*In my defense, I tried to post this last night. My ISP hates me.*
Ok, so I TRIED to blog this weekend, I really did. It’s just not possible. I can see the computer, there, across a sea of obligations, but actually reaching it is beyond me. However, at least I took with me crushing guilt over the fact I’d let you all down. I mean, here I’d PROMISED to write, I’d extorted questions out of you, and then I disappeared. Honestly, some people! I apologize.
But WOW, all the questions! You love me, you really love me! Or, on the other hand, perhaps you’re just pretty puzzled by me. Hey, whatever. I regret I can’t actually answer ALL the questions. I mean, even if I had that sort of time, who out there has the time to read all that? But I loved every single question, and shall try to revisit the ones I don’t get to today.
So here we go!
Brian wants to know what person from the annals of history I would choose to have coffee with. Ok. Well, see, this is the kind of question that intimidates me. I mean, if I say something like “OH, Paris Hilton!” Then everyone will be thinking, “Eeesh. What an idiot. She could have coffee with anyone and she chooses HER? Oh and ps, Paris Hilton isn’t dead. Everyone KNOWS you’re supposed to pick a dead person, otherwise what’s the point?”
Well, I don’t want to have coffee with Paris, no. I mean, I fear I’d hurt myself, I’d fall asleep so fast from boredom. So don’t judge me on THAT front. Instead, you can judge me because…hmmm…well, rather than having coffee with C.S. Lewis (which would be AWESOME, and I have a TON of questions I’d like to ask him), I would like to have coffee with his wife, Joy. After all, she was a writer too, and the divorced mother of sons. Did you know she was an atheist at one point, and had a dramatic conversion? I find her fascinating, and would love to spend the afternoon talking to her.
Plus, who doesn’t want to know what C.S. Lewis was like in bed?
Joshilyn (who I heart, I really really do) wants me to tell you about the butterfly farm. Well, for Max’s birthday we got him this thing, which came with little plastic cups of caterpillars. The caterpillars ate this waxy green stuff at the bottom of the cup and grew at an amazing rate. Soon they formed chrysalises, which engendered the chrysalis/cocoon debates between Max and Tre. And not long after that, these squinchy little butterflies started squeezing their way out of the cocoons. We watched in awe, as instructed. They were lovely, painted lady butterflies, and we set them up in their own little mesh cage with many lovely plants to keep them company.
That’s when it started.
Butterflies? Are amazingly horny creatures. Every night, when the kids were in bed and the house stilled, I’d be sitting, composing my latest blogsterpiece, and I’d hear the flutter flutter flutter of happy little insects. The first time I heard it I went over, puzzled. After a few minutes observation, I wandered away, slightly embarrassed. Soon it became clear to me that what we were actually maintaining was not so much a butterfly FARM as a butterfly ORGY. My goodness. I don’t know how BEES got the association with sex. We should really be talking about the birds and the butterflies.
Now, lest you think I’m odd for noting the vigorous mating habits of the butterflies, I want to tell you that JOSHILYN actually IM’d me once, asking me to describe how it worked. So. NOW who’s crazy?
Amy wants to know if Carrie should have a little girl’s party for her seventh birthday. Well, YES. Carrie, who can keep pace with my boys, and belch with the best of them, is STILL the girliest little girl I know. She’s LOVELY, and I enjoy her girliness very much. As a matter of fact, I’d even make her a rosebud strewn cake. That’s now much I adore Carolyn, I do. Besides, I don’t have to arrange it, so it sounds like a FABULOUS idea to me! No, I’m sorry, I have NO IDEAS WHATSOEVER.
Lizardek won the prize for the best questions. The prize is this: Lizardek, you should know that both Mom and I noted how much we liked your questions. Way to go.
Anyhow, she wanted to know what one sight gives me the most pleasure. Well, that’s easy. My boys, asleep. And not just because they’re, well, ASLEEP, and unlikely to climb/throw/hammer anything. In the dim light if a nightlight, the annoyances of the day seem very far away. Things come into focus more accurately, and while my thoughts a few hours before may have been, WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH THIS CHILD, as I watch them sleep, my main thought is a heartfelt, oh, thank you. I work, throughout the day, to remember how blessed I am. But as I stand by my boys’ bedsides, I know. I breathe it in.
