My Boyfriend's Back

My boyfriend's back.

Oh yes he is, and I'm so happy.

Let me tell you about him:

He's humble, even self-deprecating, yet ambitious, with a professional goal in the medical field, even though the odds seem stacked against him.

He has successfully emancipated himself from both his mother and his boring job and often expresses how much he cherishes his independence. He's a maverick.

He can stand up for himself with high-powered CEO types and rub elbows right along with the common folk in factories.

He can sing, even writes his own tunes when the moment is right, so in addition to being focused professionally, he has a spontaneous, artsy side, as well.

His clothing choices reflect his unique personality; he is no slave to fashion trends. His hair is neat and very stylized. I think Clinton Kelly would approve.

He's not very tall, but that doesn't matter to me. I do care about good teeth, and so does he. I'm talking perfect dental hygiene.

He is the friend of those who are marginalized and misunderstood.

And he's kind to animals. {Dreamy sigh.}

Some people might not appreciate my attraction to his soft-spokeness, his gentile mannerisms, but I've had my fill of the Yukon Corneliuses of this world--so, in the words of The Angels (1963) It's Christmastime and, "Hey la, Hey la, My Boyfriend's Back."

Oh Hermey. I've missed you so.

A Dentist!! sound clip Christmas sound clips

On Sneezing

You know it's bad when you sneeze so much that you blow the Post-It notes off of things they're attached to, like your monitor, phone, folders and framed pics. Come think of it, you know it's bad when you have Post-It notes stuck to every surface on your desk, flat or bumpy, because you can't remember anything.

Anyway, I'm on a roll. A sneezing jag, if you will.

My boss always has a certain number of sneezes he must get out of his system before his sneeze-a-thons end. I think it's four, and they're Texan sneezes, so look out.

Still, I don't think he has blown Post-Its around like a snowstorm.

Once, when I was in middle school band, I sneezed numerous times, too ridiculously many to count. The band director stared at me as if to say, "Finished?" But I just kept on, not even on tempo. Finally, with that swoopy conductor thing that band directors do, he silenced the band and sat in feigned awe, watching me sneeze. Of course, everyone laughed. Then I excused myself to his office, where I set all of his sheet music on fire and laughed while it burned.

Just kidding. I finished the jag.

I wonder if my sneezes blew any of his papers around on his desk?

That is all for today. For now.

Here's lookin A-choo, kid.

It'll Nearly Be Like a Picture Print By Currier and Ives ... or Not

Just be glad I'm not cooking your holiday meals. Today it's a turkey for the Crow side of the family. Mr. Tom Turkey is in the oven, and I bleached the kitchen and myself up to my elbows. "Linda, what is that wonderful holiday aroma wafting from your kitchen?" "Bleached Turkey Sink."

hApPy ThAnKsGiViNg ~ It's a Barbie Parade!

Circa 1970, 8 yrs old ~ Mom's canister vacuum = Macy's Thanksgiving Day float; big balloon = helium parade balloon; Barbies with upraised arms = celebrities waving to crowd; X-treme bangs on my forehead = awesomeness.

Caffeine

This afternoon, my mother called to tell me something very important: my dad accidentally spiked her coffee ... with caffeine.

This is a MAJOR event.

We have a very reverent fear of caffeine in our family. It works on us like amphetamines in the bloodstreams of spider monkeys.

For about 40 years, my parents have eschewed caffeine. They drank Sanka before the decaf option became well-known. Every restaurant order is punctuated at beginning and end with "DECAF, please." And then when the server comes to warm up the coffee, she may be asked again, "That IS decaf, right?"

But a couple of years ago, along came Dr. Oz. You know, the famous Mehmet Oz of Oprah. The other Gayle.

And we (my parents) believe in Dr. Oz. Oh yes we do.

Lately, Dr. Oz has been touting the benefits of caffeine. Normally, someone spewing this kind of nonsense would be blackballed from my parents' TV.

But this is Dr. Oz.

So my mom called me to tell me that they bought a coffee maker and some REAL coffee.

Frankly, I thought I was talking to someone else's mom for a minute.

She gave my dad strict instructions that went something like this: "We will try a half cup in the morning only. Half real, half decaf. In the morning."

Dad washed the new machine and set it up to go. This afternoon they had coffee, which my DAD fixed. And you guessed it--he opened the real coffee and drugged my mom.

She said, "NORRRRRmally, whenIhavecaffeineIjusttalkandtalkandtalk. Doesn't seemtobedoingthat to me today."

Uh, it was doing that today.

So they are all prepared with their Tylenol PM for tonight because otherwise, they will be like owls all night. Both of them. And then I will get a recap phone call tomorrow about "the night no one slept." I think Dr. Oz should take the call.

Does caffeine affect you?

