The Dangers of Gangsters and Chirdren In The Morning

Mornings with kids are beautiful and vulnerable, like an elegant land mine. If you step over it, there’s no problem. If you step on it you’ll  loose a leg.

My ego often times rides on morning success.  If the forty five minutes before the bus arrives goes well, I’m convinced everyone will have a bright and shiny day and I get to drive to work feeling like a successful mother.  If the morning is ugly, filled with tension or tears, I end up clutching the wheel, convinced  everyone will have a terrible, awful, no good, day really bad day

Mornings are like see-saws made out of Legos.   Too much pressure and the whole damn thing falls apart. When Mary was little she hated socks and having her hair brushed so mornings were really treacherous.

Now it’s Lexie, Sandor and me in the morning.  Lexie keeps herself on track. She’s sleepy but focused in the morning. She has a high school routine and it’s important not to derail her train.  Left alone she is excellent as long as there is hot water and cereal.  I just have to say the right things when she asks about belts, shoes, shirts and hair. Crimped or straight? Pony tail or crazy insane curls? Cowboy boots or Pumas?

I try not to give her jobs in the morning, instead I make a list and leave it on the kitchen table. At the end of the list there are lots of xxxooo  because I love her so much, especially when she unloads the dish washer.

At nine, Sandor is an entirely different creature. He’s a sloth like animal who doesn’t like to eat first thing in the morning. He doesn’t want to do anything except hug for the first hour.

In the morning, Sandor sees his clothes but I have to remind him to put them on.  He sits in front of his bowl of cereal but I have to remind him to eat. He finds his shoes but I have to insist he puts them on. 

One tactic I use on Sandor to wake his fuzzy brain up is silly, but works.  I set up goofy games on the kitchen table or leave a puzzle out with only two missing pieces. 

This morning  I sat on the edge of his bed. “There’s a secret message on the kitchen table for you.”

“What is it?” He opens his eyes.

“Not telling, you have to check it out yourself.”

“Who left it?”

“I don’t know.”

He staggers out and laughs when he sees my stupid message made with Scrabble letters. It says, “Yo Gangsa Face”.  I leaveextra letters out so he can add to the note.  He’s a nine year old boy so, of course, he adds the word “butt”.   The word “butt” makes everything funnier.

Mornings can be tricky but I have skills and sometimes manage to avoid the land mines.

*What’s your secret in the mroning?  Comment or e-mail me. I love that. hampoland@gmail.com

 

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Old People on Ellipticals

I swing back and forth. One day I am paralyzed by the fear of age. I don’t want to get any older I’ve got to much to do, I want to learn to surf. I love rock climbing walls and live bands. I was the baby in the family I can’t get old.

And then there are the days I look at seniors and I’m filled with admiration for old people, especially when they are fearless. 

Last week I watched an older lady climb on the cyborg like elliptical machine at Anytime Fitness.  She was wearing yellow polyester pants and a sweat shirt with a  spotted cat mad out of sequins. Still she climbed onboard as thoughborn to elliptical.  She set the resistance and incline fearlessly and her skinny legs began churning away. Then she plugged her earphones in.and changed the tv channel so she could watch Ellen. |Hell yeah, that’s how you work out at 70.

Last week I ate lunch with a lot of sixty year old men in the Ohio Club, a fantastic historic bar in Hot Springs, AR.  Everybody tells stories and makes fun of each other.Jimmy Young brought his mother, a lovely eighty year old who cheerfully sipped a pint of dark beer while the rest of us drank sweet tea. She was wonderful and witty. Drinking dark beer at noon when you’r eighty, that’s how to roll it right as a senior citizen.

Recently my son worked out with his 25 year old boxing coach. Tony has a full sleeve tattoo, it’s a swirling dragon fish combo that’s actually really pretty.  I took lost of pictures. Latter that afternoon  I pictures of Tony and Sandor working out in tank tops, on Facebook.  Tony called me and said he’d “untagged” himself .  He explained his grand parents are his friends on FB and they don’t know about his giant swirling tattoo. How cute is that? Old people on Facebook, poking around, tagging, lol-ing and thumbs up-ing just like college sophomores.

