so it begins. my adventure in blogging. i've been working on this for a short time now. short time as in months, but only got the precious owl and enticing title at the top before other life activities degraded this task and the blogging got shoved far away. shoved like that time in 8th grade when that red-head chick i called a guy beat me up. she shoved me into the metal lockers that were at least 5 times my own size, as was her man-hand. i'm sure those of you that knew me then can remember this. angela was her name. in my defense, she really did look like a boy.
so here i am, and when i swore i'd never be a blogger, but...
as justin beeber says, never say never.
tape 1:
i shouldn't be surprised that someone would want to rip my probably purple backpack to the ground when i was in my sassiest stage. i don't have a record of being the sharpest whip in the crayon bucket. why wouldn't i call the brut of our grade a boy after she failed the test that was so easy and she called me a brat? pure pint of genius.. but really, my report cards and i swear on all things candy, im smart! i just have moments of blurry. which leads me to kaseyisms. this is a real word. if you look it up in the dictionary, you probably won't find it, who am i kidding. but, around these parts (like my house and stuff) someone says that's a kaseyism and no questions asked.
so, i'm not from the 50's. i'm not even from the 70's. i'll claim the 80's if for no other reason but the totally awesome side pony i rocked everyday of those five fantastic years that i barely remember. my first concert was paula abdul, i owned plastic roller-skates, i still watch the golden girls, my go-to move was the running man, i wore tie-dye shirts looped through a plastic thing (?!) on the side of my "hip", and my dad wore shorts shorter and tighter than most women would care to see Justin Timberlake in running down the beach while you lounge with your umbrella drink and floppy hat. but that's beside the point. the point is, how the heck do i know what the 50's are like? apparently my adoring husband, nate, the boat fixer hillbillies, and my favorite sister-in-law, sara, all studied this decade endlessly.
i watched nate as he went over to the metal water feature to wash his hands of the boat grease. lift handle, scrub fingers, rinse, wipe hands on pants because-what-good-is-paper-towel-when-you’re-a-boy, done. so when it’s my turn, of course i do the same, or what i think is the same. i waltz over (i usually don't "walk".. i like to take my time. nate calls it pokey... i call it graceful), get the soap and start the scrubbing, walk over to the metal faucet, which looks a little like this...only it had a hose attached to the end…
so i start pumping the handle. figure about 10 pumps will give me enough water to rinse my hands off for sure. walk over to the hose, pick it up, and hmm. no water, no drip, i got nothin. oook, stupid big metal handle, i'll give you 20. so I prance back to the clanky vintage device, start pumping, causing a ruckus, and as i'm pumping away…..are those chuckles. why you ask? i'm with you- i have no idea! i look to the source and there stand eight wide eyes, four even wider mouths, pouring laughter. Oh NO. at this whipper snapper? nate marches over to trump my knowledge and briefs me on holding the pump in the upward position. apparently, the modernized version requires no manual stimulation and i'm left to swallow my blurry moment with 4 cackling Einstein’s of the 50's rolling in their tear dust.
fine. ha-ha-ha. i'm looney, they win.
but the treble with that is... i've added yet another kaseyism to my ever-growing list.