Sheryl wants to know who put the bomp-ba-bomp-ba-bomp? Who put the wham in the whama-lama-ding-dong? Glad to help you there, Sheryl. It was me. Hee hee. Actually, I seem to have this PROBLEM. Whenever someone asks me a “who” question, and I don’t know the answer, I always say it was me, and I find that very funny. EVERY SINGLE TIME. Example: Mom, reading a newspaper, “Wow, I wonder who’s killing all those prostitutes and eating their livers?” Me, “Well, me. Yeah. Sorry.” Hee hee hee.
It always earns me the same thing, a puzzled look, but I persist in thinking it’s funny. I don’t know why.
Christine wants to know what I’m going to dress up as for her Halloween party. Well. Um…I have no idea. Any suggestions, people? Let’s make it a CONTEST! The person who can come up with the BEST SUGGESTION for the costume I should wear to Christine’s party, wins a PRIZE, equal in value to Lizardek’s prize. NO, REALLY!
Carrie (not Amy’s daughter) wants to know how I selected my kid’s names. Well, you KNOW how much I like talking about the boys, so here goes. I’ve already written about picking Raphael’s name – and his is the only name that isn’t directly lifted from a relative. Tre’s actual, for real name is not Tre. He’s named after his father, whose name shall not be spoken here, so let’s call his real name…umm…Waytolong McJerkison III. When I was on the VERY FIRST date with my ex, he leaned over during dessert and said, “I want you to know if we ever have a son, his name will be ‘Waytoolong McJerkison III.” I giggled that he was being a bit presumptuous, but he turned out to have been right. And when I was pregnant with our first child, I had to think about that again. What were we going to CALL our baby? I wasn’t going to call him “Waytoolong” and the nicknames had already been taken – my husband was “lil’ Tool” and his dad was “big Tool.” (*snicker* Sorry, that was childish)
Anyhow, one day as I was reading baby name books, I came across the name Trey, which is a nickname for “the third.” Well, my problems were SOLVED! We could call the innocent child TREY!
And we did, from the day he was born, although his dad wanted it shortened to Tre, and originally added a stupid accent mark. Because you know how important accent marks are on single syllable words, right?
My former in-laws still refer to Tre by his father’s name, and he ignores them, which gives me more joy than it should, really.
Max is named after my late grandfather on my dad’s side. I loved my grandpa, and I’m so glad he was named Max, because it’s just the perfect name. I love it.
I wrote about picking Raphael’s name here, so I won’t bore you with it again.
Keri wants to know if I will adopt her. WELL OF COURSE I WILL! As I see it, this solves issues for both of us. On your side, it’s an answer to your internet parenthood fixation. And for ME, you can be the daughter I never had! Now I’ll have something to say to the people who ask me sadly if I don’t have even ONE DAUGHTER.
“Why, yes!” I’ll exclaim, “I have a lovely daughter. She’s married and has a teenaged daughter of her own.” And then they’ll give me a puzzled look. Oh, PLEASE let them give me a puzzled look. PLEASE don’t let them nod as though it were feasible for me to have a teenaged granddaughter. People already ask me if my DAD is my HUSBAND, and my self-esteem just couldn’t take a blow like that.
Karen knows just how to get her question answered, by including compliments with the actual question. She asks if I’ve had any romance in my life since the divorce. Well…you mean other than the crush I had on Vern from Trading Spaces? Um…not exactly. By which I mean no. Yeah. See, I’ve had this PROBLEM, where I hyperventilate at the thought. I mean. Right after my ex moved out, people started assuring me it would be ok, I’d “find someone.” To me that was like saying to someone who’s been hit by a car, and is bleeding on the side of the road, “DON’T WORRY! Here comes a TRUCK to run you over!” Oh jeez, give me a moment while I breathe into a bag.
Ok, better now. The whole dating-after-divorce thing is so complicated and difficult on so many levels, I’ve pretty much assumed it would be impossible. But recently I’ve started to rethink that a little. Maybe. Oh shoot, where’s that paper bag?
Ok, this is getting too long, so I’ll choose one last question at random. Toni wants to know where her prescription sunglasses are, the ones with the blue-green glass bead necklace (which sounds very cool, by the way). Well, Toni, the truth is…IT WAS ME! I TOOK THEM! HEE HEE HEE HEE
Ok, sorry. I quit.