Honestly, I wish my mother-in- law would get on Facebook, or at least learn to e-mail.  We live 1500 miles apart and if she would just try to get on line she would be so much more connected with her grand kids. She is missing out and so are my kiddos.It almost makes me mad. 

 Hopefully, when I’m 80 and my kids want to visit with me via hologram I will embrace the idea simply to be closer to those youngsters. And I hope in turn, they will be just like Tony the boxing coach and protect me from all the wicked stuff out there. I hope I won’t be afraid to hang out with the boys and have a beer and I hope I’ll have the guts to jump on a treadmill or elliptical and speed off  in my bedazzled kitty cat sweat shirt.

Comment or write to me hampoland@gmail.com.  Thanks, DH

 

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Men Still Want it HOT!

It’s Valentine’s Day. Alex is sooo sick…coughing up his lungs and gasping for breath. Still, when I hugged him good- bye this morning he grabbed my butt. The man is about to die in his bathrobe, but he thinks there’s a chance …… Well good for you Alex. That makes me proud.

I wrote this last year and it’s still true. Men want younger, hotter women, no matter how old they get. Damn it. When I was 25 I thought it was great. Now it makes me mad.

I know dozens of middle age menwho would give up both their pinky fingers to be with a 25 year old woman. They would book a room in a heart beat because that’s the way guys are.

For most men, youth is the hottest attribute.  A semi-pretty 25 year old is better than a hot 50 year old. Yeah, men are kind of scummy but it’s not their fault. God made them that way.  Young and hot, in the boy brain means they can produce lots of off-spring.  Guys think they just like big boobs but what they really like is a woman with big boobs who can feed a whole pack of children.

When I look at 25 year old men I think, “wow, he’s go nice skin but he seems pretty stupid”.

Men do not care if the 25 year old is smart. They don’t want her to talk. They just want her to be sexy.

What men and women want and need are galaxies apart. When men watch strippers and pole dancers they actually want them. When most (not all) women watch the Chippendale dudes it’s fun and silly, but we don’t actually want to carry those young men home.  They have rock hard abs but they still don’t meet our requirements.

I’m going to say it and you can howl if you want. Most men don’t actually care if a sexual partner is smart. Yes they do want smart friends to talk to and they want their wives and girl friends to be smart if they plan on keeping them around for more than a couple of years…but hot is better than smart for most.

An ugly girl who is smart will not get asked out much.

A hot girl who is stupid is busy all the time.

“Men just need a place and women need a reason”.

I can’t beat guys up too much for being focused on youth and hot, because they are genetically programed to be that way. It’s actually not their fault.

I get it, but it still pisses me off.  Happy Valentine’s Day.  Go wink at an old lady and make her day or leave me a comment, that’ll make my day. hampoland@gmail.com

 

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Big Willie The Catfish, Louella and Liz

Earlier this week I wrote  about my cousins, Liz and Mike, and the day we caught a monster catfish. But I didn’t tell the entire story….

We grew up in Hot Springs, Arkansas and my family had a lovely 1960s condo on Lake Hamilton.

At seven, Liz was our beautiful blond brutal dictator, I was the goofy looking six year old and Mikey was a scrawny tough ass five year old who would bow up on a bus or throw down with a bear. He was too stupid or stubborn to realize he only weighed fifty pounds. Mike thought he was Tarzan and Cold Stone Steve Austin rolled up in a taco with hot sauce.  At five he was a hard core bad ass. 

We  were young but together we were formidable and frightening, full of really bad ideas and virtually unsupervised for weeks at a time. At my house the only adult who ever attempted to keep an eye on us was Louella, our friend and maid for more than thirty years.

