Wow, I've been gone awhile, huh?

I know.  I haven't posted regularly in a long while.  Lots of stuff going on here.  Most of it positive.

Regardless, believe me when I say I've been busy.  One liners on Twitter are easier for me than sitting to write a blog post.

So here we are.  And for some reason, just today I thought of my foray into kite making.  "But Trina!  Why the picture of the loaf of bread?" you may be asking yourself.

You're so astute.  Maybe not.  I just love that word, "astute"...

If you're a loyal follower you know by now I'm the oldest of six kids.  And as such?  Not much in the way of green backs.  You know, "dollars" "Cash" "disposable income"...

And every March when the weather in Colorado finally became mild my friends would venture outdoors with their custom kites.  Cool ones.  Ones with evil looking eyes...You could reel them out to the stratosphere...laugh with your friends...watch in amazement as your kite was able to do tricks...flips...dive toward Earth before taking a sudden shot back into the sky...cool stuff like that.  

Me?  No kite.  I mean really...how much are those again?  In 1978 I'm guessing maybe 3 dollars.  Regardless, I think my parents didn't buy me one because it mean 5 other kids needed the same toy.  So it was actually an 18 dollar investment.

I allowed my ingenuity to take hold.  

One day while eating lunch I happened to study the Wonder Bread bag my mom had with a limp loaf of crap bread inside.  For some reason I felt this bag could be made into a kite.  

After convincing my mom the bread would be better off in a Tupperware container, I excitedly ran upstairs to my room and went to work.

I made three holes in the plastic surrounding the opening.  Tied yard from the three holes and added a long piece of twine.  Done.

All I needed now was wind.  And baby I got it!  I went to my backyard and watched as my bread kite miraculously flew.  The wind filled the bag not unlike a modern day windsock.  Sure, it spun wildly, a minor design flaw.  Oh and it only reached an altitude of 4 feet.  That's ok.

Things were great until my dad poked his head out our back door and asked, "Nice kite Trina.  It looks like a flying loaf of bread."

At first I was confused by his comment because I was so focused on the 'kite' part of my design vs. the actual asthetics.  But it was at that moment the reality and stupidity of my idea came to light.

Embarrassed, I reeled in my Wonder Bread kite and wondered how many of my neighbors stood laughing at their back doors saying the exact thing.

Oh well.  That's all I have for now.

Outta here...

Field Day Can Suck It...

I hate field day.  Friggin' races.  The wheelbarrow.  Some dork holding my legs and shoving me along until I nearly get a mouthful of sod when my spindly arms give out.

Oh, or how about the 3-legged race?  I was always paired with the equivalent of Wilma Rudolph.  A sprinter.  Fast.  I tried to keep up thinking my leg would otherwise be torn from my hip.

Potato sack race was really great too.  Minus the chafing on my legs and ensuing rash.

How about the water balloon toss?  Yeah.  Fabulous.  That's an Olympic sport, right?

All that crap for a lousy, "Field Day 1979" Blue Ribbon.  As though I was a champ.

Stupid.

outta here...

GET UP AND GET MOVING!!!

Yeah!  YOU HEARD ME!  Get your ass into those pastel leotards and S-T-R-E-T-C-H it out!  Reach high!  There you go!!!

YOU GOT IT!

YEAH!  IT'S JAZZERCISE!!!




I'm checking into local classes.  This is sweet!



Outta here....

You got a sec to help?

"Hey Trina!  Can you give me a hand down here?"


A question from my dad I remember invoking more terror than being busted doing something bad.

See that picture there?  That is an exact replica of how his saw and workshop looked.  Comfy and calming, right?

I'd let dad call me a time or two as I prayed he'd find my younger brother first.  No.  For some reason I couldn't run quickly or quietly enough.

I think Dad was onto me.  He was in the basement.  Probably heard my rapid footsteps as I scampered to the bathroom to pretend I was taking a dump.  Or running to the garage to grab the plastic dust pan we used to pick up dog poop.

Anything but going down to that basement.

I'd end up begrudgingly going down to his workshop where he'd proceed to explain the project he was working on.

"Trina, today I'm cutting some plywood to start install the subfloor in the bathroom down here...Do you know what a subfloor is?  No?  Ok, I can tell you're miffed you're down here.  Cut the attitude, Trina.  Just hold this." as he handed me what seemed like a 20 ft. by 20 ft. slab of plywood.

