Class rings already?

My son is in his freshman year at high school. Catholic high school. As some of you may know, I've been extremely lucky along the way of what I have considered to be his best educational opportunities in the town we live in.

But the school just asks too much, sometimes. It's almost like they forget there are people like me struggling tooth and nail to make ends meet. Even though they have been helping me with financial aid for tuition and books, I feel like they are hitting me constantly with fees for almost required activities, whether my son wants to participate or not. The latest example is school rings for the freshmen.

I have to admit that I came from a background where you got a few new outfits for the school year, and that was pretty much it. A class ring in high school was out of the question, I wasn't even able to buy a yearbook the year I was supposed to graduate. But then again, I didn't have any school spirit and at the time I didn't want any of those things, anyway.

The "activity fees" they charge every year include the yearbook, at least. I should probably be grateful for that, because this is what I have wanted for my son. I wanted him to be in the same school from Kindergarten through 8th grade. I want for him to graduate high school with the same kids he has known all of his life. I want more for him than what I had, always being the new kid, never having many friends, and when I finally made friends, we moved away.

So I reached way above where we should be living, and I carved out a dream for my kid. And I pushed and I pushed until I made it his dream, too. And now I'm complaining about all of the silly stuff that goes along with it that I'm having a hard time affording. If you're reading along and nodding, "Silly Bitch", yes I deserve that. But I feel that my kid deserves so much more.

I feel my kid deserves the education that so many other people's kids are getting. I honestly feel all kids deserve this same education, but I haven't found a way to make it happen for anyone other than my son. Please believe me when I say I am doing everything I can to pay these bills even with the help that I'm getting. And I'm going to complain and bitch and moan about it for the next few years. Because that is what I do.

I got this post card in the mail the other day. I didn't think I had to worry about this anytime soon, my kid being a Freshman and all...




Right now, I'm worrying about winter protection being over for the electricity, the gas bill coming due, paying the rent on time, and spending money on a vacation we had no business taking. Why the hell do I have to worry about a class ring right now? The kid is a freshman. At what point does a freshman have to worry about a class ring?

I know the boy will maybe want to remember his high school. But what if his memories fade? He only had school spirit for the K-8 school the last month around graduation. Will he really remember his high school with so much fondness after he leaves and goes to college? My kid doesn't even wear jewelry. What the hell?

So I asked him (obviously biased), "J, do you even want a ring?" That has to be ordered out of no where in the next week with an $80.00 deposit?

His response, "Um, mom, they actually have a ring ceremony for the Sophomores. How am I not supposed to be a part of that?" Shit, I had forgotten, they not only have a full freakin' mass, they also have a dance that weekend for only the Sophomores called the Ring Dance.

I'm wondering how much the ring company kicks back to the school for this racket. I know, bitch, bitch, bitch...

What Gwennie wants, Gwennie gets!

When Gwennie says, "jump!" I say, "how high, SIR?", um, "M'AM!". Those military terms confuse me.

Anyway, the sweet, lovely, generous, beautiful, funny as hell Gwen over at Everything I like causes cancer has just celebrated her 600th post! Congrats! And slow the hell down. You're making the rest of us look bad!

On her 600th post, she told us about her pajama top: I love it because my mom gave it to me. I love it because it has rubbed against and been removed by every man I have ever seriously loved. I love it because it's comfortable. It never stays in my dresser very long because it's always my first choice. Apologies to all my other pajama tops, but this one is my favorite.

I suspect everyone has at least one piece of clothing like my pajama top: that pair of shoes you can't seem to throw in the trash despite them being broken down and sole less; that ratty-ass three-quarter-sleeve tee-shirt from the 1986 AC/DC Fly on The Wall tour that is covered in paint stains the same color as your second bathroom; that pair of jeans you finally had to make into cut-off shorts and now you can't get rid of the shorts even though your ass hangs out the bottom like a $2 hooker.

She asked her followers, read loyal servants, to celebrate with her by taking pictures and posting "your clothing/footwear/accessory equivalent of my pajama top and take a picture of the revered item" (check the whole post HERE).

Here you go, Gwendolyn.

This pair of shorts belonged to the last man I officially lived with, the one who gave me a beautiful engagement ring with an amethyst surrounded by diamond chips in an antique setting. I took the ring and the shorts with me when I left him - almost exactly 10 years ago to the day, coincidentally. I've obviously painted quite a few rooms in them, and somehow they have managed to stretch and grow with me. They are my go to pajamas/bum shorts in the summer. (note, this was not the guy that almost ended up killing me - I threw almost everything from him away!)


I bought this tank top because it looked really cute over a navy blue sports bra and bike shorts when I used to take kick-boxing. I doubt I'll ever see those bike shorts again, but the tank top, again, has managed to stretch and grow with me. Like the shorts, it's my go to pajama/bum shirt in the summer. As a matter of fact, I'm wearing it right now.



