True Story: I haven’t written about the monkey lately.
Well, I haven’t written about anything lately because I am SLAMMED. Very busy summer so far in real estate. This is a good problem to have.
Back to the Monkey lately. Is almost 6 the cutest age? I really think it is. Of course I’ve thought every age since his birth has been the cutest, but this is such a sweet time with him maturing and going to school. He’s still baby-ish but maturing quickly. Kindergarten really helped with that. I think sitting still while someone is lecturing you is very grown up. I struggle with it daily.
True Story: eating lunch with him at school one day I got in trouble.
I opened the milk wrong and spilled it everywhere. I am pretty sure my name is on the board in his classroom.
I wish I could remember to write down all the funnies. Of course my kid is the funniest, cutest kid in the world. Just like yours. So you may be very glad I can’t remember to write them all down otherwise this post would be a book..
So down here on the gulf coast winter is snowbird season. Northern retirees flock down to shake their tail feathers at the Florbama without the risk of slipping on the ice. They hang out at the post office (getting boxes or general delivery), the movie theater, the library (checking email), and restaurants and bars starting around 3pm for early bird and happy hour specials.
True Story: I love snowbirds.
I really do. I spent almost every afternoon after school in elementary and middle school at my grandmother’s assisted living home. I am very good with the old folks. We really do appreciate their business down here and they are always welcome.
True Story: There is one place snowbirds are not welcome: The road.
Not being ugly here, I have real proof. First of all they bike in flocks, and many on recumbent bikes. It’s hard for an entire group of bikers to make a good decision about when to cross the road.
Secondly, they meander across the road to the beach. This is true for tourists in general. They all Meander/saunter/lolli-gag across a dangerous highway where people are drinking, driving and texting. I lived across the street from the beach for 2 1/2 years. I ran for my life every time I crossed that street.
Thirdly, the driving itself. The birds just don’t always know where they’re going. Granted, your condo can sneak up on you when they all look alike. But the story I am about to tell you is inexcusable. I was going 50 mph down the beach road in the right, east bound lane approaching a glowing green light without a hint of yellow coming. Suddenly, I had to slam on the brakes in the middle of the road because a snowbird, who also happens to be in the right lane, has decided he needs to turn left. TURN LEFT PEOPLE, across a 45 mile an hour left east bound lane and 2 turning lanes lined with cars. Yes, $#*&%^$ snowbird, flew out of my mouth.
True Story: Not long after that Ex-Pump calls to tell me that when he was driving our son he had to brake and G Monkey said, “what is it Daddy? Is it the $%^&*(# snowbirds?”
2) Every night when G Monkey goes to sleep he tells me that he loves me to the center of the earth and back and around the sun and double infinity. That’s just %#@$*& sweet isn’t it?
3) I may have a young diva on my hands.
He periodically walks into a room and screams, “This girl is on FIRE!”
Like most gyms, G Monkey’s Karate dojo has a mirrored wall. G Monkey can not help but to look in the mirror at himself, watching himself do his Karate moves. His Senei continually got on to him about paying attention and focusing, and to quit looking in the mirror. He laughed and told me I should get G Monkey a mirror for Christmas. Eventually, Sensei nicknamed him, “Hollywood.” Finally, one day he said, “Hollywood, why do you look in the mirror all the time?” Nervous, G Monkey said, “Because I’m so handsome.”
He says, “I know that,” like you are a dumbass all the time.
ME: It’s a beautiful day today.
GM: I know that.
4) G Monkey is a budding young songwriter.
He told me he wrote a song the other day. I was so proud.
Beer, beer, ba beer.
beer, beer, ba beer.
I drink it in the sun.
I drink it on the beach.
I drink it on the porch.
I drink it on the islands.
I drink it while I Bar-be-que.
I drink it when I watch NASCAR.
Beer, beer, ba beer.
True Story: The only comfort I can take out of this is that I was not his only muse. I don’t have a BBQ grill and I have never watched NASCAR. His father perhaps?