the San Diego contingent headed to Jennie's salon, with their trusty photographer in tow . . .

Jacquie's boy may or may not have been quite as enthusiastic about the whole enterprise as his mom and sister were.

Heading in . . .

. . . and there she is! The streak-giver! Who I don't think is used to quite so much paparazzi . . .

These endeavors are family affairs . . .

. . . and the boy is very concerned with the process. Which begins with the comb-out. Poor Jennie -- that can *not* have been easy.

Hah!

And they're off . . . 

I've *been* in Jennie's chair, people . . . 

. . . and I'm telling you. It's a good, good thing.

'Course, when I'm there, I don't typically get such an enthusiastic peanut gallery.

Hi Mistah!

Part I: Bleaching the pre-streak bits.

Actually, Part I is all we've got -- the peanut gallery went out in the world to visit the Whale Tail during the next part.

That face? Right there? That is why I've loved this child so deeply since the day she was born.

And . . .voilà!

The Purple Streak.

In all its spectacularity.

Okay, this face is the second reason I've loved this child 
since the day she was born.

Thank you, Jennie!

The Girl With The Purple Streak . . . 

. . . beyond awesome.

it runs in your genes

There's a very special trait that has been passed along through the generations on my dad's side of the family. Although I inherited Mom's Irish coloring and disposition, I'm proud to say that I am a card-carrying member of my Dad's diagonal full mouth smiling snarl lineage.

You can either do it, or you can't. Much like rolling your tongue or popping out double jointed limbs, making this face is not a thing that can be taught. Start with a snarl on one side of your mouth, like Elvis. Now slide your jaw away from that snarl while stretching your bottom lip way over to the other side.

Like this:

As you can see, my girl  demonstrates a clear propensity for the making of this face. She's got it, although her execution is somewhat less than the masterpiece of a mug that her mother can produce. I'll cut her some slack, though, because it's hard to make the face on command, especially for the camera. Thing is, it's impossible to make the face while laughing.

And it's hard to stop laughing when your mother is requiring you to make the face for a photo that you *know* is going to be on her blog,and worse, she is using the front camera on the phone so that you can see yourself failing at all attempts to stop laughing!

Hopeless.

Okay, we're getting there - get serious, kid!

Oh, dear.

Okay, let's take a break. We'll see if any other members of our family can help out.

Clearly?

No.

It's up to us, girlfriend. Pull it together. We've got a legacy to uphold!

That's my girl.

To the next generation, I apologize.

weekend photo project: superbowl

Go G Men!

Wrong sport, but right City

November, 2005

Go Big Blue!

One more time

A thought occurred to me today when I put this incredibly adorable dress on my girl -- this dress has been around!

Hey, look at that!

That's one kick ass butterfly

If I'm not mistaken, this was originally Chapel Hill/Quito girl's. Then, of course, it was her sister's. Next in the rotation would be Jane's girl's turn, from which it would have been handed down to Jacquie's girl.

That's as far as the Corey lineage goes, but the dress drop-off does not stop there, oh no. It was next handed down to my middle daughter, who in turn handed it off to her little sister.

That's as many girls as I'm having. But don't worry, my brother just had a baby girl last fall, so she will be wearing it in just a few years.

Many of you know how I love thrift stores and hand-me-downs and saving money, but this dress? Well this dress is beyond even my wildest dreams.

Thanks, Julie!

We get there, and then we get home.

Hygienic XXXIII wasn't *only* about the art, you know . . .

Well, it mostly was. And about the music. But the before- and after-parties with our merry houseguests were awesome too . . .

I mean, really. What a happy bunch of reprobates. Unfortunately, Mistah's vestigial arm is not long enough to get us all in the photo.

I never go anywhere without a trusty fire extinguisher on my shoulder. And The Dowd is never seen without fishie platters growing out of his ears.

I love hold-out-the-camera-to-take-photos photos because you never know what you're going to get -- like say half of Mistah's face and both our rigs. And all of me.

Aw. My little big sister.

Anyway. Back to the Hygienic. To view the art on Sunday we had to *get* to the art on Sunday. So let's all hop in the Subie and head downtown, shall we? I'll drive.

Heading down Thames . . . 

Heading down Harris . . . 

In all my years walking downtown I have never seen two shoppers hanging out in front of Burr's Marina. Hygienic Miracle.

Heading down Pequot* . . . 

*Last summer my girl Nancy and her man Jonny came down to New London to spend the day at the beach, with their girl Zoe and Zoe's friend. They stopped at this spot to let Jonny and his sailboat out and as the four of them carried the vessel down to the water the poor friend said, "Um, is this it?"

And heading up Bank . . . 

I love Bank Street.

Oh look! The Hygienic! And our handsome greeter!

[Insert looking at the art show here].

And then after . . .

Golden Street. I love Golden Street, too.

The view from Ernie's*.

*where we did *not* have a drink because the bartender was very busy somewhere far, far away from the bar.

Here we are again, with a flash this time. We are the mutual admiration love society.

And then, sadly, it was time for MB and MD to hit the highway . . .

Here's MB telling MD to focus. As per. Here's Mark's reaction. As per.

And it's time for Mistah and me to head home, too . . . 

Care to hop in the Subie and join us for the return trip?

Goodbye Bank Street.

Goodbye Hygienic caryatids.

You know the movie Rainman? When Dustin-Hoffman-as-Raymond-Babbitt takes photos out the window of the car, and they're featured in the closing credits? Well, ol' Rainman's got nuthin' on our own Mistah Schleckah:

Oooh, a house!

Oncoming cars!

A roadhouse -- the best *kind* of house.

Even though I *am* driving by New London't tiniest beach, it's a beach with no waves. Which is why I really love this photo.

Heading up Thames . . . 

. . . annnd . . . home.

That was such fun! Thanks so much for joining us -- we loved having you along.

still more conversations with crazy

Do you have a band aid?

No, didn’t you hear dad yelling about the  40 empty band aid boxes in the cabinet last night?

I cut my hand shaving a kapla block

????

I’m making it really pointy

You’re making a shank out of a smooth-sanded pine building plank?

What’s a shank?

Or is it a shiv? What’s the difference between a shank and a shiv? 

What are you talking about?

You know, the knives that prisoners make out of soap or a toothbrush in their cell. Is that a shiv or a shank?

????

Maybe shank is a verb

You can’t make a knife out of soap! (mock battle with soap shiv – don’t mess with me or I’ll stab you with my soap!”)

People didn’t always have easy access to convenient weapons, the cavemen made weapons out of wood right from the trees

They didn’t have kapla blocks

How did they make them sharp without a pocket knife?

They used rocks and stuff, or the brick walls or the leg of their bed

They had beds?!

They have beds in their cells

Cavemen didn’t have beds

What did they sleep on?

Well, they probably made beds out of fur and leaves and stuff, but they didn’t have bed legs to use for sharpening their shanks.

I bet jail beds are really uncomfortable.