Or Where I Thought Anthony Kiedis and Flea Were Behind Me on My Commute to Work

Below, from my camera phone on my way to work:

…and from "The Chase":

You can imagine my disappointment to see 3 Latinos crammed in where Anthony and Flea ought’a be.

So since I’m sleep-deprived and grouchy, let’s see what else is on my phone.

This would be where it was 89 degrees mid-April. Where our nice warm weather went is beyond me. It’s nearly June and I still need to run the heat at night.
See all the cars with break lights stretching ahead of me? This would be the kind of traffic I encounter ALL.DAY.EVERY.DAY. And this guy agrees with me:

I guess the chichi DC suburb I work in is trying to get some street cred from badass cities with pothole problems like Chicago, New York, and Muncie :

(sign reads: Potholing Next 2 Miles)

Since it seems I totally outdid myself on my last title, my brain is now suffering from a serious lack of catchy titles. Not that I ever suffered from an abundance of catchy titles, but, well…anyways.
I’m glad you all enjoyed my Lion Mane hair (as a friend in highschool called it…I think he was just crushin’ on me back then because I was all sorts of hotness with that hair!); I have a cousin whose hair was even BIGGER than mine, but I couldn’t find a picture of her. Next trip to Chicago may require me hunting through pics there or bribing her mom with one. Photographic evidence of her hair should be put in the Smithsonian or a time capsule. And yes, I was jealous and wanted my hair as big as hers. Don’t laugh because y’all know you wanted to have the biggest hair in your school, too. Or the best tight-rolled pants (aka peg-legged pants). Or the Z.Cavaricci pants with the most belt loops.

I did have a point…or so I thought.

Apparently my brain is suffering from a severe lack of blogging material, too.

LaskiGal tasked us with posting our prom pics.  And since I’m an over-achiever (read: goody-two-shoes) and my dance pics weren’t all that bad (since big hair had started to fall by mid-high school for me), I added a few others to showcase my daily hair in 7th-10th grades:

Top one is me and my "twin" Carin in 9th grade (we were called twins by those around us…reasons why deserve a post of their own).  Bottom one is of me and my best friend from middleschool and highschool, Heather.  We’re in 8th grade.  As you can see, I was dangerous with the hairspray.  And mousse.  And gel.  And back-combing.

Top pic is my Senior Homecoming…and I went with Freshman (commence taunts).  Bottom one is me (the short bigmouth laughing her head off in the back) with my fellow band members after our induction into NHS (commence more taunting).  And yes, that is Richie Rebel behind us because even though I was in the Chicago suburbs, I apparently went to a high school in the deep south.  We shot cannon fire after every football touchdown.  Thanks to our poor football skillz, the neighborhood surrounding the school on game night rarely got rocked by cannon fire.

This is Senior Winter dance at my boyfriend’s highschool.  They had way more money than my highschool, so they could get a decent photographer with a stool and real balloons.  Like the permed hair?  It was perpetually spiral-permed from late 6th grade until sometime in college.

My Senior Prom–can’t quite tell, but my dress and dyables were a light peachy-pink.  Same dud as last photo.  Foolishly kept him around 3 more years.  Silver lining?  If I hadn’t followed this one to Ball State, who knows if I would’ve met Justin:

Very shortly after dropping the Zero, I found my Hero!  Yep, that would be Justin in the top pic with the BLONDE hair about a month after we first met and started dating.  The bottom two are from a couple months later for his Fraternity Winter dance.  As you can see, I was very lucky to find someone as nutty as me.  Our antics in formal situations didn’t end at dances, but our wedding, too.

Last week, once the Puke ended and before Justin came home from Alaska, the kids and I would get home from work/school and I’d pour a bowl of Cheerios start dinner, feed Cooper, then Gavin and I would eat.  Meanwhile, I’d have the radio turned onto 94.7 The Globe…it has a nice range of music styles on it and good for bopping around the kitchen.  Keeps the kids entertained and not focused on their hunger, and I can pretend to be the best semi-sober singer/dancer in the world.  If Gavin’s being a particularly pillish stinker, he’ll holler things like "no zing-ing!  no daaaan-sing!"  I usually ignore him and keep doing what I’m doing until he flips his lid (we’ve already established that I feed my kids junk food and pump them full of TV; purposely irritating shouldn’t be a surprise).

Well, this particular night, The Donnas song, Dancing With Myself was playing and I was singing along and doing my best British faux-punk dance while setting dinner on the table.  As usual, Gavin got annoyed with me.

• G:  Mommy, ‘top daaan-sing!
• M:  Come on, Buddy…don’t you want to dance with me? (singing) oh-oh-oh-oh
• G:  Noooooo!
• M:  Fine…I’m okay with that (singing and dancing again) cuz I’m-a-just-a dancin’ wi’ my-sel-lf oh-oh-oh-oh!

Gavin takes one look at me and starts laughing.  And I start laughing because I literally saw the lightbulb turn on over his head when he realized what I was singing at him was the words to the song playing on the radio.  I think he was also laughing at my ridiculous dancing skillz. 

And to think, that’s how I ensnared trapped attracted his father in the first place.