Category Archives: Dimples

A Girl, A Guy, and a New Guy and a Different Girl

When our daughter, Dimples, was about three, she inexplicably started saying, “the guy” at random moments.  Sometimes she would point at her dad, sometimes at baseball caps.  We could not figure out what she was trying to tell us.

Then we took her back to SeaWorld for the second time.  We sat down at the “Viva” show, which had mesmerized her the first time we went.  The  show was filled with leaping dolphins, graceful beluga whales, and amazing feats of gymnastics and diving.  Despite all of that, it stunned me that she didn’t fidget the entire program.  She never clapped or smiled, just watched with wide-eyed wonder.

Determined to repeat that experience, we brought her again about 3 weeks later, carefully arriving about 15 minutes before the beginning of the show so we could be sure to have the same seats as the first time.  When you find something that works well with a toddler, you don’t mess with perfection.

We sat down, and suddenly Dimples started saying, “The Guy!  The Guy!  The Guy!”  with great excitement.

And then I saw who she meant.  Before the show started, a man entertained the crowd with goofy antics in the audience, pretending to try to “fix” a leak, and splashing water everywhere.  He wore a cap.  And last time, I had pointed him out to Dimples by saying, “See the guy over there?  See what the guy is doing?  Isn’t the guy funny?”

From then on, whenever we went to SeaWorld, it was required for us to attend the Viva show to see The Guy.

And if there was a substitute Guy?  Dimples was not happy.

This week, Dimples and I went back to the show.  It’s been 7 years since “The Guy” appeared in her life.  Since then, the show has morphed into a new one, “Azul”, but it’s always had pretty much the same theme.

And it still has “The Guy.”  And he still fills a baseball cap with water and puts it on the head of a very surprised member of the audience.

“But it’s a different guy,” Dimples noted with disappointment this week.  I felt myself preparing for her inevitable announcement of a Day Ruined.  But it didn’t come.

Because now we go to the show to see someone else.  Now, Dimples is a synchronized swimmer, and her coach is performing in the Viva show.  Now, Dimples is on her way to the Nationals, and her mind is on holding her breath, standing during her lift, and pointing her toes.  Now, she is noticing technique and stamina, not the silly man who does pratfalls into the water.

Will I sit in that stadium seven more years from now and be watching Dimples performing with the dolphins?

I don’t know.  But I will always associate that open-air theater with a little girl watching her idol with bright eyes of adoration.

And my frantic mental telepathic warnings to The Guy that he Better. Not Come. Anywhere Near Me.  With that Cap Full of Water.

Dimples and The Guy

Dimples and The Guy

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I Was Going to Include a Different Picture But I Was Afraid to Google It

Yesterday I had to fend off a wild beast with an artificial vagina.

Okay, the beast was not so wild.  But she was extremely forward.  Apparently, the father of my daughter’s swim coach feeds her from his hand,  so she expects the same treatment from anyone else who visits the back yard.  Her name is Rhonda.

Rhonda - the vicious beast who attacked me

Rhonda – right before she realized my iPhone is not edible

Oh, and, as you probably suspected, I did not use an artificial vagina.  I used my cell phone.  And I didn’t really beat her with it.  She backed off when she realized it wasn’t food.

These are the kinds of adventures I have in suburban San Antonio.

They aren’t very newsworthy, I’m afraid.

James Herriot, on the other hand, the British country vet who wrote a series of books about his life, really did, apparently, get to repel an angry bull by beating it on the face with an artificial vagina.  The bull, not surprisingly, was a bit upset at this man who kept interfering with things each time he tried to “service” a cow.

Comedy gold.  This kind of thing never happens to me.

Instead, I find myself in the enviable position of reading the chapter about it out loud to my 10 year old daughter, and explaining the concept of artificial insemination to her.  Because I:

a.) have absolutely no memory of reading that particular chapter when I read the book at her age – or even when I read it again a few years ago

2.) am too lazy to read ahead to see if this might be a chapter best skipped

III.) have not enough imagination to “wing it” and make something completely different up when encountered with the sentence, “All you did was wait till the bull started to mount, then you directed the protruded penis into the A.V.”

