Test Warning...

WARNING: This is a test. This is only a test. Had this been a REAL emergency, you would have been directed to go to the nearest sound proofed room for your own safety (and possibly sanity)...

***REBEL, past caring who's eardrums are ruptured, YELL***

I guess this wasn't a test after all... oops, my bad.  My only advice now would be to get to a sound proofed room as quickly as possible or go get really exceptional earplugs.  These precautions may save you from rebel yells, profanities and possibly my colorful use of verbiage in the days to follow.

I'd like to be able to apologize for this interruption of (truly, I would) your work Face Book, work Twitter, work Tumbler, work Pinterest, work blogging, work gaming work internet surfing, work texting  and work sleeping (except if you truly DID need that 'Beauty Rest' or possibly a 'Pretty Nap' to function keep others from wanting to kill you), but I cannot lie.  I simply can't be sorry for that Rebel Yell...  in fact... it felt so good, I might even try it again (after my own ears stop ringing, that is) and again and again and a lather, rinse, repeat.

Thank you. I know 'I' feel so much better now. 

Lemon Stand 

PS: Unanswered questions that keep me from being able to sleep at night:

I wonder if OSHA will soon be knocking at our door... for noise pollution... along with the police for possibly disturbing the peace?

What's the punishment is for exceeding OSHA's standards for safe decibel levels for any humans, pets, plants and zombies that might be within hearing distance? 

I wonder if zombies have to pay taxes... because they are not quite dead, nor are they quite alive? 

I wonder if I could patent the sound as a vociferous form of torture?

Is there really only three things you can never avoid in a lifetime... death, taxes and zombies?

I will be sure to let you know when you may return to your regularly scheduled activities... until then, my recommendation would be to hide.  :)

QOTD:  "There are three times in a man's life when he has the right to yell at the moon—when he marries; when his children come; and when he finishes a job he had to be crazy to start."  ~ Borden Chase [Frank Fowler] (1900–1971), U.S. screenwriter

Note To Self...

The following post is a repost... only I must remember that when watching movies with certain members of our family, it is like having Siskel and Ebert in your living room... Oh, and we had KFC again tonight for dinner...

The Only Reason We Buy Video Games...

My husband hunted and gathered for our dinner tonight and brought home KFC.  For dinner and entertainment, we sat with our youngest daughter Erin and commented on daughter Danielle's performance of the video game, Nathan Drake's Uncharted.  A truly wonderful family moment between the chicken leg through the mash potatoes and gravy.  Normally I'd say it was a Kodak moment but the narration reigned supreme.

Erin, "You're supposed to shoot him."

Danielle, "Shut up."

Erin, "You're supposed to kill him with the grenade."

Danielle, "Shut up."

Me, "Huh, what's this game called?"

Danielle, whilst shooting her way through a dungeon, "Nathan Drake's Uncharted.  He's supposed to be a descendant of Sir Francis Drake. Nathan Fillion wants to play him in a movie."

Me, "Really? Does HE know how to shoot that weapon with any accuracy?"

Danielle, "Shut up."

Me, "The shooting doesn't look very realistic."

Erin, "Neither does the blood spatter."

Me, "Neither does the bullet count from that particular weapon, but at least he has his stance right."

Danielle, "Do you want to see what real blood spatter look like?"

Husband, "We should take her to Paris... Island."

Me, "Hey, Danielle.  Do you want to be a marine?"

Danielle, "No,"

Husband, "That's probably best.  You're shooting's not very accurate."

Danielle, "Shut up." 

Husband, "Well at least Justin Timberlake has gone up in my estimation."

Me, "You saw that, too? His Marine Corps Ball post?"

Husband, "Yeah.  Hey Danielle.  The marine corps could show you just how to use that grenade launcher.  You sure you don't want to reconsider your options?"

Danielle, "NO."

Erin, "You're supposed to shoot him.  He's not supposed to shoot you."

Danielle, "You're going to get shown violence up close and personal."

Me, "He's fading out.  Is he feinting? He's feinting.  Is he SUPPOSED to do that?"

Danielle, "Just GIVE me a minute!"

Erin, "You're dead."

Danielle, "So are you if you don't shut up!"

Me, "Well.  This has been entertaining, but it's time to go find something more heart palpitating. Like the Loo."

Plus the added bonus to have blog fodder.  All in all.  Another successful family dinner at casa de Lemon.  Still, I must put a caveat, because the girls give me crap about not having a photographic verbal memory.  Wording is never EXACTLY correct. It's true.  But do you REALLY want me to start recording dinner time conversation? No?  Then life is good!  :)

My Quota Of Lessons For One Day...

