Happy Birthday, Dad

Today is Dad's birthday.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Here's Dad on his -- as you can tell by Mom's handwriting on the snapshot -- 28th birthday. 28 years old! The thought of my Dad on his 28th birthday is almost too much to bear, except it's not. It's perfect.

On May 18, 1961, at 28, Dad was already a Dad. Young Mary Beth was 3 days shy of being one month old. Which is why she's not there blowing the candles out with Dad. Being a newborn and all. But I love that even without the tiny newborn joining in, Mom made her man a birthday cake, with candles and writing, and put a hat on his head just the same. Happy Birthday Joe!

I've been going through a lot of old photo albums lately, and, in honor of Dad's brirthday today, well, I think it's appropriate to take ourselves on a little journey back in time.

Shall we?

Here are Mom and Dad at their wedding, June 20, 1959, after they changed out of their Wedding Duds into their going-away Glad Rags. I love that my Mom is wiping away an emotional tear. With white gloves. And I love that her girlfriends Tweety and Rita are on her left, and her siblings, our Aunt Peggy and Uncle Paul are on her right.

Honeymoon in the Poconos. Every shot of my parents when they were young makes me swoon.

Pregnant! And . . .

. . . our very own Mary Beth, born on April 20, 1960 -- she was 3 weeks late and had long fingernails when she was born, the story goes, but what I most love about this photo is Dad was a kid -- he's still 27 for another month -- and he is such a natural with the bambina.

Just look at him! And look at that pram. My own sisters' kids-of-their-own got to roll around in that very pram, 30 years later . . . 

. . . okay, maybe Mary Beth made it easy for Dad to take to fatherhood so deeply . . .

. . . I mean, she really was awfully cute (and, uh, nice socks, Dad), but I do believe he was born to it.

And . . . pregnant again! . . .

. . . and then there were two daughters. And a really, really incredibly beautiful Mom.

Wow. Off the track here, but look at Mom.

This is one of my favorite photos of Dad, our young doc, ever. He was chief resident, he was either off-duty or on a break, and he had a baby daughter or two to bond with.

They really were quite the happy little family.

But it seems to me something is missing. Something really crucial. Like maybe Daughter #3?

But in the meantime, it's these photos, these early photos with the wee ones, that kill me.

Dad flew every daughter he ever had like an airplane, and I'm pretty sure he flew every grandchild the same way too.

I'm including this photo for one reason and one reason only,
which I think is entirely clear.
Does the term dickie-do mean anything to you??

Aw, Mom. Aw, Dad.

Christmas at Aunt Peggy's and Uncle Frank's. Love Mom and Dad's interlocked feet.

But, okay, who's ready for another baby to show up? I am! I am!

Labor Day, September 4, 1963. Mom is 8 months and 29-1/2 days pregnant. Because she will, indeed, give birth this very night. To her third daughter. Me, me! But can we take a moment to look at the outfits? Because Mom made them. Her outfit and Mary Beth's outfit and Ann's outfit. She made them. Whilst fully pregnant. And those outfits are just purely awesome. Look at that maternity capri & top-with-piping numbah -- that would be cute if it wasn't a maternity outfit. But it is. And Mom made it.

And then later that night . . . 

Yay! Me! And if you don't think *I'm* excited by the miracle of my own birth, have another look at Dad:

And a closer look at Ann:

And a closer look at Mary Beth, especially her feet:

Those feet are saying, Oh dear, another sister; I fear there will be even more of these . . .

But look how happy they were to have me. Look at how fun we are!

Okay, maybe every single day was not entirely fun . . .

The old photos albums I've been going through are, clearly, the 1959 through 1963 ones. So, apologies to Julie and Jane and Jacqueline -- we'll get to you lovelies soon; I promise we will.

But in the meantime, On May 18, 1963, while Mom was five months pregnant with me, Dad turned 30. 30!

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Aw, Dad. We miss you terribly, and we love you tremendously.

not in my back yard

I can see my son laughing, so the other kid must be okay. 

I hate playdates.