"Now I know it's a bit heavy.  Just hold it like this as I make the first cut, ok?  No, keep it upright and straight.  There we go.  Oh, and don't move."

I'd stand there.  Struggling to hold the plywood.  Terrified.  I mean, I wanted to lose bladder control scared.

He'd put on his safety goggles (none for me), and fire that wretched thing up.  That gigantic savagely toothed blade.  Whirling and whirling.  The scream as it made contact with the plywood.  Saw dust everywhere.

Dad was unfazed.  Pleased with his big boy toy.

Scared the living crap out of me.  Especially enjoyable was when I was told I needed to push the wood close to that blade.

Seriously phobic of power tools.  Well, drills are ok.  But I'd sooner watch my arm go numb from using a hand saw than use a power one.

That picture...ew....

Outta here...

Macrame is crap.

Hey guys, ever see one of these growing up?  It's an owl.  I wonder if, in keeping with authenticity, these were put away during the day and only hung at night.  Aren't owls nocturnal or something?  I don't know.

How about one of these?

Artistic right?  Also makes watering plants so convenient as it dangles 3 feet above your head.  And look at the plant itself.  Sunlight anyone?  No wonder it's anemic.  Dumb.


What were people thinking?

See ya'...

Dad's Pants

My dad was never one to let stuff go to waste.  Particularly clothing.

Don't get me wrong.  He dressed nice for his job.  Wore a suit.  Perfectly pressed shirt, and conservative tie.  But when the weekend came?  He completely morphed.

Instead of his contact lenses, dad would wear his horn rimmed glasses from 1964.  He'd also wear an Ohio State sweatshirt.  That in of itself wouldn't be so bad if it had not turned pale pink from 30 years of washing.  The lettering so worn he now appeared to have earned his degree from "--io Stute Inivsty"

We were were always used to dad's routine.  Even laughed with him about it.  Mostly because everyone knew his actions really burned my mom's ass.

Living in the suburbs according to my mom, meant sizing yourself up against your neighbors...right down to what you wore when you did yard work.  I remember so many times watching her look out the window with total disdain as my dad mowed our grass.

Sure he was shirtless wearing dark socks with tan Bruce Jenner sneakers with his shorts.  But really, it's just yard work right?

I'd sit in the kitchen and smirk as my mom would greet my dad at the door.  "Goddamn it you look like a damn bum!  Would it kill you to wear a shirt?  And take off those socks!  For God's sake!  What will the neighbors think?!"

Anyway...Dad also had some pants as pictured above.  Leisure pants from the 70's.  Groovy right? Mom didn't think so.  She finally had enough of my dad wearing his vintage clothing and decided to make a run to our local Salvation Army.

A week or so later Dad came into the house one evening after returning from work.  Seemed a bit perturbed.  He yells up the stairs to my mom, "Hey!  Did you clean out my closet?"  My mom yells from their bedroom, "Yes, I did because I'm sick of seeing you in those crappy clothes!"

Dad replies bluntly, "Yeah, well, I was walking to my office this morning when I ran into a bum begging for change.  I was pretty shocked to notice he was wearing my pants."

Nothing to add here...



See ya...

Confession: I loved Garfield

HAHAHA!  Oh my GOD!  Is he a stitch or WHAT?!  I LOVED Garfield!

That lazy lasagna loving dog hating cat really tickled my funny bone.  I don't remember when exactly my infatuation with Garfield began.  Maybe 7th grade...Lastest through my 8th grade year I think...Yes, yes, 8th grade year...my friends in Colorado threw me a Garfield themed surprise going away party....Scored Odie to add to my Garfield stuffed animal collection.

I know a lot about Garfield.  He had a teddy bear named Pooky, for example...See him there?  Cute right?  I had a stuffed Pooky too.  Every morning I'd make my bed and artfully display my stuffed Garfield family.  Garfield holding Pooky, Odie...I never had the girlfriend cat pictured above in pink.  Maybe it was subliminal jealousy...I don't know.

I'm happy it brought me a sense of joy back in the 13th and 14th years of my life because for the life of me now?  I don't know why I even read the comic.  I mean, I have a pretty dry sense of humor...I'd like to think I'm somewhat funny.  I'm convinced the comedic section of my brain went dormant for 24 months, give or take.

I mean, really...Do you find this funny?

So fucking dumb, right?  And how did he convince the dog he needed his collar?  And you want to tell me animals communicate via telepathy?  What kind of crap is that?  It's bad enough Jim Davis even created Garfield...but it's a comic strip for God's sake.  Just let the animals talk...Like Looney Toons...Why speak in thought?  Stupid!

