I Googled it . . .

Sometimes people end up on this blog searching for something else. Here are a few noteworthy searches.

Who said, "I'm afraid of the dark" quote : Um, that would be me.

Nun and driver star : Star in what?

Jelly ball meaning : It's a Zen thing, you have to meditate for years to understand the meaning.

Video, "honeymoon sex" really good : I personally prefer the really bad honeymoon sex videos, they come with a free fight and divorce court proceedings as bonus features.

Avoid hats : I'm with you on this one.

What color is your rainbow book : It's on the shelf right next to the, "Daddy's new wife, Bob" book.

Daughter training bra : I detect a career opportunity.

Giraffe pattern carpet : Why?

My poochie : Gross.

and last but not least, the most popular search that leads to my blog is:

Great minds think alike, fools seldom differ meaning : It means you are either one or the other.

On a different note, it's the husband's birthday today. He's not one for much fanfare so a simple, "Happy Birthday to You" is in order. Happy Birthday, E.

Friday's Foto Finish Fiesta . . .

That's Vincent Van Patten on the left.

That's me standing next to him.

We're on a double date with the couple on the right.

The lucky girl standing next to me is with Christopher Connelly, another Hollywood actor.

The paparazzi wouldn't leave us alone that day.

I never even got to break a sweat or play one single set.

Nevertheless, "Love" was in the air that day.

Vincent never let go of his balls. The ones in his hand that is. I have no idea about the others.

Chris, that's what his friends (like me) called him, liked to dress up nice and fancy to play tennis. I'm sure his date was impressed. I was a little jealous, for sure. I was also a little envious of the fact that he is touching his date.

Vincent is giving me an elbow to my back and telling me to look like I know what I'm doing. Sheesh, does he think I don't do this every day of my life?

Amateurs, I tell ya! I had to teach him everything.

It's sad to say, but we lasted only as long as it took to take this picture, and then it was on to greener pastures for me.

I was a heart breaker I tell ya.

The love em' and leave em' kind.

I hear Vince cried like a baby forever and a day after I told him I would not be his future Mrs. Van Patten.

I recommended therapy.

I hope he's happy now and has gotten over me. I'm pretty sure he hasn't and still thinks of me, every moment of every day. I have that affect on men.

If anyone who knows me from, back in the day, writes in the comment section that this was nothing more than a publicity photo that ran in the newspaper for a celebrity tennis tournament our school held, they are absolutely, unequivocally, right.


Click here to see others: Candid Carrie's Friday Foto Fiesta

Camp . . .

That's me.

Top row, last kid on the left.

This is a picture of me at camp.

Student Council Leadership Camp.

From the writing on the board it looks like I belonged to the Lincoln tribe. I suppose it was a great place to be. It's ironic that I belonged to the "Honest Abe" sector at this camp because it is now my duty to inform you that I had no business being there.

I never served as a representative, a board member, or on the cabinet of any school Student Council in my life, before, or after this picture was taken.

I remember my mother waking me up on the first day of summer vacation and driving me far, far away from home, too far in fact for me to walk back home if I got the notion, and too far to remember my way back anyway. She didn't even let me finish my Pop Tart. I could have left crumbs to find my way home. I think she drove in circles just to confuse me and through some bad neighborhoods to scare me. She had three other kids that didn't drive her crazy like me. I guess Student Council Camp was the answer.

I remember this camp was at a Seminary and we all fervently hoped to see some boys. It wouldn't have done us any good as any boys we might have seen had taken a vow of celibacy and wouldn't have looked at us anyway. For the record, we didn't see one man, child, or animal other than girls, ladies and women at this camp. I'm beginning to see a theme here from my last post.

I also remember that it was my birthday while I was away at camp. I made sure everyone knew it too. I revealed this information at dinner the night before my birthday and then told all my new camp pals that the gift shop was open the next day from 8 to 1 and that I had left a wish list under my pillow in case anyone was interested. The next day I was showered with toothbrushes, toothpaste, a toothbrush holder, a shower cap and some Dial soap. I found out later that they searched the wrong bed for my list and picked up the kid next to my bed's checklist of things her mother sent from home.