In the winter, these pants are a favorite. Ask anyone who knows me - if I'm home and don't have anywhere else to go that night, I'm probably wearing these. They are warm and soft and huge and comfy. I found them at Fashion Bug 3 Christmases ago, bought them and told my son to wrap them up and give them to me. Best $7 clearance special ever!


Here's where I'm going to get weird, because that is what I do. I know the spirit of Gwen's post was not just pajamas. It was about a soft sentimental item that you love because of nostalgia, sweetness, even poignancy. I'm going to let you in on a secret of mine that not too many people outside of my immediate family know about. (Here's the secret you asked for on Facebook, Cora.)

Some people have a lucky talisman, or an object that brings them comfort. Along those lines, I have Winslow. Winslow is a stuffed dog that was given to me by my brother, Jimmy, while I was in a hospital when I was 15. That silly little stuffed animal brought me much needed comfort at that time, and many times after. I have to admit that it has probably been held in a hug almost every time I have cried since then, for almost a quarter of a century. After my brother died 16 years ago, it took on an extra special meaning to me. As you can tell from the following pictures, I have almost worn the poor thing out.



His shirt used to say, "Winslow loves you".


And he used to have a tail. Repeated washing has lead to the use of safety pins, as I'm obviously much too lazy to sew him back up and sew his tail back on.


So, what do you think, TMI? Consider yourselves lucky, I didn't even tell you the whole stories. There are at least 4 more blog posts I could spin off from this one.

p.s. Gwennie, I may have been in a weird place last night when I offered to take off the actual tank top and send you a picture of it, and me NOT wearing it. If you're still interested *call me*. ;)

Shark's teeth

One of the best things about the beaches we went to while in Florida were the fossilized shark's teeth. You don't even have to dig for them, they are laying right there on top of the sand. I don't know why this particular area is so good for finding them, but it's a lot of fun.

If you want to actually dig for them, or shells, they have these things call Florida Snow Shovels. It's basically a triangular metal basket on a long metal handle that you dig into the sand and then shake in the water to let all the sand out. Then you dump it and see what you got.



This post card identifies the different kinds of teeth, the species it was from, and approximately how old the teeth are. Many of the species are extinct, as these teeth are millions of years old.



While we were on the beach one day, a lady walked up and excitedly showed us something amazing. She had found it just laying on the beach about a mile and a half from where we were, away from the public beaches. It was from a Carcharodon Megalodon, and obviously the post card is not actual size because this thing was at least three inches on each side. Imagine five rows of those top and bottom taking a little nibble out of you *shudder*. Glad those fuckers are extinct.

My sister Bouf is living there right now and likes to take long walks on the beach in the morning and at sunset. She said it's the best time to collect the teeth, and also to see the wild dolphins (which I did get to see one morning, yay!). Her collection is awesome! This is my lame collection, from 2 different trips put together.



The night before we went to the beach for the first time, my mother felt she had to warn me not to let my son go out too far in the ocean. Apparently one time when he was there without me she took him to the beach and he went out above his waist. I appreciated her concern and told her so. I also mentioned the facts that he was either 7 or 10 at the time, and at least a foot shorter. Being my mother, she had to keep pressing the issue about how dangerous the surf can be, and how the sharks come close to shore, yada, yada, yada.

The woman is like a pit bull, she sinks her teeth into something and won't let go. "Mom, I've got it, I've done this before." Hi, we have an ocean where we live, too. I finally said, "if you're so worried, why don't you come to the beach and watch him for me!".

Yeah, I know, classy and extremely mature of me.

We saw no sharks the whole time we were there, but the lady who found the huge shark's tooth told us that the day before she was on the beach talking to a friend who was in the water. She saw what she thought were 2 dolphins jumping around and coming closer to shore. As they got closer, it looked like they were fighting. Dolphins don't usually fight with each other, nor do they usually come close to shore when there are a lot of people in the water. The husband of the lady in the water ran over yelling, "get out of the water!".

They were sharks and must have been following a school of fish or something. They had to have been pretty good size sharks if she mistook them for dolphins which are usually anywhere from 8-12 feet in length. She said they got as close to the shore as where the drop off went from like three feet to five feet. Literally in the same spot we had been swimming in earlier that day.

There's a reason I don't go out farther than I can touch my feet - it's called fear. And there's a reason I didn't tell my mother about that lady's incident - it's called bitchiness. Or dysfunctional self-preservation. Whatever.

Wordless Wednesday - one of my favorites from Florida

Another installment of Douchey McDoucherson

You guys remember my landlord, Douchey McDoucherson, right? The guy that talks out his ass about everything, and I never know when he's telling the truth, lying to my face, or making something up. Sometimes I think he even believes some of the ridiculous things he says.

