Okay, not really.  Psych!

Okay, okay, really. Just not here. Here. I’m taking a stab at NaBloPoMo while building a shiny new blog from scratch. It’s an empty house over there, but I’ll slowly add furniture, crap on the walls, and hang some hip kitchen towels from the oven handle in due time. It’s strange over there. I feel all exposed, self-conscious, cat-got-my-tongue, whereas here I can still easily slip into ramble mode.

dee curb – same blogging goodness but now with less rambling.

I’m not sure what I’ll do with this chunk of curb memories. I was hesitant to even advertise the move from here to there as I’ve had a few peeps from the past trolling on the down low for a while and that’s creeped me out a bit.

Anyway, the party is rolling on elsewhere. I invite all of you awesome non-creeper-peepers to join me. Let’s mingle in my empty abode and listen to our voices echo off the walls. Tell me where to hang shit and if the new recliner makes my ass look fat.

While I’m here, this pic of Gab totally reminds me of my favorite Twaggie.  (if you’re into Twitter, you’ll slobber yourself silly over  Twaggies, visual representations of tweets) (no, i don’t work for Twaggies as i doubt they’re in the market for a stick figure creator)  (put a bib on already, you there with your silly slobbering)

She's either channeling unabomber or avoiding the backyard paparazzi. All those squirrels with the intrusive flashing cameras.

Great.  Nowhere did I write how many pounds of frozen bird I shoved my hand up in for Thanksgiving.  I do remember that as I was carving Mr. Cooked Gobble Gobble, the kids’ grandfather, who was seated at the butthole end of said bird reached into the bird’s butt, pulled out a charred bag, and asked, “What’s this?”  Woops.  You guys failed to warn me that turkeys come with an inner bag of playing parts.

I’ve been hanging out a lot in my head lately instead of writing.  I have quite a large skull and it’s easy to get lost in there.  For those of you who welcomed me back to blogging, my apologies for the tease.  I will make more of a concerted effort at forcing my inner me out onto the page/screen.  And, hey, score on the guest blogging opportunities!  I have a couple of anonymous posts from awesome anonymous peeps I’ll share with you here.  While I’m not a blogger who lets it all hang out on her own blog, I might spill some beans here and there anonymously on some awesome anonymous bloggers’ blogs.  Sharing is caring, unless an itchy rash is involved in which case keep it to yourself, I don’t want any.  *this paragraph brought to you by the words anonymous and variations on blog.*

I doodled the most unflattering doodle of myself ever.

I’m not sure why I gave myself the stroked out mouth there.  Really, my face is still mostly symmetrical (although it has always been a bit lopsided in that my right eye will completely shut when i smile if i don’t jack up my right eyebrow) (i am completely normal, yeh uh huh).  Also, I spread my stick appendages out there for you to show you that I am open to sharing and caring.

Sharing and caring rhymes.  But not with penis.

Yep.  My pudgy pink finger with the aid of a limited cast of other fair digits voted in today’s Alabama general election.  I don’t think anything great will come of my vote as there wasn’t much to make me happy on the ballot.  I did chuckle at a couple of names I came across.  Young Boozer, a Republican running for what position I’ve already forgotten.  Another eye-catcher  (and yet another republican, shocker not) was a woman (i assume) with the first name Twinkle.  What else?  My creaky plastic voting booth wreaked of dirty ashtray.  And, I heard at least three separate men HOOT! and HOLLER! when they inserted their ballot into the ballot eater.  Ahhhhhhh.

Won’t you please,
Won’t you please,
Please won’t you be my neighbor?

Speaking of hair, this month should find us touching base with Gav’s mustache.  We’ll also hit on the boy twin’s complete disdain for haircuts and henceforth sole proprietorship of a super ‘fro.  And, the purchase of an actual super afro (it said so on the package) for Halloween.  Because we are all about the hair in this house.

Hair today, gone tomorrow.

Don’t call it a comeback

I been here for years

Rockin my peers and puttin suckas in fear

A little Ladies Love Cool James to get this blog rockin’ once again.

Instead of explaining away my blog absence (gave up caffeine, ran back into the arms of my brown sugary stimulant, wordpress broke said blog, blah blah blah), let’s jump right into the thick of things, shall we?  We shall.

Look. My kid's been Copyrighted.