There was a lady who lived at the end of our boardwalk named Mrs. Williams. Every day at four she would lovingly feed all her “pet” fish in Lake Hamilton. She tossed out hand fulls of corn and bread then watched as schools of fish appeared. There was one massive, elephant sized catfish who showed up every afternoon, named Big Willie.  He was nearly as long as a baseball bat and as fat as a foot ball. This guy was beautiful. And Mrs. Williams loved him.

Liz, Mike and I were not allowed to fish anywhere near her end of the boardwalk but one day…Mrs Williams went on vacation.

Brown and barefooted, wearing nothing but groovy swimsuits, we hauled our fishing gear to the end of the boardwalk ten minutes after Mrs. Williams backed out of her parking spot.

Mikey bounced up and down on his skinny little legs as we watched the fish circling under the dark water.  We threw in a hand full of corn and the fish went crazy. Lake Hamilton boiled with fishy action.

Liz packed a piece of hot dog and a bread ball onto a hook and dropped  the line in. Mikey and I  were lying on our bellies, staring at the fish. Then it happened. The line went taunt and Liz sarted saying, “Holy crap, holy crap.”  Reeling hard, Liz leaned back and Mike and I jumped to our feet.  Instantly,we realized she had hooked Big Willie on the first try.  It was unbelievable  She cranked on the reel and we saw the massive gray fish rise to the surface then pull back on the line. The reel screamed. We were no match with out K-Mart Rod and Reel. Big Willie pulled line like a yo-yo. Liz screamed at Mike, “get the net, Michael Clark get the damn net!”

The net was taller than Mike, but he snatched it up then stared into the water, waiting for his chance to scoop up Big Willie. Liz made an executive decision, we couldn’t wait any longer. She shoved five year old Mikey into the lake and started screaming at him.  “Scoop him up,  Mike. Catch him.”

I helped her hold the rod as the fish tried to get away from Mike, his net and kicking legs.  There was fishing line, splashing, screaming and then suddenly Mike yelled, “He’s in!”

Tiny Mike tried to hold the net up as he treaded water but the fish weighed too much.  Liz dropped the pole and stretched out on the boardwalk to grab the net.  She pulled the net and the gigantic fish onto the hot wooden planks while I helped 50 pound Mike out of the water.

Liz had Big Willie, flopping furiously in the net. His catfish mouth gaped open, he looked so angry and slimy.  His whiskers were at least three inches long and we had no idea what to do with the monster.  The hook poked though his cheek and the bread ball was still on the hook in his mouth. His eyes rolled in our direction and we all stepped back.

Liz pushed Mike. “Get the hook out.”

“Hell no. He’ll get me .”

“You get the hook out,” I said to Liz.  She looked at me as thought I was made of cat poop and stupid. Then she picked up the net, we had to help her. And we walked toward my condo as Big Willie flopped.

Finally, we got Willie back to the condo.  Liz looked at me. “We can put him in the bathtub right? He’ll be ok.”

I nodded stupidly.

Then we smuggled Big Willie into the condo, we made it upstairs to the bathroom.  I filled the bathtub with cold water and Mike leaned against the door so Louella couldnt’ push it open  Finally, it was full. Mikey held the net as Liz and I raised the fishing pole Big Willie was still attached to. 

We got him out of the net into the gleaming white tub. And for a little while, we all held the pole and watched him swim slowly around the tub. The hook was poking out of his face and he was tethered to our pole but he didnt seem to mind

Ginally Mike stepped into the bathtub and started laughing as the big fish swam past his leg.  Liz and I got in too and we giggled like maniacs as Big Willie swam between and past our legs.  Liz had the reel, then let line out, we picked up our feet so the line wouldn’t get tangled. We laughed so hard Mike started peeing in the tub.  The we laughed even harder…until Louella walked in.

It was terrible. She screamed until my Mom arrived. We had to take Willie to the lake, cut the line and let him go. Then I got a spanking and I’m pretty sure I could hear Liz and Mike laughing in the next room.