This one had begun innocently enough, my boy got a new bike and when his friend’s mom texted me to see what we were up to over the weekend, I figured it would be a good chance to reciprocate from their last playdate,* so I invited the kid bring his bike and come over on Sunday afternoon. 

* Playdate doesn’t seem like an appropriate term for the gathering of 12 year old boys. What’s it called now?

The boys spent some time pillaging and destroying around our house and yard , then we piled into the Westy for a short ride over to our neighborhood park. Sure, it would have made more sense for them to bike over to the park, but there’s a really busy street to cross and I didn’t want anyone getting squashed on my watch. To quote my loving boy, I was being paranoid. 

Went to the park, they rode, I read. They snacked, I played Words. They rode, I read. They got bored. 

A request was made to go to the canyon, where my kids had ridden bikes with their Dad the day before. It was right around the corner, so they biked and I drove the Westy down to the entrance.  By the time I got there, they had already started their descent along the trail so I rushed over there, leaving everything in the rig while I figured out how this was going to work. I could see them, but they were bobbing up and down the hills and valleys so sometimes I could only see three helmets. Then I only saw two helmets, and I clearly heard my son ask: “are you okay?” shit. But he was laughing, and I thought: “I can see my son laughing, so the other kid must be okay.” He wouldn’t be laughing if his friend had tumbled ass over handlebars into the dirt, right? Right??????? 

By the time I got over there, the kid was up on his bike, I asked if he was okay and he said that he had hurt his whole body, except for his head. And the head is really the most important part of any boy, so score one for me! He was fine though, and it wasn’t until later that my girl told me he had gone over the handlebars and landed on his head, and the rest of his body must have gotten hurt when he slammed down into the earth. 

Anyway! After they settled in to a routine of death defying stunts within the boundaries of my paranoid sensible direction, I went back to the Westy to get my kindle and phone and …. oh shit, I forgot to bring water.  

I returned to find that they were ready to explore the path on the other side of the canyon, and at first this seemed like a really good idea to me because it was a wider path that from my vantage point appeared to traverse just the lip of the canyon before clearly becoming unsuitable for boys on bikes.  I looked for a nice rock to sit upon while I watched them approach the point where they’d turn back, and then I watched them disappear. 

Fuck!

Dig if you will this picture: me in a tshirt, capri length yoga pants, and flip flops; clutching my Kindle and my car keys, hair flying in all directions, stumbling down, down, down the canyon path hollering.  My girl was behind me, and every time I yelled my boy’s name she yelled it right after me so I could not hear if he was answering (as if). So I’m trying to explain to her that I would handle the yelling, she should just stay put for a minute (as if). But my girl was not keen on staying put on the path by herself with all manner of lecherous predators and murderers and girl-nappers while I ran down into the canyon, so she ditched her bike and ran down with me, in her pink helmet and tank top, hollering.  

We finally reached them way down at the bottom, where the trail had reached the riverbed and they had to stop their bikes. And oh yeah, now that I mentioned it maybe they did hear something that sounded like I was calling. And oh yeah, they were pretty far down. Huh, it was going to be kind of a hike to push the bikes all the way back up the canyon path. 

Too bad I didn’t have any water. 

Little Bastards

I  hate playdates. 

Happiness is...

popping in a brand new CD into your car's CD player. What? You only have digital music in your car? Pfft.

I know, I know, I'm behind the times, I actually buy the entire CD in some instances, instead of just downloading the best of the best. Call me old fashion, I don't care, because it's a whole process: listening to a good new album (do we still use this word?), letting the new songs sink in, figuring out which you love right off the bat, which you don't. Knowing, of course, that many of the songs that don't grab you right away will end up being your favorites; will end up being the songs with true staying power.

I'm only on track 7 of this bad boy:

(which is pure madness since it arrived on Friday, but my kids just don't appreciate ben the way I do...)

Yes, true, it's not being released until May 17th, but, well, that's just the kind-of girl I am -- fast (ha ha, just kidding, mom).

