Monthly Archives: July 2015

Tooth Fairy Time Again

He just yanked another one.

I think that’s probably it for awhile, but definitely, as someone said last time, he probably won’t be having a lot of corn on the cob this year.

Poor Elias is quite distressed that his teeth aren’t ready to fall out yet. The promise that his will fall out too, in time, is no consolation. I’m just hoping he isn’t really strong enough to pull out teeth that aren’t loose yet.

Crimes Against Fashion

Some people know a lot about fashion, and have great instincts, and always look put together and polished. I am not one of those people. I would happily spend the rest of my life in comfortable jeans, a black t-shirt, and a pair of those big clunky nurse clogs that do nothing for the turn of my ankle but sister I can stand all day in them and my feet don’t hurt so you can have them when you pry them from my cold dead toes.

Mostly I’m with Gilda Radner, who claims to base her fashion sense on what doesn’t itch. I totally admire the put together thing, and I always wish I had the verve (and, honestly, the budget) to sport a sleek hot pink trench coat, but it just never seems to work out for me. And I’ve made my peace with that.

All of that said, even I know that you’re not supposed to wear shorts with black socks pulled up all the way to your knees.

I know better. I do. But I just don’t care, at least not this morning.

At some point, probably, he’ll start to care what girls think about him, and that will solve this problem. (And create myriad new ones, no doubt.) Until then? He can pair the black socks with a bright purple tutu for all I care.

Fashionistas, you have my humble apologies. Avert your eyes.

My Father’s Daughter

I’ve been needing to fill up my gas tank for at least three days. I just keep forgetting, and finding myself pulling into the garage with the light still on and the tank just a bit more toward dry.

This happened to my dad all the time. He was famous for not quite running out of gas. We were coming home from a long trip once, three of us in the car, and he was trying to make it just a bit farther down the highway (for a slightly better price at the pump, almost certainly) before stopping to fill up. Previous to this, he’d literally coasted into gas stations on fumes multiple times. Once in the 70s when there were gas lines, he coasted into the gas line and then had to get out and push when it was time to move up toward the pump.

Not so this time. We were on the side of a four-lane highway, cars zipping past us at warp speed. My mother, who had wanted him to fill up sixty miles before, was simmering quietly until he left the car, but as the door shut behind him and he started off beside the guardrail, she couldn’t take it anymore. “WELL,” she said, with the irritation of thirty years spent dreading being stranded while he hunted for a price just a few cents cheaper per gallon, “I can’t say I’m sorry he has to walk. Maybe now he’ll FINALLY learn his lesson.” And we watched him step on down the road, his luck having finally deserted him.

About a hundred feet later, his luck caught up with him again. A car slowed and pulled to a stop. He leaned over and talked to the driver, and then jogged around and hopped in the car. The driver turned and waved madly back at us. It was Bill, from church.

Poor mom. She had really been hoping for more than a hundred feet’s worth of lesson, but it wasn’t to be. So I come by it honestly, I guess. Except that for Dad, it was a game; one he always won. And for me, it’s just a side effect of being a ninny.

I did make it, though. That picture was taken at the gas station, right before I filled up. I didn’t even have to push the car up to the pump.