During Gav’s HIGH SCHOOL registration (jesus christ superstar, he’s in high school already?), all the no longer kids but young adults had their mugs snapped for the yearbook.  We had received the dress code stipulations prior to registration: young men in suit and tie, young women in a dark top.  Apparently, you could go butt naked from the waist down.  Gav, instead, chose athletic shorts and tennis shoes as he had band camp directly afterward.

So, yay, kill a bunch of birds with one stone during registration.

Gav came home yesterday with the above proof.  Very nice we both thought.  Rarely does he approve and accept a photograph of himself what with that whole young adult hypercritical of oneself.

However, this strip of blazing sunshine was stapled to the proof envelope.

Whu??

We both scoured his photo for the unacceptable scourge.  Aha, maybe the tie.  You can see a tiny bit of shirt poking out above the tie.  The tie Gav tied with the aid of a YouTube tie-tying video.  (tie tie tie tie tie)  (mai tai, yum)  I don’t know how to tie a tie.  I’m trying to make it into retirement without this piece of knotting knowledge.  I think he did a fine job tying the tie with the internet’s help, don’t you?

But, nope.  Not the tie.

Hop aboard my handlebars and take a ride.

My fourteen-year-old baby was not clean shaven.

I still look at the first photo and cock my head to the side, “Really?  Somebody noticed that?“

Gav’s quite proud of his John Waters.  His nickname is The Stache.  He’s among the first in his grade to sprout the all mighty Tom Selleck.  His Mark Twain inspires great works of literary genius in his English class.  He’s thinking of resurrecting Borat this Halloween.

Ahh, so I’m off to fetch Gav his first razor and can of shaving cream prior to picture remakes on September 8th.  Listen carefully that morning and you’ll hear the weeping of tiny lip hairs as they begin their funeral procession out to sea via our bathroom sink drain.

Wishing this country slap full of people originating from other countries a fabulous 4th of July!  ahem.

While, yes, I can fit my fist in my mouth, these are not those awkward moments.

Mr. Potato Head is in town at our local science center for the summer.  (no, i didn’t fit mr. potato head in my mouth)  (let’s be clear now, i didn’t put anything in my mouth…these are awkward moments with my mouth not in my mouth)  I gathered the troops and off we went for an afternoon of kids running wild while parents either dart in a panic “Where’s my kid?!  Where’s my kid?!” or stand and stare bored off their keister “There’s my kid.  There’s my kid.”  My three youngest are too young for me to enjoy the leisurely keister time.  I’m always bordering on the hysterical “Where’s my kid?!  Where’s my kid?!” as the three peel off in separate directions and I constantly scan the room with my personal kid-dar on high alert.

At one very brief point the kids were wrangled together in a corner of the museum banging on cash registers and weighing plastic fruits.  I positioned myself against the wall with a group of keister sitting parents.  Since no peace is to be had in this type of venue, some kid quickly banged Alani’s fingers with an inedible pineapple.   Waaaaa! Alani comes running and wailing at me.  She shoved her hand high in the air, I kissed her fingers, and click!  Wailing and crying instantly vanished and merrily merrily away she ran.

The man beside me commented,

“Wow.  That really worked.”

to which I replied,

“Yeah, I have magic kisses.”

He turned to his wife, they muttered something to each other, and then tugged their child to the opposite side of the room.  Seriously?  Come on.  Of course, I meant with my kids, but still I was left standing there looking like a skeeve trolling the science center for tail.  Psst.  Hey, you.  I have magic kisses.  Wanna meet up in the family restroom and bang it out on the changing table?

Yesterday I mindlessly drove to the grocery store and wheeled into a parking spot.  It was one of those drives where you get to your destination but have no memory of physically driving there.  Those are always comforting, yes?  Mental auto-pilot.

Anyway, so I step out of the car and start easing my way to the grocery carts.  A man saunters up beside me and inquires,

“What’s your secret?”

“Pardon?”

I think to myself, “Yep.  I’ve still got It.”  And by It, I mean the ability to attract complete fucking whackos.

“What are you not supposed to tell?”

::mental sob sob sob::  Why me?

“Excuse me?”

“You were driving with your finger pressed to your mouth like you had a secret.”

“Ohhh.  Har har.”

And, you know, I was driving this morning and realized, yes, I do drive with my right index finger pressed to my mouth like I’m holding in a secret.

Shhhh, my secret is that I let my subconscious mind do all the driving and I have magic kisses.  Okay, that’s two secrets.  I’ve over-shared.  What’s your secret?