Skateboard Trauma Revisited

Facetiming with the Angels…

“Grandma, Daddy was on his skateboard and didn’t wear his helmet AGAIN!”

“Yeah, Grandma, here’s Daddy, you need to have a talk with your little boy about that!”

(FYI, that’s how they refer to their dad…as MY little boy, It’s really cute.)

This is not the first time I’ve lectured him about this subject.

“Darn it J, you know better, why are you doing that? Stop laughing, it’s not at all funny. Your children tell me EVERYTHING, so WEAR YOUR HELMET! You are a ROLE MODEL! Do you want them to do it because Daddy does? Come ON, you are so smart, be smart with this too.”

“Grandma, did you throw out all of Daddy’s skateboards when he was little?“

And there it is, one of my Angel Boy’s worst traumas. How did they know about that?

Even Mom chimed in; “Yeah, what was that all about? You never throw anything away!”

It’s true. I don’t. I saved every report card and every paper he wrote and every single piece of art he created. Crazy me, I saved the shoes he wore all over Europe when he did his year abroad. I don’t dispose of anything!

Except for those darn skateboards!

To give a little background, this incident happened about fifteen years ago, maybe a bit longer. When he was in high school, he (and his friends) helped build a fairly large skate ramp in our backyard. All during high school and up to when he was in junior in college, it was well used and maintained. I supplied everyone with smoothies and cookies while I kept a watchful eye from the kitchen window.

After AB graduated from college, he went to graduate school on the east coast. His visited home less frequently and the ramp deteriorated from sun and rain.

It was requested of him that he help to remove it as it was now an eyesore and falling apart, that it was a rite of passage and he SHOULD help.

I can’t remember if he helped a lot or put in slightly more than zero effort which was what he usually did when he wasn’t too interested in a project.

His many skateboards were sitting around, also unused, gathering dust.

Here’s where things get a little fuzzy. I literally don’t throw ANYTHING away. I’m an admitted hoarder. I don’t recall the specifics of how and when these skateboards disappeared, but they definitely DID.

I spent the last fifteen years apologizing to my angel boy for throwing out his beloved skateboards, which I know memorialized a meaningful time in his life.

I’ve offered to buy him a new skateboard or several — to make up for my horrible parenting.

I never want to cause him pain, but it’s obvious that he’s still bothered by all of it.

So, this last time, most recently, when the conversation opened up, in front of everyone, I formally apologized AGAIN and asked how or what I could do to make amends.

I’m genuinely sorry that I tossed out (or gave away, I can’t remember) a happy piece of his childhood. It’s really so unlike me and I didn’t do it with malice or anger, but the fact remains that those boards are gone forever.

Anyway, he accepted my apology (again) and said he doesn’t want a new skateboard but I think I’m going to go to his favorite sk8 shop and get him one anyway, or get him a gift certificate so he can choose all the parts that he wants: deck, wheels, bushings, trucks…yes, I was the mom of a skater. It’s language I can speak.

Note to self: NEVER toss anything else out.

EVER.

Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto

Thank you very much, Mr. Roboto!
Does anybody know where this gigantic robot is located? I do…

The robot is from the Japanese animated film “Castle in the Sky” and is located somewhere in the PNW, but I’ll conceal the specific location.

(“Mr. Roboto” by Styx)

Monday Meme | FAFO

https://ifunny.co/

Unearthed Primitive Artifact Or…

Before I even begin my strange tale, I want to be sensitive to negative colloquialisms such as “‘Burying the hatchet’.

The use of this term trivializes the ancient peace-making ceremony in which two fighting nations symbolically buried or cached their weapons of war.

Offensive language like this is a result of centuries of violence and continues to perpetuate stereotypes that have real-life impacts on Native communities.

Indigenous Peoples and their cultural traditions are real and deserve respect. They are not historical artifacts, caricatures, or mascots. (radicalcopyeditor.com)

But I don’t know how else to describe what I just found in my garden…an actual buried hatchet.

Look at it!

It’s a joke from the Universe, right?

I have no idea how long it’s been there or how it became buried near a path that leads to some steps to the second level.

I can’t even figure out how, after all this time, it became UNburied enough for me to notice that bright blue handle.

So with deepest respect, I brushed away the dirt around the buried hatchet.

I’m not sure what to do next. Dig it up? Leave it there? Anyone care to hazard a guess about what it means?

Twinning Toilets

One more story to share…

When I was little and I’m sure it’s because my mom was a nurse, but I experienced a significantly higher level of attention to hygiene in our day to day life than some. Our joke was that I had as much Lysol in my veins as red blood cells.

For example, WAY before there were seat covers, whenever we happened to visit a public restroom, my mom taught me how to place three long pieces of toilet paper to cover the seat before I sat down.

She said it was a sanitary barrier against germs. Germs were our nemesis–we must protect ourselves!

Even today, when I’m in a public restroom, whether there are no seat covers or the container is empty, I’ll still channel my mom and use her method to save myself from touching a seat countless others have used. #EWWWW

A while back, Angel Girl and I were at my local park and she needed to use the restroom. There was an empty container where the seat covers should have been, so it was the perfect opportunity to pass on the knowledge from her namesake, exactly the way I was taught,

Later that day while I was making dinner, Angel Girl was in the bathroom and she pulled three long strips of toilet paper and covered the toilet seat before using.