It was a great day

 

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Cousins

When I was little my best friends were Louella, Liz and Mike, my cousins. Actually they were my only friends. When Liz was seven, I was six and Mike was five we caught a giant catfish named Big Willie. We didn’t know what to do with him so we dragged him back to my condo and put the bastard  in the bathtub. We let that 10 pound monster swim between ournaked legs until Louella, our friend and maid, walked in and started screaming. Then we all got spanked.

I was jealous because Liz and Mike had a pet pig named Charlie Brown. he was a really big pig, not one of these hot dog size pygmie things. Liz would climb on board the 300 pound beast, Mike would pull his tail and off they would go. Both Liz and Charlie Brown screaming across the pasture.

Mike was a tiny kid who looked like a redneck made man in the mafia. And we would fight, I mean really fight, like midget wrestlers, all the time. Once, when were were five and six, we climbed the tree in front of Mike’s house. Then we started arguing. What could we argue about in a tree? I don’t remember but something got us going.

Eventually, we started throwing punches and trying to choke each other, on a branch… in a tree. We were screaming and our teenaged brothers, Ricky, Bimbo, Granger and Jack came out to see what we were doing.

They started laughing at the Arkansas spider monkeys fighting in a tree. Then Mike threw a haymaker and we both fell, ten or twelve fee,t onto our backs. The fall knocked the wind out of us both and we lay there, under the tree, thinking we would die. Gasping, flopping and clutching our bony chests. Of course that only made the brothers laugh harder. (I’m pretty sure there was beer involved)

Cousins, we all grew up in the same, insane universe. We understood everything about each other without speaking, because we were all born and cut from the same rough, misshapen fabric. We were family. We had the same blood and nothing is more profound. Time and history doen’t matter if you are cousins because you share the same DNA and history, they are woven together, like an Indian braid, inseparable and unbreakable.

Twenty or thirty years passed and I hadn’t seen or spoken to Mikey and Lizzy but the moment we were together again, the moment our voices touched, we were bonded, thick as thieves, intertwined by a blood line so powerful and unique no one else could understand or interfere. If Mikey or Liz called me today and asked me to drive 3,000 miles to pick them up in a truck stop there is nothing that could stop me. Because it’s been so long I might not recognize them when I got there but we would find each other and do what needed to be done.

 We are family and together we will walk to the magnificent , golden gates of Heaven or the torterous  fiery gates of Hell… together. Our past is the same and our future will be too. Because we are family, we are  cousins and we will always be together. Always.

hampoland@gmail.com

 

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Rude, Texting, Teens…Our Country Is Lost

 

Teenagers, they are rude and selfish, withdrawn and distant. That’s what adults think all the time. It seems kids  have lost the ability to carry on a conversation. Or, maybe they can, but they just don’t want to make the effort. So they text and hide behind long swoopy hair when surrounded by adults.

This makes us think they are dysfunctional and possibly stupid. Futhermore, we become worried about the future of our country.  If our children can’t speak intelligently what will happen to America? Will incoherent skate board punks fill the Senate?

First, you have to remember, every generation of teenagers has  been seen as troublesome, dangerous and rude.  I can still see my brother, with his long swoopy hair and shredded jeans as he headed off to Woodstock. Why would he want to talk to adults, they were so old.

I was trying to explain this situation to my 15 year old, Lexie, (who is actually very good at talking to almost anyone with ears) when I realized, most teenagers are actually pretty decent creatures. They simply don’t know what to say to adults who are not part of their world. They can’t talk to them about music or school or most movies.

After “how are you?” kids are at a loss, things get quiet and awkward so they start looking at the cell phones. A fourteen year old boy can’t say so a fifty year old man, “How’s your wife? How are the kids, has your 401K tanked yet?” So, what’s he supposed to do?

If a kid or teenager is stuck at a table or in an office with an adult, I came up with three questions they can ask and the old person will think they are wonderful, insightful and smart.

1. “So, what profession are you in?”  “What do you do for a living?”  Ask about work.

2.”Oh, you’re a teacher(cop, architect, ditch digger) “What’s your favorite part of being a….(dentist,  rodeo clown, CPA, hair band lead singer)?