He also has a tendency to give me permission to do something, then back out or change his mind, or tell me he never agreed to it. I had asked in advance for two things I was looking forward to this spring: having a tag sale, and planting a vegetable garden. I've been reminding him so he couldn't say he forgot, and I keep getting affirmative responses - with lots of negativity thrown in.

For example, "this is a busy road, no one will stop for a tag sale" and "I don't know what's buried under that spot you want for a garden. For all I know, there's a car buried under there and all you're going to be able to grow is motor oil.".

Last week, I gave him actual dates. Saturday the 2nd was going to be my tag sale, and Mother's Day weekend was when I was going to plant the garden. He was okay with the tag sale, but had to warn me that there was poison ivy growing in the garden area. I was suprised because I had never seen poison ivy on that side of the yard. I went over and took a look:



"Um, Douchey, that's - a - baby - tree... I think I can handle it."

We had the tag sale yesterday, and despite Douchey's dire predictions we had a freakin' lot of people stop by, and we made some money. Not as much as I would have liked, but my son and my cousin did pretty well.

One of the first people that showed up at the tag sale was a guy I went to high school with, Danny. He bought a vcr/dvd combo from my cousin while we were still unpacking boxes and she realized after that she hadn't given him the remote that goes with it. I couldn't for the life of me remember his last name so I couldn't call him. At the end of the day we just threw the remote into the big trash can out back with all the rest of the debris.

Of course Danny showed up at 8:30 last night when I was in my pajamas, with no bra on, wondering if I had the remote. Turns out he couldn't work the machine without it. I grabbed a flashlight, turned on the back light and we started looking through the trash can. And, of course it wasn't right on top, so I laid the can on its side in the driveway and we started carefully pulling out one thing at a time until we found it. Yay!

Just as we found it, the landlord turned on his back light and came not only outside, but down the steps into the driveway. "Fancy, what's going on out here? Is everything okay?" I explained the situation to Douchey, bid goodnight to my friend, and went inside to wash my hands.

Does Douchey always look outside and watch what I'm doing? He obviously realized it was me, as he called me by name. Does he really need to know why I'm looking through my own garbage?

If I want to go out back in my pajamas in the dark with a stranger and look through my own garbage can, why the fuck do I have to feel like people are watching me? Now that I know he's watching, maybe I should make sure to give him something to look at more often. And before your mind goes THERE, you pervert, I was thinking more like tap dancing in some crazy costume by the light of the moon. Give me ideas, people. Maybe if I really like the suggestion, I'll video tape me doing it and email it to you.

(for record, yes we do call each other Douchey and Fancy!) (also, you will have to sign a waiver that if I get evicted because of your suggestion, I get to come live with you)

The boys

My mother has an antique shop in a nice neighborhood in a town near where she lives. The street that it is on is a little community of quirky shops and artisans. You can get anything from your nails and hair done, to original art - with ice cream, tapas and wine, good quality souvenirs, hand made jewelry, or a tarot card reading thrown in. Through this community my mother met the men she calls "the boys".

The boys consist of three men, probably in their late 50s or early 60s, that live together - Wade, Bobby and Gill. Wade and Bobby are a couple. Unfortunately, Gill lost his partner and I think he is single. I'm not sure how they ended up living together, or how they own 2 pieces of property, but they rent the house they don't live in to my mother. That is where she currently lives.

When I first heard about this, it blew my mind. My mother has gay men for friends? And Gill is a psychic that she lets read tarot cards for her? And she actually believes in it? Who are you and what did you do with my closed minded, judgemental, kinda prejudiced mother? And she laughs when she tells me how vulgar Gill is, she won't repeat anything he has said, but she thinks he's funny.

But more than that, these guys take care of her as best they can. Anything that she needs, if they are able to help in any way, they will, and they do. They are good guys.

On our last night in Florida, my mother had the boys over for dinner, a belated birthday dinner for Bobby. They were extremely nice, but Gill stole the show. My mother had asked him in advance to try to hold back because of my son. I told him to let loose, I knew my son would enjoy it as much as I would, and I was right. This guy is funny. The kind of funny that he doesn't care if anyone is laughing along with him. He lets out this infectious guffaw from deep in the back of his throat that you can't help but laugh along, "Hunh-HAAAA!".

The highlights of the evening:

Apparently the street the shops are on was going to be closed down for a Red Hat Society Parade. In order to march in the parade, you had to have a group of ladies in purple wearing the red hats, and each group had to elect a leader, The Queen. Gill's quip, "at least I won't be the only queen on the street that day, Hunh-HAAAA!".

During dinner, something on the table made a mess and my mother cautioned to watch out for it when picking it up, the bottom might be sticky. Gills quip, "Oh, I've had a sticky bottom many times. Hunh-HAAAA!".

After dinner, my mother put some candles in a cake and we sang Happy Birthday to Bobby. As soon as the singing was over, while the candles were still lit, Gill says, "Okay, Bobby, now do what we do best! Hunh-HAAAA!".

I love this guy.