I buy every Ben Harper CD. Ben's the man. His new release is no exception. And so far, well, the jury is still out, but I really like track 2, and I like 7 a lot too. And then, there still 5 I haven't even heard yet. Yippee for me! Sometimes with Ben I don't quite get his vision at first. It took me years to like one of his more preachy albums, but love it I do, and looking back I can't fathom why the earlier resistance. But that's what great artists of all stripes do, they move ahead of the curve, and take you with them.

I may not like every single song on this new album, but that's not the point, the point is the anticipation, the discovery, the deepening of your understanding of the lyrics with each play, the way one track leads into the next, the way that you skip a certain track every single time, until the time you don't. Maybe you're merging into traffic, or you're not paying attention, and there it is, you listened to the entire song. And next time you don't skip it, or at least you don't skip it every time anymore, and pretty soon? Well pretty soon that entire album is a part of you. Even that one song that used to annoy you. Even if you put it away and don't hear it for months, even years. You own it, and I'm not talking about the $9.99 you paid for it.

I know you know what I mean.

Weekend 3 way: Sacred

Ah, veddy interesting. Looks like we've got a sacred 3-way weekend going on. From a book on the Buddha's teachings, to the figure of the Buddha, to book on the Goddess with a figure of the Goddess. Go figure. (Love that smiling Buddha, look at his lobes! Whereas the poor Goddess seems to be lacking them altogether...)

The Birthday Kids

Yesterday was Mistah's birthday.

Happy Birthday Mistah Schleckah!

And today is Chapel Hill Girl's birthday.

Happy Birthday, Colleenie!

I posted quite an Homage to Mistah on his birthday in 2009. I seem to be his biggest fan . . .

And I've sung the praises of my darlin' niece many times, too, most notably this past Christmas, with her darlin' sister.

So let's just take a quick look at these two lovely, Mothers-Day-born, friends-for-life, uncle and niece, shall we?

Awwww

Awwww

Awwww

Happy Birthday, Billy-Boy! Happy Birthday, Colleenie-Girl! I love you both madly. In, you know, entirely different ways.

xxooxx

Rejected ideas for today’s blog post

I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I wake very early, and wallow in the deliciousness of my bed and the fact that I can stay there for a long time with nothing expected of me. This morning I watched a spider lower itself down from the ceiling into my clean laundry basket (what? you use drawers? boring). I had every intention of getting up to deal with that disturbing reality, but I forgot until just now. I wonder if there’s an egg sac in my jeans pocket.   

I am in a lotto quagmire. Seven of us from work throw in $4 per week for our shot at the millions, but we never win shit. The lowly groups always win the big prize though, right? If I bow out, they will surely hit it big. On a related note, when we win, can we really all quit work on the same day?

If that country dork goes to the final Idol, I shall puke.

I’m strangely addicted to Words. I’m not good at it! Yet I am transfixed. When it’s not my turn, I stew. When it is my turn, I invent genius letter combinations for the elusive 68 point turn. These should be words! Who wrote the dictionary, anyway?! Vuadmig should totally be a word. A triple word at that.

I can’t stand that we’re talking about the next presidential election already. Talk to me about something else, okay? Jesus.

My idea of a perfect hangover is to be horizontal watching lifetime dramas all the day.

Is there anything more depressing than blogging about the status of your knees?

I can’t believe they have not voted Boston Rob out. They are handing him one million dollars.

I don’t care what you say, this is fucking genius.  I only rejected it because everyone who reads my posts is already my facebook fan and has thus seen it 50 times already. This is the new language that my family speaks. yeah?:

Oh well no wonder there's a deficit!

Silly me. I thought the current fucked up state of the US economy was due to excessive war spending, increased overall spending, tax reductions, etc.

But apparently I've got it all wrong. I'm the reason for the national debt. Well, me and a ton of other women in this country.

At least according to Congressman Allen West.

This guy has it all figured out. Talking to a conservative women's group he said:

"We need you to come in and lock shields, and strengthen up the men who are going to the fight for you. To let these other women know on the other side - these planned Parenthood women, the Code Pink women, and all of these women that have been neutering American men and bringing us to the point of this incredible weakness - to let them know that we are not going to have our men become subservient. That's what we need you to do. Because if you don't, then the debt will continue to grow...deficits will continue to grow."

