#AtoZ : My Lansky Love

Today, Friday the thirteenth is a lucky day for my husband who turns 47--he counts his years backwards ever since his fiftieth birthday. I'd love to get him a scrumptious cake, but it's Passover, so I'll have to figure out something else to make his birthday special. How about a post devoted just to him?

Although Mr. Lansky's first name is Mitchell, I refer to him as Superman. He's run seven or so marathons and has participated in too many triathalons to count. Last fall, Superman trained 150 people to bike 100 miles. Of course his unfit wife freaks on the major streets.

Not only is Lansky a super athlete but also a super husband as well. Superman does dishes, which every woman knows is highly sexy.

Furthermore, if I need something, be it feminine products or whatever, he will race out the door for me... and as an athlete, he's fast too. Also, Superman is highly intelligent. Not only did he get through law school and has been practicing for many years (still hasn't gotten it right since he practices), he also had the good sense to marry me.

In case that's not enough, my husband has been an outstanding father who has guided our three children into adulthood with patience and understanding. He knows how to talk to people whether its telling the kids what to do or negotiating million dollar deals. 

So, Happy Birthday, my Lansky Love!

#AtoZ Meets #WW : Clever

I felt added pressure to come up with correct solutions when I couldn't think of an alternative "Wordless C" post.

I love Sudoku too–especially the five stars!

Am I "clever" or a "certified" nerd who spends valuable time on newspaper puzzles? 

#A to Z: Beautiful Babies

Daniel Son

Now that I've successfully raised three babies to adulthood, I have to wonder how they survived. Maybe their cuteness worked as a safety feature to keep them alive after they woke me at 3 AM. Daniel, our oldest, was the teaching model back in the days when we didn't know you were supposed to squeeze the snot snatcher before sticking it in the kid's nose, not after. Thankfully he was an easy going kid who didn't cry over our stupidity.

Judy the Cutie

Once we decided we were the perfect parents, Judy came into our lives. She had a habit of crying in restaurants when the mayor of Memphis was in the next booth. I believe it was three nights in close proximity when my husband grabbed the screaming kid to take her outside the building. These restaurants were in totally opposite sides of town, yet there he was--former Mayor Dick Hackett. Now that the young lady is twenty-one years old, she doesn't scream in restaurants. Of course, we never see the former mayor either. I think he quit dining out.

Erica our youngest

Erica, our youngest baby, was the ultimate pack and carry kid. By the time she got into her crib, she was so excited to be put down that she never raised a fuss. Maybe its personality because she's still easy going.

This was a favorite that hung in the Fox Photo Store

Can you guess the baby? That's what we do on those photos that we had forgotten to label.

I thought it was Erica, but Judy had said it's not. (?)

Where has the time gone? This photo's a little old too.

I miss the furry gray-faced child on the left. :(

Here are some recent photos in case you are interested. 

I still love my babies!

Daniel Son - age 24 in four days

My Judy and Me - age 21 (her not me)

You must have been a beautiful baby. Hey 19

.

#AtoZ: Abducted by Aliens

Every now and then, there comes a time in a blogger's life when we feel compelled to share something private that we know we probably should keep to ourselves. Here's my story:

Back in the early 1970s, twelve year old me was abducted by aliens. I know you're probably thinking I'm nuts but if you read on, this just might make sense. I was upstairs brushing my teeth when these round red things tumbled out of my ear, grew to my size, and said, "You shall leave this earthy milieu and tailgate with us to our distant territory."

My heart pounded in my chest as I barely squeaked out the words, "Say what?"

They touched each other's digits, that protruded from their hips and said, "Approach with us."

I screamed.

Mom darted up the stairs and banged on the bathroom door, "Joyce! What's wrong?"

Before I could answer, these weird, fat aliens whisked me away in a storm of dull light circulating around me and giving off a scent like strawberries dipped in bleach.  My woozy head turned like Linda Blair's from the Exorcist, yet my vocal cords locked in place.

