This Full House Archive

Category: It’s not the years, HONEY – it’s the mileage!

  • Ice, Ice, #Nemo

    We heard it was coming, a few days after experiencing our first earthquake and it was supposedly to be one of the biggest storms to hit Jersey in recent memory:  Hurricane Irene blew in late Summer of 2011, which suddenly sounds like a really long time ago.

    Aaaaand, then Superstorm Sandy hit the east coast last October, nearly knocking us back into the stone ages, changing the face of New Jersey, forever.

    So, yeah, I was a little nervous when tracking our first major winter storm since even before the hurricanes hit, especially one named after a cheeky fish.

    IMG_20130209_081120
    Nemo was much kinder to us than our neighbors in North Jersey, but I'm pretty sure that friends and family in New England are STILL digging their way out.

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    I spent the first few hours of Saturday morning, peering out our front door, willing the snow to melt, hoping that it would thaw out in time for me to take my oldest daughter to work.

    IMG_20130209_083001
    You see, I don't do snow, or at least I don't drive in it very well.  I had a pretty bad car wreck the first year I started to drive (YES, they had rubber wheels back then, be quiet, child!) and, well, I can still hear the CRUNCH in my ears, as my car was being rear-ended and my forehead hit the steering wheel.

    I woke up in the hospital to find out that…YES!…apparently, a person can so sprain their esophagus. 

    "Do you want me to drive, Mom?"

    My oldest is super-soft spoken (no, she does NOT get it from me!) but, I still jumped as if my daughter was talking into a bullhorn and nearly swallowed my coffee mug.

    "No, I would much rather you call in sick."

    Yeah, great role model…I know…and I realize that she has been driving for over a year now and will need to practice driving in snow, sometime, just not nearly a foot and on her first attempt.


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    Good thing she wasn't scheduled to work at the hospital until midday, it took all morning for my son to chip away at the ice and snow that Nemo dumped all over our car (another advantage to having older kids, free labor!) and only now do I realize the irony:  the daughter of the world's clumsiest and most accident-prone woman WOULD work in a hospital.

    "C'mon Mom, you're just making yourself more nervous, you'll be fine."

    Aaaaaaad, that very fine line between parent and child (trust me, it's there) was blurred, once again, by my inability to shake stuff off and get over myself, already.




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    "Besides, you're the one who taught me how to drive…remember?"

    Yes, yes I did and she's a gosh-darned good driver (in spite of it) so I guess there is still a little hope for me, yet.

    "Hang on a second, I'll grab my coat."

    Besides, the last time I attempted to drive in weather like this, I abandoned my car in the school parking lot and walked home, with all four kids in tow, while snow continued to fall…sideways…and I didn't have a coat.

    But, NOT this day.  

    "Thanks Mom, I'm proud of you!"

    Tell you the truth, having made it there in one piece AND without embedding my fingers into the steering wheel, permanently, I was pretty gosh-darned proud of myself, too.

    "I'll see you after my shift!"

    Nope, but I didn't bother to tell her that her father would be picking her up, later that night, and I really shouldn't have to explain why…this LATE in the game…now, do I?!?

    Stupid ice, dumbass Nemo.

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

  • It’s Not The Years, HONEY – It’s the Mileage!

    My husband, Garth (not his real name) and Wayne (also not his real name, see what I did there?) met sometime around 1st grade.  They lived a couple of blocks away from each other and, throughout their elementary, middle school and high school years, remained the best of friends.

    Then Garth (NHRN) asked Wayne (NHRN) to help him move into his college dorm, inviting a mutual friend along (Tia, not her real name either) knowing that his friend Wayne (NHRN) had a secret crush on her and that the feeling was mutual.

    Note:  I feel it safe to say, having successfully conveyed the fact that no one in this story would willingly care to be associated with my blogging (no, I can't say as I blame them), I feel it unnecessary and quite cumbersome in my continuing to use the (NHRN) acronym (you're welcome!)

