Category: Humor

We have a 2319

Published on by NouveauSoileau3 Comments

If you’re like me and have children, you’ve seen most Disney movies approximately 3,298 times each. In addition, you probably foresee a future when you watch one Pixar offering or another at least another dozen times or so before it’s retired and the kiddoes have moved on to MTV, Horders, slasher flicks or some other horror that passes for popular entertainment.

But some of us are still squarely in the Cars, Up, Finding Nemo, and Monsters Inc. phase. With each repeated viewing, the dialogue becomes ever more cemented in we, the adults,’ consciousness and with alarming frequency, we start quoting them as we go about our daily lives.

To take an example from television, any form of agreement is now rendered, in my house, as “Yes. Yes I am,” a la Phineas from each episode of Phineas and Ferb on the Disney Channel. “Aren’t you a little young to be building a nuclear reactor?” he’ll be asked. “Yes. Yes I am.”

Similarly, we went through an intensive few years when Trassie was addicted to the Disney/Pixar feature Cars. At one point Mater, the grungy tow-truck voiced by Larry the Cable Guy, is asked if he’s got his tow cable. “Well yeah, I’ve always got mah tow-cable,” he answers. Now, if anyone is asked if they’ve got a particularly something with them … purse, car keys, water bottle, whatever … the answer is always, “Well, yeah, I’ve always got my tow cable.”

Which brings us to Monsters Inc., a general favorite and in heavy rotation a few years ago. If you recall the movie, you’ll remember that it’s a huge plot point when the scream factory is contaminated with an artifact of the human world. A sock returns to Monster World with a monster just fresh from a kid’s closet. Immediately there is a shut-down on par with a nuclear core meltdown. Decontamination experts are dropped from the ceiling. It’s a 2319!!

Much to our amusement, the address of the local elementary school which Christopher attended for one year and where now Trassie is a kindergartner is 2319.

Yes, sirree. The location that is filled to the brim with children, those toxic beings of Monsters Inc. The individuals who could bring Monster World to its knees, to quote the movie, merely with their mind powers are contained each day within a school at street address 2319.

This amuses us to no end … and often, when we take one child or another over there, it is just impossible not to say, “We have a 2319! 2319!”

It helps if you can make your voice sound like it’s being broadcast over a PA system.

“2319! 2319! Bye kids, have a great day! If anyone tries to run from you, don’t pick them up with your mind powers, now, and shake them like a dog!”

Spot the comatose teenager

Published on by NouveauSoileau4 Comments

Over the weekend, my 13-year-old son, Christopher, spent the night out at a friend’s where, predictably, they stayed up most of the night playing video games.

This leads to the Sunday-afternoon phenomenon known as Zombie Teen.

When you let your son or daughter spend the night with a friend when he or she is, say, 8, what you get the next day is Psycho Kid. This monster resembles your darling child only physically; and then, only remotely so — you don’t recall such vast black circles beneath the eyes of said child only a day earlier. And in disposition, oh my no. This new being is grouchy beyond any conceivable normal limits. The snarling anger and immediate dissolve-into-tears the instant Things Don’t Go My Way is completely off the charts. You question why you let them go in the first place. An evening’s peace? So. Not. Worth. It.

Then they get a little age on them and, while generally a cantankerous lot, teenagers who are sleep-deprived are dreamcicles compared to the tired versions of their former selves when they return from an overnight with a friend.

No, the returning teen is a comatose teen, droopy eyed and lethargic — until the inevitable moment when he or  she starts to sink into (in this case) the couch and is rendered nearly completely invisible.

Can't see him no how

Please excuse the untidiness. This is my living room, den, all-purpose room, playroom, and partial office. A lot goes on here. A lot of stuff gets dropped here.

Think of it as camouflage.

Where’s the sunken kid?

Ah, there he is. Melted into the couch.

Amazing, isn’t it? Television a-blarin.’ Computer beeping. Music playing. Oblivious. Oblivious he is, the youngster operating on three hours of sleep. He knows nothing but the slump and the slumber, deep in his beige cocoon.

There he blended, until suppertime, when the only other thing known to drive children of this age springs into action — the promise of food. Since I’d planned a balanced meal, the pull was not quite as forceful as say, junk food or McDonald’s. But it did propel him back into the land of the living.

