Filed under: Misc. Humor | Tags: adulthood, contests, English, humor, language, slang, south, southern, subourbonmom, words
The other day I opened my email and yipped for joy.
I’d won a contest!
I WON SOMETHING!
Okay, so I didn’t exactly win anything substantial, except some dubious recognition that I’m clever with words.
But still, I won something!
Months ago, I submitted a new definition for the word porcupine (a yearning for bacon) to my alma mater’s English Department newsletter. Since they didn’t print anyone else’s second- or third-place submissions, I think I was the only one nerdy enough to enter.
But I won!
So, basking in my success, I thought I’d share with you some of my other made-up words and definitions (beware—some of these are NOT kid-friendly):
Ho-rizen: A slut getting up in the morning after a one night stand;
Far Ho-rizen: A slut getting up after a one night stand who has to drive home; or, a pyromaniac slut getting up after a one night stand;
Lexit: The awkward act of trying to exit a sports car in a tight skirt (a la Brittany
Spears), legs first;
Skeezer: The creepy older guy who waterskis right next to the dock where your
teenaged daughters are basking;
Thongstipation: When you’re wearing a thong & it makes you feel like you have to go, even if you don’t;
Liarrheah: Chronic lying or the series of lies that build on each other after you tell just one;
Textual intercourse: Sexting;
Failienation: When your friends leave you by yourself after an epic social fail;
Highway eye-pass: The cool glancing over at the driver next to you, but when you realize they aren’t as cute as you thought, you keep your eyes sliding past them like you’re looking at something else;
Paddle Bored: When you are in a canoe/kayak and wish you were in a motorboat;
I Exam: The act of self-examination after a decision;
I Make-up: Forgiving yourself for the bad decision;
I Glasses: The multiple wine glasses/red solo cups claimed during a party that may or may not actually be yours;
Vagenda: Women on the prowl have one of these (I can’t remember if I made this one up or heard it somewhere, but I still think it’s funny);
Aunts-in-your-pants: Your mom’s cougar friend who thinks you’re hot; (pronounced ants-in-your-pants)
Cheetos: Using artificial means to achieve orgasm;
Out-of-the-box: When a man has been denied sex;
So, if you think of any on your own, especially during those long car trips this summer, let me know!
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Parenting, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, family, farm life, Farming, humor, kids, Marriage, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, snakes, south, southern, teenagers, teens, travel
Nephew #1 Dangling The Snake
Occasionally, events happen that can make you re-think the roles you play in your marriage. In our house, all things accounting (see my previous blog: https://subourbonmom.wordpress.com/2012/10/09/redundies/), mechanical and packing-related fall to Hubby; most things domestic, flowers and shrubs, and cleaning up pet poop, vomit and carcasses (https://subourbonmom.wordpress.com/2012/10/26/chipmunk-popsicle/ ) fall to me. There was one category that fell to me by default, not because I necessarily am good at handling them, but because I was more familiar with them:
Snakes.
Hubby grew up in Bermuda, where there are no snakes, except for the occasional gardener that snuck in via a tourist’s golf bag. He has always had a healthy appreciation for them, and has never failed to rapidly remove himself from any uncontrolled snake situation. In fact, when I was very pregnant with Daughter #2, Hubby saw a snake dropping from my brother’s gutters, and in a moment of animal instinct, he jumped behind me (I like to say he threw me in front of him). For years this has been a family joke, which he good-naturedly took on the chin.
Oh, but that was about to change…
Yesterday, we took a trip to see the in-laws on their beautiful horse farm in Virginia. Various nieces, nephews and grand-nieces were there, all running about the place, kicking soccer balls, exploring the barns and generally causing mayhem everywhere they went. Around Happy Hour, as the adults were slowing down and the thought of a nice cool drink was sifting through our humidified brains, someone came rushing in to inform us there was a huge black snake in the tree outside. Of course, being the suburbanites we are, we flocked around to look at the rare (to us) creature of the wilderness.
Sure enough, curled up in the crook of a giant old beech tree was a black snake. We could just see a few inches of its body, and it was definitely in the “bigger-than-I-want-to-get-close-to” category. Nephew #1 (the oldest at 16, and who lives on the farm), had a cast on his arm, but decided to scale the tree anyway and (what else?)…poke it with a stick.
Like a group of tourists watching a Bedouin snake charmer, we took videos and pictures with our cell phones. We gasped and shrieked as the harmless snake lifted its head and glared at Nephew #1. The smaller nieces were shooed away to the patio.
As Nephew #1 pushed and prodded the snake out of the tree, Nephew #4 (age 9, who also lives on the farm) stood beneath the tree, hoping to catch it by its tail as it dropped. The snake finally gave up its Happy Hour hiding place (which happened to be filled with water—he’s definitely related to us) and dropped to the ground.
