Category Archives: Family

What the hey?  It’s April and we are still getting dumped on with snow?  I would give anything to be back here:

Rainbow Tower, Hilton Hawaiian Village

A room with a view:

From our window on the 31st floor

I love looking at all of the sailboats in the harbor.  Can you believe I never ventured over to the other window to take a few snaps of our beach? 

Venturing out on the lava rocks

While Mr. Farish was busy working I was busy visiting all of my favorite places:

Sunning … Eating … Shopping… Eating … Visiting … Eating … Remembering … Eating … Snorkeling … Eating … Relaxing … Eating … Hiking … Eating … Meeting … Eating … Chinatown … Eating … International Market Place … Eating… North Shore Waves … Lobster… Cemetaries… Roadside Shrimp Stands … Lobster … but best of all …  Time with my man … Heaven!


Puffy Pouf Proof

Blueberry and Me ... she loves me despite the height

The Hair Issue … again!

Saturday was my sister Annie’s birthday.  Not just any birthday.  The BIG birthday … as in 5-O big.  Now I don’t really put much stock in birth years, always preferring to think of age as just another number.  Lord knows I have NEVER acted my age, (and really what does that mean anyway?)  Nope, I like to just sail along and hope I never break a hip in the process.   So Saturday we gathered to celebrate that fabulous sister of mine name Ann.

Now for those of you that may be new to my blog world, let me just say that a birthday in my family does not just mean cake.  Birthdays are C-E-L-E-B-R-A-T-I-O-N-S and must be treated as such.  So we begin:  Saturday morning the girls gathered for some female breakfast bonding at the Millcreek Cafe.  We talked and laughed and ate and consumed enough coffee to keep those Columbian growers rich and happy.  Realizing that we had monopolized our table far too long, we moved on to the nail salon where we promptly “pick ya culuz” before settling in for piglet pampering.  Do I even need to spell out for you how fun it was to look down that row of chairs and see all my favorite women-folk dipping dogs together?  Surely not.  (ok, I need to insert a tiddle of  a side note here … I go to this nail salon regularly…as in they know me, they know my kids, I know their kids etc etc).  There we all were, sitting, soaking, laughing, sharing, having a fabulous time.  Our sweet nail gals were all into the spirit of the day and seemed to be enjoying Annie’s day right along with us.  The talk turns to age … I secretly share.  The Vietnamese chatter begins … imagine rapid-fire speech being emitted from 10 women at once and you feel my pain.  Suddenly, “How old yo motha? She no old than sistah.  How old?”  I whisper:  ” 70.  Doesn’t she look fantastic.  No one would ever guess she is 70.”  -insert more Vietnamese chatter – and then it happened… my dear, darling, sweet nail tech stops mid file, looks up at me and matter-of-factly states: “You look like oldest. They say you oldest.”  “no, I’m number three”.  Heads shaking another tech pops up, looks at me and declares, “You look old.  it yo hai, you have old hai.”  I know, I know, the old-lady hair is a problem.  I declare my motto (you know the one: The higher the hair, the closer to God).  “Oh noooooo, not God, old hai.  You have old Hai!”  Oh dear Lord Almighty, “why?”  “Why?” I implore, ” is this head o’web my cross to bear?  Would it have been too much to just give me luscious, silky, manageable locks that swing and sway ala the Brady girls?  Really Lord, could you not have blessed me with say a third nipple? Perhaps a sixth digit on each foot?  Those I could handle Lord.  Why the hair?”  Somewhat deflated (and suddenly feeling really old) the topic changes, I have survived yet another hair inspired conversation. 

clockwise from top: Annie, Stacy, me, Casey Jayne

Well we eventually exited the salon wearing some mighty fine foam flip-flops to allow our girls to dry solidly, toodled on over to Macy’s and commenced to shop the afternoon away.  I would be lying if I said I wasn’t deeply affected by the whole hair thing over at the nail salon.  I was…and having about 6 extra pounds upon my person didn’t help either (oh, did I forget to mention scale betrayal to the tune of 120 pounds? )  Sucking it up, i put my game face on, headed for those racks and dared them to betray my wardrobe wishes.  I’ll spare you the shopping details but you must know that bargains were to be had and I took full advantage right down to my shiny new red shoes.  I only cried once in the dressing room before sucking it up and moving forth.  Finally wearing down we each left with bags full of bargains and headed home.   Want to know the first thing I did?

Headed straight for the bathroom to smoosh down my hive.  A lost cause I tell ya.  My cross to bear.  Oh well.  I guess my lot is to be the young-on-the inside, elderly-hair-on-the outside, third daughter that looks older than her mother.   

So other than the whole hair thing Saturday was grandly fantabulous!

Tucking Fat Folds

Question:  If your spouse snores (although he adamantly denies that he snores), would a jury of your peers (assuming they are married to snoring spouses – since that is what makes them your peers) find you innocent and uphold your claim of justifiable homicide?  Hmmm.  Something to ponder following another night of little sleep. 