When mom asked her what she was doing, she said “That’s what Grandma does.”

Like a duckling, that angel imprints on all my behaviors, haha.

I heard the chat and rushed in to explain to this brilliant brilliant little human that this method was something we only needed to do for public toilets, the ones that are used by lots of other people, and we didn’t need to do that when we were here at home or at their house.

I’m absolutely sure that the toilet seats in MY home are pristine and reasonably sure that the toilet seats in THEIR home were clean (fingers crossed.)

A little research blew my mind. There seems to be no real scientific or medical reason for covering toilet seats. It was once believed that you could catch a gastrointestinal bug or sexually transmitted disease from a public toilet, but research has proved otherwise; that it’s a practically pointless exercise in sanitation.

Another alternative would be to use an alcohol or bleach wipe, but I don’t always have them with me.

Does anyone else but me (and Angel Girl) still do this? Do you hover or cover?

‘Cos I don’t really care, I still think it’s gross to have any direct contact on a toilet seat where a thousand strangers have been, so I’ll continue to cover.

Word of the Day: Lalochezia

Are you guilty of doing this, too?

The word of the day is lalochezia. It’s a noun formed from the Greek lalia (speech) and chezo (to relieve oneself).

Maybe that’s where the term “potty mouth” came from??

I have been known to unleash a hearty string of f-bombs and other expletives. To be completely honest, it is, usually, quite satisfying.

Lalochezia: The use of foul or abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain, emotional release through swearing.

Lalochezia describes that moment when you’re so stressed out and angry that you start spurting out the foulest language possible to relieve stress and pain.

Yup, been there, done that…

I’m sure that a few deep restorative yoga breaths — some vital prana — is probably way more soul healing, but in some cases the venting of specific profanity MIGHT be nearly as invigorating.

I guess I have a ways to go before I enter the transcendent state of nirvana, or as my dad would say, “that’s not very ladylike, Rosebud, and I’m sure you can think of more appropriate language.”

Not always.

(graphic from pinterest)

Almost Everything But a Washcloth Full of Holes

I’m known as the “fixer” because I have a certain amount of success in gluing together broken bits of china, repairing toys, and mending torn clothing…just call me the all around problem solver.

The original Angel Boy recently came to me with a few hand sewing tasks; a ripped seam in his windbreaker, tighten the upper arms of his gardening sleeves where the elastic stretched out so they won’t fall down, (which is super annoying), and sew or iron patches on AB2’s jeans, where he must slide on one knee A LOT,

After I completed my work under the watchful eye of my faithful sidekick, Angel Girl, she rummaged around in her room for something for me to repair (she doesn’t like to be left out of anything) and ran back with a dress that had short-ish butterfly sleeves that didn’t meet her high fashion standards.

“I don’t like this part, Grandma, so you can fix it.”

I took a look at it and figured it wouldn’t be a too difficult job to remove the flutter sleeves and resew the seams, which I did.

It made her very happy.

Later, while mom was giving her a bath, I could hear them chatting about her day. All of a sudden, she said, “I’ve got to give this to Grandma.”

She jumped out of the tub and came running into my room dripping wet, holding a raggedy torn and tattered washcloth full of holes.

“Here you go, Grandma, fix this.”

It must have been washed dozens of times and there really wasn’t any life left and sadly, that worn out fabric was far beyond my capabilities to magically repair, but I love the faith and confidence that angel has in me as the “fixer”, the one she can count on to make things right and restore everything back to the way they should be.

Yup, I’m a fixer, but not always.

Gardening for Mental Health

Just a joke, but maybe also partly truthful, especially with all of these planetary energies creating havoc!

What do you think?

A Joy Forever

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever” — John Keats.

I used to love to walk through the downtown of my little city, until elected officials decided to call it a “village” but instead ruin it by filling it with boxes of ugly square buildings and a lot more places for people to get nasty drunk.

There’s no longer any charm; the atmosphere is entirely UNvillage-like, actually about as far away from being a “village” as you could possibly get.

I usually stay away but yesterday I found myself in the area and stopped at a little consignment shop, not the same one where I once scored AUTHENTIC Louis Vuitton and Dior scarves in the same day, but one with housewares and touristy stuff.

That’s where i fell in love with this beautiful work of art in the form of a pitcher and HAD to bring it home with me.

She needed a special photo shoot to properly reveal the iridescent green and gold, so I brought her out to the garden to soak up a few rays.

Have you ever seen anything more charming and ENCHANTED? I think not.

There’s no maker mark so it’s not valuable to anyone but me, but I love pretty things and this pitcher will definitely be on display in all of her glory. I’m burying the lede here, but in case you’re wondering, it cost $8.00.That’s it. EIGHT DOLLARS.

A thing of beauty is absolutely a joy forever.

The Secrets That You Keep

I’m not talking about that song by the The Romantics, but a secret spot I discovered while out walking yesterday.

I can’t believe I’ve lived here for decades and never knew about this little beachy secret. One other person was there with their dogs and we vowed not to disclose this classified location…

Pretty cool, huh?

Looking to the east…

And to the west…

I MIGHT be persuaded to share the coordinates of this idyllic site, but you’d have to also be sworn to secrecy.

Can I trust you?