Thursday, April 28, 2011

M.I.L.

As stated earlier, it's Birthday Week.  I have a friend with a birthday each and every day of the week.  And the birthday for today is My One and Only Mother-In-Law.   Some people say that Mother-In-Laws cannot be friends, but I say fooey.  Mother-In-Laws can be friends.  They can be great friends.  I have a great friend for a Mother-In-Law.

As an aside, does anyone else have trouble deciding what to call their Mother-In-Laws?  I mean, I could call her Grandma, which is what I call her to the Yahoos, but that doesn't seem all that appropriate.  Actually, the Yahoos call her "Bird Doorbell Grandma" because she has this lovely doorbell with a bird around it.  I could call her "Mom" but that seems weird too.  Generally, I call her by her first name.  But for the sake of her personal propriety, I must refrain from nominal exposure.  Today, she gets to be M.I.L... yet that seems so impersonal.  Perhaps she should get all of those names?

Let me tell you a thing or two about this dear M.I.L.  First she puts the Artsie in Fartsie.  Good grief, that woman is talented.  We have Artsie Treasures scattered about our humble abode.

First, there's the Rumpus Room.  When we were finishing our basement, I mentioned that I wanted a mural of the Wild Rumpus (from Where The Wild Things Are.)  Spouse's parents had just moved to Utah from Maryland, and I had yet to discover what the woman was capable of.  In no way was I dropping a "hint" for her do such a thing.  She interjected an, "Oh.  I'll do that!"  And I was like, "Are you serious?!  Be my guest."

Well.  I don't know who exactly was the guest in this situation.  Check it out:

Photobucket

Photobucket

Photobucket

Photobucket

Photobucket

Photobucket

Photobucket


And if a mural in the basement is not enough... she decides that she'd like to borrow Yahoo #1 for a day or two so that she can carve a bust in his likeness.

Photobucket


I think those dolls who wrote that Don't Cha song were thinking of my dear Mother-In-Law when they wrote that it.  Don't cha wish your M.I.L was a hot artist like mine?  Don't cha!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY M.I.L, Bird Doorbell Grandma, Mom!

-

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Stu

Today is the celebratory birthing day for the one, the only, Stu Pidasso (make sure you say that one aloud for full effect.)

Stu is married to Vera and lives three houses up and on the same side.  In honor of Stu, I could leave you all with a rabid, mush-gushery over how awesome he is, like how handy and smart he is, how freaking funny he is, or how wonderful he's been with the Yahoo's all these years.  In fact, Stu's the one who started calling them "Yahoos."  The Yahoo's were named from Stu.  I could also wax on with homicidal gratitude about how many times he's dropped everything to assist us, or how he'll let us borrow any and everything he owns.  Stu is super spectacular.  Stu is something else.

I could leave you all with that rabid, mush-gushery, but I won't 'cause dudes don't like all that.  Or do they?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY STU!


Photobucket
This was Stu and Vera's Christmas card.  Said, "At Least We Have Our Health."


Photobucket


Photobucket


-

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Megan (and Tuesday Tune, vol 77 - You're Gonna Be a Star)

On Tuesday, March 25th, 2008, Megan posted a poem, and titled that post Metered Solace. It was this poem:

Henry Van Dyke - If All The Skies

If all the skies were sunshine,
Our faces would be fain
To feel once more upon them
The cooling plash of rain.

If all the world were music,
Our hearts would often long
For one sweet strain of silence,
To break the endless song.

If life were always merry,
Our souls would seek relief,
And rest from weary laughter
In the quiet arms of grief.

 

The next day, March the 26th, Spouse crashed skiing and broke both of his feet. He was sent to the hospital for a few days to figure out what to do next, and to get the house ready for his non-pedal mode of going about.

On Friday, March 28th (still of 2008), Rabid found Megan.  Specifically, she found that same Metered Solace post while "blog hopping" in a hospital with "wighfigh."  Rabid found all sorts of solace in Megan's metered method of solace.

And that's where it all began.

In the last couple of days I've had some relish over how sweet that is; to actually have history of where it all began.  To look back, read the things I read, and in the process, feel what I was feeling.  Which, honestly, was nothing but love.  Love for Spouse, love for internet technology, love for orthopedic surgeons, and love for new friends who quietly provide solace and hope.

In three years time, I've grown to love this Solacing, Metering, Megan.  Truthfully, she is the most talented of people I know.  Megan writes, she designs, she advices the medical people about arterial fibrillation, and who knows what else.  She's athletic, she funny, she's loving, and she's MY friend.  How lucky am I?  Pretty darned.