3. “What did you do before you were a …..(porn star, lawyer, boogie board champion)?

Three questions, that’s all they have to remember and adults will think they are brilliant and destined for greatness. 

And guess what? Lex tried my system with a 45 year old man I introduced her to at a non-profit event and discovered he was an interesting guy!

He was just really really old.

*comment or email me at hampoland@gmail.com, or you can text me if you feel the need 501 545-8372. Thanks!

 

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Piggly Wiggly and the 4th Louella Story

                                                                              In 1968 I was a scrawny little girl, with buck teeth and big ears. But my family had a lovely two story condo on the lake in Hot Springs, AR. We had money.
     My grandmother, Bubba, had an elegant colonial house in town. Louella worked for Bubba, along with another black lady, Iolla, for years and years. But when I was born, my mother’s 3r,d child Louella came to work for us, full time. Thank God.
       Every afternoon when I got off the bus with my Monkees lunch box, Louella was there, waiting and smiling, in her crisp white dress and white hose. Because she was a very dark woman, almost black, the contrast was beautiful to me.
       Loulla always had a peeled apple and a vanilla cupcake on the kitchen counter waiting for me as a snack when I got home. I would eat happily, while she took her lunch and watched Let’s Make a Deal with Bob Barker. Then I would put my head in her lap. She was a large soft woman, and I would take a little nap with my head on her thigh. She had wonderful soft skin, except for her hands and they were like leather and always smelled of bleach. Louella would sa,, “Miss Pooh, I think I’m just your pillow”.

  Years later I realized she was my cushion.

   I was a squirrely, funny looking little girl and didn’t have many friends. But Louella was always there for me and we had a grand time singing and cracking jokes. There were a few jobs Luella really hated, like cleaning the kitty little pan. She would pay me a nickel a week to do that for her.
    When I was six years old I started riding the bus to the Piggly Wiggly with Louella on Wednesday afternoons. Sometimes, if it was raining, she would call a cab. Once in the store, I would happily trot behind her or hold her callused hand, jabbering away. If I behaved she would let me spend my nickel so I could get something from the gumball machine.
   One day I was stunned to find a magnificent shiny new machine that didn’t take nickels. It required a quarter and in return I would get some beautiful jewelry or the biggest bouncy ball I’d ever seen. I asked Louella for a different coin but she said “no”, spending that kind of money on a gum ball machine was wasteful.

    I pouted all the way home and that made her laugh.

    But I had a plan. My 13 year old brother collected coins, all kinds of coins and he kept the in special books. I didn’t have a quarter but I figured I could get one, or something kind of like a quarter, out of one of those books.
   Generally, when Louella vacuumed I went along with her and pushed the vacuum on my hands and knees just for fun but that Monday I waited until Louella was downstairs vacuuming then I snuck into Jack’s room and snatched a coin I was sure would work in the wonderful new gum ball machine.

    Well the plan did not go well. Louella and I went to Piggly Wiggly the next week and the coin, which turned out to be a very rare 100 year old coin, got stuck in the machine, jammed it up. I lost the rare coin, and I did not get my giant bouncy ball. So once again I pouted all the way home.

    Before we opened the front door I could hear my brother, Jack, screaming. “She’s such a little thief Mom. She took that coin and you know it Do you know how much I paid for that? Do you remember how long it took me to find one.”
    Louella looked down at me. I was frozen in fear. “Go on Miss Pooh, open the door.”
   I shook my head.

   “Baby girl, you gotta go on in, might as well open the door”. I knew she was right.
I pushed the door open and could smell the anger in the house. My mother was sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette. She was mad. “Diana Ross McDaniel, get down here.”

   I remember taking tiny little steps. She exhaled and smoke swirled around her head. “Did you steal Jack’s coin?”

   I couldn’t speak. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I started shaking. I had to pea. I heard Louella in the kitchen putting away groceries.

   “Did you?” She yelled.

   Finally, I was able to nod my head.

   “Where is it?”

