Being sent out. Check your emails today, pippa.
Oh Lawd.
’tis the season to be ………. i have no idea
Baby Banshee, whom I shall have to rename Banshee Girl, I think, since she’s 3 now.
I have no explanation, insight, or clue here, but it cracks me up. Look how sold out to the bit she is. The swirly eye thing is smashing her cheek down and folding her ear over but she COMMITS to the moment. That’s my girl!
love this
i haven’t forgotten
I will be posting the Maybe Church posts soon. I’m just trying to figure out the best way to present it. So much has happened, so much I haven’t shared with anyone.
But I wonder, too, if the whole sordid stupid tale is a little “inside baseball.†Not that you all wouldn’t understand it. There’s no problem on that front, I’m sure. The posts I’ve written — long ago now — were written to try to explain this place to the best of my ability, but it’s just byzantine. It’s so bizarre. You can grasp a point of information, but once you turn it all over in your mind, it only raises yet another question. Basically, the FOC is a huge retarded rabbit hole that seems to have no bottom. I’m giving fair warning that you’re going down that hole with me.
Here are two things you need to know before reading the rest of the story:
~ The definition of gossip/slander in the FOC is not the standard, universally understood definition. Now, they don’t have a hard and fast definition that they publish in a handbook or a membership agreement or anything like that. Oh no. It’s much more slippery and insidious than that. A person has to figure these things out for himself — or not. I figured it out when it bashed me upside the head, which I’m not sure actually fits the definition of “figuring it out for myself†but there it is.
My streamline of their unspoken definition of gossip/slander is this: Gossip is anything we (the FOC) disagree with, don’t like, or anything that doesn’t show our organization in the best possible light. Gossip can be anonymous with no names named. However, if we name names, it is not gossip.
So, pippa. Cement that definition in your brain. It’s accurate. It will help you as you read along and discover what a horrible gossip I was/am.
~ Second thing about the FOC that I figured out when it bashed me upside the head: Women are second-class citizens. Married women and married men are not to speak to each other unless they’re married to each other. You’re basically having sex with that person if you do so. Do not interact with anyone of the opposite sex not your spouse.
This will also be helpful for you to remember as my extreme whoredom will soon come to light.
Okay. So. Fun stuff.
The onslaught starts soon, Crackie!
warrior princess
“Click your heels three times, men of Sparta! For tonight we dine in hell!”
some people have asked
About my BIL’s health.
As you may remember he was diagnosed with Stage III oral cancer last year and underwent tumor and lymph node resection and radiation.
To be honest, post-radiation, his quality of life has been greatly reduced. Radiation to the oral cavity area can permanently damage saliva production and that’s been the case for him. Swallowing, eating, speaking — these are all a chore now. You don’t realize how much you need saliva until you don’t have it anymore. The man is a psychologist and needs to talk to do his job. His energy post-radiation is also tremendously impaired.
A few weeks ago, he started having pain again in the same area as before. This isn’t a good sign. Oral cancer is notoriously aggressive and, if it recurs, it tends to do so within 2 years. He is waiting on another PET scan to see what is going on. My sister has told no one else in the family but me and MB. Her kids have no idea — which is as it should be right now. My oldest nephew is away from home, a sophomore in college; my middle nephew is deep in the throes of his heavily disassociated teen years; and Piper is Piper, happily ensconced in 5th grade. They don’t need to know unless and until there is something to know.
So any prayers you can spare would be appreciated, pippa.
in my inbox yesterday …….
Uhm ……..
I believe Original Banshee, on the left, is supposed to be an American Girl doll? I have no idea. Frankly, she just looks like she’s dressed up for Easter to me, but what do I know? Baby Banshee, on the right, apparently went as Superman Fireman. (She recently went to a little boy’s birthday party. In that now-required gift bag that parents give out at their chirren’s parties, this boy’s parents had included his favorite things: a Superman costume and a fireman’s helmet. BB put the helmet on for trick-or-treating. She has no context whatsoever for either Superman or firemen. Guess she just liked it, is all. Funny girl. It kills me that Superman has hot pink tights.)
And as far as Banshee Boy, well, he clearly went as living proof that cuteness triumphs over all.
(I had to try to tweak the red eye in this photo and it didn’t work that well, sorry.)
a sunday afternoon in autumn
~ I’m making a Savory Roquefort Cheesecake topped with the thinnest sliced pears and an apricot glaze. It’s “savory,” you see, not a sweet cheesecake at all, so MB is aflame with savory bleu cheese lust. Maybe he can spare me some of that later? If he’s able to move after all the gorging, that is?
~ Football is on in the background even when our could-win-every-game-but-simply-choose-not-to Chargers aren’t playing. It’s the soundtrack of autumn for us.
~ Seen: Random bouts of nudity. The first Christmas commercial.
~ Heard (or maybe said): “You can’t start the day grumpy at me. You have to wait til the end, when you have just cause.”