Oh and this one will really make you spit out your latte:

Hysterical right? (**Straight face...rolls eyes in annoyance.  Scratches rash she just received**)

If I had a time machine I'd go back to my younger self sitting at my parent's table eagerly reading the Sunday Garfield and whisper the following:


"Hey, shit for brainz.  When you're done wiping your tears of laughter reading this comic strip, you may want to think about your future.  This sucks.  You should be ashamed of yourself.  You'll lose dates when they hear about this.  Hell, you may have just pigeon holed yourself into the Geek rung of your social ladder strata.  Wake the hell up...STOP LAUGHING!  IT'S TOTAL SHIT!!! Oh, and take that Goddamn Garfield family off your bed you bag of balls.  There'll be a thing in the future called Ebay.  No one will want him there either."


See ya...

The Time I Won a Cake.

Ever do a cake walk at a carnival?  No?  WHAT?!  Never?!

Is it ever your mother loving lucky day.  Because whether you want to hear about it or not, I'm going to share my experience.

My elementary school would host a fundraiser carnival every Spring.  My brothers, sisters and I lived for it.

One of the events we most looked forward to was the cake walk.  About 25 large homemade cakes donated by parents were placed on a table.  A lady would hit the play button on a music player and you start walking around the table...BUT WAIT!

Not every spot had a cake.  When the music stopped and you happened to be standing in front of a cake? You just hit pay dirt big time...

I happened to be the lucky contestant once...I won a strawberry cake very similar to the one pictured above.  Doesn't it look divine?  Yeah...I smiled at the other enviously hungry contestants as I excitedly picked up my (literally) sweet winnings.

By now you may be asking, "Trina why the shit were you excited to win a cake?  Your mother never baked you numb nut?"

I have your answer....Winning a cake gave me a boost up the rungs of seniority at home.  Everyone wanted some, but I owned it.  Only promises of doing dishes on my night or making my bed would one be afforded a thin sliver of made-from-the-box goodness.  Parents included....I got a break from practicing my flute.  And dad finally fixed the chain on my bike...

Sweet, right?



Outta here...

Of course we've been brushing!

1978.  Family trip to Ohio to visit relatives.  We spent two weeks there.  My brothers, sisters and I had a ton of fun.

On one of the last days of our visit, my mother comes into my grandparents' living and asks me where all my siblings' toothbrushes were.

I didn't know.  I took care of my own stuff.

So mom goes to the kitchen where my five younger brothers and sisters were seated eating their breakfast and proceeds to ask them...

"Where are your toothbrushes?"....My sister replies, "We left them at home."

My mother was appalled...disgusted...

How could her kids go nearly TWO weeks without brushing their teeth?

Mom says, "You mean to tell Meeeee....that you've gone this ENTIRE time without brushing your TEETH?!"

My sister allayed her fears by saying, "No, mom!  We've been brushing...All of us have been using yours!"

See ya'

Body Lingo was cool...

1979...My grandmother in Ohio sends me a package for my birthday.  I excitedly opened it and was immediately taken with its contents...

Body Lingo Jeans...They are pictured above...Ever heard of the brand? Look at those chics...Full of confidence, happy...

If I remember correctly, they were purchased from JC Penney's...Mine looked at little more special than the ones pictured above.  I had a Cadillac mack daddy version because my Body Lingo jeans had a bright turquoise stripe down each leg.

Cool.

I liken my Body Lingo jean experience to my birth as a roller rink queen.  Body Lingo was reserved for that occasion.  I'd rock my denim and at one point even had a satin jacket...with a sparkly roller skate on the back...Awesome, right?

Yeah, my Body Lingo jeans really gave me confidence as I stood in the rink not skating when the music cued "Couple Skate"...No one asked me.  But still, I took it in stride.  Body Lingo jeans did nothing to improve my backward skate technique either...

My love affair with my Body Lingo jeans came to a crashing end when my brother and I were throwing a football in our street.  He lobbed the perfect spiral throw.  I ran full speed and dove to catch it...on asphalt.  I rolled backwards with ball in hand...elation quickly followed by horror when I saw I ripped two giant holes in the knees.

Bye bye Body Lingo.  Where's that satin jacket?  That stuff always comes back in style right?

Outta here....

I have no idea where that came from....

