Tag Archives: Peyton Manning

You must be effing kidding me.

I ambled out the front door to check the milkman had delivered our milk and eggs, and I find this:

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What you are looking at is two milk crates full of eggs. That’s 18 dozen eggs, rather than the usual two dozen I order.

Someone got into my account with Smith Brothers and added 16 dozen eggs to my order.

I am now the proud owner of about 216 eggs.

I’m  not going to name names, but I’ll just say that a certain quarterback for the Denver Broncos, formerly of the Indianapolis Colts, sports the number 18 on his jersey.

That’s right people. I got pranked by Peyton Manning.

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Filed under children, footall, NFL, Seattle, sports, Uncategorized

Rabbi Manning

It’s Sukkot, which is possibly the most fun, and is certainly the most shamelessly Pagan of all the Jewish holidays.

Bennett wanted to hang a Peyton Manning Sukkah decoration, but M was clear: keep the decorations on-message. The Sukkah, a hut we build and then eat in for a week, was to be free of the NFL mania that had gripped the rest of the house.

Thirty minutes later, after some old-school cutting and pasting, Bennett presented us with this:

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As you can see, Mr. Manning has replaced a pigskin with a lulav and etrog, the palm fronds and citrus fruit we wave in the air on this holiday (I wasn’t kidding about the Pagan bit, was I?)

Welcome to the tribe Peyton, we’re happy to have you. (And as long as you don’t tell M or my mother in law, I’d gladly trade you for Neil Diamond.)

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Please don’t knock the boss.

Bruce Springsteen, Drammenshallen, Norway

Bruce Springsteen, Drammenshallen, Norway (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

At the end of what was already a very long Sunday, we all piled into the car to grab some pizza and eat it in a park, enjoying what I am certain is the last sun we will see for months (I can’t help but see each sunny day as the last of it’s kind, but can you blame me?). The first five minutes of any car ride are loud – someone doesn’t want to come with us at all, someone is sitting in the worst seat ever, someone needs help buckling into her seat, and someone else refuses to help her, or “accidentally” pinches her while helping.

As soon as the car quieted down I closed my eyes. Peace.

And then I heard the first few notes of the piano intro to “Jungleland.” Could it be that while sorting through the endless titles of shitty music I download for the kids my iPod actually had the audacity to play one of my songs? I breath slowly, as if to actually inhale that delicious piano solo, which then gives way to that wonderful voice. Man, I love Springsteen.

And then I hear this from Efram:

“Wow. Who’s this? This guy has a terrible voice. This is awful.”

M cannot but chime in, in a low mumble: “I’ve been saying that for years.”

There is fire and pain in my voice. THIS IS BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN, WHICH SOME OF YOU ALREADY KNEW (M). YOU GUYS CAN SAY WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT ABOUT EACH OTHER, OR ME FOR THAT MATTER, BUT LEAVE BRUCE ALONE.

Which was the dumbest thing I could have possible said. Because now they all know I care. A lot. All sorts of nasty things are said about the first man I loved. The man who got married on my birthday, and made me fast on a day when I should have been eating cake (come on, you do things like that when you’re about 14.) M wouldn’t let me name any of the children Bruce, or even use it as a middle name, and they’ve all told me that any dog we get one day in the distant future will never be called Springsteen, but do they really need to knock him? On a Sunday night? When I’m already barely holding it together with gummy cola bottles and a series of deep breaths?

We picked up pizza. We went to the park. But I couldn’t look at any of them. When I saw that Bennett, who understands hero worship or at least should, sneaked onto my phone and posted a picture of Peyton Manning to this blog, I had to be physically removed from the house for their safety.

Come on people, some things are sacred. Aren’t they? Turns out that I had forgotten (forgive me Bruce, but it was a Sunday), but the Boss turned 63 yesterday. Wherever you are, wherever you may be, happy birthday Bruce. And don’t listen to Efram. His idea of a good time is a Ninjago marathon and an unlimited supply of dried mango.

Some people have no taste.

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Filed under children, parenting, Seattle, sports, Uncategorized

Iolanthe and the Family Photo

Lithograph from Iolanthe, c. 1883

Lithograph from Iolanthe, c. 1883 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Thanks to Groupon we woke up and headed out the door at nine one morning this week to have the kids’ photos taken at the Seattle Arboretum. I momentarily contemplated having M and I join them in the pictures, but it was hairy enough getting the five of them ready.. and thanks to the two giant spots I woke up to recently, I would have had to spend a good three hours spackling my face to even approach acceptability.

