bapple = apple (or any piece of fruit)
cookie = cookie (or any dessert item)
dedee = diaper
beesh dedee = swim diaper
bee bee bair = big, big, bear
Bebe. Brotha bebe. = I am a baby and my brother is a baby too.
I go. = I am going in the car with you come hell or high water. Now get out of my way.
song: Should I Stay or Should I Go • artist: the Clash
They say that soldiers who lose limbs in battle sometimes suffer from a phantom limb syndrome wherein they feel sensations in the missing arm or leg.
I find that after I take my sunglasses off my head I still think they are up there and not only that - I reach for them constantly even though I know that they are not there. I call it phantom shades syndrome. I know it's not the same thing but it's all I got.
And while we're on the subject of subjects that aren't very funny but let's have a go at them anyway, one of the Google headlines this week was "what makes mothers kill their children?" Obviously it was in response to the tragedy in South Carolina but honestly - the question seems a bit rhetorical. Have you been with a brood of kids lately? Have you seen exhausted mothers with out of control children acting out in supermarkets, at the playground, or in the library? Children are naturally self centered, demanding little individuals who can be difficult to be around.
None of which justifies killing your offspring but honestly it's not hard to see where a depressed mother without a good support system might harbor the thought.
And now that I'm on a roll, here's another observation. This one concerning an interesting juxtaposition of merchandise in a Main Street shop. First there was a rack of body shaping slips with the brand name Yummy Tummy. The purpose of this garment may very well be to support those same harried moms so that in addition to being tired and unappreciated they don't have to add feeling like they have frumpy tummies to the list of disappointments that seem to have become the bulk of their everyday lives. On the other hand maybe it just serves to reinforce the unfair standards by which society rates mothers - they must have perfect children and retain their perfect figures as well.
Right next to the rack of women's undergarments was the Buddha Bowl, a shallow bowl which, correct me if I'm wrong, looks perfectly suitable for resting on ones "Buddha belly," most likely when one is traversing down the road to enlightenment by ensconcing themselves in couch cushions, snacking on chips and dips, and watching the big game. The question is - if the Buddha Bowl is on your belly - where is the remote?
This all leads me to draw the obvious conclusion (obvious at least to me) that while women have to have a yummy tummy at all costs, men get to let it all hang out and then perch a bowl of chili on top of it.
Another truth that might push the unstable mom over the edge
song: Mother's Little Helper • artist: the Rolling Stones
C made himself a "survival kit" the other night out of strips of recycled paper.
Into his survival kit is put a handful of band aids, three Kleenex, and a travel-size bottle of baby shampoo. He's all set to "survive" a paper cut.
But alas he isn't because he left the survival kit in the living room, S & N got into it, stuck the band aids all over their elbows and scrunched up the Kleenex.
The girls are really takin' it on the chin at Highfield this season. First there was Eliza Doolittle going back to Henry Higgins in order to fetch him his slippers and tonight Annie Oakley lost a shooting match to Frank Butler on purpose in order not to bruise his ego.
I'm looking forward to "A Funny Think Happened on the Way to the Forum," and the song, "Everybody Ought to have a Maid."
Nowadays kids can take classes on how to babysit. Classes that can even include CPR training meaning that your babysitter, in effect, may be more qualified to take care of your children than you are. When I was a kid the only real qualification for being a babysitter was that one lived in close proximity to the house at which one was to babysit. So it was with the teenage girl who baby sat for my sister and me. We lived at house #76, she, at house #100.
Her name was Irene and her obituary was in the paper this spring. Just a short obituary, she didn't live in Falmouth anymore. I tried to google her but couldn't get much more information. The brief didn't mention whether or not she had a family, it didn't list her parents, or her two brothers. She was 49. Only seven years older than me but those seven years are an eternity when they are the years between 10 and 17.
Irene came to our house every Wednesday night. My mother was at work and my Dad used to go to the Knights of Columbus for Bingo Night to sell lobster raffle tickets. They were a sort of scratch ticket where if you matched two or more lobsters you won various amounts of cash.
I can't recall a single conversation I ever had with Irene. Her purpose was not to influence me through words rather through deeds and through her very presence. She was the older sister I did not have and in fact I used to carry her wallet-sized school photo around and tell people she that was my older sister.
Irene would let me stay up and watch Charlie's Angels and Starsky and Hutch even though they were on past my bedtime. Sometimes I would run and jump into bed just as the headlights from my mother's car came into view through the living room curtains.
When she wasn't babysitting, Irene used to walk down our street with her boyfriend, another kid from our neighborhood, giving me a glimpse of my own future, or what I hoped my future would look like. From her I learned that the pinnacle of teenage romance in the late 1970s was walking with your boyfriend, arm around each other's waists and one hand in the others back pocket - a plastic comb with a chunky curved handle protruding from the other pocket.
This Wednesday night ritual went on for what seemed liked eternity to me. I don't remember when it changed. I guess I finally got old enough to stay home alone with my younger sister.
Eventually convenience stores started selling scratch tickets, casinos owned by Native American's got built, and people stopped going to Bingo night.
Now the Knights of Columbus has been sold to the Police Athletic League and my childhood babysitter is dead.
H and C both made drawings of baseball fields yesterday. H's was an elongated pentagon shape with four bases plus home plate. C's was a triangle with bases at the mid points.
Not too clear about why they call it a baseball "diamond" but I cut them some slack since I was 22 when I had an "ah ha" moment about the true meaning of miles per hour.
song: Diamonds Are Forever • artist: Shirley Bassey
Parents often talk about how they see themselves reflected in their children. More often than not our kids pick up on our bad habits rather than our good ones. Sometimes, they inadvertently help us discover bad habits we didn't even know we had.
My cousins on Nantucket have changed their weekend breakfast spot from years back when they used to frequent the Rotary Cafe. Their new favorite restaurant is much more upscale. They took us there last weekend. The boys had pancakes. When they arrived Priscilla asked C if he needed help cutting his. He said no and proceeded to pick up his pancake and tear it into little pieces with his bare hands, which is just how I prepare them at home.