Spring.  1991.  My college band director decides it's a fantastic idea for University of Kentucky's entire marching band to sit on stage and bore the audience with all half time show music from our always losing football season.

Me.  Sick.  Flu.  Don't need to elaborate much more than I was really really sick with an awful stomach bug.  But as a musician?  Unless you're on your deathbed...and I mean...hospitalized...IV's...the works?  You don't call in sick to a concert.  Period.

So imagine me in my god awful band uniform.  Barely able to stand I feel so weak and sick.  I'm sitting in the front row with all the other piccolo players.  The entire marching band seated behind us.

Stage curtains were closed but we could hear our eager audience filing into the auditorium.  Getting settled.  Busy, but quiet.

That's when a huge bubble landed in my GI tract.  Bubble.  You know?  "That"  I mean.  I could have died in pain or just tight cheek it as I let out a little air...No one will know.  Tiny bit.  Ok, that's better.

Until I quickly realized I released the gastric equivalent of plutonium.  The piccolo player seated next to me was a loud partying sorta gal.  She literally caught wind of my situation.  Sat straight up in her chair in complete astonishment and screams:

"WHO THE FUCK LEFT THE GIANT TURD ON STAGE?!!!"

Can you even fathom how embarrassed I was?  But I had to play it off.  Didn't know whether to laugh (might get fingered as 'the perpetrator') or chime in.

I chimed in.  Yelled with her.  Went full hog so to speak...really said with gusto "YEAH!  SMELLY FUCKER!  GET OFF STAGE! Gotta be the TUBA section!!!"

Glad she didn't think to look to her left and see a red faced flutist.  REALLY good thing no one was close to my back pant seam.  It was steaming.

Outta here!

Chibi was an a-hole...

He was just awful...a schnauzer.  Next door neighbor of ours owned him.  They'd take a trip to Japan every summer and hired me to watch their wretched dog.

An entire month of hell.

I couldn't pet Chibi (pronounced "Cheebee").  He'd bite me.  Had to toss his food into his bowl and hope most of it made it in because he'd be so excited to eat but would snarl at me if I came near.

Walks with Chibi were super fun.  Had to somehow get the leash on the little jerk before he could nip the most sensitive part of the tip of my finger.

That month was total hell...

And now looking back I realize I was a super dumb kid because my payment for that entire month of dog care?

A pack of Hello Kitty stickers and a Japanese Kimono.  Oh and these funky Japanese platform sandal thingys...

Jack shit really...I was a dummy.

See ya'...

Why, step on up!

One day while walking through a mall in Greeley, CO my mom treated me to an Orange Julius.  I had no idea really what kind of delight I was in for...but man did I quickly become a fan.

A big fan.  Obsessed.  But these babies cost some serious jack.  And it didn't help that most of the time I passed one?  5 other siblings were with me.

So I said, "Enough of this shit.  I'm going to figure out how to make them at home..."  I really did say that.  I wanted an Orange Julius on demand.  Frothy, whipped orange cream delight.

Screw it.  How hard could it be to make?

I went to work with my mom's blender...First ingredient had to be Orange juice, right?  So I started there...added some ice cream, ice, lots of sugar...think I added extra vanilla too.  After some experimentation...trial and error...I finally nailed it...And by "nailed it"?  I mean it tasted like the real deal.

Given my mastery of Orange Julius' recipe I even felt a little cocky.  Felt as if the creators at Orange Julius somehow misplaced their recipe I'd be their "go to" guy....I'd be a hero because I'd be all modest and crap and say, "Well, I'm not sure if this is EXACTLY what you made, but..." as I'd watch their CEO take a taste...then nod to the other execs as a non verbal "Guys, we've got it.  Thank god we found this gal."  Then he'd turn to me, "Say, Trina...this may even be BETTER!  Damn!!!"

Then I'd smile and demand some kind of royalty for saving their ass...

But being the practical and realistic lass I was I instead enjoyed tormenting my siblings...I'd whip up a big batch of Orange Julius and would casually stroll into the family room...Did I mention I required the soda straw?  I did.  Anyway, I'd walk in knowing I'd get stares.

Then my brother would inevitably have to say, "Trina is that an Orange Julius?  Is there any left?"  My standard reply?  "Nah, this is it.  You like Orange Julius?  Have I mentioned how good mine are?  I mean, dead on.  Anyway...I'm headed upstairs." as I turned to walk away...

