The Blonde Leading the Blind

It’s official.  I’m old.

Not really, but today, I feel old.

This afternoon is my oldest niece’s high school graduation party, which I’m bummed I have to miss since I’m still in San Francisco for work.  I was in high school when Brittnee was born, so it’s a little hard to believe that she’s old enough to even be in high school, let alone be graduating from it.

Good for you, Brittnee.  You’ve come along way since the days of standing in the front yard with your Aunt Blonde - me twirling the kitchen broom, you twirling your mini-plastic broom - practicing for Pantherette tryouts.

Have fun at your par-tay!

Today is my sister Christina’s birthday.  She actually got her birthday card on time, but what’s a birthday without a little public celebration?

Oh Stina, if only I wasn’t in San Francisco this week, I’d hop aboard the Pacific Princess with you and celebrate all Love Boat style just like we used to in our basement back in the day.

You could grab Gopher and I could find Doc, and we’d head up to the Lido Deck where Isaac would bring us margaritas while we work on our tan. 

I’d even make you a bologna sandwich with potato chips crushed on top and pretend it was French cuisine.

It would be fantastic.

Sorta’ like an open smile on a friendly shore.

I spent nearly ten minutes this morning with my jaw between my knees in absolute awe of Spider-Husband using the vacuum cleaner.  It wasn’t because he was vacuuming.  He actually does that all the time.  

No, I was left speechless when I turned around while I was making breakfast and discovered my superhero husband actually lifting the vacuum cleaner up on to our couch to run it over the seat cushions which were covered in hair o’ Disaster Twin.  I don’t know if I was more mystified by the actual sight of him pushing the vacuum along the couch or by the realization that he believes this is a more effective technique than using the upholstery attachments that were designed for this very purpose.

In my momentarily stunned state, I had serious flashbacks to his bachelor days when I discovered that he used his then vacuum cleaner to clean all the surfaces in his apartment.  And, I mean ALL of the surfaces - dirt on the living room floor to crumbs on the kitchen counter to toilet paper crumbles in the bathroom - if it could be suctioned up, it was fair game.  

I nearly had some type of OCD-induced seizure.  Fortunately, that was still back in the early stages of our budding romance.  Back when you’re both so enamored that he pretends not to notice that you’re constantly smelling things to determine if they are, in fact, dirty, even when you’re pretty sure they are, and you can overlook that possibility that the meal he’s just prepared most likely touched the same surface as the vacuum brush that he uses to clean the floor of the john.

And, really, how could I complain?  He did keep that place tidy.

Spider-Husband cooked up a plan to go to Conner Prairie for Day Two of our mini-vacation.  He claimed that we should feel guilty because we live ten minutes away from Conner Prairie, an attraction that people come from miles away to see, and that we’ve not been to since a field trip in the fourth grade.  But, we all know it was mostly in retaliation for the pool incident the day before.

There’s a reason I haven’t been to Conner Prairie since I was nine or so.  I’m not a fan.  I don’t want to learn about pioneers or settlers or log cabins or anything having to do with what life was like when there was no plumbing or electricity, or people wove their own clothes and took a bath in the stream with the family cow just before it became supper for the next several days.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m grateful for the folks who toughed it out and helped lead us into the modern era. I just have no interest in reliving the actual experience.

So, we headed over to make our way through the Lenape Camp, Prairietown, and Liberty Corner “to experience 19th-century American culture in new and thrilling ways.”

Here’s Spider-Husband outside the Golden Eagle Inn where we rushed to make it in time for a game of Prairietown CSI, which we quickly abandoned when we realized that no one in Prairietown seemed to remember to set out their clues.

And a shot of the Blonde (and her sweat-soaked hair) after wandering through Prairietown in search of the non-existent clues…

But, let us not forget the many joys we did experience during our brief encounter with Indiana history…watching a cow in the petting area pee without even flinching while six unsuspecting children leaped out of the way in horror, feeling like we were in the middle of an episode of Deadwood when the town doctor told me to come back for my Laudanum, watching in horror as a visitor debated the town pottery maker over whether the general store could, in fact, possibly stock enough salt to create his salt-glazed mugs, and hearing the theme song from The Office played on the vintage farmhouse piano.

We should totally do this every summer.

Earlier this week, I was reminded of a story that my Mom is fond of sharing when trying to emphasize her overwhelming disdain for “baby talk”.  Turns out back in the day when the two-year-old version of the Blonde put on her bright yellow bathing suit and headed out to the inflatable pool in the backyard, a neighbor mysteriously emerged to repeatedly ask me if I was going to “go phwimmin in my phwimmin poo” which just sent my mother into a blind rage.

Baby-Talking Neighbor:  ”Is you going phwimmin in your pwhimmin poo?”

Mildly-Annoyed Mom:  ”No.  She’s going swimming in her swimming pool.”

Baby-Talking Neighbor:  ”Phwimmin in her phwimmin poo?”

Really Irritated Mom:  ”No.  Swimming in her swimming pool.”

Baby-Talking Neighbor:  ”She looks so cute pwhimmin in the phwimmin poo.”

Are You Freakin’ Kidding Me Mom:  ”Outta’ the pool, Blondie, we’re going inside.”