I just hope I don’t lose him again. Good thing we’ve got the maroon blanket — he might have stayed gone for good.

Hm.

Good things come to those who wait

Published on by NouveauSoileau2 Comments

If you’ve been checking here periodically, waiting desperately for new witticisms that never come, you have my sincere thanks and, of course, my sympathy.

It’s been a pathetically long time since a new post has darkened this blog’s door. But fear not! Things are going to look lively around here soon.

So please, until then — enjoy the Two Headed Boy.

He loves you and wants to make you happy.

Sock it to me

Published on by NouveauSoileau3 Comments

I’m a fan of shoes; it’s a fairly well-established fact that I more or less view life through a high-heeled prism and any conversation you’re apt to have with me might either end, begin, or somewhere in-between contain the words “heel,” “sole,” “pointed,” “adorable,” “stocking,” or “boot.”

Or, perhaps, all six.

Given this information, it will come as no surprise to you that I also spend otherwise productive amounts of time ruminating on the subject of socks. They are, after all, devices which encase the feet — that alone gives them a leg-up on any other type of attire. The color, weight, thickness or thinness, appropriateness and compatibility with the various kinds of footwear … it’s all absorbing to me. As I strolled along the grocery aisle yesterday afternoon with my daughter, I engaged her in discourse on the socks I was then wearing — black, thick, servicable numbers that I generally wear with boots. Thick, as I say. Yesterday, I had crammed them into clogs that I usually wore with thin, stocking-like affairs with absolutely delightful results. Normally this clog made my feet tired after only a few hours of wear, but with the addition of thick socks, they were magically transformed into the comfortable shoes they should have been all along. I was delighted with my discovery.

“Socks,” said Claire. “Gotta love’em.”

OK so, while no one’s going to be tremendously bowled over by this vast philosophical insight, it did get me to ruminating on socks in general and the various problems and delights I have had with them over the years.

First and foremost — One Size Fits All.

Oh it so DOES NOT.

For most of my life I’ve worn a size 9 shoe — not tremendously big, but you know, a little bigger than average. I’m 5-foot 9, it’s proportional, right? In the last few years it has been brought to my attention by the expert fitters at a local running store that I actually wear a 9½ — so be it. But come on, sock industry, One Size Fits All? How could I possibly wear the same sock that Miss 5-Foot Nothing slips on her size 6 feet?

So it was with a great thrill, many years ago, that I discovered in the now-defunct McAlpin’s Department Store the existence of Tall Girl Socks. Oh yes. Socks which promised a heel that covered my heel and did not end up somewhere in the vicinity of my arch. An array of colors. Substantial, durable construction to stand up to even the most problematic of footwear. They were located on the second floor next to the escalator. I was a frequent shopper.

Yes, of course they were discontinued. Yes, of course McAlpins went out of business. Yes, now I buy socks that have no reasonable acquaintance with the location of my heels, or I get men’s socks, which are always, always, ALWAYS too big.

Problem #2 — Children

Yes, this heading could apply to so many things, but today we’re talking socks. The worst thing ever in the history of garment manufacture is baby socks. Just imagine: you’re the mother of a darling newborn, whose very existence is completely dependent upon you, the mother. You grew the thing in your womb; now you’ve got to feed and clothe it now that it’s emerged into the wild. It has tiny darling sweet little feet which, even in high August, are bitterly, bitterly cold. So as a conscientious mama, you sock those baby feet. Pow, the baby kicks them off. And why? Because people who manufacture baby socks apparently have never seen an actual baby and mistakenly believe that their feet are an inch and a half long. The heel of the sock hits Baby Foot around the end of the toes. If you’re a month-old infant, you have four jobs: eat, sleep, poop, and kick off socks. Bonus points if you can do all these at the same time, while crying.

Probably somewhere in the universe — more likely, on the Internet — are socks that would fulfill my every sock need. Perhaps I have even perused such a website (like a couple years ago when I got friends’ new baby faux lace-up sneaker socks, not unlike the Nike numbers pictured above). But as a consistent thing, life is punctuated with sock peril. They don’t fit, they flee from pairing. White socks get dingy, all socks get holey.

I shall continue my quest for the Perfect Sock — and since socks and shoes go together like peas and carrots, I foresee that this is a Destiny that I can cheerfully fulfill.