And they'd stop me..."Bu-bu-but...Waiiit!"  and I'd pretend I was surprised they wanted to keep me within "Orange Julius reach" so to speak....Then my brother and sister would start rattling off favors they'd do so they too could enjoy the delightfully refreshing Orange Julius experience...

"I'll make your bed." "I'll pick up dog poop on your day."  "I won't tell mom you shaved 15 minutes off your practice time."  "You can pretend you need to go to the bathroom during kitchen duty tonight." "Won't tell dad you graffitied his weight bench with that Sharpie marker."

The offers came rolling in.  I was almost an auctioneer for that matter.  Made my brother and sister compete with bids until I heard something I liked.  Then would point to one and say, "Alright.  You win.  Deal!"

And we'd leave the losing bidder sitting stunned....

Good times...

See ya'!

Be sure to wash your hands.

I'm getting grossed out just looking at this...But can you believe some people don't know what a urinal cake is?  For anyone who doesn't, it's the pink disk...shaped in a little cake.  It does something.

I don't know exactly what.  Maybe makes things smell nice.  Ok, I'm grossed out again.

My mother didn't know what one was.  Maybe it's placement in the urinal in a port-o-let threw her off.  All I remember is her telling us one by one to "Remember to wash your hands.  It's so dirty in there."

Funny thing is none of us could recall a sink with soap.

So I asked her.  "Mom, where exactly did you see a place to wash your hands?"  She replied, "There's a little sink with pink soap.  No water but it's better than nothing."

Ok, gagging again.

I gotta go...

Speak a little louder, will you?

Our family's tape recorder was a big hit in our house.  Leave it to yours truly to find a way to use this 1980's technological miracle to torture fellow members of my household.

Maybe I'd lay in wait by the bathroom door as my brother dropped a deuce.  Record all the sounds. Then a day or two later ask him how "the girl he liked from school would react to this"grinning like Cheshire the Cat as I pushed the "Play" button.  Laugh as I watched his face turn into a mortified ashen shade of embarrassment and shame.

Sit at the top of the stairs snickering with my brother as we recorded my mom getting on my dad's case about something he forgot to do around the house.  Hearing her say, "And goddamn it, take a shower and put in your contacts on your days off will you?  The neighbors must think you look like a damn bum!" was like recording gold...

Ah yes...memories.  The best though was when I used it on my poor younger sister.  She was like a gazelle when it came to being gullible to my antics...Me?  The preying cheetah....

One day we were sitting in our room doing mostly nothing.  I had the recorder on my bed and stealthily pushed the "Record" button.  Then proceeded to have a casual chat.

"Hey," I asked her as she sat on her bed fussing with some Barbie clothes, "do you ever say bad words?"  She looked up at me kind of confused at my asking and replied, "No way!  Are you crazy?  My friends would tell their mom and you just KNOW our mom would get a call.  Not worth it."

Undeterred, I prodded further, "But would you LIKE to say a bad word?  I mean, between you and me..anything?"  She thought for a second and said, "Well sure, I mean, I get mad sometimes and want to say stuff."

"Yeah? Like, what word would you like to say?  I mean, you can tell me...I'm just curious.  I'll tell you my favorite curse word if you tell me yours..."

She paused for a moment.  Looked at me with an expression not unlike someone who just got away with stealing candy, leaned in a bit and said, "I'd probably say, 'Shit!'"

"No...really?  Say it again...but just a little louder this time."

She sat up straight, looked at me and said, "I said, SHIT!!!"

I looked at her as I pulled the recorder over to my lap and said, "Cool.  Thanks..."

"Thanks for what?" she asked...

"For this!  Mom will love it!" staring at her with a big grin as I pressed "Play"...

Really loved seeing her reaction...but that was really always the best part, right?

Outta here!

Oh, you shouldn't have. Really...

I happened to be innocently watching the evening news last night when I was visually and mentally accosted by an ad for Vermont Teddy Bears.  I tried to find a video clip but they were all pretty poor quality.  Just as well because I wouldn't subject my readers to this revolting display of love.

I can't believe people would in all seriousness give this shit as a gift!  I wonder how the man decides which bear his woman is worthy of receiving...Does he call up Customer Service and say, "Yeah, uh, I love my girl and stuff.  Speaking of 'stuff' you sell stuffed bears right? Cool because she's been mad at me since last summer when I didn't win a 6 foot dog for her at the state fair."

So behold.  A few offerings for you and your main squeeze from the Vermont Teddy Bear company (spits up in mouth just a bit)....