My parents didn't forget my birthday. They sent a chocolate orange. I felt like Tiny Tim. I also received a card telling me to behave ( like I was someone else ?) and not to shame my family in any way. It was a shame that they sent that measly foil wrapped chocolate orange, that's what it was. I do remember telling "Abe's Babe's" that I was an orphan who had been adopted by my cruel family. I had the full sympathy of my camp troop from that moment on. They rallied around and sang "Happy Birthday" as I let each of them take a small bite or lick of my orange slice. They shared their tater tots and gave me extra dessert that night. I told them that I was probably going to be up for adoption again if any of them were interested, especially after my parents found out about my little (big) white lie.

Soon camp was over and I had to go home. I packed up my hundred toothbrushes and remaining sliver of orange and waited forlornly by the gates for someone to come get me. My mom drove up in the family car and honked the horn. I stood up and bid my pals a tearful goodbye as she loaded the trunk with my suitcases.

I got in the car and my mom asked me how camp was.

"Fine." I answered.

"Just fine," she pressed me for more information but I didn't feel like talking just then.

When we got home I jumped out of the car anxious to see everyone. I opened the door and ran through the kitchen. There on the table was pile of gifts, a birthday cake, and some party hats. I ran back the way I came and met my mother at the door and said, "If you get any calls in the next few days about an orphan for adoption, just hang up."

Why did I read that? . . .

I love to read.

Always have and always will.

When I was 13, my best friend at the time, gave me a book to read. She was a reader like me. Her taste in books was a little different than mine. One day she brought a book to school in a brown lunch bag. As she handed it to me she begged me not to show it to my parents, no matter what. If I got caught with it, I was not allowed to rat her out. I was to say, I found it on the street. The book was titled, "Going down with Janis; a raw and scathing portrait of Janis Joplin by her female lover."

My hands shook as I pulled it out of my school bag that night, while hiding in my closet, gripping a dim flashlight with my armpit.

I had no idea what I was about to open. I didn't particularly care about Janis Joplin or her music. I just knew that if I didn't read this book, or at least a part of it, my friend was going to think I was still a baby. Being a baby while all your friends were very advanced for all of their 13 years on this planet was one of the worst things that could happen to you at that age. I so desperately wanted her to think I was cool so I cracked open the book and read the opening lines of the first chapter. I read them again. And again. I was confused. I didn't understand a word I was reading. I also felt a little funny.

The book was written by Janis Joplin's lover. I had no idea at the time that lesbians existed. I didn't even know what a lesbian was. For that matter I didn't know anything about gay men either, although I did think a particular boy in our class knew more about the art of being a girl better than I did, but I had no idea that he might want to become one in his later years. The opening lines of the book confirmed that there were woman out there who indeed liked other woman, very much. I stayed up all night and finished the book at the crack of dawn, just in time to get ready for school. I crawled out of the closet after carefully placing the book back in it's brown lunch bag and hiding it in my school bag. I went downstairs, ate breakfast, and went to school like any other day, except I was exhausted, and a little freaked out by the unsolicited sex education course I had been given the night before all between the pages of this elicit work of non-fiction. At recess I returned the book to my friend and then laid down on one of the lunch benches and quickly fell asleep. The bell rang not more than 10 minutes later and I opened my bleary eyes to see Jane standing over me with a strange look on her face. She said, "Meet me back here at lunch," and ran off to class.

At lunch, Jane was waiting for me by the bench. I couldn't look her in the eye. I sat down. I didn't know anything about book clubs, at the time, but I sure didn't want this to be my first experience. We sat there for a minute. I toed the gravel with my white Keds, Jane ate her jelly sandwich. I looked around.

Jane finished her sandwich and then said, "So?"

"So what?" I answered. A favorite thing to say if you're 13.

"What did you think of the book?" she asked.

"Um," I responded trying to think of something clever and intelligent. I didn't know a lot about the subject to say the least.

"Did you read it?"

"Yes," I responded with a wide yawn.

"You did?" She looked at me wild-eyed.

"Didn't you?" I said, willing her to say, yes.

"Well, not really." She answered vaguely.

"What do you mean, not really?" I was beginning to feel a little bit on the hysterical side. After all, I had just come off a rainbow high after reading Charlotte's Web, yearning for a pig, and a spider, and everything glorious, and the next thing I know I'm hiding in my closet reading about a drug addicted singer, with a female lover who has an insatiable sexual appetite and isn't afraid to write about it in excruciatingly painful detail.

