Marlo Thomas, I miss you

I find myself in a moral conundrum today.

In my mailbox, I received a solicitation for a donation with some mailing labels included. Yes, that's right. Freebie mailing labels. The one thing on Earth I covet more than anything. Remember this?

Except these weren't from Marlo Thomas. They were from the Susan G. Komen Foundation. I know what you're thinking -- what's her problem with breast cancer research.

Well, nothing. I believe strongly in a yearly mammogram, and I hope you do, too. The reality is I'm likely to wind up as one of the women benefitting from that research someday -- breast cancer runs deep in my family. I've watched friends fight it it as well.

But . . . . The Susan G. Komen Foundation  unfunded another organization in 2012 that provides breast cancer screening and education to women. And while the funding was restored after a public backlash, the foundation lost my support.

Morals vs. mailing labels. No one ever said life was easy.

The days are long but the years are short

Another summer has come and gone. It is so quiet here today. I miss them. Good thing I'm having a root canal for distraction.

Why I'll never have an Angelina Jolie lip

So I always thought Botox might be an option to rid myself of my permanent frown lines. And a little lip plumping, why not? Hoo-boy, have I rethought that. Turns out I'm not a fan of the whole needle in the lip thing.

This ah-hah moment came when I took Carly to the dermatologist this week because she had something weird growing on her arm. The PA took one look at me and said, "You need to see the doctor."

So I did and now I'm sporting a fat, bloody lip for my compliance. I'd show you, but really, it's a little tacky.

Turns out that black spots on your lips are not a good thing. You heard it here first.

Time flies

So how you been?

Me? I'm good. I've been around, just not here. Sort of Where's Waldo-esque. Had you known where to look you might have seen me:

 

On the beach in the Bahamas after swimming with the dolphins. Very cool, excpet for the wet suit. It wasn't painful to wear, just painful to look at after the fact. There is definitely a market for more flattering water wear.

Sitting at a bus stop at a Disney resort. Repeatedly. Very NOT cool. Next visit I'm going back to my first love, the Polynesian. In fashion news, I discovered bandanas. No time to shampoo, no problem. This is my new look. Much easier.

  

Here we are at Magin Kingdom. Notice how I'm usually behind someone? Strategy at its finest.

 

And while there's no photographic evidence, I've also been to Milwaukee, Minneapolis, Clear Lake, Eagle Grove, Ames, and a few other assorted destinations.

 

Somewhere in the middle I had a birthday and spent my birthday week (and a little beyond) going out with my friends!! I have great friends!! The fam actually got a little miffed because I was gone "too much," but really, how can you turn down a birthday invitation. That would be rude.

 

So here we are this week, which has been spent in more than one medical office. Anyone who knows me knows this is completely out of character. I hate going to the doctor and only go if forced, like today. I do manage to visit the dentist twice a year, which is a good thing because I found out yesterday that I have a dental isse. A MAJOR dental issue. A big bucks kind of issue. Something I've never heard of before. Whose fault is that? I guess I'll find out tomorrow, when I have another appointment. This time with a specialist who will hopefully offer me a payment plan because the previously mentioned vacation broke the bank.

 

It's good to visit with you again! Let's go out for a drink. I think I'm going to need it.

    

 

Mother's Day

Me and the Hoop-lahs. Love them.

This and that

On Friday nights, Carly and I go to Chili's when the menfolk are busy with basketball. She and I like to play Marble Matrix on the game kiosk. Normally she wins; that artistic mind of hers sorts out those patterns like nobody's business. It's the same reason why you don't want to play Memory with her; she always win. She is the Michael Jordan of Memory. You are the benchwarmer.

But I digress. This post has nothing to do with Marble Matrix. (Although you should know that I scored a rare win tonight. Hooray for me!!)

Chili's is now requiring customers who want to pay with a credit or debit card to check themselves out using the game kiosk. You punch a button, it tells you what you owe and suggests a 20 percent tip. You swipe your card, and then wait 20 minutes for the manager to bring you the receipt that didn't print.

This bugs me. I'm paying for service, not to do it myself. I have the same issue with self-checkout at the grocery store. If I'm doing your work, you can lower your prices. (Hy-Vee, I'm talking about you.)

Does this bother anyone else or is it just another sign that I don't get it?

In other unrelated events, I've embarked on a new hobby . . . you might not have heard of this before -- it's called putting pictures into a photo album. It looks like this:

I'm just kidding. Your grandma probably had a few of these, so you've at least seen one before. Digital photos are great, and they look really nice in your computer folders. But the reality, at least around here, is that no one is going to look at them. And my brain cells are dying off by the day, so I need to write down what these pictures are about before I completely forget.

I bought a bunch of the exact same album at Target. 160 photos per year. My plan is to work backward, one album for each year until I run out of pictures and albums, years, or interest.

And finally, a picture of Riley, who earned a Presidential Award for being a smarty pants. Please be sure to notice the $6,000 smile!

A blog about dolls

Check out Carly's blog, A Doll's World, at http://kittyaglover825.blogspot.com/. Literary genius runs in the family, you know.

The importance of counting to 10

A couple of weeks ago, at a basketball tournament, a mom from an opposing team called Riley a "thug" to his face after a game in which her team lost.

A team we've played before. A parent we're likely to see again.

Perhaps she saw my baby looking like this. I doubt she had, but even if she did, should it matter?

She called him a "thug" because he played tough in that game. You want to call him aggressive. Fine. He plays hard and, in fact, is working on playing harder. Most kids this age do. They're high schoolers who want to win, who dream of making it to the next level. They have to be tough to succeed in basketball . . . and life.

Riley told us what happened. He didn't say it, but I could tell it bothered him. Of course we reminded him about the old "sticks and stones" philosophy. But inside I was seething.

What is wrong with people? When did it become okay for grown-ups to call kids names? I'd like to tell you this was the first time in sports I've heard a parent call a kid a name. But it's not. It happened to Riley once before, a couple of years ago, long enough for me to forget what was said, but not long enough for me to forget it happened. At best, these incidents serve as a reminder that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover. The "thug" in question just happens to be a straight A student taking honors classes. His future is full of promise.

So fast forward to today. I took the kids to Red Robin for lunch as a spring break treat. (They've been looking forlorn, the whole "what are we going to do for spring break" thing. Uhhh . . .nothing?) You'll never guess who was in that restaurant, only a few feet away.

Riley noticed her first, and then my mama bear came roaring out. I wanted nothing more than to say a few words to her, not of the charitable variety either. But I didn't because I understand the importance of being a good example, even when everything in me calls for a smackdown. (I am, after all, an east-side girl.)

So I'll leave it at this: Bad karma, lady. Don't be surprised someday when my "thug" is your kid's boss.

Speechless

Here at the Hoop-lah house we are winding up Christmas break and getting back to the routine. Not a moment too soon. This goes away tomorrow.

 

Call it a moment of madness when a group of teenage boys has free time. And actually, I have to acknowledge it was nicely done if you like the look. To me it screams punk rocker, not a lifestyle I want him to aspire to.

I've moved past speechless. Now I'm saying hallelujah for basketball, because around here you can't play with a ferret on your head.