Megan's a true star, and she's all the way over in Reno, so that's why today's Tuesday Tune is:

All The Way To Reno (You're Gonna Be a Star) - R.E.M.

I love this song. LOVE. It's Megan's song too. I think about her every time I play it. It's also on my list of top 25 played (of 12,368, so that's sayin' something.)

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MEGAN!

(Here's my metered solace to you!)

All the way to Reno
You've dusted the non believers
And challenge the laws of chance
Now, sweet
You were so sugar sweet
You may as well have 'kick me'
Fastened on your sleeve

You know what you are
You're gonna be a star.
You know what you are
You're gonna be a star

Wing
Is written on your feet
Your achilles heel
Is a tendency
To dream
But you've know that from the beginning
You didn't have to go so far
You didn't have to go.

You know what you are
You're gonna be a star.

Photobucket

 

 

Monday, April 25, 2011

Vera

It's Birthday Week.

Would you believe, that I have a friend with a birthday every last day of this week?  I do.  Maybe some of you can't believe that I have enough friends to fill up any five days in a year, let alone have enough to fill up the last week of April.  But it is true.  I have: 1) That many friends, and 2) enough to fill up this week.

Incidentally, and speaking of friends, I just stumbled upon a facebook personality, one with a "page" who has 23,483 "likes."  And here's the holy-crap part:  I see her periodically at the gymnasium that I go to.  She's a normal gal to me.  Normal, normal.  Yet somehow that girl has 23,482 people telling her how awesome she is.  I say 23,482 not 23,483 because I have yet to tell her that she's awesome.  Maybe she is awesome, who knows.  I'll keep an open mind on that one.  In fact, here's what I'll do.  The next time I see her, I'm going to smile.  And not just with any smile, I'm going to **smile**.  If she **smiles** back, then she's prolly as awesome as everyone says!  Think that's a good test?

You can tell a lot about a person and their smile, yes?

Take Vera.  Vera, has a great smile.  Her smile says, "Fun!  Mischief!  Mayhem!  Smart!  Clever!  Humor up the wazoo!"  I sure love Vera.  She's done so much for me.  She single-handedly saved me (twice) from the post-partum depression (it's really, real, folks,) exposed a dimension of fun I didn't know existed (drug-free even,) and more importantly, she's told me a hundred or more times to "knock it off" -- where "knock it off" means: quit whining, stop your complaining, get over it, move on, it's not important, forget about it.

She does all that smiling too.  She'll say, "Rabid.  Knock It Off."  Smiling.

Everyone needs a Vera.  If you don't have yourself a Vera, either go out and find one, or let one of your current friends tell you to "Knock It Off" every now and again.  Trust me, it'll add years to your life and yards to your swing.

Today is Vera's birthday.  So, join me in a toast to Vera, on the celebratory date of her birthing.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY VERA!

Photobucket

Photobucket

Photobucket

-

Thursday, April 21, 2011

The Effing Man


My dad... My Mikey Dad... is The Effing Man!  He is.  I have two kinds of proof now, to prove that he's The Effing Man.  Before receiving proof that this Mikey Dad is the Effing Man, he was just the Effing Dad.  Big difference.

About two weeks ago, on a Saturday morning, I received a phone call.  "Hi Rabid.  We're doing something special for your dad tonight.  Can you come to the banquet where we plan to do something special for your dad?"

I said, "Why sure." 

That phone call seems like an official invite, doesn't it?  It is official, but it came as a result of some begging and pleading on my part, for I received wind of this special something, and dropped an "Oh lemme come!  Please, please, PPPPLEEASE?!  Can I come?"

You see, my dad, who many call "Mikey," works for a ski resort, and has for 41 years.  In ski resort years, that's a lotta years.  A few months ago, a gent named Al pulled me aside and said, "Your dad is quite a person, and he has helped a lot of people around here.  We're working to do something really nice for him."  I replied with an "Oh yeah?" or something.  Al continued.  "We're going to name a run after him.  I'm working with general management to get a run called Mikey's."

I believe I dropped one of those NO SH*T jaws.  (The assterisk was added so that when people google "shit," they won't end up here, even though "shit" is among my most treasured of swears.)

Not many people on this planet have ski runs named after them.  I dare say that there are more stars named after folks than ski runs.  Having your own ski run is a big deal.  After Al had delivered his teary-eyed "Your dad is so special, we're gonna name a run after him and present it at the year-end party,"  I was all over finding a way to crash that party.

Turns out I didn't need to crash that party, 'cause Al called and extended an invite.  Technically, we did crash that party, because as was mentioned earlier, I dropped by to beg and plead and whine and demand that we be invited.  I was going to be at that party.  Come green or double-black-diamond, I was going to see them tell my dad about that run called Mikey's.