"I just wanted to see if you would read it," she said, and then, " I never said I read it."

Great, I thought, How do I get out of this one?

Jane stared at me as if I had suddenly changed into someone else in the last few moments.

Essentially I had. She had unknowingly helped me cross over to the side that was, "in the know."

"Yeah," I answered casually, trying to keep my cool and willing myself to go back to the time before I knew what I knew now. " It was dumb."

Jane breathed a sigh of relief.

I breathed my first breath in 12 hours since the first sentence in that dreaded coming of age book.

"So, where did you get that book anyway?" I asked her. Someone in her family had to have read it. I couldn't be the only one who would have the mental images burned in my memory for years to come. I wanted company in my misery.

"I found it on the street."

The end . . .

My baby . . .

This beast . . .
became this beauty.

Picasso, Da Vinci and Me . . .

I drew this masterpiece when I was in second grade .

It's the nativity scene.

Creative license led me to add a few things.

The star of Bethlehem/David in a multi-colored hue.

The handy pink thumbtack is next to it in case anything comes loose in the sky and threatens to fall on baby Jesus.

I don't see horns, so I'm guessing that the red thing with the halo is an angel.

There's a yellow ox-dog levitating outside the manger with two legs and a bunny tail.

Nothing like it has ever been seen again. A miraculous event in itself, next to the birth of Jesus, of course.

Those hatch marks reveal a secret code that will unlock all of the answers to the universe. If only I could remember where I put the answer key, or maybe it was just raining really hard that day in Bethlehem.

I only had it in me to draw one Wise Man, whose offering to the happy family looks suspiciously like a penis.

Or maybe it's a baby bottle. You never know . . . they weren't called Wise Men for nothing.

The flying camel and two remaining Wise Men are stickers.

We would learn to draw them when we got to third grade.

This picture was the cover to a Mass card I made for my parents. I offered 10 Masses, 5 Rosaries, 3 Hail Mary's and 11 Our Father's.

I better go make good on my promises.

I'm thinking of hiring someone to help me.

I'll do that after I say this prayer, "Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee . . . " For some reason I never get past the Act of Contrition. It's the story of my life.

Friday Foto Finish Fiesta

I'd run too.
Another favorite photo. This one is from a trip to Costa Rica. I think that's one of the husband's cousins. She's since grown into her head, although she had to grow about 10 feet to get there.

Candid Carrie's Friday Foto Finish Fiesta

Going to the Chapel . . .

In a few weeks the husband and I will celebrate another wedding anniversary. That's us on our wedding day. I think my dress is on backwards. I hear in some cultures it's a good omen if that happens.

We got married in a small garden courtyard on a day with record breaking heat. It was 200 degrees in the shade. We ignored that omen.

That guy on the right is the Minister who married us. The husband likes to say that he looked like a cross between Colonel Sanders and the Wizard of Oz. Reverend Colonel Wizard thought my oldest sister and her boyfriend were the happy couple getting married. It might have had something to do with the fact that I was pregnant and didn't look like a bride. My sister had no intentions of getting married for a few more years. She locked herself in the bathroom until the ceremony was over just to be on the safe side.

After the ceremony, we went to my other sister's house for a small reception. My mother-in-law caught the bouquet and my dad caught the garter. We made them get married on the spot. It was destiny. Not really. We dared them to. It was either that or run naked through the streets. It wasn't a hard decision. I wasn't familiar enough with the new husband's family to see any of them naked, yet. Or ever, for that matter.

We had a nice time and left for a lovely weekend stay at a hotel by the beach. It would have been perfect if I hadn't thought to use my mother's honeymoon luggage for my own honeymoon. Steamer trunks aren't very practical unless you are travelling by ship across the ocean and it's 1912. Simultaneously carrying me, and the trunk across the threshold nearly killed my new husband on the spot. His strong, young legs only gave out once as he made the 10 story climb to our room. That was my idea. Just carrying me across the threshold seemed boring. I wanted excitement. After all, it was our honeymoon. For the record, I was there every step of the way, like a good wife should be, hanging off his neck, cheering him on, and encouraging him to go faster. He swears to this day that he's a few inches shorter because of that event. I love him anyway.