Now, I’m not proud of this—in fact, I’m pretty mortified: as the snake hit the ground, I pushed Daughter #2 in front of me and ran to the patio with the little ones—just like Hubby had done to me 13 years ago.
That’s right. I pushed my own child in the potential path of a snake so that I could get away. Way to go, Mom—excellent parenting.
In the mayhem that followed, Nephew #1 grabbed the snake by its tail, letting it dangle for a while so we could all get a good view. Eventually, Nephew #4 draped the snake over his shoulders and took it to another part of the yard, away from the timid city-folk.
With the excitement over, it was soon time to go. On the way home, I told Hubby I would never, EVER, make fun of him for shoving me into harm’s way over a snake again. But I think Daughter #1 said it best. As we pulled out of the driveway, and it was quiet for a moment, her matter-of-fact teenage voice came from the back seat:
“We are not farm people.”
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: 4th of July, adulthood, bourbon, family, humor, Lord of the Rings, Middle-Age, party, small talk, south, southern, subourbonmom
Someone told me this weekend at a 4th of July party that guests who go to Bill Gates’ house are asked to fill in a questionnaire about their likes and dislikes regarding music and art. The guest is then given a microchip on a necklace to wear, and when they go into any room, the music they like will play, and the art they prefer will be on the walls via computer screen.
At first I was marveling at the technology and thinking how cool that would be; however, I quickly realized three things:
- A home should reflect your tastes, not your guests’ (our tastes revolve around modern sculptures made from piles of flip flops by the door and piles of dirty laundry in the hallway);
- I like experiencing new things, including new music and art (how else would I have discovered Robyn Thicke’s peppy and weirdly cougar-ish song “Blurred Lines?”);
- It’s healthy and interesting to be exposed to new people and new ideas—you don’t have to like them, but it breaks you out of your comfortable bubble of consistency and familiarity (suburbia).
The third lesson was reinforced at this same party when I met a man named…let’s call him Frodo, to protect this man for reasons you’ll soon discover.
Courtesy of lotr.wikia.com
Within moments of arriving, Frodo stood out from the rest of the middle-aged parents/lawyers/accountants and their teenaged offspring that were sweating, talking shop, and drinking lager beer and wine. Wearing trendy eyeglasses and the requisite khakis and golf shirt, Frodo looked something like a hobbit with reddish wavy hair, big feet, and pale skin. He was younger than most of the adults and older than the teens, but had the energy and enthusiasm of a child—and most impressive, his voice carried even farther than mine.
After making our introductions, Hubby and I sat back and simply absorbed the energy coming off of this quirky weapons software developer. Our conversations ranged from the likelihood of anyone surviving a bad plane crash (He informed Daughter #2, who hates flying, not to worry–she would be instantly vaporized because her body is 97% water and water has a boiling point of 212 degrees—clearly he doesn’t have kids), to gravity and sugar rates in the distillation of various bourbons, to his garbled theory on why Merryll Lynch didn’t fail (hubby called him out on that one—Hubby is in finance and wouldn’t let it go), to what kind of people aliens are most likely to abduct. Several times Frodo mentioned doing “covert” operations, but I refused to bite on that one.
As he spoke, I kept envisioning the Ring of Power drawing him to the dark side—it wasn’t hard to picture this man disappearing into the night and arguing with Golem, or using his vast knowledge and imagination to fight an army of Orcs and trolls. However, by midnight I was exhausted and just hoping he would take it off and make himself invisible. I wanted to ask him if he’d been to Mordor, but thought better of it (he didn’t have a sword on him, but I’m pretty sure he owns one) Why ruin a good thing? He was manic, exhausting and fascinating all at the same time.
The best thing about meeting Frodo was that he reminded me how varied and interesting people are. His ideas and energy were a breath of fresh air, and gave us fodder for hours of discussion the next day. So thank you, Frodo, and hopefully the aliens won’t take you before I can ask you about your covert operations next year.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, cicadas, family, humor, insects, Marriage, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, south, southern, teenagers
The other day over the rising din of the cicadas, Daughter #1 commented that they don’t have much of a life—they sleep and grow for seventeen years, eat themselves silly, mate, and die after leaving a new generation to come forth seventeen years later. Now I wasn’t touching the mating part of it with a ten-foot pole, but the more I thought about it, I realized we really aren’t that different from those red-eyed, bug freak shows.
For the first seventeen years, we humans sleep and grow in our rooms. We morph and change in our childhood shells, protected form the world, often only emerging for basic sustenance, especially in the latter portion of our incubation. When we do crawl out from our teenage lairs, we eat…and eat…and eat…and mate (or try to). Some of us bring forth the next generation right then. Others never find that mate despite our best singing. The only difference between us and the cicadas is that we don’t die immediately afterward. We go through the cycle at least two more times, with slight variations.