For the woman who has everything, including enough chocolate and jewelry (that kind of girl exists, right?), there's the "Hunka Love" Bear:

Isn't it sweet?  No.  It's not.  And she's on her BED with it!  EW!  Look how she's hanging all over it!  God!  STOP IT!

And what the shit is this?

Oh yeah, thanks.  If you decide to snuggle honey, just remember I'm the one without facial hair!  I mean, after I wax I'm the one without facial hair.  I mean, it may be the bear.  Just remember the bear is smaller.   ..Anyway, thanks for the dress alike bear.

And for those into sexy and cute?  Voila!

So sensual how she's posing with what I guess they call "Bad Ass" Bear.  I wonder if he comes with beer nuts.

Ok, this is about all I can stomach....Seriously bad.

See ya...

I got nothin' but time lady...

Holy crap.  I just have to share what I just witnessed at my local Post Office.

I walk in and there's an older guy waiting and a woman getting waited on by the one employee working the counter.

I wound up waiting 20 minutes!  Why?  Because that dumb broad couldn't decide which stamps to buy...When I first walked in she was just standing there staring down.  Then asks the guy working behind the counter, "Doesn't the LOVE stamp look a little bright to you?"

Postal employee:  "Well, yeah, uh, I guess it's a little red."

Dumb broad:  "I'm not sure.  Maybe I'll take one of the LOVE and one of this other (whichever alternate design she was looking at)."

Postal employee:  "We're always getting new stamp designs in."

Dumb broad:  "Oh reeeeeally?  Like when?  A month?  If I buy this LOVE stamp today are you telling me a week or two from now you'll get something else in that I'll like better?  Because maybe I should wait."

Postal Employee:  "Well ma'am I really don't have a timeline of when..."

Dumb broad (interrupts):  "...yeah, but you just said a month.  So I can wait if you think a better design is coming out.  Do you know what design it may be?  I mean, just an idea...I'm sure they let you know, right?"

Postal Employee: "No.  Actually we don't know until we get the stamps in what the design is."

(pause.....pause.....pause....as she stares down....)

Dumb broad:  "Ok, I'll take one of each.  One LOVE and one of this...(points to other stamp design)"

The postal employee proceeds to take out a sheet of stamps and she says, "Oh GOD no!  JUST one stamp!"

By the point the old guy and I waiting in line are ready to lose it because now the employee has to check to see if he can "break up" a sheet for each of the stamp designs she wants to buy...

After all this fiasco she spent $1.10

Did I mention all this over two fucking stamps?  Two.  Deux.  Dos....

This experience alone really reinforces my distaste for Post Offices.  They're weird as shit.

Goddamn it, now I'm all agitated just recalling the ordeal!  Crap!

Outta here!!!!!!

How high again?

Dinner at my house growing up usually entailed getting the entire family to sit down together.  It was also, at times, when my parents decided to argue about events from their day.

One night my mom and dad got into a heated discussion.  And my dad, all red faced and frustrated finally blurts out to my mom sitting on the opposite end of the dinner table "You know what REALLY BURNS MY ASS?!"

Being the astute student of sarcasm, I decided to answer for my mom.  I held my hand next to the table about where my dad's ass height would be and replied pseudo innocently, "Fire this high dad?"

Silence.  Kids stopped chewing.  7 pairs of eyes...incredulously looking at me.  My dad, wild eyed with disbelief.  Sitting with his mouth half open.  No sound coming out.

I think he was impressed with my answer.  Maybe not.  Yeah, "No."

Then...from my mom, "Trina you're excused now."

I didn't put up much of a fight.  We were having cube steak.  I think it's the cut that made from the part of the cow that gets the absolute most exercise...tough and dry.

Nothing to add here...

See ya!

I got detention once...

Yeah...I did...8th grade.  "Why?" you ask?  I'll tell you why...

My mom decided all her kids were going to start taking Shaklee vitamins.  Ever heard of them?  They were these giant green horse pills.  HUGE.  And for some reason my mother bought a family sized bottle and decided all of her kids would take them.

So I did.  Took me 10 glasses of water to swallow the damn thing.  Disgusting.

Fast forward to my Home Economics class around 9 a.m.  I needed to pee.  Badly.  I raised my hand to ask for a hall pass to the restroom.  My teacher obliged.  Swear to god...I got back from peeing and not even 5 minutes later?  I needed to pee worse than the first time I asked for the pass.

