This post is brought to you by an intrepid and encroaching feeling of OMG I IS ESPLODINGS! aka: I’m feeling kinda ADD today.

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I’m at the Leesburg Starbucks.  They are so entrenched in the middle of nowhere that they do not as of yet have the new Trenta size.  I am a sad panda.  Of course, this lasts only so long as I don’t think about the strange van I passed on the way here.  It was pulled over to the side of the road, not one of those piddly little minivans or elongated PT cruiser type vans, but a straight up huge econoline mobile living room type of van.  I had a moment of oh man, I hope they are okay before being completely distracted by the fact that the living room on wheels was GLITTERY.  It sparkled like movie edwards’ skin. Pale and glimmering it huddled by the side of the road and I had to wonder if my coffee lacking mind was making things up.  Then I realized it was made of paper mache.  No really.  It was completely made out of twinkly jesus bumper stickers.  Every conceivable surface was plastered with the sayings of the lord made pretty in flashing sticker font.

I could not fumble to my camera phone fast enough, so I’m pretty sure I made it up.  After all, in my family, if there was no picture- it never happened.

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Last night I nearly snorted Mountain Dew all over my laptop mid tweet.  This is the boyfriend:

He appears normal.  Hell, he’s a LIBRARIAN.  He does normal things like iron his pants before work and drink black coffee in the morning.  He wears polo’s and plays golf.  He gets riled up about sports teams and oddly enough Nixon. (I know, this should be some sort of clue he’s not as normal as he appears.) He wears white t-shirts under all his polo’s and his favorite underwear color is um, rusty salmon?  He eats redvines and plays pool.

Normal right? That’s what I thought.

So, I’m minding my own business, curled up on the red papasan at his apartment happily tweeting away and laughing hysterically at hyperboleandahalf. (SHE’S FUCKING FUNNY!)

I’m in the throes of a stringent debate on the legality of coffee flavored jelly beans when I look up briefly and am greeted with a waggling pecker.

People should not blindside me with private parts.  Really, they shouldn’t.  I think I pulled something.

And while I’m sure uncontrollable laughter is not the right response to your boyfriend’s penis.  It had to be done. For the good of their race. (Insert Preacher from Serenity voice: He was just SO PROUD!)

Also, he was making this face:

I know. You would have snorted Mountain Dew too.

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My favorite place to hide when I was a kid was up the spindly dogwood tree in our backyard. I was a monkey.  If it was climbable, I was up it.  I loved this particular tree best of all because the branches spread just perfectly to create a cradle for my skinny little limbs.  It peered in the kitchen window and I could spy on my parents while they did the strange dance of grownups.

The strangest thing to realize at this age is that my parents were this old when they had me, actually a bit younger.  I can’t imagine being my age with a child like me poking about in my life.  Wow, it’s just sort of a mind fuck to think that my parents were just goofy kids like me with a kid.  I’m not as surprised I turned out this silly now.

My Dad would dance around the kitchen with me standing on his feet.  We’d boogie to Elvis, or the Who, or the Beatles.  He had a big bushy beard and wild hippy hair.  My mom’s hair was nearly black like mine but permed into this fabulous fake jyoofro.  Dad wore tight jeans and strange paisley shirts while mom knitted her own square shaped tops and stitched me into a little strawberry shortcake jumper.

The house was always littered with cats, black, white, and striped.  They would bring us presents.  Griffin was especially fond of rolling snakes into the bathmat. I always poke rolled up cloth on the floor with my toes first to make sure a garder snake doesn’t wiggle out.

My own cats caught me a bat once.  They were so THRILLED at what they had provided for me.  I of course flailed abstractly around the house fearing for rabies and other such normal things before catching it with a towel and throwing it out the front door.  I don’t know if they ever really forgave me for losing the mouse with wings.  Now they just leave me little desiccated lizard bodies around the house as record of their undying affection.  Of course, they eat the legs off first.  I think they just like the crunchy bits.

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I don’t really have a favorite childhood memory.  I had a ridiculously awesome childhood.  But I think the one the popped into my head first was driving in my Dad’s old wood panelled vw bug and singing “If you’re gonna play in Texas” by Alabama at the top of my lungs.  I think he and I ruined that particular tape by playing it so often.  It had “Song of the South” and “Eighteen wheeler” on it.  I’m pretty sure my sick obsession with Southern Cock-n-Rock comes completely from my Dad.

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I was the girl who got her finger stuck under the grocery store conveyer belt.  Yea, that one other parents warned their children they’d become.  My parent’s always warned me to keep my fingers off the swiftly moving black belt, but it was almost in my kid mind like they were telling me there was pirate treasure buried underneath.  So of course I looked.  I vaguely remember the look of the wheels and belts and a brief and blinding flash of OH COOL.

Of course, that’s about the same time my mother remembers hearing a child shrieking bloody murder and wondering who’s child that was before realizing it was her own child.  She tells me that she was convinced I had sliced my thumb off. (I didn’t.)  She always shakes her head and sighs heavily when I remember that moment.  I realize now that it’s because my curiosity turned her into that parent.  You know, the one that other parents tell cautionary tales to each other about.  This was long before the advent of mommy blogging where she would have found solace amongst other women who could tell her their children were just as weird.

Sorry mom.  I grew up just fine.  And I can tell my kids from experience exactly WHY you don’t put your fingers on the grocery belt.  That’s something not a lot of people can do!

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I love red high heels.

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And riding Jackalopes.