I somehow managed to guilt trip Spider-Husband into joining me at the neighborhood pool on one of our days off.  We’ve been to our neighborhood pool maybe five times in the nearly three years we’ve lived here, and none of the experiences have been all that stellar.  It’s usually way crowded and overrun with tons of unsupervised children (one of Spider-Husband’s true joys in life) despite the pool rules requiring adult supervision and there is some unidentifiable, and inexplicable, dark brown stain on the majority of the deck chairs, which just grosses me out.

We’ve had “get knocked in the head by 32 children you’ve never seen in your neighborhood before” day.

We’ve had “take the day off of work only to find out the pool won’t open until 4 p.m. because all the neighborhood kids are back in school and why would an adult possibly use the pool” day.

We’ve had “get yourself situated and sit down to read only to hear the lifeguard blow her whistle telling you the pool’s closing ’cause a storm is headed our way” day.

But, none of those day’s quite compare to what we experienced this week on “gee the pool isn’t that crowded but isn’t it weird that no one is swimming in it- wonder if it’s closed - oh it is ’cause someone vomited in the pool” day.

Seriously?

I guess I should be grateful that they actually close the pool down for a bit to add new chemicals and sweep it out instead of just spooning the puke out and getting on with things.  On the other hand, it’s not exactly like the pool isn’t already rife with adolescent urine and lord knows what else that leeches out of children under the age of twelve…something Spider-Husband likes to remind me of whenever I mention going to the pool.

So, we sat in the sun for an hour and watched the sanitizing process from start to finish, then we dove right in.

Lucky for us it wasn’t a fecal incident.  That’s serious stuff -they shut the pool down for 24 hours when that shit goes down.

Tío Spider-Husband and Tía Blonde headed north on Sunday to meet Miss Simone Lyn.  Look at you…rockin’ that purple onesie with that fantastic dark hair.

Oh Simone, you’re a crafty one aren’t you?  Look how peaceful and angelic you look sleeping in your tiny bassinet.  Who could possibly believe that you, my precious niece, have assaulted your Daddy, your Mommy, the side of the bassinet, and the wall of the hospital nursery with a jet stream of poo in only your first week of life?  Yes, I said the wall, girlfriend.

One day you’ll grow up, you’ll learn to read and you’ll discover that yes, your Tía Kelly really did post about your amazing potty powers…

But then you’ll take a look at Tía Blonde’s double chin and stringy hairdo in this fantastic picture and giggle with delight.

Saturday was a big day for the Blonde family as Spider-Husband’s sister, Media, walked down the aisle and said “I do” with her hubby-to-be, Mike O.  

Our nephew Gabriel walked his Mommy down the aisle where they joined the rest of the wedding party our niece, Courtney, as the Maid of Honor and our nephews, Jeremy and Zachary, as the Best Men.  All of whom looked fantastic in their wedding attire.

Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. O.!

It’s Baby Mania this summer.  Coming in with Birth Number Three - it’s The Family Gal, one of my favorite former coworkers.  

Melissa’s very adorable second son, Camden Jack, arrived with a bang on the Fourth of July causing the Blonde and the rest of the voting public (all nine of us) to fold on the “When Will Baby 2.0 Arrive?” pool. This is so why I don’t gamble.

If he’s anything like his Big Brother, he’ll be a total rock star.  

Kiddo C. could possibly be my favorite kid ever- you earn big points when you opt not to scream your head off when your Mommy thrusts you into my arms before she even pauses to hear the answer to the most feared question for those of us without child, “Do you wanna’ hold him?”  :  )

I generally avoid holding infants due to my general awkwardness and overall clumsiness.  I prefer to wait until the toddler stage so when I accidentally drop the child, his or her skull is well on its way to fusing together so there’s less chance of actual damage.  Plus, I figure by the time the kid’s two, he’ll have figured out that life’s rough and be less likely to suffer any type of emotional trauma for the rest of his life.

Therapy ain’t cheap.

So, it takes a special kind of person to have actually witnessed the kind of damage I can do and still find the inner strength to toss her child on my lap.  And, that’s just the kind of friend Melissa is.  In fact, if Spider-Husband and I ever get up the courage to breed, you’ll have her in some small way to thank…or blame.  :  )

Congrats to Mommy, Daddy, and Kiddo C.!

My mom, brother and his wife came over this afternoon for a Fourth of July cookout at the Blonde estate.  In honor of Independence Day, we decided to liberate their hounds from an afternoon in their cages and instead invited both Bailey and Noah over to celebrate their freedom with the Disaster Twins.

Bailey and Noah were overcome with patriotism, and in absence of a flag, opted to wave thy tongue in joy and celebration of the Fourth of July.

I felt a little nostalgic when I read in the newspaper that One Liners Comedy Club on the southside of Indy was closing after 16 years.  I haven’t been to the club since moving to the northside of town, but used to check out shows here and there when my friend Jill and I lived in Greenwood just a couple miles from the club.

I have lots of fun memories of sitting in the crowded, unbelievably smoky showroom downing our two drink minimum while checking out comics like Larry Reeb and Emo Philips on stage.

Even though, I haven’t been there for years, it’s still a little sad to see it go.