Red noses run in our family.
Remember how I told you there were things I held back from you, Internet? And how I promised to tell you a secret? This is it.
My family of origin is a bonafide clown troop. I never feel embarrassed to be a clown when I am in character, but for some reason feel embarrassed to admit it when I am just me. Red noses give a girl a lot of confidence. On the far left is Charlie, he is a mute clown-think very Charlie Chaplinesque. Then we have Posie, and JoJo, they are very classic clowns. Next is Ladee, she is best with small children because she wears little make-up and no wig, sorta like that big comfy couch clown. 
We introduced a new clown while performing at the local Relay for Life. He was a hit. His clown name was Jonah, he carried around a little fishing pole with a stuffed whale attached and pretended to fish in funny places. He is a natural. 
Just in case you were wondering where baby clowns come from, when a Mama clown and a Daddy clown love each other very much….they bump noses? 
My darling husband stayed home, I wonder why? We no longer clown very often, and just for charity gigs now, but back in the day, JHJ and I did enough birthday parties to be able to keep from getting a real job, and JoJo has even been shot out of a cannon at the Shriner’s circus. That actually explains a few things.
There you go Internet. Now you know everything. Almost!
Filed under Boy is my face red, Family-blame the DNA, stupidity | Comments (9)Toad Racing: A Tutorial
A successful toad race starts with a successful toad. You should find one at least two weeks in advance of race day, feed it a protein rich diet, and keep it well hydrated. Or, you should let the teenager reach into the toad box at the front of the line and hand you a random one. We went with option two this year as all the toads in our area seem to have succumbed during the Aporkalypse.
Next you need a good name. Something fast sounding, like Lightening or Speedy. The Son took one look at ours and said his name was Gordon. He was named for him, not him.
Then you stand in line waiting for your chance to Toad Race, in the rain. Not just a little rain, no, truly dedicated toad racers will stand umbrella-to-umbrella in a monsoon for their sport of choice.
When it is your turn at the Toad track, you have one more quick pep talk from your trainer (or mommy, whichever) about racing strategies. These pep talks include reminders about not throwing the toad (like last year) or squeezing the toad so hard his guts come out through his eyes (like the caterpillar earlier in the week.)
You will then get into proper position; on your hands and knees behind your toad is the preferred method. On command, you begin pounding the mat behind your toad in hopes of making him hop faster. (FYI, there is not a PETA branch ’round these parts)
It is also often necessary to herd your toad to keep him in his lane. Toads crossing first in other lanes are disqualified (I think, though we have never had a particularly speedy toad, so I may be wrong about this one.)
When the race is over it is often necessary to pose for the paparazzi.
Then collect your prize money and trophy (or Sonic coupon and participant ribbon) and head over to the winners circles for more pictures in the rain.
By that time you are already soaked and covered in toad goo and hay so your parents will probably say, “why not?”, and let you ride a few rides in the rain.
The pictures of the whole event are sparse because someone is not about to let their new camera be out in the rain. You ride, partake of a corn-dog, then home for dry jammies and a nap. A good day.
Filed under Boy is my face red, Parenting for Dummies, The Son, stupidity | Comments (7)Flirting with Danger
We went home with one wet boot and wet bangs (do boys have bangs? Whatever the front long part of his hair is called.) All things considered..that is darn good.
The Christmas of 1989 we spent at Gulf Shores with my grandparents. I was almost ten, and JHJ was almost seven. The little town near the beach had a Christmas village set up in its park. The village consisted of a dozen or so cut out house facades leaning against the park’s live oaks. The best part was all the fluffy white polyester snow strewn about…the average high temp hovering near eighty. Grandpa and Dad treated JHJ and I to ice-cream cones and then we walked over to the park. Looking at the “village” took all of four minutes, and there was no playground. Dad and Grandpa were leaning against our white minivan, and JHJ and I ran to look at the water fountain.
It was not fancy; it actually looked very much like the one in the pictures. Having spent the last couple of years in gymnastics, I was already aware that the balance beam was the only apparatus that I did not COMPLETELY suck at. I hopped up on the concrete rim and started practicing my extremely remedial beam routine. Just several times around the circumference, and repeatedly telling my dad I was not going to fall in. I MIGHT have had (still have) a reputation for being a might (very) clumsy.
JHJ got a gleam in his eye. All of those big sister atrocities that I had perpetrated on him flashed through his mind and he ran up behind me and pushed…..and SPLASH! I fell in. My Dad and Grandpa, and of course JHJ started laughing. I stood up sputtering and yelling at JHJ, who ran in the opposite direction. My Grandpa said I could blame him if I wanted…so I did tell my mom when I climbed out of the van soaking wet that Grandpa pushed me. But it was really JHJ.
My father tells the story about how I fell in the fountain and then how a year later the city tore it down because of the crack in the fountain’s foundation at least once a week, and it stopped being funny about 19 years ago. Does your family have a story like that? One they think is HILARIOUS, but you hate?
Filed under Family-blame the DNA, Photography, The Son, lexapro lexplains it | Comments (3)