I love Mr. Farish.  I do.  I do not love watching and listening to him as he delves deeper into a REM state leaving me floating on the surface of dreamland.  I do not love hearing his nasal passages expressing their joy as they are released from the confines of his body.  I do not love prodding him to turn over only to have him release a thick stream of hot-steamy-stinky-confined air into my face in the process.  Aarrgghh!  Now to be fair it isn’t entirely his fault, but come on, snoring is not an enjoyable lullaby in which one can easily be lulled into slumber. 

Last night was one of those never-really-got-into-REM-nights.  We’ve all had them.  You toss and turn, readjust the pillow, kick off the blankets, put the blankets back on, lay on your left side, roll to the right … all the while your spouse sleeps soundly on.  On nights like this I usually have really strange thoughts/dreams.  While still aware of household sounds my mind is strangely transferred, bringing forth thoughts I dare not think during the day.  Suddenly I have a zillion failures.  All the woulda-coulda-shoulda’s come floating to the surface.  The deliciously dark chocolate covered raisins I snacked on earlier have suddenly turned into large masses of blubbery fat, that quickly adhere to various parts of my person ala Gwyneth Paltrow in Shallow Hal.  Roll over.  Fluff pillow.  Kick off blankets.  Doze.  I am now standing on the scale and watch as the needle inches higher and higher.  I envision tucking fat-folds into my pants, trying to zip them up.  Looking down and not finding my toes.  Doom.  I haven’t paid the bills.  I missed an important meeting.  I haven’t studied for finals, (am I the only person that still has finals nightmares?).  Roll over, fluff pillow, pull blankets up, poke Mr. F. who is still blissfully sleeping whilst continuing to snore up a thunderous storm. Watch clock. Roll. Toss. Fluff.  Turn.  And on it goes until the only sound worse than snoring is released into the room … meep-meep-meep …  

Class of 2011

Last night Mr. Farish and I attended Skylar’s parent-teacher conference.  We dutifully walked up to the secretary responsible for handing out the midterm grades and class schedules and watched to see if there was any reaction (positive or negative) associated with the name… there wasn’t… in fact the woman looked simply bored and ready to bolt and didn’t even bat an eye when I thanked her.  Mr. Farish snapped on his spectacles and studied that thing like it was the secret to life.  I stood on tippy-pigs to get a glimpse and was oh so relieved to see that that kid is acing his classes … except college math where he has a ‘C’.  Okay, let’s make this quick.  Clearly the kid is doing just swell, we’ll head over to talk to the math teacher, ask a few probing questions and bolt.  We enter the gym, locate the teacher, frown at the line and take our places.  Now when one is faced with a L-O-N-G wait the mind tends to wander … Here’s where I went … 
Back to the days when Skylar’s school journey began:  
When the magical first day of preschool came Sky was ready.  He had met Mrs. Lyons at his preschool assessment and was instantly smitten.  Oh to be in the presence of Mrs. Lyons three days a week!  The kid was beside himself.  The only problem was there were 19 other kids equally as smitten and eager to please.  What to do, what to do?  Sky had a plan:  Suddenly and without warning that boy developed a fainting disorder!  If there is one way to get your lady-loves attention it would be to drop onto the floor without warning in a dead faint.  and he did … over and over that boy would suddenly drop.  Over and over Mrs. Lyons would  bend down and tend to his needs.  A good teacher always knows when a boy just needs a second of her time.  It was a sad day when the other kids in the class caught on and were suddenly dropping like flies onto the floor.  Poor Skylar!  Poor Ann Lyons!  Although his fainting spells stopped just as quickly as they began, Sky’s love of Mrs. Lyons never wavered.  (neither did mine).  Mrs. Lyons set the tone for school and a love of learning and Sky ran with it.  
There are so many memorable moments in the Skylar timeline.  So many times when I was amazed, confused, entertained and oh so very proud to be his mom.                        which is why I am struggling with letting him go
Skylar is a senior in high school.  He has a girlfriend.  He has a part time job.  He has his own car.  He has a circle of friends that dominate his time.  I miss him.  I miss my little fainting boy.  I miss my boy that thought the sun rose and fell for his mama.  I miss the boy that confided and hugged and loved and yearned to be with me.  I miss sitting down and talking and laughing and sharing funny/strange/horrifying stories.  I miss his smile.  
Now the sensible thinking part of my brain (is there such a thing)  realises that these joys and sorrows are just a part of life.  Dustin did the same thing when he was a senior in high school.  Every kid needs to know that he or she has the freedom and ability to spread their wings, go away, and always have somewhere to return.  That said … his flying away is killing me … does that sound too overly dramatic? … Lord help me.       
By the way … Mrs. Lyons husband. Mark, was Skylar’s math teacher last year … Skylar never once fainted for him… and Mr. Lyons didn’t think the fainting condition was nearly as cute as Ann and I did. 
Go figure?