The plan for Spouse and me was to show up late.  We'd sneak in on the sly, sit in the back, and watch the events.  There was a slight flaw in this plan, however, because I forgot about something called the cocktail hour.  I forgot that the cocktail "hour" normally turns into cocktail "hours," and we arrived way early.  Too early, for Mikey became suspicious.  So much for sneaking in on the sly.  

Even though we did arrive early, we still arrived late enough that the majority of his ski resort cronies were pickled and saucy.  The younger ones more so than the olders.  It was a drunken fest of relaxed yet professional ski bums.

We had dinner, which included the best tiramisu I've ever tasted. We listened to awards.  We watched hooting and hollering, with brotherly love and slurpy "I love you man"s.   It was a joyous occasion.  At the end, Al, dressed in his finest Hawaiian button-down, announced that Mikey would join the likes of Picabo Street and Phil Jones, because the resort planned to name a run after him.  "Lower Single Jack will now be called Mikey's," said Al.  Then there was more hooting and hollering, with brotherly love and slurpy "I love you man"s.

The party broke up, and everyone started to wander out.  Spouse, me, and a few others were standing in a half circle chatting, when a blond, early-20-something bloke in a home-made beanie stumbled on up to me -- rather close, I might add -- and with droopy eyes, said "Hey!"

I said "Hey!" back.

This little punk had thick, blond lashes, and clear blue eyes.  He was wearing his best khakis with a pair of muddy boots, and his hands were cradling a giant white purse. With the back of his hand, he roughed out his mouth, threw his head back in slow motion, and looked around at us strangers.  "I...."  he said, "I... believe I've wandered into the wrong conversation."

"That's all right," I said.  "My name's Rabid, what's yours?"

"Tony."  We shook hands.

"Hi Tony.  Who's purse you got?"  I inquired.

Big grin.  "Oh."  Bigger grin.  "That's Brooke's."

"Tell Brooke she has a nice purse."

"I will... How are you asssosssociatted here?"  Tony asked.

"I'm Mikey's daughter."

Tony stepped back.  He placed his hand on his heart, that same hand with Brooke's dangling purse, then said, "Mikey?!  Mikey's The Effing* Man!"


And that is when Mikey, The Effing Dad, became The Effing Man.

Photobucket


*"Effing" is not the exact word, but you all knew that, right?  Can't say the real thing, 'cause this is an Effing Family Blog.

-



Monday, April 18, 2011

Moron Monday

I'm taking a blog break.

I've been working most of today and it's been quite an adventure.  Just a few minutes ago, Spouse marched the Yahoos down to the office and said, "Give mom some loves.  She's going to be up all night helping morons."

So Yahoo #2 rushes over, grants the requested love, and hollers "Have fun with your morons mom!"

Isn't there a tune in there somewhere?  Moron Monday?  That song will never be the same...

-

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Let's Take The Long Way Home



Let's Take the Long Way Home
by Gail Caldwell

Photobucket

It's time for a couple of book reports.  First up is Let's Take the Long Way Home, by Gail Caldwell.  This little gem of a memoir arrived in the mail one day.  Completely out of the blue.  I tell you what, getting little surprises in the mailbox gets me all sorts of overworked and overjoyed.

If you have a certain someone, that means a certain something to you, I suggest you send them a certain something special.  It doesn't have to be huge or expensive; just send something and watch what happens.  Of course, I just now discovered the flaw in that "watch what happens" because unless you're really freaky 'n weird, you won't be at the mailbox when the surprise you sent is seen by the target of your sendsation.

I've got a list of people, x in length, who I'm going to send a little something-somerthing.  A couple of you have already got your something.  Being as my list is at least thousands long, and the somethings will be sent in no particular order, don't feel bad if yours hasn't arrived yet.

Let's Take the Long Way Home was sent from Megan.  She felt it had a parallel or two for the formation and furlong of our friendship.  This memoir is written by Gail, in the which she tells the story of how she and her BFF Caroline came to be.  Gail and Caroline began their friend-fer-life relationship with the help of their individual dogs.  They were dog people who had dogs, and did dog stuff at dog places. After rubbing shoulders in this dog-owning crowd, they hit it off right away.  It also helped that they were both writers.

The Megan-Rabid friendship aligned itself in a similar way.  'Cept our blogs brought us together, not our dogs.

This Long Way Home memoir is a true story of everlasting friendship.  It's a story of how friendships are grown like living organisms that need proper care and nourishment.  Friendships aren't statically molded, or cornered by obligation.  Friendships allow us to grow together over differences and squabbles, friends lend a hand when needed, and they compete sometimes in an encouraging way.  Good friends know when to stay away when space is needed, and in the end, friends kick it into high gear when another friend might be at the end of a rope.  Like when Caroline developed lung cancer and had only months to live.

