Archive for the ‘weird stuff you don’t want to know about me but I’m going to tell you anyway’ Category

A Goodbye For Grandma

Thursday, March 29th, 2012

My 91 year old Grandma passed away recently, and I just wanted to share with you what I read at her memorial service last weekend.  She was an amazing woman and I miss her every day.

A Goodbye For Grandma

One of my first memories of memories of my grandma was when I was about 8 years old.  I was at her house spending the night because we had to get up early the next morning for a super special trip – our trip to Florida.  She took my brother, Devon, to visit my Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Ray the previous summer but this year, she said, was my turn.

I waited all year for this trip.  And Grandma had been filling my head for months with all the adventures the two of us would have together.  She said we were going to do magical things I had never done before, like go to Disney World and meet Micky Mouse, go swimming at the beach where we would dig in the sand and find seashells, and she promised to take me to a place called Sea World, where someone named Shamoo would fly high in the air and do tricks.  I didn’t know who Shamoo was, but I knew if my grandma said it was going to be cool – it was going to be cool.

“But before the adventure begins,” she whispered to me the day before we were to leave, “I have something for you.”

And with that, she revealed a small, red suitcase.  It was exactly my size!

“Grandma,” I said while jumping up and down, “this is so awesome!  I’m going to pack all my stuff in here and take it on our trip together! Thank you!”

You see, I was raised with a lot of love, but not a lot of money, so any present – even a suitcase – was exciting.

“The suitcase,” Grandma giggled, “is only part of your present.  Unzip it and look inside.”

I did as I was told and I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Inside the red suitcase that was exactly my size, were treasures – lots of them.  I discovered a baby doll that wet when you fed her, and a blanket with little flowers that I could wrap her in when she got cold, but the best part – the clothes.

Grandma reached in a pulled out two pairs of shorts and two tops that matched – not to mention the cutest dress I’d ever seen.

“Look,” she said smiling, “can you read what the label says?”

“Made especially for you.  From, Grandma,” I whispered.

My grandma had sewn those clothes just for me – just for our trip – together.  And I felt special.

And she made me feel like that my whole life – special.

She would invite me over to spend the night at her house when I was a kid and she would let me eat Cheetos, drink 7up, and play UNO way past my bed time.

I went with her to K-Mart one time when she somehow found out about a secret shipment of Cabbage Patch dolls that were about to be delivered, and I literally witnessed my grandma body slam another woman so she could buy me one.  It was the 80s people – a Cabbage Patch doll was better than gold in those days.

She would sew me and my mom matching dresses.  And when I was a little girl, there was no one in the world I wanted to dress like more than my mom.  And my grandma made it happen.

And for family holiday dinners, she would make a banana desert topped with pudding and peanuts.  And every time, she would save some of the pudding in a dish just for me because she knew I loved it.

Since both my parents worked full time, I looked for her every day to pick  me and my younger brother up from school, and it never failed – her car was always the first one in the parking lot.

For Halloween, she aways gave me and my brothers lots of candy, and not the small sized candy most kids get when they trick or treat – the regular sized candy adults eat.  And we loved her for that.

When I was in college, she would invite me over once a week for a home cooked meal and we would sit at the kitchen table and talk for hours about the times when she was a little girl on the farm with her 11 brothers and sisters.  She said her sister, Lucille, was the brains behind all the wild schemes the pair pulled on their parents.  But even to this day, I think my grandma was more a part of that dynamic duo than she ever admitted.

And later, when I moved away and started my own career and my own family – I loved that Grandma and I kept our relationship strong with handwritten letters.  I have years of correspondence with my grandma that I treasure.  And every letter ends with, “Keep sweet and I love you.”

And I just want you all to know – I plan on keeping sweet.  And I love her too, so much.

My grandma and her family in 1969. My grandma is in the green dress and my mom is the teenager on the left in red.  Don’t you love her cat eye glasses?

Happy New Year!

Sunday, January 1st, 2012

Since I started writing 3 Stinky Boys and Me in the spring of 2009, I’ve never really thumbed through the archives of it.  But the other day, David was trying to remember something sweet our 5 year old used to say when he was about 2.  Neither of us could remember, exactly, what Reichen used to say.  And it made us sort of sad.  Later, after all my 3 stinky boys were in bed, I searched through the years of the blog and discovered it – the sweet thing my baby boy used to say!

I started this blog several years ago, for that very reason.  I wanted to capture our feelings, thoughts, and happenings of how we were at that exact time.  I don’t blog for the money, or the ads, or to become a super famous blogger – I do it because I want to remember everything.  Everything.  Especially the stuff the passing of time erases from my memory.