“At the store?”

   “What store damn it?” she roared

   “I tried to use it in the new gumball machine at Piggly Wiggle.”

   “Oh hells bells, you lost a 30 dollar coin in a God damn gumball machine?”
She yelled at me for what seemed like hours, then stopped suddenly, “Louella go up stairs and get me a brush.”

   “Why?” I said pathetically. “Does my hair need brushing?”

   “Never mind Louella, Pooh, you go get me my brush, right now.”

   “Yes ma’am” I whispered then set off upstairs. I took my time, hoping mom would forget. Jack glared at me then slammed his bed room door.

   When I appeared in the living room again with the tortoise shell brush she said, “Get over here right now, lean over this couch.” Her eyes look hot and black.

   “Momma, can you make Louella come out of the kitchen? Please.”

   “Why?” she barked as she stubbed out her cigarette in a heavy glass ashtray.

   “Cause she won’t let you beat me to death.”
   So poor Louella stood in the living room, tears rolling down her dark cheeks, while I got ten licks with the hair brush. Then she walked me back upstairs and washed my face. My but felt as though it had been scalded. She sat down on the edge of my bed and without saying a word I put my head in her lap. And she stayed there until fell asleep.

*What are you thinking?  Leave a comment and let me know or email to hampoland@gmail.com

 

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Kill The Romantic!…Men Are Doomed

A couple of months ago I saved a friend from making a deadly romantic mistake. The fool really liked a nurse he’d been dating and wanted to send her flowers…at work! NOOOO! You can’t do that! She’ll run away.

The poor man is over 45 so he didn’t understand the new rules. Romance is now the kiss of death.  The wonderful sweeping  gestures men used to make are taboo.  If you send her flowers you’ll seem desperate rather than romantic. If you call her and leave a sweet message or a note you are pathetic or worse  a stalker.

Men with any sense of theater or romance are doomed in this culture. A few weeks ago my daughter, Lexie wrote a blog about the cop who couldn’t stop thinking about a woman he ticketed. He left her a harmless and sweet note…so she’s suiing him.What’s the matter with you?

Good Lord woman, you are probably the same B*%ch who complaines about men and their lack or romance, at  Outback  on Martini Mondays. If a man is interested in anything more than texting a bootie call at 3am you think he’s a stalker.

Romance takes guts and imagination. Still, we slam the guy who has the nerve to send us flowers.

Twenty years ago my husband, Alex, asked me out a couple of times.  I said no, even though I liked him.  He was a handsome young chef with pretty eyes.  One night I was on a date with a landscape architect and we ended up eating at Alex’s restaurant.  When my date went to the bathroom, Alex came to the table and said, “Why are you out with him, I saw you first.”  He was so immature, sincere and romantic. He had me.

Then he had the audacity so suggest to my hapless date  he should take me for an after dinner drink at another establishment.  They shook hands like buddies. Of course, 45 minutes latter, when we arrived at the next bar, Alex was already there, waiting for us.  I was blown away by his audacity.  The clueless landscape architect didn’t stand a chance.

If a guy did this kind of stuff today, some women would not only label him a stalker but get a restraining order.

Women, stop beating up the romantic in your life. You should be thrilled anyone likes you enough to try and win your affections. Appreciate their efforts.  Every time a man does something romantic he’s so vulnerable.  Romantics put them selves out there, in the middle of the road, for us. Stop running over them.

*tell me your story, leave a comment or you can always email to hampoland@gmail.com. Thanks, DH

 

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I Can’t Hold A Grudge Anymore…What a Wuss

I’ve lost my touch. Years ago I didn’t just “hold a grudge”, I fed it and rocked it to sleep. If I got mad at someone, I was absolutely brutal and didn’t have any problem cutting them out of my life with a scalpel.

I was never ugly, I didn’t speak poorly of folks I was mad at or who hurt me. I simply acted as though they didn’t exsist. They became invisible to me.

