BlabberMouse

And We Rode a Train, And Went to the Kazoo ...

Patrick and I just got back from visiting my parents in Connecticut, where we celebrated my dad’s birthday. I gave my Dad a pair of Gus & Amanda (& Finding Nemo) Swimmies with the matching ring, and he was like, why would you get me swim toys in a box custom printed with your likeness? What am I supposed to do with these?

So I think I need to explain this again: I DID NOT HAVE THE SWIMMIE BOXES CUSTOM MADE.

If I were going to have an item custom made with my image, why would I pick children’s swim aids? It makes no sense. And why is that the only logical explanation people can come up with when they see this box? Am I so unattractive that THIS COULDN’T POSSIBLY BE REAL? When my friend Molly bought these for some kids in Gus’s class as birthday presents, were the parents thinking, “Why would Brendan’s mom have a pair of Swimmies custom made with a picture of Gus and his ugly mom on the box? This must be a re-gift.”

Anyway. Over it. Moving on.

I have a sore throat. But it’s not a real sore throat. It’s the most half-assed excuse for a sore throat ever, and I basically hate its guts because it reminds me so much of myself.

It’s like, “Well yeah, I am a sore throat. But I also work in advertising. So, you know.” I’m like, come on. What happened to your dream? YOU ALWAYS WANTED TO BE TONSILLITIS! REACH FOR THE STARS.

Need coffee.

Am back.

We took Patrick to the Central Park Zoo on Saturday, where I made a touristy ass of myself in the petting zoo, screaming PATRICK, LOOK! LLAMA LLAMA RED PAJAMA! LLAMA LLAMA RED PAJAMA while not two inches from my enthusiastic yap was a sign that said “Alpaca.”

I googled the difference between llamas and alpacas, and learned that they are basically the same thing, except alpacas are cuter and softer and nicer. You know, scientifically speaking.

Then I did it again with the sea lions. SEALS! SEALS! I LOVE SEALS!

Then we saw a polar bear named Gus.

And Patrick’s favorite exhibit:

The digger.

And my favorite exhibit:

Slow and steady, people. Slow and steady.

March Keeps Marching On

You probably think I’ve been on a bender since St. Patrick’s Day. But you know, bender is such a strong word. We O’Briens prefer the expression “visiting with family.”  Plus, it’s that time of the month for me—column deadline time—so there have been the customary tears and hand wringing and soul searching over whyyyy me and how can I possibly and I can't  and never could and not enough tiiiiime and pressure and poooooor meeeeeeeeeee waaaaaaaaaaah. 

More on that later.

Right now I’m reminiscing about Gus’s first soccer practice, which was last night, and approximately the cutest stinkin’ thing I’ve ever witnessed.

Small people + Cleats = Awesome

Gus wasn’t actually wearing cleats though, because as you know I am that mom, for whom The Memo does not arrive until quarter past Holy Shit! Is it Too Late? And it’s too bad for Gus that I’m this way, because

MAN, DOES THAT KID LOVE ACCESSORIES.

He can’t just play policeman; he has to have the uniform, and the badge, and the holster and the gun and the clipboard with a fresh packet of speeding tickets on it and what can he use for a police car?!? Do we have anything he can use for a police car? Anything with wheels and a government seal? But his scooter doesn’t have a real siren or a light; do we have anything he can use for a siren and a light? And wait, where’s his police pencil? And his handcuffs.  Do we have any donuts? How can we expect him to really get in character and do this thing without donuts?

It’s a wonder he gets anything imagined at all.

But back to the soccer team—the East Nashville soccer team—where no one can just be named Steve.

We’ve got Gus, Coop, Frankie, Parish, Marlin and Betty, and if we don’t have a winning season, I’m going to suggest we just hang up our cleats and start a punk rock band in Frankie’s parents’ garage. 

Happy St. Patrick's Day

We're having some pals over for dinner tonight and Larry's making Corned Beef and Cabbage. What makes beef "corned" I do not want to know, but the crock pot is on, and the house smells like garbage, because that is what cabbage smells like, and I just hope our guests understand that that smell they just smelled? It's for dinner.

The Way I See It

"The way I see it, carbonated beverages never go flat. If you don’t finish that beer or Fresca now, you can always finish it later. Six months later if you want. As long as you make a special effort to put it back in the refrigerator. Something about refrigeration makes the bubbles stay put inside the can, I think. Or maybe it’s the power of my big, strong, manly mind believing the bubbles there. Or it's the bubble fairy. Or that piddly-ass piece of Saran Wrap I stuck on there. I don’t know. And I guess I don’t technically "KNOW" that the bubbles are still in there either, considering I have never actually gone back to consume the remainder of a previously enjoyed beverage. But man it feels good not throwing things away. That beer was brewed locally, you know."

--Larry O’Brien
Teacher, Writer, Musician, Beverage Rescue Professional
Nashville, Tennessee

My delicious beer made in Nashville at Yazoo Brewery

Helloooo There

Quick note to say I've got some new blog posts up over at Her Nashville, one of which explains how I've been spending my time the past week.

In other news, holy suckety-ass weather, Batman!  It was 80 degrees in Nashville last weekend. EIGHTY. DEGREES. And I had a positive attitude. And I had hope for the future. And I had on a tank top. And now this, this, SNOW. And sleet! AND HAIL STONES?

I just acquired a new gas grill for the out of doors and HAIL STONES? Really?

Sigh.

So, my mom is coming in tonight, and the boys are just beside themselves excited. Unfortunately my dad couldn't make it this trip. When Gus asked me why, I told him granddad has to work. (True!) He has a very demanding job. (Also true!) To which Gus responded, "At Be Quiet?"

Come again?

"Does Granddad work at Be Quiet?"

"What do you mean?"

"For his job. He works at Be Quiet teaching people to be quiet."

Ah, no. You are confused, my son. Granddad works in real estate. Teaching people to be quiet is his hobby.