And for all of you who have followed My 3 Stinky Boys and Me’s adventures for the past several years, that’s icing on the cake.  Thank you so much for reading my little blog and supporting our family.  I have made some amazing friends, whom I know I’ll meet one day and I love hearing from all of you and following your adventures through your blogs.

Happy New Year!!!

xo

Tasha

My Thanksgiving Post May Be Late, But At Least My Christmas Shopping is Done.

Friday, December 2nd, 2011

I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving.  We sure did and I still have the belly to prove it.  We invaded my in-laws for the holidays and had the best time.  My mother-in-law cooked 90% of the food, but I did make my grandma’s super duper delicious candied yams. 

And here’s the recipe:

Candied Yams

Peel 3 large yams, and cut into pieces.  Place in pan with salted water and boil until cooked.  Place cut up yams in baking dish.  Sprinkle with 1 cup of sugar, 1/2 stick of butter cut up, 1 can of evaporated condensed milk.  Fill baking dish approximately 1/2 full.  Bake 1 hour at 350 degrees until mixture boils down.  Add marshmallows on top and bake until marshmallows brown and melt.

“Don’t Worry. You’re Good.”

Thursday, December 1st, 2011

“Don’t worry.  You’re good.  That thing has been going off all night and we’ve just been letting everybody in anyway.  You’re good.  You’re good.”

What security told David and me without even a pat down after we both set off the metal detector at the Jay-Z / Kanye West concert.

(p.s.  Yes, the concert was AMAZING!!!)

Thrifted Lemon Sofas are Rad. And so is my Dad. Hey, That Rhymes!

Thursday, November 3rd, 2011

I don’t go thrift shopping as much as I would like, but I do go about twice a year which, coincidentally, coincides with every time my dad comes to town. You see, my dad is a thrift store junkie. An addict. And he’s done it as long as I can remember.

Some of my first memories are of him holding my hand strolling the aisles of every consignment, thrift, and second hand store he could find in the phone book. I loved it. I was a little girl who adored her daddy and wanted to spend every single second with him, not to mention the promise of ice cream that waited for me after we discovered all our special treasures someone else didn’t want. Chocolate malt for him. Bubblegum on a sugar cone for me.

It was an adventure.

As I grew into all things teenager, I became incredibly impatient with the whole process. I didn’t hold his hand anymore and I would sigh and roll my eyes every time he picked up a brass candle stick or pair bookends to explain their art deco lines or the decade they were made. And we didn’t get ice cream anymore. I had places to go. I had friends to see. But we still went, at least once a month. And deep down, I guess I still wanted to go. It was our thing.

And it still is.

I only see my dad a few times a year these days. 1,200 miles and our busy lives separate us. But my dad came to visit for an entire week last week and the first thing out of his mouth after I picked him up from the airport: “Are we going thrift store shopping?”

So one day, while the boys were in preschool, my 70 year dad and I went to every consignment, thrift, and second hand store I could find in my iPhone. I was a girl again who adored her daddy who wanted to spend every single second with him. And we strolled the aisles hand in hand. And I listened happily while he explained the details behind the two paintings he purchased.

And then he bought ice cream. Chocolate malt for him. Bubblegum on a sugar cone for me.

 It was an adventure.

P. S.  And hey! If you ever want super cool stuff – go to the thrift store.  Look at what I found that I totally wish I could have tied to the top of my car and brought home.

thrift store shopping

thrift store shopping

thrift store shopping

thrift store shopping

My Mom is a Golden Granny!

Monday, October 10th, 2011

“I have something to tell you,” she said to me, my mom.  I gripped the phone a little tighter, squeezed my eyes shut, and braced for the bad news.  I mean, nothing good ever follows that sentence.

“I tried out to be a Golden Granny,” she giggled.

“You tried out to be a what,” I gasped.  I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath.

The Golden Grannies, she went on to explain, is a dance troupe for the Phoenix Suns.  And the only requirement to try out for the NBA organization:  you have to be a grandma.

“It was so fun,” my mom laughed.  “But you know what,” she whispered as if someone might hear her even though she was in her car miles away from the other grovin’ grannies, “there wasn’t a lot of competion.”

There was no doubt in my mind my mom would make the squad.  She was born to boogie.  I have a million memories of her grabing my hands and swinging me around the livingroom when I was a little girl.  And to this very day, she still tries to tackle me to dance with her when ever she hears a beat.

“When will you know if you made it,” I ask.

She didn’t know, but as it turns out, it didn’t take long.  The next day she got an e-mail from the Golden Grannies inviting her to be a member of their team.

“I made it,” my mom squealed when she called to tell me the good news.

I knew she would.  I knew it.  And I’m so happy for her.  My mom gave her everything to raise me and my two brothers, which is what you do, of course, when your a mother.  But I’m so thrilled she is now searching out something special for herself. 

