I have a lot of friends.  My Sisters being my closest, bestest, might as well be sisters in fact, kind of friends.  The best kind of girl-friends.  We always tell each other the truth.  We support each other unconditionally.  We REALLY only want the best for each other.  I love them both tremendously.

And then there are some friends in my life who I’ve known for – well, forever.  These are the kinds of friends you have

Kurt and me at our 20th high school reunion

 known for so long they become a part of you, an extension.   We’ve been through so much together, teen angsty nonsense, boyfriends and girlfriends and breakups, weddings and children, funerals and celebrations. 

There were years when we didn’t talk so often – life was busy and we lived so far away from each other, but we managed.  And now there is texting.  We don’t often speak on the phone but we text.  All the time.  And, dear God, it doesn’t take long until we revert right back to 16 year olds in our conversation.  I love him like a brother.  Like my arm.  I’m so happy he has such a great wife and kids.

I once read a quote that went something like this – Friends are the people who know everything about you, and love you anyway. 

I have no idea why I’m feeling so sappy.  I spoke with Kelli several times on the phone today, and I worked with Ava all day.  I texted an absolutely inane conversation with Kurt after dinner while I watched the Coyotes lose to the Edmonton Oilers.  I should reach out to Kristy and Kristin and Jeff tonight and bring it full circle, but it’s already 11:00.  But even if I don’t, I know I can.  Anytime.  And they’ll be there.

Aren’t those kinds of friends the best?

I was home sick from work today.  The bad thing is I really was sick and stayed in bed all day.  I slept the entire time except when I went to get Sassy & The Bandit from school.  No writing on Chapter 9.  No interviews written up.  A total waste of a sick day if you ask me.

Yesterday, A slew of us from my husband’s family went to the horse races.  I know our little town hardly seems likely to be a horse racing mecca, and I’m not implying that it is.  But Rillito Park has a respectable history going back to the beginning of quarter horse racing in America.  The photo finish is a Rillito Park contribution as well as the American Quarter Horse Association – so it’s not famous like Santa Anna or Churchill Downs, but we’re not totally humiliated.  The stands are run down and there is nothing fancy about it – no one is showing up in chic hats or high heels – only that’s not true.  There were plenty of hoochie’s in absurdly high heels but they have a tendency to show up all over the place. 

This is not the point of this post.

I wonder how you get a job naming stuff.  Have you ever noticed the names assigned to nail polish colors, lipsticks, cans of paint and street names?  I’ve long wondered about it.  Paint at Home Depot, etc. are generally related to the actual color – they just sum up the name abit.  Nail polish and lipstick however – totally off the rails.  My long time favorite color of red is I’m Not Really A Waitress.  Now if I hadn’t just told you it was red, what would you have guessed it to be?  Diamond Shine, Princesses Rule, Sea Lily and Fiji are a random sampling of nail polishes from my drawer.  All pink except one – guess which name says purple?  Nope, Fiji.  Of course it does, silly.

But even better than naming colors is naming race horses.  This weekend, Queen of Hennessy raced against We Got Da Feva, Agent Dudly and Rainbow Reality. Thoughtibedawinit and Shaginitagain raced in the 3rd with Driving Rate Chrome.  Dashalongeasy Geisha was 7/2 odds.  My Honey won
$27.00 when Guasaveno and Sheza Dasher matched his ticket of Win and Place in the 6thrace.  What’s with the deal of naming a horse a sentence like Throwndirtinyoureyes who ran in the 8th? That just seems lazy don’t you think?

Anyway, I never see listings in the want ads for namers.  How do you list that on your resume? 

The Bandit, as I’m sure you can imagine, loved it.  I took the kids right down to the rail to watch as they thundered by.  It’s not quite as exhilarating as being by the fence when dragsters roar by, but the sheer power of a race horse is quite awe inspiring.

Nevertheless, I have hard enough time pondering a character’s name, striving to make it just right.  It would be fun to be random and silly once in a while.

There will be no blog post tonight.  I spent all of the allotted time I have for blog posting scrubbing melted crayon off all the kids school clothes.

If I didn’t know it would just make a bigger mess I’d have to clean up, I would have shot myself in the head in the laundry room.

I’m packing my bags.  I have a plane to catch.  I need to get to Lake Como,

sigh

 Italy.  In case you didn’t hear, George Clooney contracted malaria and I’m certain he needs my tender loving care to be nursed back to health.

MSNBC claims he’s doing fine with medication, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.  There is a brow in Italy than needs patting.  Sponge baths that

I bet George would let me have another dog

need giving. 

A gorgeous, witty movie star that needs tucking in at night.

I’m quite certain I can get in there and do some good before the restraining order takes effect.

So I did an interview for the Tucson Festival of Books.  Actually, Kelli wrote the interview questions, I just wrote it up for the column.  Go read it – you’ll probably get a chuckle.

The Bandit has a crush on his kindergarten teacher.  I know this because he wrote her a note, sealed it in an envelope he stole from my desk, and asked me to stamp it.  I was told I couldn’t look inside because it was secret.

This sat on my desk for two days amid the clutter of Golden Heart Contest entries, stuff for the interviews I have to write for the Tucson Festival of Books, editing pages for Dalton & Olivia’s book, blog ideas and cast off earrings.  I found it this evening.  It sat there unmolested for approximately 15 seconds while I searched my conscience.  The devil won and I opened it.

For those of you tsk tsking at me, I say bah!  If I didn’t open it then how can I tell you what was in it.  If you disagree with me opening the envelope on moral grounds or some other nonsense, then you can feel free to go and come back tomorrow when I have something less offensive to tell you. 