We made it to our room. I told the husband that I was going to slip into something a little more comfortable. He kicked the steamer trunk into the bathroom and collapsed on the floor as I winked at him and shut the door. The latch on the trunk was open, it had been broken for years. I rubbed my hands together in anticipation of the beautiful blue negligee I planned to wear. The trunk was empty. All of my clothing had fallen out on the way to the room. I had nothing to wear except my backwards wedding dress. I opened the door and gently poked the husband with my big toe. He snored and turned over. I leaned over and shook him gently calling his name. He begged me to let him die. I laughed and told him I needed him to go back down the 10,000 flights of stairs and collect my clothing along the way. He looked at me, smiled, and said I wouldn't be needing any of it. The end.

Summer Solstice . . .

I've always loved this picture.

My son is wearing a shirt box lid on his head.

I have no idea why.

He owns lots of hats.

He looks good in hats.

He prefers box lids.

But only the kind from name brand stores.

The husband has bunched up his swim trunks so they look like a Speedo.

He wants one desperately.

Scientists need to begin work immediately on an antidote for that.

In the meantime we have him in a twelve-step program.

Superhero's, Wrestler's and Olympic Swimmers conduct the meetings.

Happy Father's Day

Ten things . . .

I've been tagged by dewdropdream. It's my turn to reveal 10 secrets about myself.

1. My feet are so big they fit in clown shoes. Seriously.

2. If I knew my 2 kids were going to be so attractive I would have had a few more and sold them. Seriously. Well, maybe not all of them.

3. I still remember all my lines from a play I was in during high school. Too bad I didn't remember them during the actual performance.

4. People at work call me the resident psychologist. I'm not really a doctor, but I play one in the library at school. It's much more fun than shelving books.

5. Swearing is my hobby, especially around children and seniors.

6. I don't chew gum, swig alcohol, drink coffee, or smoke. I grew out of it by the time I was 5.

7. I was called "Rosie" in high school. Thoughts of circus elephants crossed my mind whenever I heard it.

8. I speak before I think most of the time. I surprise myself with some of the things I say.

9. I once drove far and wide in search of a donut shop that everyone raved about with my sister. After a few days, six hundred miles, and talking about nothing but donuts, we found it. As we were pulling into the parking lot I turned to my sister and said, "I don't even like donuts."

10. I was given an I.Q. test when I was a teenager by a psychiatrist. I have no idea why that happened.

Hola . . .

I have many gifts.

I don't have the one I desperately need.

I do not have a gift for languages.

I married a guy from Costa Rica whose mother doesn't speak English.

She doesn't speak the language I happened to study in high school for three years which was French. The language of love and romance.

She speaks Spanish.

I know some Spanish.

Mostly swear words. Doesn't everyone?

I'm pretty sure swearing in response to everything my mother-in-law says wouldn't be appropriate. At least out loud. Most of the time.

We communicate by pantomime, Morse code, and long awkward stretches of silence. Well, at least I do. She just stares at me and makes the crazy sign, rotating her index finger in circles by the side of her head.

I understand Spanish, and can follow conversations, if no one is talking directly to me. I sit at family gatherings listening to everyone jabber away in their foreign tongue nodding and smiling and interjecting the odd, "Si" here and there just to let them know I get everything they are saying. The minute they turn to me and ask a simple question like, "Would you please pass the chips?" I freeze and forget everything, even my own native tongue.

Just passing the chips would be fine without saying anything. I have this problem when that happens. I can't seem to pass up the opportunity to converse in a language I have no business speaking. I want to make a connection with them. I blurt out the first thing that comes into my mind. Usually the wrong thing like, "Madam, that shirt and your mustache look lovely." I don't stop there. I keep going. I'm on a roll. My mind is racing. I'm searching my brain for the right words and then I say what I think is, "Here are the chips," when what I'm really saying is, "We're taking a bath right now." Out of the corner of my eye, I spy my mother-in-law making the universal crazy sign again.

Later, at home, I tell my kids how smart they were for studying Spanish in school. They tell me that they didn't learn anything but some useless phrases. My daughter asks me when she will ever use the following phrase, "Can you please direct me to the nearest pyramid?" or "Let's go hunt for buried treasure." I laugh. Then I store those phrases in my memory. They might come in handy some day. You never know. It could happen.

A little secret . . .

That's me.

I was a debutante.

A one-armed debutante with two hands (click on the photo for a better look).