I can’t wait to see my mom out there on the court shaking it in front of thousands and thousands of Phoenix Suns fans.  But until then, I can see her on the internet.  A student for Arizona State University covered the auditions for a local cable channel. 

Check it out.  You can catch my mom around the :38 and :58 mark of the video.

A Potty Training Tale

Wednesday, January 12th, 2011

“I have to go potty,” you announce the other day

And as you run for the restroom, I think, ‘there’s no way.’

 

We’ve never practiced on the potty- not one little bit

But since you’re so convinced, I decide to let you try it.

 

And so you grunt, and you push, and you wrinkle your face

You squeeze, and you breathe, and you sit right in place.

 

And when it finally happens, neither of us can believe it

And then we laugh really loud until our sides almost split.

 

He gives you a high five when we run and tell your brother

He says he’s so proud of you – way more than any other.

 

But no one could ever be more proud of you than me

You’re my 2 year  boy who taught himself how to potty.

 

 

Birthday Wishes

Sunday, December 12th, 2010

When you open your eyes,

 After making a wish,

And everyone you’ve ever wished for,

Is blowing out the candles with you,

You don’t mind turning 36,

At all.

One For You. Two For Me.

Monday, November 29th, 2010

This time of year drives David crazy.  And it’s not because every one of his co-workers are begging him to buy wrapping paper, popcorn, cookies, and whatever else is in the Red Wheel Fundraising catalog so their kid can go with the school band to Disneyland this summer. 

No, that doesn’t bother him at all.  He just smiles, scribbles his name and address on the order form, writes a check, and voila!  Two weeks later, David drives home with four tins of popcorn, three tubs of cookie dough, two rolls of wrapping paper, and a monogrammed paper weight in a pear tree. 

Seriously, my entire freezer is filled with tubs of cookie dough.  And I don’t even eat cookies.  I mean, I want to eat cookies.  But given that my metabolism seems to be slower than an old lady driving 40 miles per hour in the fast lane while applying lipstick, eating cookies is the last  thing I should be doing.

What does drive David crazy this time of year:  my shopping.

But seriously, when a store is offering their entire inventory at 50% off, with an additional 10% off when you use their credit card, how do you not buy yourself that pretty sweater, beaded headband, and skinny jeans while you’re in there searching for something for your mom, best friend, or sister-in-law?  It’s impossible.  Impossible, I say. 

“I’m actually saving you money,” I smile when David asks how much of the stuff in the shopping bags is for me after a recent afternoon at the mall.

He doesn’t buy it.  He just groans and says, “But you’re birthday is coming up and so is Christmas!”

I know that.  Obviously.  But it’s one of my little quirks he’s just going to have to deal with, just like I deal with his. I mean, when he wonders out loud how many people pee in the shower while he’s taking one himself, it’s not like I get all crazy.  And I know very well what he’s doing while he’s wondering. 

Which reminds me:  during my next Christmas shopping excursion, I should buy myself some shower shoes.

The One About The Girl Who Stiffed My Hairstylist

Tuesday, November 2nd, 2010

“Um, are you serious,” I stutter as I pull the black band out of my hair and plop into Jill’s salon seat. 

“And you know what’s worse,” she sours my scalp for the grays I tell her are sprouting up, “it happens all the time.”

Jill is my hairstylist, but she’s also one of my good friends.  We met years ago after my husband forced me to have dinner with her and her husband.

“You’ll love her,” he pleaded after he randomly ran into Jill at the salon she worked at while getting his haircut one afternoon.  We had just moved from Portland to Kansas City and David really wanted me to find some friends.

“There’s no way I’m doing that,” I say after my husband revealed how he and Jill knew each other.  As it turns out, his super serious college ex-girlfriend was best friends with her.

“But you’ll love her, I promise,” David pleaded.  “You two have so much in common.”

‘Yeah, right,’ I thought, but eventually, he convinced me to go out to dinner with them.  And he was right.  I loved her.  And the rest, as they say, is history. 

But you know the best part about being friends with a hairstylist: all  the awesome stories.  And the one she was now telling me was no exception.

“It happens all the time,” I repeat like a parrot.  That’s what I do when something stuns me.  My husband made me aware of that fun little fact years ago.

“All the time,” she says again.

I saw the woman Jill was working on when I walked into the salon and sat in the lobby.  I thought the young lady had beautiful, long locks and I watched as Jill curled and styled, curled and styled, and curled and styled – this lady had a lot of hair.  A lot.  And about 20 minutes later, I heard her client say something about not being able to pay. 

‘I must not have heard that right,’ I think to myself as the lady pushes pass me and out the door with her hair swinging perfectly behind her.