My teacher looked at me and asked why I needed the pass again..."I need to use the restroom again." I said all red faced and embarrassed...So she hands it to me again.

I pee'd.  I came back to class...needed to pee AGAIN...I kid you NOT!  It was incredible.  That friggin' vitamin!  I could have swore my mom gave me a diuretic.  Anyway, this time I was too embarassed to ask again.  So I crossed my legs and tried to think dry thoughts.

But I couldn't.  I had to pee.  Badly.  I actually debated whether it was worth going home early with wet pants rather than ask for the hall pass again in front of my classmates.  No, Nope...can't hold it.

So I slowly approached my teacher..."Uh, I'm really sorry.  My mom gave me a Shaklee vitamin this morning and something in it makes me need to go to the bathroom a lot.  Can I have the hall pass again?"  That bitch didn't even look up and replied, "Only if you agree to detention after school tomorrow."

HUH?!  Detention?  With all the low lifes and ne'er do wells?  Are you shitting me?

I had no choice.  I opted to pee.

Had to work on my pot holder after school the following day.

And a heartfelt "Thank you" to Shaklee brand vitamins* for sponsoring this fabulous adolescent memory.

Outta here!

(*Just read Shaklee has now branched into cleaning products.  I smell a scam here...)

Muffin

My family dog's name was Muffin.  She was a cockapoo.  Ever seen one?  She had a fluffy coat...Cream colored.  Yeah...that's her...bottom right.  Sorry for the poor quality shot.  She was active.

Muffin was a cute puppy.  But as she began realizing she was living in a house with six kids she began to tow the line so to speak.

She often slept at the end of our beds.  But not in a sweet way.  In a possessive, "Don't move your feet or I'll bite your ass" kind of way.  Still remember jamming my feet into the covers, hearing a growl...then muted mauling through the blankets.

Ah yes.  But I liked to return the favor to Muffin.  I'd come behind her as she ate and say really loudly, "WHATCHA DOIN' MUFFIN?!"  And she turn and snarl from her bowl.  Bearing every tooth in her head as she chewed making a slow, deliberate, "NEEEAHM, NEEEAHM..." sound.  I used to chuckle at that...

Muffin always bolted too.  But we didn't mind.  She'd roam our neighborhood for the day.  Come back home when she damn well felt like it.  Given how crazy our house was, can't say I blame her.  Especially neat was when I was out walking with neighborhood friends.  They'd point and say, "Hey Trina!  Isn't that your dog?" Almost implying I should chase her with a leash.  "Yep.  She'll be home for dinner." was all I'd say as I shrugged...

Muffin had some cool tricks too.  No.  I mean cool as crap.  She'd "shake", "play dead"...but did your family dog ever do wheelies while peeing?  No shit!  No training or anything.  I was taking her out one day and watched in amazement as she expertly hiked her hind legs in the air and began walking on her front legs.  Not kidding.  Ask any of my siblings pictured above.  They'll tell you.  It was funny and cool in our yard...quite embarassing when out on walks.  She'd pop a wheelie while peeing and the neighbors would stare...confused.  Probably wondering who the hell taught her the trick.  One drawback to her trick was she'd sprinkle her front legs sometimes...it depended on how high she went...

Muffin slept in a crate downstairs some nights.  Usually when she had an accident in the house.  This didn't please her.  I'd put her in her crate.  She'd be visibly annoyed....pouting.  I'd say extra cheerfully, "HAVE A GREAT NIGHT MUFFIN!" and flip the light switch really fast.  That used to really piss her off.  I know because I'd flip the light back on...There she'd be bearing every tooth in her head, ready to kill me.  Snarling...haha...Good ole' Muffin.

Yep.  Mean as crap.  My sister reminded me she lived to the ripe age of 18 years.

See ya...

It's not a horse...

My dad's company used to sponsor "Family Day" at amusement parks.  I actually think it was the only time my family actually got to go to one of those venues because for the same money, we could spend a week at the shore.

My youngest brother was probably 5 years old at the time.  The first ride we boarded looked pretty innocent.  A choo choo train.  All of us climbed on board and smiled and waved as we were whisked away.  

It was actually a stupid ride.  I guess we were supposed to be entertained by cheesy bears playing banjos and singing.  Or whatever else scenes this place thought were entertaining.  Just as we were getting into boredom mode, we felt the choo choo kinda catch onto a chain...and head up a steep incline.  