I landed in their space ship. I think. It didn't hover in the sky nor ground itself on Earth. I shook on a platform in some cave where red water splashed then echoed off its walls.

I've been afraid to speak of this experience because it's kinda embarrassing, especially when I peed my pants in front of the aliens. They made some high-pitched noise that didn't sound like laughing, but maybe it was. Who knows with space creatures? Then they strapped me to a gurney and touched me with their side digits. The moisture from my wet underwear instantly dried along with the tears in my eyes, saliva in my mouth and anything else containing bodily fluid. My fingers looked like prunes and I figured I'd die from dehydration. Next, a being bent down and whispered in my ear, "April Fools."

Stressed Blogger

I finally got evaluated and might just survive this school year. It's amazing how one little pop in has lifted a huge weight off my shoulders, and I predict easier times ahead.

Sometime since January, I've been expecting an administrator to pop into my room, sit down, and evaluate me on sixteen different components. It's been bad all semester but had gotten worse these last three weeks. Rumor had it that all evaluations would be completed by Spring Break. The week before, administrators were popping into teachers rooms multiple times a day, so I braced myself for the inevitable. It didn't happen. I knew I'd have my evaluation the week after Spring Break because very few of us were left. But alas, it got down to the final four with another week gone by. Then, two of us. I was screaming and pulling my hair out as I worked every day from seven-thirty until six o'clock at night. It wouldn't have been so bad had I been preparing for the week ahead, but noooooo. I was perfecting lessons for evaluators who didn't show. By this week, it got down to twelve hour +  work days as I'd work the above hours and then bring more home. I'd wake in the middle of the night thinking about the evaluation and too worried to go back to sleep. I developed multiple stress rashes.

Finally, I dropped a strong hint to the administrator because I couldn't live this way any longer. He took the bait. What a difference a day makes! Poor Jackie. I was second to last to be evaluated, as far as I know, she's still waiting. :(

I hope to get back to blog dropping soon and will be participating in the AtoZ Blogging Challenge in April. Blogging six days a week through the alphabet... here I come.

Oops! Oliver--The Class Pet #AtoZ

Erica in First Grade (left) & her Best Friend Leah

When my littlest one was in the first grade, she was most honored to be chosen by her teacher to take Oliver the Parakeet home for Spring Vacation. So, we gathered up the little bird, cage and all, and carried him to the most frightening experience of his short life. 

Once we arrived at home, we set his cage on a kitchen counter where he happily chirped while perched on his wooden rod. My son, finding Oliver interesting, opened the cage to pet his furry head while I was engrossed in a phone conversation. Seeing a chance at freedom, Oliver flew out of his prison and lapped the kitchen. 

As the loose bird soared, my children tried to cup him in their hands, but no, children's paws are not good for capturing birds. To trap a bird, it takes a professional; it takes a golden retriever. That's right. Snap! Our dog Swaz thought he was helping by catching little Oliver in his toothy jaws.

I dropped the phone, let out a panic scream, and ascended on the bird-catching furball to pry his thick jaws open. Oliver fell out of the Swaz's dark mouth and landed on the floor. I picked up the slobber-soaked bird and placed his shaking body back in the cage.

Oliver didn't sing anymore. Not his high-pitched flute sounds nor deep-pitched oboe; not country, rock, or rap. He just hugged the wall of the kitchen and shook like a schizo. Every time our dog sniffed or even passed the cage, he squeezed even closer to his corner, shook harder, and his beady bird eyes grew as large as ping pong balls. Okay, they stayed small and beady, but he was scared.

Finally the day came for Erica to bring Oliver back to school and share her journal about Oliver's week. The shocking truth proved a bit of an embarrassment, especially when Oliver mysteriously kicked the bucket over the summer. I think it was heart failure from plaguing nightmares of sharp teeth. RIP, Oliver.