Drops of Awesome

Personal Blog of Author Kathryn Thompson

Road Trip

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We just got back from a week-long visit with family.

We talked in the car… when we weren’t eating… which wasn’t often… unless our name was Dan.

[long silence]
Me: Are shrunken heads really shrunken heads or are they just made out of coconuts?
Dan: I don’t know.
Me: I wouldn’t think you could actually shrink a head because it’s made of bones. Do cannibals shrink heads manually or by magic?

****

Laylee: Mom. Those people have all kinds of clothes in the back of their car. That probably means that wherever they’re going, they’re probably gonna spend the night, right?
Me: Yep. It sure does. Just like we did at grandma’s house!
Magoo: Truck. It’s ee truck!!
Me: Have you noticed that Magoo is way less verbal than Laylee was at his age?
Dan: Mmmmhmmm.
Me: Maybe it’s because he’s a boy.
Dan: [silence]
Me: Have you noticed that I’m way more verbal than you were at my age?

Chocolate, Socks and Apple Pie

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They wanted chocolate.

It was dinner time.

I said no.

They really wanted chocolate.

It was a holiday.

I said yes.

It was the 4th of July and I thought they deserved some freedom.

love-sacI did not put sandals on Magoo while he was wearing these socks. That was someone else. He has the freedom to wear sandals with socks. And I have the freedom to abstain.

Here’s to a country where we’re free in many more ways than those listed above. Although I am daily aware that this country isn’t perfect, I love it dearly and feel so grateful to live here. I’m far from perfect myself and I just hope that every day I’m getting better… and that there’s some pie left in the kitchen.

Raging on the Road to Pass the Time

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On long cross-country drives, it is not unusual for me to find my Newman, that innocuously evil nemesis who seems intent on ruining the flow of my driving or simply driving me insane.

Their driving travesties are honestly not that bad when compared with say, global terrorism or Barney, but they’re just annoying enough to make me slam back a diet cherry coke, ask incredulous questions to no one in particular and tense my hands in the 10 and 2 position to make the steering wheel feel my pain.

This last trip I did not run up against the ever-heinous long-term-blinker addict. However I did experience a touch of the exasperated-that-I’m-only-going-10-over-the-speed-limit-elaborately-gesticulating-tailgating-headlight-flicker-er, and the you’ll-thank-me-for-my-high-beams-in-your-rearview-mirror-when-you-eventually-go-blind-and-don’t-have-to-watch-The-Fantastic-Four-Part-15-a-couple-years-from-now-ite.

However, the most annoying this trip was the woman who graduated from the driving school where they preach vehemently against conformity such as the use of cruise control or any kind of control over the speed of your vehicle. It must be a large and successful driving academy because I come across its students with frequency.

Why it should bother me that a person passes me only to slow down to below the speed limit so I can pass her at a steady 70 miles per hour, only to have her blow past me like I’m a pylon 2 minutes later, pull back in front of me and slam on her brakes, I’ll never know.

But she is my nemesis and I feel that she must be stopped. After about the 3rd time she passes me, my patience begins to fail. I say things like, “Ratchin fratchen fruggen!” and grip the wheel more tightly. Eventually I begin the drinking and in a battle of wills, I vow to maintain my speed of 70 or veer off the road in the attempt.

It is a standoff. I with my cruise control and she with her blatant spedometeric insanity.

I know I should be worried about much more important things but in a several hour drive with a little boy who points out every rock, tree, blade of grass, speck of dirt, piece of water and cow we pass and repeats his observations frantically until they are acknowledged with a respectful level of frenzied excitement, little things tend to catch my attention.

Is it illegal to ram someone’s taillight to silence their eternal turn signal or is that just considered a public service?

Keeping My Baby

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“I grab the produce quickly, not taking the time to pretend I know what makes a watermelon good, and I rush back to hug him dramatically. ‘OH BABY!’ I fake-sob…”

I’ve decided to keep my baby. Read more at Parenting.com.

On the Bright Side…

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…this is the first time in my life I’ve ever been able to successfully wink my right eye.

yucky

Then again, it’s completely glued and swollen shut so winking my left eye has lost its charm.

Portrait of a Cyborg

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Things are strange around here.

strange4

In ocular health news… it still kills! I’m giving the antibiotics a couple of days before going back to my neighbor’s house for things which I don’t know what they are. (If you comment on my funky eyebrows, I will FIND you.)

strange2strange

This morning I came down and found Belle and Sinead hanging out in the hallway. I’m so glad to have creative outlets like this. I’m also glad that besides having no god, Polly’s world also contains no metal parts.

strange3

I paid less than $3 for gas for the first time in forever… and was so excited about it that I took a picture.

Shaq has a new reality show where his image consultant has him helping obese kids lose weight. It’s getting good reviews and the premise seems promising. Here are a few quotes from the first episode that make me think it will be the best, most sensitive insightful reality show about children EV-ER:

“Of course they’re gonna tell me the truth. I’m a superstar.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything this pathetic in my entire life. It disgusts me.”