It was dark.  We were confused, but had no choice but to go along.  Suddenly the train went from a choo choo to the TGV...(Train de Grande Vitesse)...ever seen one?  It's fast.  It's scary.  It was a freaking roller coaster.  

As we approached the loading gates to disembark we looked over at my brother who was completely wide eyed and stunned.  He was standing in place with a dazed look...and proceeded to place his hands in his pant pockets, rock on his heels and says, "Why!  Looky there!  My shoes got wet!"

Did I mention there was no water on this ride?  There wasn't.  

I guess that last hill really scared him.  And as such he wizzed his pantalones.  I did give him props for his novel, "Point out the obvious, maybe they won't suspect I did what I did on the ride."

And the thing is?  He kept peeing his pants!  The whole day...Not a good combo with the searing hot temps....

The end of the day everyone was getting tired.  My sister turns to me and says, "Are there pony rides here?  I smell horses!"

My now disgusted, exhausted Dad bellows, "It's not a HORSE.  It's your brother!!!  We have to leave!"

(Another thing about this day I remember is my mom spilling her baked beans and half eaten hot dog into a vat of community potato salad.  Classic!  I stood and laughed as she frantically tried to fish out the beans before the corporate folks saw...)

The day the music died. The party music...

Ever been to a Farrell's Old Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor and Restaurant?  Not to brag, but I have. Several times.

The whole theme of the joint is supposed to be 1890's nostalgia.  Harken you back to the days when men wore red and white vertically striped jackets and straw top hats.  All the servers were dressed like that.

It was a happy place.  A feast for my senses as I watched servers clapping and singing as they worked.  Oh, and adding to the magic was a player piano too.  It would belt out all kinds of fun old fashioned tunes...Funny, I don't remember what songs exactly.  Probably "Oh Susanna" or some barbershop crap.

And if it was your birthday, the fine folks at Farrell's restaurants made you a fucking V...I....P....I mean, you were the SHIT, if you went there for your birthday...which is why I wanted to go there every year.

As soon as I walked in the door I'd give my parents a long intense stare serving as a reminder to tell our server, "Psst, it's Trina's birthday today...Do you do anything special?" knowing full well I'd get an ice cream sundae big enough to host a social...Then the pretend, "Oh!  Really?  That's so nice!" when the server says, "Why indeed we DO!  I'll just let them know about our special guest."  It was only after the birthday transaction between my parents and our server was complete could I actually relax and eat my dinner...

I envisioned the cooks in the back getting all jazzed about my birthday...Planning out the timing of my sundae. Telling the other chefs,"Hold it on that chocolate fudge and whipped cream pal..Trina needs it.  It's her birthday! Isn't that GREAT?"

Farrell's was a bit of a drive for my parents...We lived near Boulder.  Farrells was near Denver...probably a good 40 minute jaunt.  But for my birthday?  My parents were down for it.  So we'd make the trek.

Then came my 10th birthday.  And as usual when asked about what I wanted I'd dreamily conjure up my fine Farrell's memories and request the annual pilgrimage.

I dressed in Farrell's finery.  Always had to kinda step it up dressing wise.  I'd put on my Christmas dress.  Sure it was red velvet and had holly on the bow.  But it was still winter.  And matched perfectly with Farrell's decor.  Screw it.  It was my day.

We drove to Denver and pulled into the run down shopping center where Farrell's was located.  As we made our approach in the parking lot, I noticed something peculiar.  I'm sure my dad noticed the same and was likely praying as much.

Farrell's was closed.  Zero lights.  Zero music.  Zero fun.  "What the....whaaa?" was all I could think as all of my family stared at the sadly dark building...stunned.  Dad looked pretty surprised as he tried to put a positive spin on the whole ordeal.

"Trina, it looks like Farrell's went out of business dear.  But how about we go home.  I'll buy several flavors of ice cream from King Sooper's and make you the same thing at home."  All I could say was, "Uh...uh huh...ok."

Gradually as we drove home I began feeling anger towards Farrell's.  "The nerve of that place closing before my birthday.  Would it kill them to host one more birthday for me?  Now where the hell do I go to celebrate?  McDonald's?  In the back with the stupid talking tree?  No NO!  I don't even get McDonald's!!!  I get KING SOOPER'S ice cream...crammed into a cereal bowl! Served by a guy in horn rimmed glasses!  This sucks!"


But what could I do.  The following year my parents made it up to me by taking me to Casa Bonita.  A mexican place with cliff divers and food that would make you want to follow them.

See ya'....