One Moth With Three Blows And Other Random, Incoherent Ramblings

Anyone remember that tale of the poor Tailor that killed seven flies with one blow? I totally just accomplished a similar feat. I killed a moth, and it only took me three tries, some shrieking and mild convulsing. Easy peasy.

It's 12:30 already and I'm tired and have no idea what to write about. Whenever I don't know what to write about I ask the closest, most convenient person what they think I should write about. I don't know if you've picked up on this but I try to do as little of my own thinking as possible.

Tony always answers the same thing, he's dying for me to write something biographical about him. I imagine the telling of his life would include stories of adventures with Navajo women and the time in college that he and all his guy buddies played beer pong completely naked and end with him sitting in an arm chair watching baseball while petting a black cat. It would make an awesome blog that would make you reconsider your plans of sending your children on to higher education.

My mother suggested I write about why I think we each keep so much junk in our homes and then parlay that thought into the deeper waters of why do we keep so much emotional baggage. My Mom's always been an overachiever. I must take after my Dad because I will not be attempting to even try my hand at that. As a matter of fact, this paragraph was a struggle for me to write so I'll end it by saying I got new lip gloss and move on.

Punk recommended I write a post like a piece of fiction. Like a Harlequin romance. I wouldn't even know where to start since I've never read a harlequin romance. I try to stick with real heavy, deep books. Literature that challenges me and cause me to grow as a person. Like Harry Potter, Twilight and Edward the Emu. I love that book. Every time I clean up my kids books I stop and read it.

While all of these are awesome and wonderful suggestions that I may, in a fit of desperation, use for a blog topic at some point, tonight I'm just going to share with you the following random, embarrassing and bizarre things from mine, Punk and Birdie's childhood:
  1. I once dressed up in a make-shift uniform and ran through the woods completing a bizarre "mission impossible" course that included me sliding down a tube slide that had been coated in butter. I had to throw my clothes away after.
  2. Birdie used to run around our back yard in nothing but a pair of tighty-whiteys with all of his remaining clean undies on his head, turban style.
  3. Punk once took the frame out on our garage door while backing out of the garage. I think Mr. Punk does most of the driving in that relationship.
  4. Once when Birdie was in his early teens we went out to eat and the cute waitress asked him what he would like to eat and he ordered a cheeseburger. "And what kind of cheese would you like with that?" she asked. In his cute-girl-is-talking-to-me panic he said, "No cheese."
  5. I once mud-wrestled Birdie's ex-girlfriend in hurricane effect rains at summer camp. It was awesome.
  6. I have mattress surfed down a flight of stairs. Well not really surfed so much as tumbled.
  7. Punk, Birdie and I once embarked on an a quest to find the buried treasure of One-Eyed Willy (a legendary pirate). Good times, oh wait, that was the plot to the Goonies.

All right there you have it, The fuzzy brained, incoherent ramblings of a loony that is capable of killing a moth in three tries or more.

For kicks feel free to leave a fuzzy brained incoherent comment. It could be about something pertaining to this post or how you hate hang nails or grape jelly. Or you could tell me the story about the time you went to Yankees stadium with your two drunk uncles that kept pulling their shirts up and yelling simultaneously, "We hate you, Chad Curtis!", "We Love YOU, Chad Curtis!" and made such fools of themselves that Bernie Williams laughed at them. Oh wait, that's my story, nevertheless feel free to use it.


Punk said...

I love our childhood. You don't know how I want to wax reminiscent, but I don't think I've slept proper hours in six months, so I can't think straight, and I'm pretty sure at this point I'm remembering an entirely different childhood. Like your story above about my driving escapades: I do NOT remember that. Do Mom and Dad? Did you run it past them like the memory version of a spell check, because I'm pretty sure you made it up or misspelled it. And Mr. Punk's driving history is as sketchy as mine. So *raspberry*.

And on that note, I taught Missy to drive. And for the first six to nine months (possibly longer) of that task, she would slide into the driver's seat and ask me, "So, which one's the gas and which one's the brake?" And I'm not making that up. Or how about the fact that though we drove the same route to our boyfriends' father's church for SIX MONTHS, she never could find the way herself. I'm not kidding.

Whew. I feel better.

Oh my gosh, I laughed so hard about that Yankees game. That was so embarrassing, and I'm not sure if it was more embarrassing for my eighteen year old self or our full-grown-and-married-with-kids-our-ages uncles. Maybe mostly it was embarrassing for Chad Curtis. Poor Chad Curtis.

My incoherent babbling with also include this little tidbit: I hate my sleeping habits. Why is it that I can go to bed two to three hours earlier than usual and still end up laying there, roasting, all night, same as usual? There's no sane explanation.

Now if you'll excuse me - I have to go brush my teeth and weep at the same time for no reason whatsoever.

Dione said...

I'm a little disappointed that you killed a moth. I mean, moths have wings like butterflies. It's not their fault that they are a dull gray color. If I were to kill a moth I would apologize as I flushed it down the toilet. What do moths do during the day?

Anonymous said...

Why do my daughters not sleep? A night of beautiful sleep is like a refreshing vacation. Would the incoherent babbling stop if my girls slept? Though the babbling has excellent entertainment value.And why on earth would you kill a moth? -mom-

Punk said...

My question is why would you shriek at a moth? It's a *moth* for crying out loud. Shoo it outside, quietly. You'll feel like an actual grown-up, I swear.

Missy said...

I killed it because it grosses me out and because it has wings. Flappy, fluttery wings.

See above statement as to why I shrieked.

Anonymous said...

Punk, you DID take out the Garage frame.
Shreiking OR shooing at a moth is like not talking so as not to scare the fish away, No ears, so pointless.
I doubt either of your uncles even remember that Yankee game, let alone are embarrassed about it.
Thanks to your brother, Birdy, I'm never embarrassed about anything.
Missy, you get your ability to incoherantly ramble from me.
Punk, I love you more than one can fathom, but You've begun to block things from your memory. Maybe a little Ginseng is in order.
As for shreiking and slapping, does anyone recall the bat incident on Ufferts Road. I chased that stinking bat around SLAPPING at it with a fish net, for half an hour, while Birdy ran SHREIKING into the bathroom and your mother rolled around the floor laughing at my ineptness. Ah, yes, good times.

Punk said...


Ginseng might be a good idea. I'll get right on that. :-p

Thanks to growing up with you as a father, I do not embarrass easily either. I appreciate that, by the way.

And that was one of the best nights EVER. Do you recall that Birdie stuffed a rolled towel under the bathroom door so the bat couldn't get in? Good times, indeed. You did fine work, sir. Fine work.