    Wayne and Tia were married a few years later and asked Garth to be their best man.  Garth and I were dating for about a month when he asked me to attend the christening of Wayne and Tia's first born son.

    Garth and I were engaged a few months later (he had me at, so you want to go out to dinner or something?) asked Wayne to be the best man at our wedding and then, a few years after that, we asked both Wayne and Tia to be Godparents to our middle girl.

    Wayne and Tia moved back to the old neighborhood to raise their kids, into a house down the street from my in-laws, while Garth and I had two more children, catching up to Wayne and Tia in requesting a table for six (or twelve, on those rare occasions we would eat out, all together).

    At this point in time, we started referring to our pregnancy time lines to keep track of each other's milestones or whenever we'd share stories about the summers our families spent vacationing together.

    Then, one day, something changed and we did not speak or see each other for the next ten years.

    What the hell happened?  Honestly, I couldn't tell you.  Garth and I still don't really know and would be hard-pressed to come up with an answer that would make any sense.  

    The only thing I can tell you, for sure, is that Wayne and Tia had disconnected themselves from most everyone, at that time (especially, family) and, as awful as this is going to sound, Garth and I took some solace in wondering (more like, hoping) maybe it wasn't "just us".

    Still, all was NOT lost, as we continued to exchange Christmas cards and then leave our happy birthday wishes for each of their kids…on the answering machine.  

    Then we stopped calling.

    Garth and I would see Wayne, from time to time, while driving past his and Tia's house (considering they still live down the corner from my in-law's) and catch glimpses of their kids, who would wave at us and perhaps wonder if we had moved or where we had gone.

    Then they stopped waving.

    Even longer story, shorter (seriously, I'm almost done) Garth and I received an invitation to Wayne's suprise 50th birthday party with a note:  although there has been distance in our relationship, you are both forever in our hearts and the boys and I know Wayne would love to have you at his party — hope you will join us!

    Garth and I were both silent on the drive to the restaurant on Saturday night, wondering if we would know any of the people attending the surprise party, whether or not anyone would recognize us and just what in the hell WAS it that robbed these two best friends of the last ten years, anyways?!?

    We walked into the restaurant, were greeted with a roomful of blank faces and, as terribly awful as this is going to sound, again took solace in knowing (or, at least, we were pretty sure) nope, it wasn't "just us".

    Garth hugged his Godson and asked if there would be any family attending the party?

    "You're it, Uncle Garth."

    [lump meet throat]

    Then it hit me, like a well-deserved bitchslap upside the head:  years after moving out of the house I grew up in, I never quite understood why my parents insisted on visiting "the old house" and then call to tell me just how bad it really looks.

    Until, the day the kids and I took a quick detour, were stunned into silence and then spent the rest of the drive home…remembering.

    It's sort of the same with Wayne and Tia:  no matter how broken, battered or beaten-up life gets us (seriously, a lot can happen in ten years, yes?) our friendship has good bones.

    Aaaaaand, yes, they happen to be getting older and more fragile by the minute (our bones, I mean, and us too, I guess) but, we STILL look good….DAMMIT!!!

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

  • Must Remember, Don’t Call Him Baby

    My son turned 14, this week.  The same kid who was 4 and just entering pre-school for the first time when I started blogging.  So, forgive me but, I'm going to sit here and let that sink in for a few seconds.

    WAHHHHHHHH!!!!

    There, much better.  Wait, seems I'm not quite finished, not yet.

    NOOOOOOOOO!!!!  

    Seriously, kids grow, they get older (as do we, dammit) and so we carry on, as most parents do.  We live our lives and try really hard not to injure, maim or otherwise harm each other (too badly), business as usual, right?!?

    So, you think I would get over myself and quit getting all…you know…my baybeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees are soooooooooooooooo grown, already.

