Her Side Funnies

A self-portrait of Dani after attending the Colorado State Fair with her family! Notice the dark circles under my eyes....

We went to the Colorado State Fair last weekend.  It was a great experience, except that Ken’s nostrils decided to mimic a jack hammer all night.  Trying to “do” the state fair on no sleep is insanity.  Ken had to work part of the weekend, so he needed a wireless connection.  No problem, he thought, figuring he would just go to a cyber cafe. 

After phoning half a dozen of those, he realized that cyber cafes are not the business to be in.  All had closed up shop since no one used them.  No problem, he thought, figuring he could easily purchase a gizmo for his laptop to access his cell phone.  That sounded so easy, but that’s not how it went down. 

Instead of enjoying the state fair, we traveled all over Pueblo through parade routes, past police men, into residential neighborhoods trying to find a Best Buy store to purchase the special gizmo.  That would not have been bad, but we got lost in a residential neighborhood and ran across a yard sale…with a drum set.  (Ben, like me, is a drummer and has been leaving saliva puddles whenever he thinks of actually owning a drum – which Ken and I have resisted thus far.)

So, the drumset was only $180 (the cymbals alone cost over $300).  That’s when Ben had a near seizure in the car.  Not one to easily get ruffled, Dad asked Ben if he had $180.  Negative.  Did he have a “plan” for attaining $180?  Negative.  Had he paid off the most recent $500+ repair cost on his clunker of a car?  Negative.  (more…)

Emergency hem job? Or unknown new kid in the school drum section?

If you like the teenage drama series, you’ll appreciate this. My husband, Ken, was gone last week, and conveniently for him, everything went to heck as soon as the airplane door was fastened securely shut. This was lucky for him because, had I known, I would have pried the door open and plucked him out to help, fending off air marshalls if necessary. That not being an option landed all subsequent drama onto my shift, which was unfortunate.

When we first married, we divided child care 50/50. I called the first 10 years, he got the second. I got paperwork, he got yucky stuff. On both counts, age and yuckiness, the events of this week should have fallen squarely on his shift. But noooo. He was sitting on a plane at 40,000 feet debating the relative merits of peanuts versus pretzels while I was suffering the pangs of parenting teens.

The week progressed with the usual doses of tantalizing ups and downs including our daughter’s prom drama (a riveting story unto itself), son’s first lovelife hitting the skids and housekeeping necessarily being thrown out the window. By Tuesday, it was clear that Martha Stewart did not live here anymore. By Wednesday, it appeared the landfill had been relocated to our living room. (more…)

Ben is not happy with the cash for clunkers, unless you are willing to give him enough to buy a replacement clunker

Son Ben was the first to complain about the “Cash for Clunkers” program being counterproductive.  Frankly, not being in the market for clunkers, I did not “feel his pain,” but now I do.

Ben is 16.  He drives a 1981 Toyota Corolla.  The car is a decade older than him.  It was what he could afford.  He paid for it in cash from money he’d earned, been given as gifts and saved along the way.  The $1,100 purchase price was HUGE to him.  It could have been a million dollars from his young view.  I’m ashamed to admit that we all kidded Ben about his big purchase.  When he called his car a “bullet”  we called it his “bomb.”  Big sister did NOT want to ride in it for fear that it would ruin her reputation.  With no radio, no heater, an odd smell and questionable wipers, no one except Nana was eager to take the first ride.

Ben, the poor kid, had worked so hard to be responsible, to only buy what he could afford, to love it and treat it like a Bentley, and he was rewarded with our laughter.  We should all be ashamed…But not his dad.  Ken thought that Ben driving an ancient car was important.  “He needs to learn to work hard to better his position in life,” said Ken.  “He needs to know that things are not handed to him on a platter,” he said.  “He needs to develop a work ethic so he can provide for his family,” he would say. 

And so the lessons have been underway for a year when Ben’s clutch went out.  It was expected.  A car that old cannot run without a menagerie of broken parts – which, translated, means that whenever Ben got his savings account up to $200, or $300, he’d get a car problem that cost $500.  So when Ben said he wanted to upgrade his car, I offered to help him in his hunt.  That was before I had considered that the Cash for Clunkers government program had encouraged people to take in old cars and get ridiculous prices ($4,500+) for old vehicles, only for those vehicles to be destroyed. (more…)

Well, I just got home from registering Heidi and Ben for school.  For Heidi, this is her senior year and I am so thankful to have a good friend who has been through this experience just prior to me.  As I viewed Heidi’s schedule, I was dubious when I saw five college courses among her classes, one with a teacher she did not adore.  Translated by my dear friend, this means she will compromise the grades in four classes to engage in all out war with the fifth teacher.  She will come home at melt-down point, in tears.  Her dad and I will encourage her to suck-it-up, make nice with the evil one, and keep the ship steady toward graduation.  She will translate this to mean we don’t support her and hope she dies a slow evil death following a marriage to a “knucklehead who doesn’t pay attention,” (Heidi’s words not mine).  This will mean we will spend an emotional, hormonally charged last year with our child which will result in us all needing counseling, if not divorce.  Kitty (my friend) always drives home the point reminding me about the teenage girl hormones.  She assures me they will make my life a living nightmare since she is convinced living with teenagers CAUSES mood swings, irritability, crankiness, headaches, lower back pain, hurting hair, itchy teeth and homicidal tendencies - often INcorrectly diagnosed as menopause – when really it is the natural consequence of living with a 40-something man and one or more teenagers.

So, having had the smoke screen lifted, I frantically phoned the school and requested a study hour instead of Satanic Chemistry.  Easy-schmeasy.  Whew.  That was a close call.  Motherhood 501.  The advanced course.  I hope I get an A.

Ken cannot wait.  He’s eyeing that brandy with a more accepting view now.  In fact, though our consumption of brandy over the last decade has been less than impressive – teetering around one jigger over 10 years –  he thinks he will personally consume all 12 gallons of it this year if he has to live with a hormonal teen AND a menopausal woman at the same time.

In fact, he has suggested that I quit molesting the apricot tree, and rolling around gallon jars of the fruit/vodka mix atop my kitchen counters and just stock up on straight vodka in anticipation of the upcoming year.

Back to the senior year schedule, the advice of the hour is:  1) Don’t let the counselors talk your kid into making the last year at home more miserable than necessary.  2) If they try to sell it as free college, remember, your kid is not through baking yet – and a half-baked kid at college – in more difficult than usual classes – could spell disaster.  Your kid could drop out and expect to move back in with you.  And 3) Watch the vodka inventory closely.

This goat was caught in the act - partying after having plotted his latest escape from a very expensive fence.

I’ve long suspected that goats have an unusual private life. This year, at fair, an unexpected visit unveiled what I have suspected all along: 1. Goats plot their escapes. 2. Then, they party. This discovery required a lengthy undercover stakeout, extraordinary photography skills, and more than one box of donuts. The exact number of boxes remains a mystery because the goats destroyed the evidence, eating donuts boxes and all. (I lie. I can defend a box of donuts like a Kung-fu master, but I am also fluent in denying I eat donuts. After all, I am dieting right now. Donuts? What donuts?) (more…)