Quatro.) was so relieved that this chapter did not include the death of any animals that I figured I might as well keep on going.

For her part, my daughter seemed to take the entire thing completely in stride as she folded her clothes while I was reading – although we both lost it completely when the bull slipped during his millionth attempt to mount the cow and avoid the vet trying to grab his penis, and “slid clean under the cow.”

I thought that I had no use for an artificial vagina.  Actually, I never thought about an artificial vagina, period.  But now that I have seen its potential, I am thinking of looking for one on eBay.

I think it could come in useful as a conversation starter.  Plus, our houseguests could use it to fight off our bulldog, Wonderbutt, when he tries to hump their legs.

I’m going to get a story out of this somehow.

Poifect

My school year began and ended with a wooden spoon.

At our first faculty meeting, we each received a wooden spoon.  We were directed to think of someone we admired, and a trait that person exhibited that we treasure.  On the front of the spoon, we wrote the trait.  On the back we dedicated it to the person.  Then, we were told to secretly put the spoon in the box of a faculty member who also appeared to exemplify that special quality.  The spoons were supposed to be passed on throughout the year.

You can read about the hilariously ironic spoons I received here.  I’m new to the faculty this year, so it’s quite obvious that no one really knows me very well.

Yesterday, the end of our school year, we got back our original spoons.  To be honest, I had completely forgotten what I had written on mine.

Aside from receiving a spoon, yesterday was also notable because my daughter finished elementary school.  To celebrate this distinguished occasion, I gave her a book, signed by all of her teachers, called, Heroes for my Daughter.

Last night, I told her that each night that I read to her, I also wanted to read one of the chapters from the book.

“Choose which one you want for tonight,” I said.

She skimmed through the notable names:  Eleanor Roosevelt, Marie Curie, Gandhi, Lincoln, etc….  She suddenly erupted into what I affectionately call her “Beavis and Butthead” laugh.

“Guess who I picked?” she said.

“Dolly Parton?” I asked, knowing that she was well aware that I’m not a huge fan of Dolly Parton and it would be perfectly in character for my daughter to choose my least favorite person on this list.

“Nope.”  She displayed the chapter for me.

“The Three Stooges,” it was titled.

I laughed.  Then I remembered my wooden spoon.

“Hold on,” I said.  I came back with the spoon, and explained its origin.

“Guess who it’s dedicated to?” I asked.

“The Three Stooges?”

I showed her.  “Dedicated to my daughter,” I had written.

“And guess what trait I admire?”  I turned it over.

spoon

And so we read about the Three Stooges, and their use of humor to bring attention to the atrocities of Hitler in their film, “You Nazty Spy!” two years before the United States decided to get involved in World War II.

That’s how I ended my first and only year teaching at the school my daughter attended – a year fraught with my struggles with depression, but frequently illuminated by outbursts of laughter, particularly during the times I got to spend with Dimples, my 10 year old hacker with the “Purple Mustache” who thinks it’s perfectly logical to name a female chihuahua “Steve”.

 

When You Have a Dog Called Wonderbutt, All Other Names Pale in Comparison

I work at my daughter’s school.  At least, I did until today.  (Don’t worry.  I still work there.  It’s just not her school anymore, as she just finished 5th grade.)

One morning, a couple of days ago, we were walking into the school.  To the delight of many other students who were on their way in, a chihuahua who had obviously not read the “No pets on campus” signs clearly posted everywhere, was dashing around the entrance of the school.

“I recognize that dog,” my daughter said.  “It’s the one that lives across the street from Gabby’s house.  That’s Rex!”

“Hmm,” I said, noting the huge pink color adorning the neck of the chihuahua.  “Uh, are you sure its name is Rex?” And, yes, I am well aware that is sexist.  And somewhat unimaginative.  I mean, it could be, “R.E.X.” for “Resist Extraterrestrial X-Rays.”  Or, maybe, it was spelled, “Wrecks” as in “She Wrecks Every Piece of Furniture We Own.”  Perhaps that’s what we should have named our dog…

“Oh, yeah, that’s Rex,” my daughter confidently responded, nodding her head with assurance.