I have no idea why I was one of the young ladies actually chosen to represent the organization. My mother came home one day from one of her philanthropic meetings and handed me an application to fill out. The application asked me to list all of the charitable organizations I belonged to. The lines underneath were numbered from one to twenty. I was only 17 at the time. I hadn't lived long enough to belong to anything other than the Girl Scouts. I pondered the question for about a minute and then my imagination took over. I wondered if being a faithful Friday night viewer of the Donny and Marie show counted as a charitable act. I put down that I had been a candy striper. They didn't need to know that I had been fired from my volunteer job on the first day of training because I ate all the candy I should have been delivering to patients. I started making things up just to fill up the space. I remember getting carried away and writing about how I single-handedly rescued 20 pagan babies from eternal damnation when I was in 2nd grade. It must have impressed the panel. I was in.

The guy in the red sash was my escort. He was supposed to be glued to my side all night long catering to my every whim. The guy in the blue sash was the back-up escort. He was supposed to take over if the red sash guy had to take a bathroom break or something. This was the one and only time I saw both of them all night. It's okay though because I didn't like my escort anyway.

That's my dad helping me down the stairs.

He's telling me to hurry up because he doesn't have all day. He's also telling me to quit asking him to carry me.

I've just finished making my St. James curtsey. That curtsey boot camp my mom sent me to for 6 months paid off.

I'm distracting my dad so he doesn't see the pink flowers and red walls and the orange shag carpeted stairs with stains and duct tape. He reminded me daily that it cost an arm and a leg for me to be a debutante. I should know...it was my arm.

It was a memorable night.

For the record, no pagan babies were given ridiculous names in the telling of this story.

That's hot...

I found this picture in my husband's yearbook.

That's the husband on the right.

Those authentic puka shells made the difference between liking him and loving him.

The rainbow wedge sandals sent me over the edge.

The open shirt . . . well, what can I say.

That's Borat on the left.

He hadn't been discovered yet.

I have nothing to say about him.

The picture tells the story.

Really well.

I looked at my high school yearbook's tonight. That is something no one should be allowed to do on a Friday night. Everyone knows that therapists don't have weekend appointments. I did it anyway. That's what happens when you are by yourself, and your husband is away, and your kids are out, and you have the house to yourself and time to waste.

I came across a few noteworthy comments.

M wrote: "I don't know why I like you so much." (Mom, I told you Sear's Charm School was going to be a huge waste of time.)

K wrote: "I don't know how we would live without you." (My nickname was, "The Savior.")

J wrote: "You are a bitchin' person." ( I'm still not allowed to say that word.)

KM wrote: "Howdy Fox, I love you." ( This one might have been flattering if a boy had written it.)

Just when things were looking up, I found the following messages.

L wrote: "You're a real weird person, but cool." ( It's all downhill from here.)

B wrote: "To a very unique person." (Unique was underlined so hard it tore through the page.)

E wrote: "You're a crazy person, but I love you anyway." (Crazy was underlined twice. I'm starting to see a pattern developing here.)

T wrote: "When you become a comedian I will come and laugh at your jokes." ( Just for that, I will let you in for free, but your friends have to pay.)

One of my teacher's wrote: "Remember, the final exam in Marriage comes in 40 years!, Love, Mr. K." ( Was that a proposal?)

S wrote: "With the possible exception of Mary G., you are the funniest person I have ever met." ( With the possible exception of everyone else, you are my best friend.)

R wrote: "How do I love thee, let me count the ways." ( That wouldn't be so creepy if I hadn't attended an all girl's school.)

D wrote: "Call me (555-1534)." ( Um, is it too late?)

N wrote: "Well ya caught me, just don't tell anyone." ( Apparently I was very attractive to other girls. It must have been my Dorothy Hamill haircut.)

D wrote: "I'm horny." ( I'll be right back, I have to go wash my hands.)

L wrote: "You've been a great P.E. ass." (Proof that I have never possessed any athletic ability.)

The rest of the messages were full of shameless flattery and declarations of lifelong friendships.

I read those nightly to boost my fragile ego.

What was I thinking?...

Dear Mrs. M.,

I wasn't a good babysitter. There are some things I would like you to know about the time I spent in your house. Just know that I am sorry for them all.