For the next seventeen years, we sleepwalk through college and grad schools, finding that first job, hating that first job, and changing jobs. We try to sing, but we aren’t developed enough yet to find the right mate. Then, somewhere in our mid-thirties, we wake up again. That biological clock begins to tick, pushing us out of our sleep and into the world. We begin to sing in earnest. Many of us find our mates, procreate, and feel like a part of us is dying afterward as our toddlers get their tenth ear infection (a part of us is—the single, care-free part that slept through our twenties).
Seventeen more years of unconsciously suppressing our own desires and needs as we care for our kids (a.k.a. sleeping) passes, and suddenly the children are gone. We are in our early fifties. We emerge again, this time with less desire to mate, but just as much desire to sing. Sometimes our singing does result in mating (hooray—the kids are gone!) and the occasional new generation, or mating occurs with a subsequent divorce, but mostly we just want to sing—and we do, as we travel, go out to restaurants that don’t have crayons on the table, and look at all the pictures on the wall, wondering where the time went.
So, before you step on that crusty shell, or flick that gross-looking cicada off your towel at the pool, remember—we’re a lot like them, only cuter.
Filed under: Food/Drink, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, family, Food, humor, kids, mom, parenting, south, southern, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens, turkey
Ah, the end of the school year approaches, and with it comes the total loss of control over my schedule. Along with drooping peonies and humidity that makes me move around like an amoeba, comes the inevitable barrage of end-of-the-school-year-things-to-remember: sports banquets, teacher gifts, coach gifts, graduations, overlapping sports teams’ schedules, and the ever-popular “We-Must-Get-These-Done-Before-Exams-Projects” that require a dozen trips to the craft store and something called foam board. Add to that the end-of-year-things-to-remember as a teacher, and my brain just about exploded. (Even the hyphens are on overload this time of year!)
So, I did what any normal, southern mom would do.
I lost my mind on my family.
I’m a big fan of the phrase “control what you can control.” Apparently, what I decided I could control this week was the distribution and consumption of deli turkey meat in our home.
Historically speaking, every time I’ve bought it in the past, the family might eat a little of it, then leave it alone until it turns an odd, greenish hue, roughly the same shade as the sky before a tornado. Even The Dog turns her nose away. For months, I have refused to purchase anymore deli meat, and for months my loved ones would periodically remark that I never buy the “good turkey” anymore, and they would LOVE to fix more meals themselves if only I would provide them with the means to do so—the magic ingredient? Deli Turkey.
The other day, in a fit of generosity and optimism, I bought the Magic Turkey and announced that it was awaiting their pleasure in the fridge. Two days went by and I made another announcement. On the fourth day, the Magic Turkey still lay there, neatly wrapped and taped. Nobody touched it.
Finally, Hubby pulls out the Magic Turkey and decides to use it on a BLT, exclaiming, “Hey! I’m going to use this turkey. Does anybody else want to?”
Then he sniffed it.
“Are you sure you want to eat it?” I asked, arms crossed, a dangerous glint in my eye. “It’s been in the fridge for FOUR days. I know how you feel about leftovers.”
Hubby looked puzzled. “This is the first time I’ve seen it,” he said.
“Seriously?” I snapped. “I’ve been announcing that it’s in the fridge for the last four days, and no one could be bothered to use it.”
Sensing he’d messed up but not sure why, Hubby wisely went quiet.
From the couch came Daughter #1’s helpful voice: “You only told us two days ago. You never said four.”
And from Daughter #2: “You’re under-exaggerating it.”
I stomped around the kitchen, thinking how ungrateful they all were, how thoughtless when I was trying to work within a budget, and arguing out loud with them over when I informed them the Magic Turkey was purchased.
Trying to smooth things over, Hubby asked, “Does anyone else want some turkey on their BLT?” Daughter #1 raised her hand, and Hubby commenced making her one.
As I cleaned and wiped and slammed things around to make myself feel better, I heard Hubby say, “There’s only one piece left—anyone want it?”
I stopped and spun around and shrieked, “You can’t eat it all at once!”
There was a moment of silence—only Carson Daly from The Voice could be heard in the background.
Finally, Daughter #1 peeked over the couch and said, “What’s wrong with you? Do you want us to eat it or not?”
Daughter #2 chuckled, and the absurd moment was over. I still felt vaguely put-upon, as my mom would say, and swiped at the counters some more. What was wrong? Nothing. I was just overwhelmed and chose the wrong thing to try to control.
I recently told one of The Daughters that you can’t control what other people think or say about you—you can only control how you react to them. Next time, I think I’ll try to take my own advice and control my temper. After all, they’re the people I love the most.
Bless their hearts.
Subourbon Mom 