“Because uh, it’s got a pink collar,” I pointed out.

“It’s Rex!” she said, mildly perturbed that I would doubt her canine identification skills.

“O-kay!” I said, not willing to begin the day with a war over the moniker of an animal.

“Or Steve,” she conceded, as I opened the school door.  “It could be Steve.”

photo from http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=z2wCuiL0EFz-fM&tbnid=LZQhfqpk-qhdJM:&ved=0CAQQjB0&url=http%3A%2F%2Fojhoferjottings.blogspot.com%2F2010%2F06%2Fchic-chihuahuas-my-pet-dharma-with.html&ei=TS-xUZHiH4qdyAHsiIGYCg&bvm=bv.47534661,d.aWc&psig=AFQjCNHqDkvBRlzWbZtGNWvqsDGu4P8NzQ&ust=1370652855590225

Is it Racist to Call Your Plant “Afro”?

I’m going to be perfectly honest here and tell you that plants scare me.  Between watching some sci-fi show where rutabagas screamed if you pulled them out of the ground and wincing through 15 minutes of The Little Shop of Horrors, I am absolutely convinced that plants are just biding their time until they take over the earth.  This was difficult when I became a vegetarian for about 5 years, and the only reason I didn’t give up eating plants as well as animals was because the only other option available in my limited imagination was to become a vampire.  And Twilight hadn’t come out yet, so that wasn’t really the fashion at the time.

So when my daughter came home from a trip to the nursery (plants not infants) with my husband, I was fine with not knowing what purchases had been made.  Dimples, though, loves to share.

“Guess what I got!”

“Ladybugs?” I asked, hopefully.  To me, those are the only benign living things available at the nursery.

“Nope.  A Venus flytrap!”

Yay.  Please don’t put it anywhere near the vicinity of my bedroom.

Since I wasn’t very encouraging when Dimples made the initial announcement, mostly because I was convinced that the Dusty Miller I killed in my classroom last week had ordered a hit on me and that her plant was a “plant”, I decided to try again at dinner time.

“So, what are you going to name your plant?”  Thinking that giving it a name might de-creepify it somehow.  Although that didn’t really help with Dusty Miller.

Dimples is not big on putting a lot of effort into names.  Her blue fish is named, “Sky,” for example.  And her stuffed dog has never even had a name.  She’s had it for 7 years.

“Afro,” she declared immediately.

Great.  So now plants and African-Americans will hate me.

“Uh, why?”  That seemed a better response than, “Are you the only person in the world who sees naming a plant as an opportunity to be politically incorrect?”

“You know.  Venus.  Aphrodite.  Aphro.”

“Oh,” my husband and I both breathed audible sighs of relief.

So, it seems I’m safe.  Even safer now that she moved Afro outside after trying to feed it hamburger meat and attracting a bunch of ants to its strangely disinterested (because it only wants human blood) trappy little mouths.

Until she goes outside to check on it, and yells for the whole neighborhood to hear, “Mom, I think my Afro caught some bugs!”

images

Son, I’ve Made My Life Out of Readin’ People’s Faces, and You Don’t Know What the Heck I’m Talking About

kennyrogers_thegambler_h

To this day, probably the scariest two words you can say to me are, “Talent Show.”

“Hey Mom, guess what? I’m going to be in the 5th Grade Talent Show,” my daughter announced the other day.

Oh crap.

“Really? Um, have I mentioned what happened when I was in my 5th grade talent show?” I asked.

Because it’s all about me.

“No-o-o.”

“Well, I was with two other girls, and we were going to sing The Gambler, and I promised I would learn all of the words but I didn’t. And I stood there like an idiot, making up words to everything but the chorus, and completely embarrassed myself. In front of the biggest crush I ever had.”

“O-o-kay.”

“So, what are you doing for the show?”

“Singing.”

“What song?”

“A Taylor Swift song.”

“Do you know the words?”

“Just the chorus.”

“That’s exactly how much I knew of The Gambler,” I said with a raised eyebrow.

“Okay, Mom.”

I was pretty sure where this was leading, and I thought maybe nurture (or lack of it) could bypass nature, but a feeling of doom settled in my stomach.