Jill smiles at me and asks if I’m ready.  “I’m ready,” I say.  “You did such a good job on that woman’s hair.  It was so pretty.”

“Yeah, but did you hear what happened,” she whispers.

“No.  What happened,” I whisper back.

“That lady didn’t pay.  After I was finished with her hair, she told me she didn’t have any money and wondered if she could send me a check,” she says.  “And you know what?   I’ll never see that money.  Never.”

“Do you know her?  Is she a regular client of yours,” I asked.

“No,” Jill growls.  “I don’t know her.  She’s not a client.”

“Um, are you serious,” I say for the second time.

“I’m so serious,” she says.

And that’s the one about the girl who stiffed my hairstylist. 

 

There Once Was a Girl Named Tasha

Wednesday, September 15th, 2010

There once was a girl named Tasha.

Who flew to DC with her momma.

 

It was her 60th birthday;

They ate cupcakes that were gourmet.

 

And toured the amazing home of Obama. 

The One About Our Trip To NYC

Wednesday, August 18th, 2010

Did I mention to you that we just took a vacation?

We had so much fun traveling across our great nation.

 

We dropped the boys at their Grandma’s and then we flew off.

And spent four nights and five days in a New York City loft.

 

We visited my brother, David’s brother, and my dad was there too.

We saw a musical, went shopping, and I lost my breath viewing a statue.

 

We then hopped on a bus that showed us the city’s sites.

Including a tall building that made me afraid of heights.

 

We went to Little Italy, China Town, and visited Times Square.

We took cabs, rode the subway, and had the best time, I swear.

 

Now that we’re home, I feel refreshed and brand new.

So sit back, relax, I’d like to share a few photos with you.

1.    David on the ferry to Ellis Island.

2.    Tasha on the ferry to Ellis Island.

3.    The view from the top of the Empire State Building.

4.    The Statue of Liberty.

5.    Construction at Ground Zero.

6.    My Dad and me on the tour bus.

7.    David and his brother.

8.    Tasha having lunch at The Spotted Pig.

9.    The Spotted Pig Restaurant.

10.  David riding the tour bus.

11.   My brother, his daughter, and me.

12.   David and his brother at The Spotted Pig.

 

 

If You’re Jealous And You Know It, Clap Your Hands

Sunday, August 15th, 2010

“I think she could be jealous,” she happened to mention.

“Perhaps that’s the reason for all of the tension.”

 

“I’m not sure,” I reply.  “I just do not know.”

“I mean, it’s so strange.  Do you think it’s ego?”

 

I wish I could tell you who it is we’re discussing.

But it’s a line I can’t cross, not even for blogging.

 

Yet, the situation is strained, I can tell you that much.

It’s been awkward, and weird, and hard, and such.

 

So with out saying more, I simply ask for your counsel.

Don’t worry about your reply, there’s no need to be bashful.

 

Are you aware when you’re jealous, that’s my question to you?

Do you realize it’s that emotion that’s making you blue?

 

And when someone calls you jealous and you think you are not

Could you ever admit that you might be somewhat?

 

This whole jealousy thing has got my mind spinning.

And I have to admit, it’s not really a good thing.

 

So my dear readers, I leave it to you.

And with that I’ll say goodnight and bid you adieu.

 

 

 

The One About the Pair of Prehistoric Pests

Thursday, August 5th, 2010

I don’t know what my deal is, I really don’t, but every time I try to release the emergency parking break in the car, I pop the hood instead.  And I’m not sure, by the way, why I always set the emergency break whenever I turn off the ignition.  It’s a habit, I guess.  I mean, It’s not as if my 2,000 pound vehicle is going to roll off the flat parking lot of the grocery store, gym, or library.

But I don’t think I’ll ever set the emergency break again since this afternoon, after having to hop out of the car to shut the hood, my soul was permanently scarred when I saw these suckers.

The bodies of these beasts are at least the size of my big toe.  AT LEAST!

And their wing span is at least 7 inches.  AT LEAST!

I guess it’s a good thing hoods have those hooks which keeps them from flying in your face while you drive.   I mean,  there was no way I was getting anywhere near those prehistoric pests in order to heave down that hood.  No way.

David doesn’t know it, but when he gets home, he is so picking out those cooties from my car.  I bet he’ll savor every single second of it, too.  

I bet he even preserves the bug bodies so he and the boys can pluck their whopping wings and smooch their monstrous toe carcasses.  I can’t tell you how many insects, worms, and beetles David has given them to inspect and destroy because as David says, that’s what boys do.

But that’s another blog for another day.

A Day of Pace, Peaches, and Pork

Tuesday, July 20th, 2010

Today, I ran 5 miles,

canned 6 bushels of peaches,

and grilled 6 pork tenderloins.

And now, I’m off to saw logs.  Lots of logs.