I'm sorry I painted your half finished ceramic giraffe. I'm really sorry I finished it. I'm sorry I found the paint, and the brushes, and the artists palette, and the cute little French beret that made me look like an artist. It was an impulse thing. I was impulsive. Okay, I admit it, I was out of control.

I'm sorry I painted the half finished mural in your daughter's room. I'm sorry I went upstairs and snooped around. I'm really sorry I saw the paint, and the brushes, and the artists palette sitting on the dresser. I looked all over for the cute little French beret but couldn't find it. Your muralist must not have been French. I'm really, really sorry I opened the red tube of paint and placed a little (okay a lot) on the brush and made a ladybug hiding in the grass. I'm even sorrier that I painted some (lots) of grass around the tree. I'm sorry about the tree. I know painting a carved heart with my initials and the boy I had a crush on was inappropriate. I couldn't help myself. Impulse and all...you know.

I'm sorry about the carpet. It was me. I ruined your chocolate brown shag carpeting. I'm sure it was a complete mystery to you for years as to how your shag carpet was one day whole and fine and then mysteriously had gaping holes in random spots. I'll tell you how it happened. I was in the zone. Painting furiously. I know. I had no business (or art degree) painting anything in your house. I was supposed to be watching your kid. He was asleep. He slept a lot. I wasn't much of a TV watcher. I did love art though. I thought I would just paint one blade of grass and it would be enough. It wasn't. Then I thought I would paint one little, teeny tiny ladybug and it would be enough. It wasn't. Then I got the great idea of carving (painting ) my initials in the tree that your professional muralist had created. It needed something more. I helped. I must have tossed aside the red paint when I was finished with it. I stepped back to admire my work and my foot landed right on the tube of red paint. What were the odds? Apparently not so good for me.

The paint squirted everywhere. It ruined my white ditto jeans. They were my favorite pants. I'm sure you don't care about that. The carpet was a mess. Paint was everywhere. That little tube of paint made a big mess. I panicked. I freaked out. I looked at the clock to see how much time I had before you were expected home. I had a few minutes. I ran like I was being chased by a wild animal over to my house (2 houses away) and changed. I threw the pants in the trash. I cried a little. I slapped my own face and pulled myself together. I came back and tried to get the paint off the carpet. I made a bigger mess. I tried to make designs and swirl patterns on the carpet when I saw that it wasn't coming out. Maybe you would have liked it. Probably not.

It was then that I decided to cut my losses. . . and your carpet. I ran downstairs and grabbed a pair of scissors from the junk drawer in your kitchen. I ran back upstairs and began hacking away. I cut carpet from under the dresser. I figured it would be less noticeable. I hoped that you didn't vacuum very often. I hoped my parents would move us to China before you found out. I cut all the red paint out of the carpet and carefully laid the brown fuzzy shag pieces I had snipped and hacked from under the dresser over the holes. It looked bad. I know it. If glue guns had been invented, you never would have known, but it would be a few years before that invention and I wasn't babysitting anymore anyway.

I heard the garage door open and shoved everything under the bed. I ran downstairs. You came in. I did a couch dive. I made it just in time. I saw you look around. I saw your eyes fall on the giraffe. The finished brown and yellow giraffe that had been white when you left. I hope you liked it. I'm sorry. You frowned and gave me a strange look. I jumped up. I almost fainted. I was dizzy from all the running and cutting and hiding stuff. I told you that this one was on me. I couldn't possibly let you pay me. You insisted. I declined and ran out the door mumbling my goodbyes and something about never babysitting again.

You will be happy to know that I grew up and out of my impulsive behavior. I'm sure you care. I never painted another giraffe or touched another artist's mural again. I have also never worn a beret after that day. I look terrible in hats.

Sincerely,
Romi

p.s. I had nothing to do with the million dollar bottle of alcohol that dripped all over your bar while I was on watch. You know, the one that was on a special stand and had a spigot. I didn't do it. I swear. I really mean that. The entire time I was babysitting your kids, and playing with them, and trying to make up for the carpet and giraffe and mural, I smelled something funny, like licorice. I heard a faraway dripping sound, but that's it. I didn't discover the cause of the noise and smell until I heard you come through the garage door. It was not me. Now, my conscience is clear. Well, almost clear. I still have a couple more letters to write. I will sleep better tonight knowing that I have apologized. I'm sure you will too.

. . . to be continued.