This was going to be The Gambler all over again. The Circle of Humiliation following its inevitable path.

But it turned out that she changed her mind. She is now doing a skit with her friends.  Which could still lead to embarrassment – but it will not be a musical one at least.

That, of course, is not the end of the story.

After school yesterday I ran across one of my students sobbing uncontrollably.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It’s Lyric Check Day for the talent show, and I forgot to bring my song,” he sobbed.

“Well that shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. “Tell me the song, and we can go print it out real quick.”

The Gambler,” he choked.

Wow.  It really is all about me, I thought in amazement.

“Are. You. Kidding?!!!” I exclaimed. Probably not the best way to calm down a hysterical kid.

I sang that when I was your age!” He looked at me doubtfully.

I decided not to relate the whole mortification in front of my possible future husband portion of the story.

“Let’s go get that printed out,” I said.

I realized what was going on. This was my chance. To redeem myself, to console this poor boy, to make a difference, to be a hero.  TO BREAK THE CYCLE.  We went to to the computer lab, and I pulled up the song.

He peered at the screen through his tears.

“That’s not it,” he said, somewhat hesitantly.

“Are you sure? You’ve got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em, know when to run,” I belted out. “By Kenny Rogers?”

“Who’s that? What are you talking about?”  The tears had dried up.  My singing has that effect on people.

“What are you talking about? Who do you think sings The Gambler?”

“Uh, Fun?”

So, sure. That’s who sings it. And why he looked at me so doubtfully when I announced I sang it at my talent show. Before “Fun” was even born.

And the Humiliation comes full Circle.

Waterboarding is for Sissies

I discovered today that I apparently missed my calling as an interrogator.

I had a bit of a mystery in my classroom as someone had played around with the settings on one of our laptop computers.  Considering I teach 6 grade levels a week, two other classes had borrowed the laptops in the past few days, and I host the Robotics Club in my room, I was pretty certain I was not going to discover the culprit out of a pool of over 100 suspects.  So, I figured I would just lecture everyone, beginning with today’s 5th graders.

“So, apparently someone changed the name of one of the desktop icons, which one of my 4th graders discovered yesterday.”

The students started looking around at each other.

“It was Evan!” two of the kids said in stereo before I could say one more word.  I couldn’t believe how quickly I had gotten them to rat someone out.

“What?”  Evan is in Robotics club.

“Yeah, a few weeks ago he messed with the desktop but we changed it back.”

“Well, that’s not it, then.  But I will definitely be talking to him.  This was something that happened recently because it was noticed yesterday.”

“It was Harry!”  someone yelled.  Three other people nodded and murmured, “Yeah, I saw him do it.”

I looked at Harry, who seemed completely bewildered by this sudden onslaught of accusations.

“No, he changed the names of some files, but I changed it back,” another student defended (?) him.

“Harry, you and I are going to talk in a minute,” I said sternly.  “Now, back to what happened yesterday.  Someone changed the Internet Explorer icon to say something different.  I’m sure you were just being silly, but you guys could get me in a lot of trouble by doing things like that.  If people don’t think I’m supervising you enough they could take away the technology, and wouldn’t that be sad?”  Encouraged by the seeming willingness on the part of my class to throw people under the bus, I laid it on thick.

They all nodded that this would, indeed, be sad.

“What did they change it to?” someone asked.

I shifted uncomfortably.

“Purple Mustache,” I said, and waited for the laughter.

Silence.

Slowly, a hand came up.  A quiet voice said, “I did it.”

It was my daughter.

“You did?!!!” I said – along with 15 other people.  My daughter has gotten one conduct mark during her 5 years of elementary school.  The only one I suspected less of changing the icon to “Purple Mustache” is my dog, Wonderbutt.  And that’s only because he didn’t have access to the computer.

Crap, I thought.

“Well, you and I are going to have a serious talk at home tonight, young lady,” I said.  Even though I wasn’t sure about what.

I had no idea that I had this kind of confessional power.  Apparently I somehow mastered the technique of the Guilt Trip without even knowing it.