Why Hasn't JJ Abrams Contacted Me About a Creative Writing Project?

So last night in a dream, I noticed a bowl of dog food at my feet.

I thought, "I wonder what dog food tastes like?" And then I picked up a kibble and munched.

"It's kind of bland. But the after-taste is bad. No wonder they have bad breath."

Then I walked away.

The end.

Are you kidding me? In a chance to fly above the tree tops, go back or forward in time, to possess any super power--I chose to taste dog food?

Good grief! With a bright imagination such as this, it's only a matter of time until J.J. Abrams of Alias, Lost and Fringe contacts me.


Abrams: "Lid, we're stuck on a scene in which the "real" Earth's Fringe Team investigates people who have been put into an unbreakable trance by a mysterious box. Any creative ideas about what substance in the box could put such a hold on people?"

Me: "Yes! Just as Agent Olivia Dunham arrives on the scene of citizens walking around in various states of zombieness, she notices several mysterious boxes of dry dog food opened and strewn about. Suddenly, she thinks, 'Hey. I've always wondered what this tastes like .... "

One of the Best Things I've Ever Seen

This touched me on so many levels, I can't even begin to explain. One of my favorite moments is when she says, "We have been vain ... and shellfish." To her parents (how will you EVER let her grow up??) and others who shared--THANK YOU!!

The story of Jonah from Corinth Baptist Church on Vimeo.

Hair's the Thing:

No, I'm not showing the real picture. I'm showing the cover-up.

But here's the story:

My daughter is getting married in June. I'm starting the hair maintenance on all three of the hairs on my head now.

I went for a trim yesterday. I left with a radical, random cut just outside my left eye that is the very same length as the bangs in front. I did not request this.

There are bigger problems to stew about in life; this is true.

But I am still trying to wrap my head around this, no pun intended.

What was she thinking? Parakeets have eyes on the sides of their heads; perhaps they need bangs on the sides of their heads. Last time I checked my three hairs, they were not feathers but indeed hair. And my eyes are on the front of my head.

Evidence: Parakeet, eyes on sides of head:



Me: Eyes on front of head.


So now I'm swooping the two hairs on the right side of my head over to the left in an attempt to cover up the carnage, which wants to curl up like the section of hair in this pic:



Picture the rest of the hair behind that swoop shoulder length. It's just so RANDOM.

OK, rant over. For now.

Tweet, tweet.

Totally Cracking Me Up

Oprah Invites Hundreds Of Lucky Fans To Be Buried With Her In Massive Tomb

Just to Prove My Point

Just to prove my "oldness" point: I've been shut out of my own blog for 48 hours because I couldn't remember my own password.

Good grief.

Because the Self I Am Now is Old

I don't recognize myself anymore. Because the self I am now is old.

Evidence:

I'm going to sit with a friend at a hospital today while her husband has surgery. In preparation, I packed like I'm leaving for the weekend. The only thing I'm leaving behind is pajamas and a curling iron.

I basically ate two breakfasts. I was worried I would get hungry too early, so I felt the need to "bolster" myself against dehydration and starvation. Because you know, people in hospital waiting rooms die of starvation and dehydration all the time.

I packed two pairs of glasses. One for reading and one for seeing far away. But I'm actually wearing contacts. I guess I am determined to see today. Good goal.

I will not bore you with the rest. I'm just sayin', you know you're old when small escapades become a big deal.

That is all. Must finish packing. Must find my shawl because I get so cold ....

A Birthday Picnik

A very good time was had by all, especially the brother, who is at once a little brother and a big brother, so there is much opportunity to torment and tease.



So now I have three legally adult children. Unbelievable. Where has the time gone?

On another note, I have fallen in love with Picnik, the free (or upgraded for a small fee) software that lets you do marvelous things to pics. Case in point, look at my purty 24 year-old daughter in these pics, black and white, sepia and color. You can remove shine, remove blemishes, soften the whole pic or part of the pic, give it a frame or make a collage. I'm having a ball playing with this software. Do you use any digital photo software or publish your own family albums?

Birfdays. Some Are Special.

Here she is, the baby of the family. Born November 7, 1992. It was snowing that day. That's one of my clearest memories. I remember lying there waiting, head on my pillow turned to the left, watching the beautiful snow fall so silently, changing the world. It made me feel cocooned and excited, anticipating the little one who would come into our world that day and change our lives forever.

She is the light of my life.

And every mom knows, they cannot possibly know or understand how much we love them, at least until they hold their own little one who will transform their lives and hearts forever. I hope I'm around to see that miracle.

Love you, Kristin Brynn. Happy 18th.

PS: In that top left picture where she is smiling? She is 3 weeks old and pottying her pants at that very moment. I had to completely change her clothes before leaving the studio.