    Not the baby!
    Still, he IS my only son and I am getting better at realizing that my baby…ahem, I mean that guy up there…is probably much more interested in impressing a girl and more likely to be embarrassed by his mother.

    My girls, not so much.

    The night of his birthday, we ALL decided to go to my son's wrestling meet — much to his surprise, too.  His sisters don't usually enjoy watching middle-schoolers getting their faces planted into some 8th grader's armpit, they're funny like that.

    Me?  I cover my eyes.  Much less painful to watch.

    [sound of crickets, chirping]

    Aaaaaanyway, we piled onto the last remaining bleacher (who knew middle school wrestling was SO popular, eh?) and settled ourselves directly in front of a bunch of 8th grade girls.

    I learned a few very important lessons, that night.  For example, 8th grade girls today:

    • Have no trouble dropping the f-bomb
    • Especially, in front of OTHER parents
    • And their teachers
    • Very, very LOUDLY
    • 8th grade girls are NOT like I remember

    Long story, short (you're welcome!)  they stayed long enough to watch one of their boyfriends wrestle and then left.

     [cue choir of angels]

    Aaaaand, it's not just me…shaking my virtual cane, again…my older girls were enraged…EN-friggin-RAGED…because, apparently, one of them happened to mention her interest in my son.

    Noooooo, I didn't hear it, because I'm observant like that and I was too busy covering my eyes.

    Later, on the drive home, the girls were describing the 8th graders to my son and it suddenly occurred to me:   they were actually interrogating their brother.

    "Soooooo, did you, like, you know, recognize any of them, or anything?!?"

    You know, so as to gauge his interest in the possibility of ever, ever, NEVER dating one of them (EVER!) and his sisters were being much, much more subtle about it than I would have.

    "Nope, those girls are stupid."

    [sound of angels, weeping]

    I'm not sure if my son was being casual, or evasive about it (he's 14, enough said) either way, I quickly interjected something about individual maturity levels developing at different rates…yada, yada, yada…when what I was really saying is "DAMN SKIPPY!" in my head, anyway.

    "Nope, they're just stupid."

    At least, this week anyway.

    "Aaaaand, one of them just texted me."

     [one beat, two beats]

    "How the HECK did she get my number?"

    Even longer story, shorter (seriously, almost done!) here's something else I learned:

    • 8th grade girls have no problem asking a boy, for ANOTHER boy's number.

    Aaaaaand, then send derogatory texts to that same boy…when they are dissed…while he is STILL in the car…with his mother.  So, forgive me but, I'm going to sit here and let that sink in for minute.

    STUPID GIRL!!!!

    There, much better.  Wait, seems I'm not quite finished, not yet.

    Texting:  oh, sorry, this is his mom, he left his cell phone in the car again, but I'll be glad to give him the message and please be sure to say hello to your mother for me. Kbai.

    NOW, I'm done.

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

  • It’s All Fun and Games, Until the Clowns Show Up

    Romperclownsillo-big

    photo credit: TVParty.com

    I have suffered from insomnia for most of my life (yes, that is a very long time, I know, shuddup!)  however, rather than fight it, I see it as a gift and make all of those extra sleepless hours as productive as possible.

    PSYCHE!!!!!!!  

    Bwahahahahahahaha…I crack myself up…you seriously did NOT think I was serious, seriously, right?!?

    The ONLY thing productive at dark o'clock is the gerbil, running its eleventy-hundreth little iron gerbil marathon, inside my head.

    It's not like I'm not tired, either.  In fact, my body clock quits work sometime around 4 in the afternoon and my eyes punch out no later than that really, really great television series EVERYBODY has been talking about and I've been dying to watch…DAMMIT.

    For example:  last night, there was something on television I wanted to watch (of course I can't remember, for the life of me, what it was, but that's not really all that important at his juncture of my insomnia story)  so, I went upstairs to get my glasses.

    I had to lie across the bed to reach them.  Aaaaaand, well, I never got up.  Or, came back downstairs.  Until I had to go pee at dark o'clock.