~ Tasted: Trader Joe’s Greek Honey Yogurt with granola and pears. YUM. Also coffee, of course.
~ Sometimes, like now, I sit and worry about my corrupting influence over my nephews and nieces. Yesterday, my SIL was calling Original Banshee, now 7, to come upstairs. Her reply? “I’ll be there in a minute, peaches!” Uhmmmm ………. yeah, well. Sorry, peaches.
~ Both Banshee Sisters are very interested in the whole “peaches” thing and decided, while we were driving to take them to Dairy Queen, that they too wanted to be called by some type of food moniker. Who doesn’t? So I told OB I wanted to call her Butterbean but she just squinched her nose at me and didn’t like Butterbean at all, which is totally unfathomable, obviously. She decided instead on French Toast or “Frenchy” for short.
“What will you be, Tee Tee?”
“I’m feeling kinda Pop Tarty today.”
“Okay, Poppy!”
And I was Poppy from then on.
Baby Banshee, now 3, wanted to be Whipped Cream.
“But you can call me Whipped, Tee Tee!”
MB and I started howling, shaking hard in our seats. For the rest of the day, that was her name. She insisted we call her “Whipped.” She’s our little oddling. I love her.
~ Through our bedroom window this morning, I heard the toddler boy who lives next door saying goodbye to his dad, his high-pitched voice chirping, “I will be a GOOD boy today, Daddy!” and I started to tear up, just slipping on my shoes, at the thoroughgoing innocence of it all.
~ Worth noting, I never make such promises to my dad anymore because I know I cannot keep them.
carrie underwood asked out by stranger in front of fiance
Who knows how I stumbled across this little snippet of video? Somehow in the meanderings of my need-to-get-a-life life, I found this, of all things. But it’s adorable.
Some dude asks out Carrie Underwood in front of her fiance — now husband — hunky hockey player Mike Fisher. Watch his face. First, it’s like, “I’m gonna kill this guy.” Then, when Carrie responds the way she does, there’s that grin of his. That killer grin says it all. He says nothing to the dude the entire time. He’s just that strong silent presence. The dude’s parting comment is pretty funny too and it leaves Fisher grinning even more. (Uhm, I can definitely see the appeal of this fellow of hers. Ahem.)
So much going on in just 19 seconds of tape.
little ghouls
On the trampoline Sunday afternoon, under a grey scowling sky, the Banshee Sisters and I created our Halloween personas. Our little inner monsters. Our naughty alter ghouls. Oh, things happen on that trampoline, my friends. Brainstorms. Interrogations. Occasional jumping. Yes, the three of us are very busy when we’re out there, so please do not disturb us unless you’ve mentally and physically prepared for the rigors of the experience. On the other hand, if you join us — all green and unprepared-like– perhaps you’ll be the one endlessly cross-examined for a change which would be okay by me.
Each of our alter ghouls was a combination of our name and the name of someone or something creepy. For instance, mine was Tracula. Original Banshee’s ended with “zilla” and Baby Banshee’s with “zombie.” Sure, she sat on trampoline in a brown feety puppy costume, but she was The Dread Babyzombie nonetheless.
At one point “Zilla” was called inside by her mom, leaving I, Tracula, and Babyzombie alone in the grey with our ghouls.
Slowly, I began describing in detail Tracula’s appearance and powers. Babyzombie stared at me, her every-color eyes growing bigger with each new detail. Finally, my crowning flourish.
“Annnnnd,” said I for several seconds, “each of Tracula’s fingernails lifts up and dispenses candy, one kind for each nail.”
Babyzombie’s eyes officially bugged out. I pointed to each finger and began naming the candy it dispensed until she interrupted and finished the list in a frenzy of candy fantasy. My ring fingernail dispenses candy corn, did you know?
In an instant, Babyzombie was pouring out descriptions of her alter ghoul.
“And my haiw is onje, Tee Tee, and my face is pink and my fingos gib you candy!”
“Wow. You are cool!”
“Yeah.”
The briefest pause.
“And, Tee Tee, I am baaaaaaad.”
Her puppy feet wiggled with delight. Her agate eyes gleamed with the joy of untapped naughtiness.
“You are?”
“Yeah!”
“Okay!”
She cocked her head at me.
“Tee Tee, are you Tracula?”
“Yep.”
“Tracula is you?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Is Tracula bad?”
“Hm. I don’t know. I don’t think so. I haven’t decided.”
“Okay. I not bad either den.”
“Babyzombie can be bad if you want.”
“No. Dat’s okay.”
“Okay.”
But my fingos still make candy, Tee Tee!”
“Well, that’s the most important part.”
“Yeah.”
“Come on, Babyzombie. Let’s go inside. Tracula’s cold.”
And she scampered off the trampoline, her puppy feet running silently across the grass, her never-zipped costume exposing her smooth pale back and the top of her little butt as she ran into the house.