Before you start lecturing me on forgiveness let my assure you I know how damning and detrimental  anger can be . I know WAY BETER THAN ANYONE ELSE that I was hurting myself and punishing myself with this absurd behaviour. I KNOW so please don’t  tell me about the importance of forgiveness.  You think I don’t know that? Hell yeah,  I know holding a grudge and not forgiving people makes you sick inside and out, it eats at you….etc… I’m stubborn and petty but I’m not stupid.

But I’ve lost the touch. I’m such a wimp now I can’t stay mad at people anymore, even if they really really hurt me. Even when I’m mad I know I still love them. And eventually, I relent, say, “what the hell” and drop the grudge. I realized this the other day when I caught myself smiling while thinking about someone who hurt me. I was smiling and that felt good so all of a sudden I decided I wasn’t going to be pissed off any more.  Suddenly, the tilted table, the see-saw, the scale, they all felt balanced and I felt really good.

I think part of the problem has to do with cell phones. Fifteen years ago it was so easy to avoid the offender who hurt your feelings. They couldn’t reach out to me when I was in the car or working out. All I had to do was refuse to pick up the phone at home and they were out of my life.

Now, because of cell phones, you can call me and text me all the time (I have a ancient cell phone so I can’t block numbers). You can send me a text that just says, “I really miss you”. That tells me your thinking about me and my hard heart starts to thaw.

I’m kind of disappointed in myself but I’m also relieved  Holding a grudge and dropping people like dirty socks takes a lot of effort.  Yeah, I still get mad, I get crazy smokin’ hot mad. And like everyone on the planet, I get my feelings hurt when you say or do something mean.  But if I get mad at you, just a wait a couple of weeks and chance are I’ll  get over it or,  I’ll miss you so much that I will decide to keep you in my life even though you are an ass.

And hopefully, when I really tick you off and make you made you will do the same.

*if you have a hot temper let me know, if you think I’m an idiot, please let me know. Send me an email at hampoland@gmail.com, leave a comment, hit the rss button at the bottom. Anything so I know you’re out there. Thanks, DH

 

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Zombie Puke..the Greatest Christmas Gift

My boys, Sandor (age 9) and his buddy, Sam(age 8), are sitting on the floor making a fresh batch of Zombie Puke. They are utterly engrossed, reading directions, measuring powders and liquids. They dare each other to taste their creations then laugh and pretend to gag and throw up

Doctor Dreadful Zombie Lab might be the greatest Christmas gift in history. Every time Sandor has a friend  over they want to make Bubbling Brains or Zombie Skin. It all tastes like candy and looks DISGUSTING. But little boys love making it.

They read directions and measure stuff as though working on on a nuclear bomb but the end result is a revolting green lumpy sludge they want to drink.

I bought the kit in March when all the left over toys were on sale at JCPenney.  I think I ended up paying 11 dollars.  And it has been one of the most loved and requested toys in our house.  We don’t have video games or play stations but Doctor Dreadful usually beats out our  4 wheeler, the trampoline,BB guns and Nerf Guns. 

Because it’s so popular I’ve made Sandor work pretty hard to keep all the pieces together. So when little boys do come over and say, “Can we make some Zombie Brains?” we have everything they need.

Even though they use pretty crass language when they are cooking up their concoctions, I’m pretty happy, because I can refuse to help.  That means they have to read and measure and then they get to lick, slurp and chug the revolting green results. It’s a win win situation.

When Sandor goes to hang out with other boys he’s so excited to play MW3 on a PS2, or Madden Football games. Those things are really cool for him because we don’t have them. We have the Zombie Lab, a pool table, a trampoline, a basket ball goal and Legos. And all the little kids beg to come over and play. We really play.

The important thing after a night of revolting Zombie sludge… make sure everyone brushes their teeth before going to bed.  There’s nothing worse than Zombie Breath in the morning.

I’d love for you to leave a comment if not, tell me what you think Write to me at hampoland@gmail.com. And if you get the chance please take a moment, just a second, to send this blog link to a friend. Thanks. DH

 

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