You know how you should learn at least ONE new thing a day? Yesterday, I got lucky and learned:

Lesson #1 - A postcard... or more specifically THIS postcard (our entire family 'heart' Andy Riley's Bunnie Suicide cartoons) picked out by Erin because she thought it would be perfect considering her father's recent travel adventures.  The lesson?  It now costs THIRTY TWO CENTS to send a postcard? (Color me clueless, but I guess it's been a while since I visited one of those austere institutions)







Lesson #2 - When you only have 10 cent stamps and then run into the post office to get 2 cent stamps so you can apply the proper amount of postage required... take my word on this... you'll be given some very strange and possibly alarmed looks from your USPS staff and fellow patrons as you mutter obscenities under your breath while you attempt to put FOUR stamps across the top of the postcard... and run out of space. (The good news is that it only takes ONE irate glance to keep ANYONE from laughing at your obvious predicament)

Lesson #3 - Deciding to avoid the same problem again... I bought a book of stamps without really looking at them.  I got home and then realized they did not list the postage amount on the stamp.  Rachel, who happened to be sitting nearby, looked at the stamps when I asked, "How are you supposed to know how much these are worth?"  Rachel then said to me very seriously, "Mom, you can't put a price on 'Freedom'" I looked down at the stamps as Rachel continued, "or Justice, Equality or Liberty."  It kills me sometimes that she can say things like this off the cuff, all the time, with her father's straight face.  I've tried to stop asking either of them a LONG time ago, just where they come up with some of this stuff... but I still find myself sometimes halfway through the question before I realize this question has already been answered (many times) before I just turn and walk away.

Ponderings From The World of Socks OR Break Out The Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum...

Or both? Yes! That's the ticket! 

For some reason, while I was recuperating (at a far slower rate than I feel is fair), the world of the socks who reside at our house have really, really become fearful at the sound of my walker, cane, or bare feet approaching. Who'd have thunk it?

Maybe it was my idea to end the plight of the refugee sock orphans? All I suggested was that we take a picture of every sock orphan and tape them to the sides of all the laundry hampers and baskets. Like they used to do on milk cartons.  Let's face it. Laundry for 7 means a LOT of hampers and baskets! Then, if no family members were found, we could decide their fates as needed.

Just think of it. A return of pairs. The warm fuzzies of a sock pair reunion. Celebrating by jumping out of a pair of perfectly good hands in tandem... into the basket. Come to think of it and the laws of physics... I surely hope I remembered to put fabric softener in the wash because the static electricity buildup caused by the friction of flying through the air could have rather shocking consequences.

Perhaps a sock dating service might help unite lonely socks.  A sock wedding would be a fine sight to see, don't you think? I can hear the couple now, "I knew from the first minute we were packaged together that we were meant to be." Can socks be born as a single or in triplets?

And what about 'toe socks'? By definition, they seem to be a little more possessive of my toes than I am comfortable with.  I MUST look for the silver lining here (that is, after all, the purpose of this blog).  If one has to wear toe socks, at least they won't have to worry about toe jam.  I guess it could be said that toe socks leave one's foot digits immaculately clean. No toe jam in THAT pair.

I'm getting off topic here, so to help keep things rolling in a somewhat linear pattern perhaps we could have a sing-a-long? Something like Sesame Street's song, "One of these socks is not like the others?" No? OK. Moving right along.

What about pairs of socks that LIKE to be different? I never thought about sock discrimination before.  It's not my cup of tea (unless my laundry hasn't been done in way too long), but now that I think about it? Socks all over the world should be set free to be who and what they are. Whether they are striped, polka dot, colorful, tidy whitey, left, right, long, short, silk, cotton, wool. Even a polyester blend.  Outdoorsy types and socialite types.  Therapeutic types. Tennis, running, walking or hiking socks are ok too.

Just so I don't seem too 'goody, goody', I must admit that I believe that socks stained beyond public display should be immediately removed from the family Escutcheon. 

It also has crossed my mind when I am about to throw some socks into our trash compactor, that I truly do have the necessary equipment to become the death camp command of orphan socks. Those socks not claimed within the prescribed time limit, will be terminated in our house.  

In this house, I'm all for the sound of the gavel, "Going once, going twice... gone... to that nice young trash compactor over there."

There are, however, a few necessary exceptions to this 'pair' rule.  Christmas stockings (although it would be nice to get twice as many stocking goodies).  The Rocky Balboa of socks... a sock full of pennies (for self defense).  For use as golf club protectors (although there really is no 'status' in that).  Sock puppets, but only if their facial and body reconstruction is done by trained and licensed professional sock puppet . A long single sock makes a great tail when you are two or three years old. A sock of ice instead of that expensive piece of steak. And let's not forget sock fights. What about 'holey' socks? Well I guess if they could survive the surgery, stitches and perhaps are blessed, we could take them out only on Sundays.

Still, I sleep and dream of a troupe of laundry baskets, all in formation.  Now if I could only figure out how to command them to actually pick up all the dirty clothes, sheets, towels and transport them to the wash staging area where they automatically sort, load washer, apply the correct amount of cleaning agents, then when ready, they dry, fold and put away all of the aforesaid laundry. The next day could be even better, only with the dishes.  Another wonderful lather, rinse, repeat day...

QOTD: "The fact that I can plant a seed and it becomes a flower, share a bit of knowledge and it becomes another's, smile at someone and receive a smile in return, are to me continual spiritual exercises." ~ Leo Buscaglia

Happy Valentine's Day!

Especially for my husband... who typed and posted my last post.  I was obviously feeling no pain.  :)  I remember thinking of all the skill sets my kids were learning while I was in the hospital but it doesn't really look like I was compos mentis at the time.

Currently recovering from some complications, but doing well.  Since my husband is also getting ready for another deployment to the sandbox, I thought I'd note that for a while I will be recovering (then comes the PT to get me back on my feet) and the rest of my time is solely my family's.

I hope everyone has a wonderful Valentine's Day!