    Did I mention, our bathroom is downstairs and way across the OTHER end of the house?!?

    By the time I got back upstairs, the gerbil inside my head had already finished with its warm-up exercises and I began to rearrange the ENTIRE floor plan (of the house, not my head)  in my head.

    So, I did what any red-blooded insomniac would do:  I hit Facebook…HARD!…and a really funny  (not ha-ha-funny, but more like, hmmmmm…interesting)  thing occurred to me.

    I am NOT the only one awake at dark o'clock.  I see Kim, Jenn and Elizabeth.  

    That reminds me.  Does anyone remember the magic mirror?!?  Gosh, but I used to LOVE that show.  Even though the magic mirror NEVER saw me…DAMMIT!

    [sound of crickets, chirping]

    I see Robyn.  Oh, and I see my friend Lisa…YO!!!!…was up at the SAME exact time I am, right now.

    "If asleep by 9, awake at 3:39." Did Ben Franklin write that…

    So, I commented with something like, good morning, because I am ALL witty AND original like that, especially at dark o'clock.

    "Hi Liz!  I wish I could vacuum…"

    And then I snorted…REALLY LOUD…and, well, I better go before Garth (not his real name) wakes up and I have to pretend like it was the house farting, or something…SNORT!!!

    [cringe]

    Dammit.

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

  • Sometimes at night, I can still hear Karma laughing

    I have a pretty good sense of humor about stuff, to the point of annoying other folks (or possibly even scaring a couple of children)  into silence while thinking, "What IS that woman grinning about?!?"

    Then again, I live in Jersey, it's probably more like, "Wha'chew lookin' at?!?"

    [one beat, two beats]

    Willis.

    [sound of crickets, chirping]

    Aaaaanyway, I can't help it, it's like there is a sitcom playing in an infinite loop, in my head.

    Frankly, with 3 teens, 1 pretty much teen, and sometimes even other people's kids hanging around, there is almost ALWAYS stuff going on and, well, I would much rather consider all my maniacial laughing as an effective defense mechanism.

    For example, this morning.  Long story, short (you're welcome):

    • Middle girl missed her bus
    • Her school is at least a 30 minute drive
    • Because, in Jersey, we calculate the time it takes to get somewhere, rather than mileage
    • Oldest needed my car and leave for work by 8:00 a.m.
    • My husband needed his car back to leave for work by 8:15 a.m.
    • It is now 7:15 a.m.

    [cue maniacial laughing]

    Aaaaand, apparently, it's hereditary, as we drove past a broken down school bus on the highway.

    Daughter:  You know what would be REAL funny?
    Me:  If that was YOUR bus?
    Daughter:  EXACTLY!!!!
    Both: Bwahahahahahahahaha!!!

    [blank stare]

    Wha'chew lookin' at, Willis?!?  I mean, really, this IS the part of my story, where you begin to feel really, really lucky, about your NOT being able to see inside my head.

    "You left your purse in my car, I saw it when I got to work."

    See what I mean?!?  Seriously, you could ALMOST hear the "sad trombone" AND Karma laughing, right?!?

    "Guess I'm stuck here at home…all by myself…oh darn (grin!)"

    My husband still hasn't texted me back.  Poor guy, must have left his sense of humor at home.

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House 

  • Good Night, Miss Gracie

    Miss Grace

    A view of Miss Grace, outside my kitchen window.

    Our next door neighbor passed away, last week.  She was 104 years-old.  Although everyone who knew Miss Grace would agree that she had indeed lived a full life and perhaps not be at all surprised by her passing, I can't help but feel sad, knowing that her house sits empty and looks even more abandoned than usual.

    I still remember meeting Miss Grace for the first time.  It was a few days after we moved in, I was pregnant with our oldest, I waddled down the small hill that separated our properties and asked if her dog bites.

    She leaned forward in her lawn chair and answered, "Not if I don't go and tell her to."