Okay, on just how many levels is that wrong?!
 
Let's see:

"We need you to come in and lock shields, and strengthen up the men who are going to the fight for you. To let these other women know on the other side - these planned Parenthood women, the Code Pink women, and all of these women that have been neutering American men and bringing us to the point of this incredible weakness - to let them know that we are not going to have our men become subservient. That's what we need you to do. Because if you don't, then the debt will continue to grow...deficits will continue to grow."
 
What is he talking about? Are women no longer members of government, the military, and every other segment of the American landscape? Do we not vote? Have jobs? Make our own decisions?
 
Let's look again:
 
"We need you to come in and lock shields, and strengthen up the men who are going to the fight for you. To let these other women know on the other side - these planned Parenthood women, the Code Pink women, and all of these women that have been neutering American men and bringing us to the point of this incredible weakness - to let them know that we are not going to have our men become subservient. That's what we need you to do. Because if you don't, then the debt will continue to grow...deficits will continue to grow."

Liberal women are neutering American men? And men are now in danger of becoming subservient? I don't run into many American men who are fearful of this. Do you?

Just one last look:

 "We need you to come in and lock shields, and strengthen up the men who are going to the fight for you. To let these other women know on the other side - these planned Parenthood women, the Code Pink women, and all of these women that have been neutering American men and bringing us to the point of this incredible weakness - to let them know that we are not going to have our men become subservient. That's what we need you to do. Because if you don't, then the debt will continue to grow...deficits will continue to grow."

Yes, if only someone could talk some sense into all the women who believe in birth control, safe reproductive health, and peace, there would be no debt, no deficit, no problems.

You probably think that I'm making this up. But I'm not. It's on Fox news, so it must be true:
http://nation.foxnews.com/politics/2011/04/26/allen-west-liberal-women-neutering-american-men

(And please, people, don't forget to get your Women for West T shirts that he mentions in the start of the video, k?)

Mudders' Day

It all began, as these things often do, with my Mom and her sisters Ginny and Kitty on our deck.

Mom and Kitty and Ginny at our house!

After a quick tour, we all went to the Tavern for the Kentucky Derby and had a hilarious -- and quite lucrative -- time, but that's a story for another day.

On Sunday morning -- Mother's Day, which I always thought should be Mothers' Day, and on which my nephew once famously said to Jacquie, "Happy Birthday, Mudder!" -- we hosted a lovely little bruncheon right here in New London.

Everybody contributed to the Table of Love, and it was quite spectacular. If I do say so  myself. And I do.

It was a fabulous morning and we all fit -- barely -- on the deck in assorted sitting apparati.

Yay, Mudders' Day!

We were so happy ol' Mumsie could make it, too, after a week of not feeling great. Okay, after a week of feeling mighty poorly.  Yay Mumsie!

The clouds rolled in, and although my Aunt Kitty and my friend Dawnie love clouds, they can threaten the peace and serenity of an outdoor bruncheon.

Actually, they did more than threaten: they dumped their contents upon us. About six different times. During which we all piled into the kitchen, waited it out, wiped off the furniture, then sat back down outside. We're intrepid that way.

The day continued along in its merry, mad way, and then it all ended, as these things often do, with MB and The Dowd on our deck.

The four of us may have gotten a little silly.

What? You got a problem with UConn?

National Champions, baby!

No*1!

We missed our Mudders when they left, but we carried bravely on.

We're very brave, especially when the pear tree is in full regalia.

Speaking of spring, Mistah recently repotted the cactus he got as a kid, which was a tiny wee little baby cactus way back then.

And now it's 47 years old.

Oh, and he's male.

happy birthday, mudder!

breakfast 1

breakfast two

pretty things

slave labor

trapped

rescue ops

inappropriate yet adorable

ummmmm?

???

why the bikini?

veddy veddy good to me

hoping for hits

ball fetching

long ball

mah boys

permagrin

happy afternoon

yeah, baby

yeah, babies

dinner

mmmmm, dinner

Happy Mothers Day!