Minutes before we left the house the baby ran into the toy-room and drew all over her face. While I was trying to determine what she had drawn with and how to remove it, as well as trying to figure out why despite all my efforts, Efram always manages to look as though he’s just woken up from a long night in a barn, Bennett came down in his Peyton Manning jersey: “This is how I want to be remembered,” he announced.

I tried explaining that a)  I wasn’t planning on killing him today and there would therefore be other chances for him to be remembered, and b) it was pretty clear to all of us that there was no way in hell, try as we may, that we’d ever forget this current phase of his. In fact, he seems to ensure that all of his insanities are well-documented, even without the help of this blog. Every essay he’d written in school was similar in topic, all the artwork he had drawn for the past year and a half was eerily the same, the shrine he’d erected in the bedroom he shared was singular in its commitment. No, we’d all be remembering this Peyton Manning obsession for many years to come.

“But this is how I want to look.” he complained tearily.

“Darling boy,” I said. “Family pictures are not about how you want to look. They are about how I want you to look.”

He started to protest but I continued. “Allow me, for a brief thirty minutes, to pretend that I have five clean, pressed, un-crusty, snot-free, sportswear-free, sparkle-free, glitter-free, Disney-free children who wear the clothes I lay out for them. Allow me that sweet child, if nothing else. Now quit your bitching and put on the bloody shirt.”

I was feeling rather smug about the entire interaction until I was alone in the car later that day and heard the radio announcer mention that the Seattle Gilbert and Sullivan Society is putting on a production of Iolanthe. I froze. You see, when I was about 13 years old someone got the brilliant idea that I ought to go to a musical theater camp. And even though the idea of singing and dancing in front of anything other than a mirror sent me into a clammy sweat, because I had a British upbringing, it probably did not occur to me to protest. So I went to this God-awful place, and had to take part in the camp’s production of Iolanthe, the Gilbert and Sullivan play about fairies. Unlike the camp director’s snotty daughter and her pack of girls, I was gangly and uncoordinated and not a day would go by when I wouldn’t stumble in our dance routine and trip up the entire “fairy ring.”  It got so bad that one day when I was home “sick,” the camp director called and announced that she had marvelous news – they were adding a new role for me. Yes, the over-100 year old play would now feature a “clumsy fairy,” whose job it was to trip up the prancing perfection of that blessed fairy ring.  Aha! Let’s make her incomprehensible clumsiness part of the play! I thought I might die that summer, and each time I hear that play mentioned I feel ill.

And I sat in my car, eating an entire bag of gummy cola bottles (please, a girl cannot process all of this without a little assistance), I wondered: Would this be Bennett’s Iolanthe? Would he always remember the day when I told him that I didn’t care what he wanted to wear for his family photo? That my desire to have the kids not look a ragtag bunch of escaped convicts trumped his own need for self-expression? I felt the guilt rise up and tighten at the back of my neck when an alarm rang on my phone. I did not know my phone even had an alarm. I picked it up and saw flashing on the screen: “BUG MOM!

Hey Goldilocks, someone’s been messing with MY phone. That someone was about to get a big apology from “MOM” and just saw it drift out the car window.

BUG MOM. Ha! As if he needed a reminder….

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>Thanksgiving: Female Satisfaction

>I’m lousy at public displays of appreciation. I cringe through Thanksgiving meals at which I’m forced to be sincere in front of more than.. one person. But I know I have parental responsibilities, so I asked the kids what they were thankful for, wondering what they’d come up with — and because of my own predisposition to private displays, I asked them one at a time… sans audience.

The always profound Bennett: I’m thankful that Archie Manning was able to make babies. (For those of you who don’t know – he sired the famed football player Peyton Manning, and his brother Eli. I can’t believe I know this.)

Pensive Efram: I’m thankful for my friends, my family, my health and that I know stuff.

Sweet Frances: I’m thankful for you and Daddy.

Pissed off Fiona: What? I have no idea what you’re asking me. Please send that stupid baby back.

Sidney: burp.

And me? I’m thankful for M, and for five kids who make me laugh. And I’ve saved the biggest laugh of the week for now. (Even funnier then Bennett, examining a pacifier and asking me if that’s what real boobs feel like.) Here it is:

M took Bennett to run some errands.. including a trip to the drug store. They walked passed the section with birth control, etc., and Bennett saw a huge sign with, among other things, the words ‘FEMALE SATISFACTION’ written on it. Under the sign was a coupon dispenser for KY lubricant. Bennett ripped off a coupon and declared, “I think Mummy could use some female satisfaction, don’t you?”

I wonder how old he needs to be before I can mortify him with the story.

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