    It's then I learned that her dog Sheba was very old, probably had less teeth than Miss Grace (according to Miss Grace) and that she would be the last dog that Miss Grace would ever have to bury.

    Needless to say, Miss Grace was indeed "a font of interesting anecdotes," to quote my friend Donna via Facebook.

    So, forgive me if I begin to burp up a few stories and Miss Grace-isms, here and there, like the time she chased a couple of hooligans, who were bombing her house with pears, away from her pear tree…with her favorite rake.

    Stories of Miss Grace are known to nearly every family to have settled in our town, having lived here all her life and the scourge of the neighborhood children…some 50 or so years earlier.

    "I never did take no nevermind, to no youngins."

    She raised her children and countless numbers of others of the families she worked for and, well, even my kids learned pretty early:  you best be on your best behavior around Miss Grace, or risk a phone call home to your mother.

    Most of all, Miss Grace will always be remembered as enjoying working in her yard.  She mowed her own lawn up until her knees "turned bad" around the time she turned 100.  True story.  Still, it was ding-danged difficult to keep up with the woman.

    Lawnmower Mom was my first published article, outside of this blog, back in 2004 and it too was inspired by Miss Grace, along with many more blog posts, some of my favorites being:

    All that's left now is the house next door, which I am afraid will be razed to make room for many more (her property is even larger than ours) and I can't help but feel…well…sort of like I have just finished the last chapter of a very good novel.

    Which reminds me, I once asked Miss Grace if she remembered the famous shark attacks, here in town!  She did.  I then questioned whether she knew that they also inspired Peter Benchley to write "Jaws".

    Her response:  "I never had me no time, for no books!"

    She was too busy, living one.  I wonder if I will ever stop looking for her, outside my kitchen window.  Bless you, and your rake, Miss Grace.

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

  • My Goal for 2013: To Keep Blogging, Like It’s 2003

    Entering my 10th year of blogging (seriously, it was hard enough for me to admit/accept my kids entering their double-digits)  I often times compare maintaining a blog to that of nurturing a child:  just imagine if parenting came with spell-check and a delete button, eh?

    Some years are more difficult than others, then there are those times when the suckage runs real deep and all you would need to do is check back in a blogger's archives to realize that one of three things happen:

    • Blogging increases.
    • Posting decreases.
    • Blog shuts down, completely.

    Most especially, around this time of year, when folks begin to re-evaluate the time and effort it takes to nurture a blog, as well.

    Aaaaaand, then there's the added consideration of maintaining an online presence (MOP, for short), while under the influence of suckage.

    As 2012 comes to a close, 63 days post-Sandy and 10 days after the Mayans quit counting (can you blame them?)  I find myself in the totally opposite situation:  clinging to my archives, like a teething child looking for something to bite into (HARD!) and stomping my feet while declaring (in a totally whine-y voice):

    "But, I don't waaaaaaaant to stop blogging AND you can't make me…DAMMIT!"

    (more…)

  • The Christmas Elephant in the Room

    Lucy the elephant

    Lucy the Elephant, she's from Jersey!

    Going to Grandma's house on Christmas Eve has been a Thompson tradition ever since we began adding grand kids to their family tree and every year we would trade-off visiting with my parents, as well:  dinner here, dessert over there, etc…

    My kids are very lucky to have both sets of grandparents in their lives, they know it, we know it and, now that my kids are older (aren't we all?)  I'm beginning to truly understand why our folks look forward to having their grandchildren around them, especially during the holidaze.

    My father would joke with my kids, thanking them for "re-charging" Papa after each and every visit.

    Aaaaaand, as I get older (physically, because mentally I'm still, like, not even out of my teens, yet!)  I'm realizing the same restorative power, every time one of my children insist that I stop whatever it is I'm doing, RIGHT NOW, because he or she NEEDS a hug.

