Knee socks

Twelve years of Catholic school learnt me sumpin': 'Tis better to wear knee socks.

When you have twelve solid years of polyester skirt schooling, you know that there is a strong chance of self-imposed air conditioning. That is, occasionally, you will be wearing a skirt and suddenly you will feel a slight breeze caress the backs of your legs. Occasionally, that feels a little too northerly. And, en route to the mall or the bus stop after school, where no doubt a bus of heckling schoolies from an enemy institution will inform you in no uncertain terms that you did the unthinkable, you realize: you did the unthinkable.

You tucked the back of your skirt into your tights. If ever there were a time to resent the implications of control top, it would be now. Control top gone off the heezy yo.

With knee socks, except for the occasional lazy elastic, a girl faces no such threat to ensemble.

Don't cry for me, Leggs brand pantyhose. I never left you. I just got smarter.

I kept my promise. Never to impose air conditioning on my nether thighs again.

Viva las knee socks.

2 alarm fire

Dearest children, Something happened tonight that was a little heart-stopping.

I think the world actually held still when I realized that I had left a pot holder in the oven by accident.

And that the oven was cranked up to 450 degrees.

So, the pot holder was aflame inside the oven, which is highly ironic when you think about the fact that a potholder is supposed to protect your hand from getting burned.

Instead it was doing a really good job of being totally flamboyant.

Because this wasn't just another stop off on your mother's hot mess express train, like how she gets dressed for the gym in the dark every day so she arrives wearing yoga pants inside out and two different shoes--No, it turned a shade more serious rather swiftly.

Little Man, you emerged to watch your mother think fast as to whether the house was equipped with a fire extinguisher or was that a house at which she babysat in 1994?

You saw her take a cloth diaper out of a cabinet and use the cloth diaper as a POTHOLDER to remove the potholder aflame in the oven.

You said, "Fire! Oh, fire! Oh, gonna call the fire trucks! Fire trucks coming!" but you didn't get hysterical which was a boon to your mother's ability to extinguish the fire from a potholder with an ad hoc potholder.

Little Man, you then stood frozen as both smoke detectors in the kitchen started mouthing off yelling, "WOMP WOMP WOMP WOMP WHAT THE WHAT THE WHAT THE"

You watched as your mother regained her senses and held the two potholders under a running faucet and managed handily to save the kitchen that does not belong to her, even though burning down the house would totally have gone along with the theme of this past year and damaged property. Hah. Just tryin' to be thematic I was!

After your 4'10" mother somehow got the smoke alarms on the ceiling to shut their big mouths, you looked at me with some tears in your eyes and I thought you were scared and maybe you were a little, but really it was more probably the smoke irritating your sweet little brown eyes.

Baby Girl, I'd just like to thank you for being unflappable as well, and by that I mean I want to thank you for sitting in the other room and turning two deaf ears to the smoke alarms and panic attacks happening in the next room, staying completely and absolutely occupied on your mother's laptop, probably picking out Cinderella's outfit for princess pilates on DisneyJunior.com. I know it was hard to stay that focused and not be tempted to come and see if everyone was okay, but far be it from me to say you weren't taking one for the team.

I still love the guts out of both of you and am glad we and our kitchen escaped this culinary crisis fairly unscathed.

Love, Mama *** Little Man by my side

Baby Girl gaming with her boy Tiny C.

Crash

I couldn’t resist having a proper look-see at a newish house just a stone’s throw from Bible College campus. It’s your standard three bed, three bath McMansionvilla. The South loves itself a “bonus room,” and every realtor must play an infomercial host, “Oooh, but there’s more!” and they toss in this whole extra parlor like it’s a potholder and I’m supposed to throw my panties in the air, “Yip! Yip! Yaw! Too good to be true!” Trust, the home I was looking at is really a four bed cookie cutter deal. I set up an appointment for a private viewing of the house.

And by that I mean I asked expressly for trouble.

As I approached the cul-de-sac wherein my prospect sat, I got all nervous nelly about meeting the realtor Miss Laverne. I had corresponded with Miss Laverne, who mercifully appreciates the technology of text messaging, in lieu of speaking telephonically (gasp, perish the thought) or e-mailing from her AOL account which is totally acceptable practice in Confederate commerce. I believe phonebooks are even used here for purposes other than boosting up small children to the dinner table (?).

I was wearing my crusty gym clothes. I was also wearing a helmet--which, by the way is adorbs with a ladybug print--because I was driving our motorscooter. We had just gotten it fixed (the scooter) and one of the quirky handlebars that has the power to accelerate was, turns out, no longer quirky.

You know that part in your nightmare when you can’t hit the brakes? It’s awful something fierce, isn’t it?

Oh. I. Broke. Oh. I. Oh. That. Happened.

The garage door was completely busted inward. And the crash was not a silent one. Ha.

Miss Laverne came out and I wasn’t sure if I should turn on the waterworks or if I should just pretend like I was not the same person who had come for the private viewing at 10 a.m. Nope! Hehe! I’m just the person who promptly at 10 a.m. crashed her motorino into the garage door of strangers who are trying to sell their house.

In the end I decided to cry but I was so sweaty and shocked that my tear ducts were paralyzed.

Miss Laverne was so kind, though, and, honestly, a good two minutes of me making the ugly face trying to cry was enough for her to ask me if I wanted to check out the rest of the house. I was unhurt as was the bike so we stood the bike and myself up and we went all HGTV on that place.

The rest of the house was really gorge. Bright and palatial, but like I said, I was still quite stricken by the accident. It sort of felt a little insincere to remark on the lovely tray ceilings when I had just effectively disassembled one of the major egresses of the home.

So, this must be a sign, right? That I'm meant to own property in both hemispheres. The North and the South. Think the installment plan is the ticket. Gonna lock down the garage first, work my way up to the kitchen, put the half-bath on layaway. Lock it up by end of fiscal year.

I spoke with Miss Laverne later in the day about our options, in terms of repairing the garage or just waiting to put an offer in on the house wherein, apres an official inspection, we would ask the owners to repair the unsightly garage door before we bought it.

Miss Laverne might have even asked God to bless my heart for cracking a joke like that;I knew I was dealing with a true Southern belle.

I then asked God to bless her heart. No, I didn’t really, but I wonder what she would have said to that. Bless your heart. No. Bless YOURS.

The above described incident occurred some months ago and all damages have been paid for and repaired. Except the damage to my ego :)