Eye'm A Mess

Notice I left it small, in case you are having breakfast while reading blogs. Sorry for the ugly.

The dreaded Rocky Balboa eyes are back. Double Benadryl, double coffee.

I get cortisone shots every once in a while to keep this at bay, but whatever it is that causes this (yes, I have been tested to no avail) is stronger today than my meds. Wouldn't be so bad except I'm planning a birthday dinner for Kristin tomorrow.

I hope I can see because I'm handicapped when it comes to cooking already without having limited vision.

The cake may read like something at Cake Wrecks: "Eppy Barthday Krispin."

Elvis Has Left the Building, But I Got His Picture First

Yes, Elvis made his annual appearance at the Oneighty building today, just as I promised myself at 2:00 a.m. he would. The hundreds of people present for the Thanksgiving lunch loved him as much as they always have, and I got to eat pumpkin pie while watching him be-scarf members of the audience to "Viva Las Vegas." I didn't get much else done today. You know you wish you had my job.

2:00 AM Ramblings About Elvis

Up at 2:00 a.m., whaddya gonna do? Re-design the neglected blog. Thanks to Hot Biggity Blog and Picnik, I can satisfactorily do what I used to pay people to do. Am I 100% satisfied?

No.

But it was 100% free, so, you know; I'm pretty much satisfied, and that's worth a lot these days, especially after the election, which has the winners gloating and rubbing it in and the losers whining. No one's happy. So I decided to be happy with my free blog design.

How do you like the new glass half-FULL me? It's "change you can believe in." (Um, for now, at least during this post.)

I began re-designing at 2:00 a.m., and it is now 4:27 a.m. I need to go back to bed because tomorrow (today?) is a big day at work. It's the annual Hillcroft Services Thanksgiving dinner in the Oneighty building, with the annual favorite entertainment: Elvis. Or a reasonable facsimile.

Yes, every year, The King of Peanut Butter and Nanner Sandwiches gets our building rocking, and every year, I'm just a little bit scared of him and kind of stay back in the shadows because Elvis is very friendly, ifyaknowwhatimean.

But you know, this year, I'll be so sleep deprived that I might lose all my inhibition and just go with it, the ambiance.

Because you all know how I like scarves.


















And this isn't even close to displaying the whole collection.

Mama needs a new scarf to go with the new blog design!

They Call me "Mom" or "Moses" ("Momses?")

Strange the things moms will do when they're worried about their kids.

Background: My youngest girl has been having some arrhythmia over the past few months--mild, intermittent episodes coupled with some other worrisome symptoms. To make a long story short, she has had an EKG, chest-ray, lab work done, and is now wearing a heart monitor. We have no idea what's going on but trust that it's going to be OK.

However, we are talking about the Crow household here, so even in the midst of this time of concern, jokes are flying. It's what we do.

For instance, one night she was being ornery, and I told her that for dinner, I was fixing her fettuccine alfredo. I asked, "Do you know why?" and she replied, "No." I said, "Because they call it 'heart attack on a plate.'" She laughed a big outburst belly laugh because she's warped like we are.

Another time, she was looking over some birthday clothes I recently bought. Like most kids, she wanted to wear one piece early. She said, "Can I wear this now?" I said, "It's not your birthday yet." And she said, "It could be my 'Sorry You're Having a Heart Attack' gift."

But I do worry about her, of course. Because beneath all of my snark and immaturity, I am a momma. And she is my baby.

So this morning, running late, she zipped past me, and I called after her, "Do you have your yearbook money? Kleenex? (She has a cold.) Do you have your lunch money? Why aren't you wearing warmer clothes?" (We had a visible frost.)

George reminded me that she would need to scrape the frost off of her windows. In an instant, I pictured her in thin clothing, nose running, heart monitor beeping, and her scraping like she was in Siberia. I couldn't stand it.

So I threw on my large robe and went out to check on her, keeping a copy of a John Ortberg sermon I had printed off in my hand because in my haste, I didn't lay the sermon down.

She was in the car with tiny portholes scraped right in front of her face and one on the passenger side.

Good grief.

I made her hand me the scraper, and I scraped as she sat inside warming up the car. Finally, I decided that was enough.

Well, actually, she opened her door and said, "MOM! I'm going to be late!" so I stopped.

And then I saw a passer-by looking at me from the road. What they saw: A barefoot woman in a large white robe holding a stack of paper in one hand and a scraper in the air in the other hand.

And then it hit me: I look like Moses--Ten Commandments in one hand, raised staff in the other, barefooted, robed in white like he was on top of the mountain, very intense.

And then I high-tailed it back in my house because-wowee, frost hurts bare feet once you're off the mountain and your kid is pulling away.

Moral of the story: Strange the things moms will do when they're worried about their kids.

Can you relate?