Now, if I could just master the technique of the Don’t Even Think About It Trip, maybe her teen years won’t be so bad after all.

my_mother_is_a_travel_agent_for_guilt_trips_tshirt-r6a92f457e4f645fd81a1ae699f92409a_8nhma_512

Just Don’t Mix Up What Goes in Your Eyes and What Goes in Your Hair and What You Plan to Drink with Breakfast Tomorrow Morning

Okay, raise your hand if you knew that pineapple juice is good for getting Knox gelatin out of your hair.  Now, raise your other hand if you don’t know what the heck I’m talking about.  Okay, put both hands down because you look kind of funny.  Not as funny as I looked with Knox on my hair a couple of nights ago, but still kind of goofy.

Now, you’re probably tempted to Google everything in my first paragraph, and you will probably find confirmation for the milk thing, maybe in the goofy thing, too.  Because the internet will confirm everything you want it to.  But, if you think the internet is the best place to learn things, then you obviously have not attended a synchronized swimming tournament.  You will get all kinds of information that you never knew you needed to know if you stick around a natatorium for three days with a bunch of experienced synchro families.

For example, if your eyes start burning from the chlorine in the pool, put milk in your eye.  Yep, you read that right.  Grab a pint from the corner store, tip your head over backwards, and douse yourself with the stuff.  Of course, it helps if you can keep the eyes open while you do this – which might explain why that home remedy didn’t work for my poor daughter.  To be fair to the milk, none of the more conventional eye drops purchased from the pharmacy helped, either.  So, I guess we can’t say that we debunked that myth, just that my daughter claims that it helped, even though she still held her eyes tightly shut for the next two hours and spurned the sun like a real vampire (not like those contemporary pseudo vampires who can apparently go wherever they want.)

You can imagine my skepticism about the whole pineapple juice thing.  A bunch of the moms mentioned their daughters had tried it, and that it really helped to get the Knox out of their hair faster.  But I have a tendency to disbelieve completely subjective statements.  If someone will conduct a scientific experiment in which everything is the same except the pineapple juice variable, and I mean everything – including the amount of Knox that was on there in the first place, then I might just give it a whirl.  Maybe.

In my Knoxing internet searches, I found a thread about using Elmer’s Glue to make your mohawk spikier.  (It’s amazing how quickly an internet search can devolve into something completely not what you were looking for.)  And I thought it might be fun to surreptitiously spread the word throughout the synchro circles that I’d heard you should mix glue with the gelatin to make the perfect shiny hair helmet. Just to see how fast it would get sprinkled all over the internet and back to me.

But no one would be dumb enough to believe that.

This is exactly how internet rumors get started.  One day you post a pic of a hare with a pineapple, and the next thing you know pineapple juice gets jello out of your hair.

This is exactly how internet rumors get started. One day you post a pic of a hare with a pineapple, and the next thing you know pineapple juice gets jello out of your hair.

 

Thank Goodness Mother’s Day is Right Around the Corner

So, I Knoxed my hair tonight; what have you done for your daughter lately?

Here was our conversation in the car today:
“The coach says we need to be at the pool by 7:15 am. Knoxed.”
“Hmm. I guess I’m going to have to Knox your hair then.”
“But you’ve never done it before!!!!” Complete panic.
“We’ll, I’ve got to learn some time.”
“But not now!”
“What’s wrong? Don’t you trust me?”
Silence.

Full confession, My daughter has been involved in synchronized swimming for three years, and I have never Knoxed her hair. Oh, it’s been Knoxed – just not by me. And if you don’t know what I mean by “Knoxing”, it’s the wonderful secret of waterproof synchronized swimming hair. Mix hot water with Knox gelatin (unflavored, though we’ve all secretly been yearning to experiment with cherry because it could taste good and give your hair a nice tint) and paint it on wet. Then it hardens into a nice plastic helmet.

Ask 100 Synchro moms about their Knoxing technique, and they will tell you a hundred different ways to do it. The variables aren’t just the water and the unflavored gelatin packets. You can do the hair several ways, and use a variety of utensils to do the mixing and painting – including, but not limited to, a paint brush or a basting brush.