Jayne Bonding

Last night I did some bonding, Jayne bonding. 
Casey Jayne is my 22 year old neice who recently started Cosmetology school.  Last night was her first time coloring real human hair … mine. 
Many people told me beforehand how brave I was to offer up my head for experimentation.  Listen kids, I am not brave.  I happen to sport an ungodly mess of fine fluff that one would be very hard-pressed to ruin… I was also in need of new color as the grays are starting in invade en-force.
So last night I toodled on out to the beauty college, sat my double-wide down and let Casey Jayne have her way with my head. 
New adventures bring out all kinds of responses from people.  Some jump right in – some drag their feet – some change their mind and run – and others just go with the flow.  I like to think I’m a go with the flow kind of gal … maybe yes and maybe no.   Casey Jayne?  I do believe she is an "I’m so excited and petrified at the same time" kind of gal.  While excited to try something new, she was also a bit, um, shall we say … blonde?  Her nerves were getting the best of her as she was thinking about what she needed to do to prepare… I understood and felt for her because, yes, folks… it brought back many memories of my own cosmetology school experiences of many, many, did-I-say many, years ago.
When I went to cosmetology school there was no such thing as ‘foiling’ … if you wanted streaky hair you got a rubber swim cap pulled tightly over your head, sat stoically still while the strands were painstakingly pulled through the holes (spaced very evenly at exactly 1/4 inch apart) with a crochet hook.  It took hours, was painful and lets face it … never ever looked a bit of natural on anyone.  
It was a time of the ‘perm’.  I like perming.  I was very good at perming.  I was the ‘Perm Queen’ … my hands were blister-y raw from all of those chemicals but WOW, so worth it when you saw that glorious head-o-poodle emerge from the shampoo bowl a few hours later.  And don’t even get me started on the "Apple Perm" or the even more revolutionary "Placenta Perm" … Progressive?  Honey, we were front line progressive … I mean who doesn’t want their hair transformed by donated placenta ?  Hello?  Sure, there were other concerns in the World O’ Beauty … the occasional game of ‘cover-the-patch’ in which one must creativily comb over the area that had inadvertantly been cropped just a tad too short.  The backcombing … ah, yes, the infamous backcomb.  You know I live by the motto: "The higher the hair, the closer to God" … boys and girls, the backcomb helped me realize my true hair-stacking abilities.  There was nary a Grandma that didn’t walk out six full inches taller than when she came in.  Baby, I can backcomb with the best of em still today. 
Theory class … hated it!  I didn’t want to learn about scalp conditions and creepy crawlies.  I shuddered to think that any man, woman, or child would dare plunk down in MY CHAIR if ever they were playing host to any living creature … how dare they?  I asked.  Dare they did … for this was beauty school where a haircut could be had for a buck … However, there was a very important part of theory class that I should have paid more attention … yes, mixing the dyes!  I never mastered the art of color versus activator ratio.  What colors used which chemical.  Why some hair ‘takes’ and others don’t with certain products.  Yeah, should have paid attention because the first time my patron arose from the shampoo bowl with green undertones … well, not good.  Not good at all.  So I thrived on the perm, cut and style and never pursued the fine art of color. 
Did I mention the big selling point at ‘Bea Lunds Continental College of Beauty’?  It was the ‘Pivet Point’.  A way of rolling the hair without leaving noticable parts between the curls … "Oh my" you say.  To which I can only respond, "Oh my indeed!"  I was good.  I loved playing with hair: cutting, curling, styling, braiding, perming, digging strands out of tight caps.  Good times. 
And now those good times are being had by one Casey Jayne Humphris, who after just one human hair experience has already mastered the dye job … Foiling three colors at a time no less. . . I look fab baby!
My dear Casey Jayne, I LOVED being your first guinea pig.  You are ADORABLE.  Relax, think it through, take a big breath and just go for it!  You will be a super-star!
Like I said, GOOD TIMES!

I’m Afraid of Leprechauns

Every St. Patricks Day my family and I wake up to find that, once again, some wily Leprachaun has invaded our home.  Damn fella always seems to have a hole in his pocket because every invasion leaves a slew of gold and green behind … coins, candy, even green milk. 
I know my kids are too old to believe the tale of the Leprachaun that found the gold and used our house as his escape, only to reek havoc along the way (i.e. green footprints on the walls and ceiling), but I just can’t help but keep it going.  I love traditions, even the ones that don’t make sense.  I love the excitment of planning and preparing and secretly tip-toeing out in the middle of the night to transform the house into a magical bit o’ fun (note the Irish). 
This year was no exception…okay, I left out the footprints…those take hours to make. The table is covered in green and gold, the treats are strewn about, and the corned beef is slowly cooking it’s way towards dinner.  Irish or not, we will clebrate the day!