It's a sad story.  Not going to lie there, but it's an uplifting one about friends.  And how great friends are eternal.  So find your great eternal friends, buy 'em some gum, a book, some whacky socks, or a slippery bedroom gadget.  Put those senseless items in a magic box.  Send that box on to someone special.  But make sure you include one of those sappy "let's be friends forever" kind of notes.

This was a mess of a book report, wasn't it?  I think my friend Amberien helped me write it.  Tomorrow might bring some adjustments.  We'll see.  Nigh-nigh.


Wednesday, April 13, 2011

My New Favorite Comedian

Is Victor Borge.  Although he's old or even dead or something.  Irregardless, he's my new fave.


Wednesday, April 06, 2011

If Only EVERY Day Were April Fool's Day

I feel as if I've lost some muchness.

I used to be much muchier before.  Indeed, I've lost some muchness.  I really want a pill or something that will restore the muchness.  We could call it the Muchness Pill.  You know, so that I can take this Muchness Pill, and I'll get back some lost muchness.  Nothing's worst than lost muchness.  It's complete and total digression.

I suppose that with each passing year, I can count on losing a little muchness.  Kind of a drag, yes?  But a thought just occurred to me:  What if when we lose muchness, we gain wisdom?  Wouldn't that be great?  NO!  It would NOT BE GREAT.  Wisdom is totally overrated.  And boring.  And old.

Some of you might get excited about me losing some muchness.  Some of you prolly feel that my overbearing personality is just too much and needs a good digression.

Well. To those of you who already feel as if I'm already too much, I suggest you stay the hell away from me on April Fool's Day.  Because on this, the Day for all April Fools, my muchness comes out.  In all of its muchy glory.

Care for a recap of April Fool's 2011?  (If you missed 2010, you can check it out here.)

First, it started with some bedtime switcharoo.  Spouse switched the Yahoos while they were sleeping.  When we threw up the lights to wake them, both sat up and and declared a confused, "What the...?!" One of the Yahoos (won't say which) became rather... uh-hem... upset.   That one ran back to his own bed and buried himself.

Then came the breakfast.  All was prepared before the grand switcharoo awakening -- wouldn't want to give any of the surprise away -- and as the precious Yahoos were wandering into the kitchen, bed-head 'n all, Yahoo #1 said, "I'm scared to see what breakfast is."

Screeeeetch.... hold the phone, pull up the britches.... did you hear that?  "I'm scared to see what breakfast is."  That, folks, is one small victory for mom kind.  Means the April Fool's Muchness has left a mark.  A mark big enough for the use of that word scared.

The kids, with giant, skeptical eyes, saddled up to breakfast.  With disgust, they poked around at what I had given them.  Which was this:

Photobucket

Doesn't look right, does it?  It ain't right.  It's yogurt eggs with dried apricot yolks, sour candy bacon strips, and toasted pound cake.

After breakfast we walked to school and I wore my April Fool Hat.  Actually I call it "The Dumb Arnold," ('cause of that kid on Fat Albert) but for April Fools day it was the April Fool Hat.

Photobucket

Photobucket


Traditionally, April Fool's has been about playing a trick on my beloved Vera.  This year, however, I became distraught because my plan -- the plan -- required that Vera be at work for most of the day.  Well wouldn't you know, Vera's daughter Elvie was speaking at some fancy-pants symposium in San Francisco.  Vera had taken the entire week off to watch Elvie's little one-year-old nugget.

Do you see the dilemma?  The plan required that Vera be away from her house and she was in the house.  Had to go to plan B, which was really the dinner plan for the Rabid family, in the which I just extended our dinner plan on over to Vera.

The dinner plan was... drum roll please... meat loaf cupcakes with mashed potato frosting.  Everyone poked at that too.  Not so much in disgust.  To quote Vera, "They were killer."

Photobucket

Photobucket


The highlight of this April Fool's Day was some April Fool Flowers.  Spouse got me some Flowers in a tea cup (a reference to the Mad Hatter I'm sure.)  He left a little love note too!  Said, "You are my favorite fool."  Isn't that sweet?


Photobucket


Then I burnt the bread, but that wasn't on purpose.  Some Fool had set the oven temperate to 450 instead of 350.  When I find out which Fool did this, I'm going to take away some of their muchness.  Not sure how, but I'll bet I can figure it out.

Photobucket

Oh.  Right.  I'm that Fool.  And now I know why I'm missing some muchness.

-