“We’re gonna have to turn up the heat on these kids.” Then he smashes a bottle… because he CARES.

A Homeopath is Running Loose in my Neighborhood

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My awesome new biologist neighbor has been teaching me all sorts of interesting things about gardening, healthy living and home décor. She took me on a tour of my backyard introducing me to all my botanical friends, makes the most amazing organical foods and I plan on stealing several of her decorating ideas for my house, which has an identical floor plan to hers.

She is kind, listens to Laylee talk for hours and I recently found out that she practices homeopathic medicine as a hobby. I’ve always loved the word “homeopath” because in my world that’s how you would make a contraction of the words “homicidal” and “psychopath.”

I was coming home from the doctor the other day where I’d gone for help clearing up my randomly swollen eye and my neighbor told me to come over so we could come up with a natural remedy.

I tried the antibiotic drops for one day and found no change. So the next day I walked next door to Dr. Nat for some advice. She looked up my symptoms in a big fat book, packaged up some remedies and materials in a ziplock, wrote down instructions and sent me home with the strict advice not to use any chamomile, tobacco, alcohol, or mint while doing the treatment, not even toothpaste. (No whiskey-flavored Colgate. Check.) I was also not to touch the herbs with my hands or with metal utensils.

I followed all her instructions exactly and the sty was gone in less than 24 hours so I broke down, pulled out Old Bessy and whipped up some minty fresh breath. When I woke up this morning the sty was back but in the OTHER eye! I am being smitten by the Homeopathic Gods Against Oral Hygeine. Have you ever heard of the HGAOH? They’re big players in the Tarter Wars. They’re for it.

So now I’m left to choose whether to continue to look like a cyborg or knock Dan out with my halitosis.

And A Pestilence of Feminine Hygiene Products Shall Rain Down Upon Their Heads

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This weekend we wrangled all six bebes into our minivans and headed downtown for the obligatory Guests-In-Town-Must-See-Water visit to Pike Place Market and the pier in Seattle.

Shortly into the drive I noticed my cell phone was missing. Should we go back? Not by the peanut butter smears on their chinny chin chins! There was no way I was turning the wagon train around for something as unimportant as my main communication device.

A minute later I remembered I had forgotten my medicine. Not a chance I was going back for it.

About 10 minutes into the drive, I remembered that I’d forgotten to bring any female accoutrements to keep my visiting “Aunt Flo” in check. Hmmm… I was sure I could pick something up in a public restroom once we got downtown. We soldiered on.

So, it turns out that there is not a single tampon on the entire waterfront boardwalk in Seattle, not a pad, not a remotely sturdy Kleenex. Nada. From one end of the pier to the other I searched public restrooms. There aren’t many. The main women’s room had two stalls, one with a working toilet, one with a door. You could take your pick but neither had a tampon machine.

I went into restaurants that had signs proclaiming “Restrooms for Customers Only” and found that they were equally unequipped.

I asked my friends, their friends, store clerks from Ye Olde Curiosity Shop to Ivars, random women on the street. Nobody had ANYTHING. Well, I got some strange looks from a few people, people who I’m sure did have a tampon in their pocket but were put off by a panhandler with two children, walking like a penguin down the pier and offering to work for feminine hygiene products.

“I bet she’ll just sell them on the black market to buy Dr. Pepper. I bet those aren’t her real kids. She’s probably not even a woman,” I’m sure they were thinking as they clutched their purses and walked on.

Seriously. How much of an emergency must it have been for me to be approaching random strangers? Anyone female and possibly premenopausal was fair game but no one admitted to having anything. By the time we made it to the Aquarium, I was really desperate.

I walked in and asked a greeter to let me into the restrooms. I offered to pay admission if I needed to. The place was packed but she ushered me past the lines. She didn’t know if there was anything available in the restrooms. The restrooms were new. Today was the grand opening of the new facility. Sadly there was nothing. She took me to her supervisor and whispered something in her ear.

“Hmmm… I’m not sure. Maybe in the restroom of the Life on the Edge exhibit.”

What a fitting title. I was definitely on the edge of something.

“I’ll take anything,” I said. “I’ve been going up to random strangers on the street begging. I have no pride left.”

“Wait a second. I may have something here.” She pulled a small green package from her pocket.

AHHHH!!!! And I loved her and we have formed a lasting bond of friendship.

This year on the Fourth of July I plan on hiring a float. It will have dancers performing a Mia Michaels contemporary routine, kazoo players and on a platform in the center will be me — shooting feminine hygiene products like a hail storm from a rocket propelled launcher of some kind. “Accoutrements” will cover the ground in a way never before seen by the citizens of Seattle and they will weep, some with joy and some with embarrassment.

And I will be avenged.

Or maybe I’ll just start carrying extras in my glove box.