    We had my in-laws over for dinner, last night.  Although they live just a five or ten minute car ride away (because, in Jersey, we speak in the time it takes to get somewhere rather than mileage)  we haven't visited with Grandma and Grandpa since Thanksgiving.

    It's been a tough year for my in-laws.  Just last night, my father-in-law admitted that any and all of the mileage put on their car is for doctor visits and trips to the pharmacy, which is pretty much how my parents spend their days, plus or minus a trip (or twenty)  to B.J.'s.

    This year, my sister-in-law broke the news that Garth (not his real name)  and I would be hosting Christmas Eve (without me, and with good reason)   so, I baked one of my mother-in-law's favorite desserts (chocolate gingerbread cake, and it was good)  to help soften the blow.

    (more…)

  • Pushing Buttons, On The Facebook

    It's official, my parents are now on the internet. Or, at least, the 20 minutes of what I was able to show them Sunday night, because it took my husband Garth (not his real name) 2+ hours to actually get them online, which (to folks older than 20) is 2 hours, too long.

    Apu on Facebook

    A few weeks back, after introducing my father to Facebook, Apu immediately began sending messages to family in Hungary.

    It was not the introduction to the internet my parents were expecting — especially, after everyone and my brother insisted that my parents really need to be on the internet — and my father also suffers from "Let's see what happens when I push THIS button" (he's a criminal in elevators) which is pretty much never a good thing, especially on the internet.

    First I showed them how email works, although my mother was the director of the purchasing department for a large packaging corporation (a.k.a. my cosmetic hook-up) pre-retirement, so Anyu was already pretty familiar with it.

    "What's that button do?"

    As far as I know, short of sitting on one's hands, there is no cure for LSWHWIPTB and, combined with the distraction of shiny, pretty, blinkies on sidebars, it can be downright debilitating.

    "What else would you like me to show you?"

    My father is now on "the Facebook" and, as far as I know, he hasn't broken the internet, which really shows a LOT of restraint on Apu's part and, well, I'm pretty proud of him for that, too.

    "Did you show Papa how to leave a comment, or respond and *like* a wall post, on Facebook?"

    [blank stare]

    Aaaaaand, that is why I don't teach people how to use the internet…for a living.

    "Papa also mentioned something about starting a blog, like you, too."

    Although, I do suspect it may have been a defense mechanism on my part.

    "He said, to tell people when they're not doing stuff right."

    I'm not quite sure if the internet is ready for Apu.  Then again, it will certainly keep him occupied — especially, with winter and cabin fever just around the corner — and perhaps even keep my father from pushing my mother's buttons, or vise versa, right?!?

    I'm sitting on my hands, just in case.

     © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • Cyber Monday, A Blogger’s Parody

    Dedicated to everyone and anyone who found their email/inbox bombed by newsletters that you don't remember ever having subscribed to in the first place:

    Cyber Monday, so disappointing to me,
    Cyber Monday, it was worse than I thought Black Friday to be.
    By Monday morning, Monday morning would pretty much guarantee,
    That Monday evening I would have 3,982 emails waiting for me.

    Cyber Monday, I get it, sometimes it just works out that way,
    Cyber Monday, Black Friday starting on Thursday was bad enough you see.
    Monday morning, I had little to no warning of what was to be,
    Oh Cyber Monday, 3,982 emails, REALLY?!?

    Every other day, every other day,
    Being spammed every other holiday is bad enough, yeah.
    But whenever Cyber Monday comes, but whenever Cyber Monday comes,
    I'll be ready for you, the very next time.

    Cyber Monday, you won't be disappointing me,
    Cyber Monday, send me an unsolicited email and unsubscribed you shall  be.
    Oh Monday morning, take this as a warning of what is to be,
    On Cyber Monday, next year I'll be sending an auto-response, p.s. BITE ME!

    With my sincerest apologies to the Mamas and the Papas.

    Yours truly,

    I.M. Tired N. Cranky

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House