I didn’t want to fight with my daughter at 5:30 in the morning, so I thought I better settle the issue tonight. I decided to prove to her that I could mix the concoction to the right consistency since she seemed pretty doubtful that I could even do this, much less paint it on her hair. (She is right to doubt me. My sister, Crash, once tried to make Jello. It sat in the fridge for a week and never jelloed. I used to tease her relentlessly about this, and I have a feeling there is such a thing as Knoxing Karma.)

As I was mixing, it suddenly occurred to me that I should paint it on my own hair to put everyone’s doubt to rest. (I have a feeling that it is no coincidence that my medication usually wears off about the exact time of night that I had that genius idea.)

It worked, though. My daughter couldn’t believe I was doing it.

“I bet no one else’s mom can say she’s done that,” she said, proudly.

Okay, I said it. But she agreed with me.

The only problem with this great plan was that I then had to get in the shower to wash it off. That is when I realized that my daughter is not exaggerating when she complains about what a pain it is to get that glop out of her hair. I rinsed 5 times, got out to dry my hair, and realized there was still an entire section over my ear to which the goop had stubbornly clung.

So, tomorrow, if you see a 40 year old woman with hair sticking straight out of her head over her left ear, don’t point and laugh. Bend over to your child’s ear and reverently whisper, “Now there goes a great mom!”

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My hair; don’t worry, I got better on the other half of my head.

Never Discount the Power of a Wicked Sense of Vitreous Humor

There is nothing like a weekend spent out of town with my 10-year-old daughter at a synchronized swimming tournament to re-affirm my complete ineptitude as a mother.

Once again, I was faced with the fact that I am unable to do the following: brush my daughter’s hair, put it in a ponytail, make a bun, mix Knox gelatin with warm water to the right consistency, paint the Knox gelatin on my daughter’s hair without burning her scalp, attach a headpiece to the plasticized hair without skewering her with a bobby pin, apply garish eye makeup, make the judges give her first place in everything, be the cool mom that lets her stay up late with her friends the night before she has to be at the pool at 7 a.m., bring her parka to keep her warm despite the fact that she told me in no uncertain terms that she would not need it, take pictures that don’t look like I was having an epileptic seizure that lasted the entire 48 hours.

But I did remember her swim bag this time.

I am not Swim Mom. I am Teach Her How to Program a Robot Mom. I am Sure, I’ll Ice Skate with you Since Your Friends Won’t Leave the Wall Mom. I am Let’s Ride the Roller Coaster and Get Scared Out of Our Wits Again Mom. I am Thank God You’re Finally Old Enough to go Ziplining with Me Mom.

And I thought that was enough.  But a weekend spent confronting my own shortcomings in the Swim Mom department was a bit defeating.  Particularly as I listened to my daughter’s pained yelps every time I attempted to do anything that might involve her scalp.

By the time we returned to school on Monday, I was feeling like one of the most incompetent mothers in history, rivaled only by the leathery mom who gave her daughter a sunburn in the tanning bed.

I halfheartedly invited Dimples to assist me in a “practice eye dissection” after school, and she agreed, “because then I don’t have to go to after-school care.”  She hates after-school care.  Another failing on my part.

When I pulled the sheep eyeballs out of the jar, the other adult assisting me had to “take a moment” before we started cutting in.  But Dimples surprisingly seemed untroubled by holding a detached organ in her gloved hands.  She approached the task of slicing the eye with great gusto that, quite frankly, had me a bit concerned about her own detachment.

Her favorite part was the inside section called “the vitreous humor”, and she plopped it up and down zealously, fascinated with the consistency.  I had a vague impression that I had seen this substance before, and finally realized where – it looked exactly like the unflavored, dissolved Knox gelatin that had been painted on her hair all weekend.

“Gross, Mom,” she groaned when I pointed this out.  But she grinned.

And I thought, “How many other daughters get to hang out with their own mother dissecting a sheep eyeball?”

You may bond with your daughter by teaching her the art of the perfect ponytail, but my daughter and I will always have our successful hunt for the optic nerve that brought us closer together.

Knoxed hair close up.  What?  Did you expect a picture of a dissected eyeball?

Knoxed hair close up. What? Did you expect a picture of a dissected eyeball?

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