The rest of us who are dying to know what a five year old tells his kindergarten teacher whom he has a crush on will forge ahead, and if that means karma demerits, then so be it.

The letter was very simple.  There were only two lines. 

Ilovyoo. 

The lad has some issues with remembering to put the space between new words.  And remembering the silent “e” as well.  But to be fair, love doesn’t following the silent “e” rule.  If it did, the word would rhyme with dove.  As in the past tense of to dive, “we dove into water”.

The second line is where it gets really good.

Of course, his pictures were pencil drawings but they were of an eye, a heart and a sheep.  A ewe.

I know there is a contingent of people out there who think I make this stuff up.  That the dialogue isn’t real and the stories figments of my fertile imagination.  Nope.  I have the proof.  On my desk in the form of a piece of printer paper folded seventy-five times and shoved in a legal size envelope.

And I’m keeping it forever.  If he expects these kinds of things to get to his teacher, in the future, I suggest he find someone more responsible and less prone to mushy, melting momness.

Dinner is a never ending source of frustration for My Honey and I.  Every single dinner turns into a teeth gritting, eye glaring fiesta of torment.  I can’t understand how I gave birth to and raised two people to the ages of 5 and 7 who have less skill in reading body language than a retarded sea monkey.  Honestly.  And it is unfathomable that neither one of them is even remotely deterred by my Pirate Look of Death glare.

Tonight, My Honey was tired of the usual games and when I came back from using the bathroom, there were children already in their pajamas.

“Tell your daughter to brush her teeth and go to the bathroom,” his said this with eyes wide, lips pursed, and his head tilted slightly to the left.  This is a sure sign that his control is tenuous. 

Across the room, the girl is lounging on the couch in her flannel princess nightgown.  She’s watching television and doesn’t look even remotely worried.  “Go brush your teeth and finish getting ready for bed.”

Sassy sat up and tore her gaze from the television.  “What?” she asked, disbelief clear in her voice.

I gave her father a staying look.  “Go brush your teeth and do what ever you need to and get in bed,” I repeated.

She looked at the clock and saw how far it was from her usual bedtime and then stalked down the hall.  “Oh my God,” I heard her tell her brother.  “They’re actually sending us to bed.”

“What?” exclaimed The Bandit, clearly as unbelieving as his sister.  “Nuh-uh.”

“Yeah,” she huffed the words.

And go to bed they did.  I didn’t know what to do with myself.  Guess what I did.  I finished the book I’ve been reading for – it seems forever – and it’s a shame because it’s been a really fantastic book – book two in the Blades of the Rose series by Zoe Archer.

An hour of guilt free reading.  Ahhhhhhh.  Maybe they’ll be horrible again tomorrow.

Oh My God! There’s a crime wave!  I think they were here at my house last week.

And I’ve got to stop it.  I can’t take it anymore.

I don’t know if it’s because the horrible news happened here, in my back yard, or what, but I’ve read every single news story and I’ve simply got to stop. 

It’s just too depressing.  I’m going to strive to be super-boring – I’m well on my way.

My Honey had band practice on Friday night.  That always bums me out, but not for the reason you probably think.  Unlike many women who marry a musician, I have no problem with him playing with his friends or having gigs – even ones out of town.  I’ve never been able to understand those women who get with musicians, probably having met them in a circumstance like a bar or club that involved music in the first place, and then demand they stop playing.  Well, in my experience, they don’t demand anything, they just make it increasingly difficult for the guy to get to play.

Anyway, that’s not my problem with him playing.  I WANT him to go play.  You can’t even begin to imagine how annoying he gets if he doesn’t get out to play on a frequent basis. For a while after we got married, his current band dissolved and he didn’t play for a couple of months.  By the end of it, I was begging him to find someone to play with.  He was driving me insane. 

But as I said, that’s not the reason his having practice bums me out.  It’s because I have to figure out, all by myself mind you, what to have for dinner.  This, as we’ve discussed before, is not my forte.  But this Friday, I had a brilliant epiphany. 

“So you guys,” I said as Sassy, The Bandit and I all lounged on the couch watching TV after Daddy left.  “What do you want for dinner.”

“I don’t care,” they both said.  Clearly they knew what they were getting themselves into when Daddy left without feeding them.  They probably thought we were going to eat Goldfish crackers and peanut butter with a spoon or something.  I haven’t served that yet, but it’s not completely out of the realm of possibility.

And then it occurred to me.  “Hey,” I said, sitting straight up on the couch, the throw blanket coming loose and disturbing the cat.  “How about if we have waffles?”

The kids looked at me like I was a mad genius. 

“Yeah!” they screamed in glee.  The cat fled the scene, wanting no more part of these shenanigans.

While we ate homemade Winnie the Pooh and Tigger waffles covered in butter and warm maple syrup, they asked why we’ve never done this before.

“Cause Daddy won’t let me make breakfast food for dinner,” I told him.  I’ve never been able to figure out why he takes such umbrage at the idea, but he refuses.  When I was single, I ate breakfast food for dinner all the time.  Maybe not waffles, but certainly cereal or eggs and toast.

The kids exchanged a glance.  “Can we tell him or is it a secret?” Sassy asked taking a drink from her ice cold milk.

“I don’t care if you tell him.  He won’t care that we ate it, but he won’t,” I explained.

“Daddy is crazy!” The Bandit said with a great deal of emphasis on the last word.  “This is the best dinner EVER, Mom.”

Looks like practice night is forever after Waffle Night at Chez Bright.  If you come over, bring more syrup.  We’re running low.