Confessions of a Serial Swooper

So, I haven’t blogged in more than a week and, during that time, I’ve been a little uncomfortable with the fact that anyone stumbling upon Serial Swooper since then has landed on a post with references to bedroom activities and (gasp!) lingerie.   I’m usually “not that kind of girl” in blog land (or in real life, for that matter).  Well, at least not anymore, much to Husband’s dismay.

Anyhoo.

Our town’s online newspaper has kindly offered to feature local bloggers with links to our pages.  I signed up — and there was no way I was going to welcome residents to Serial Swooper with a blog about (ahem) “costumery”.  Onward.

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Speaking of the Old Town, we were recently the victim of a very clever serial (no relation) bank robber.  This guy’s been hitting towns across the state but (as we are surrounded on three sides by water) it certainly seemed unlikely the guy would ever be “foolish” enough to come after our banks.  Well, he did.  But, first, the clever fellow hit a bank in a neighboring town which drew much of our police force OFF the peninsula to assist.  Then, he proceeded into our town (probably pulling aside for blue lights heading the other direction) and robbed us.  Not a bad plan, eh?  So, then, for the rest of the afternoon we heard reports that he was “fleeing on foot near the swamp” or “tried to buy a moped from a local store” or “they found his car behind the Italian restaurant” (none of which was accurate).  It was all big action for the small town.   I followed it all on (where else) Facebook as it all went down.    I sat at my computer mid-afternoon, diligently refreshing my screen awaiting more news.  As I did so the kids are playing in the backyard.  It was a lovely spring day and my front door was wide open.

Me to self:  La dee dah, dee dah.  I wonder what the mean old bank robber’s doing now.  Refresh.  La dee dah.   Oooh!  He’s up the street!  Refresh.  I hear helicopters!  Wow.  Look at those helicopters.  La dee dah dee dah.  Refresh.

Then someone posted “Lock your doors, locals.  Bank robber on the loose!”

Hmmm.  Oh.  Hm.  Oh!  Oh, yeah.  Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.  

“Kids!  Time to come in!”

Mother of the year.

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I love Facebook.  It’s a total sickness.  I guarantee you I’ve been “defriended” by a number of people who like me in real life but can not deal with me at all on Facebook because I won’t shut up.  I’m aware of this problem.

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I hate doing things I’m no good at.  Like, I’ve mentioned before (click here for post) about how I know I’m a terrible dancer.  So, I simply don’t dance.  I’m also a terrible grocery shopper but I can’t seem to get off the hook on that one.  For instance, I went grocery shopping today.  I went for dog food because I swear the poor dog eats Honey Nut Cheerios most of the time because I can not get my act together to go out and buy that stinkin’ heavy ole bag of Beneful.  Today, I forgot to get milk.  Milk.  Come on, Swooper.  I have two children one of whom drinks milk like it’s his job.  Nope.  No milk in my cart.

But I’ll be damned if I’m going to run out of taco sauce.

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I have the world’s cutest iPhone cover.  I do.  A friend of mine saw they were for sale on Etsy (here’s the link) and told me about them and I ordered mine immediately.  I love it.  But, because I’m losing a bit of my mind with every passing day, I completely forgot where I got it ten seconds after I placed the order.  So, when admiring friends ask for one, I look at them like this.

So, I sent a text to my friend who originally told me about the phone cover and told her that people kept asking about it and I was too dumb to remember and can she help a sister out, please.   She promptly sent me the information with a header that teasingly addressed me as “Style Icon”.   I had a good laugh over that one and if  you know me or see me about town anytime prior to 10 am you know I am not, in any way, a “style icon”.  That is, unless fleece vests, dirty hair and dirtier jeans are the next “look”.   If so, you heard it here first.  You’re welcome.

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Sick of the Royal Wedding coverage yet?  Well, I’m not.  I’m eating it up with a silver spoon with tea and crumpets on the side.  Yes, sir.  I proposed a little 9 am wedding day gathering of lady friends with mimosas and breakfast snacks and am happy to report the ladies were all over it.  Yippee!

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I’m proud to say that my kids are not afraid to express themselves.  Little Brother is about the most demonstrative child I’ve ever encountered.  He calls hugs “squeezers” and they’re damn good.  He gets all up close and snuggly and really holds tight.  I hope I remember the feeling of those squeezers for the rest of my life even when he’s too cool to give them anymore.  He’s also quick to tell anyone he cares about “I love you, so and so”.   If someone winks at him, he winks right back.  He’s constantly giving me a smiling thumbs up from across the room and his very favorite word is “awesome“.

If someone were to meet Little Brother for the first time, I think they’d probably decide that I was one terrific Mom raising my kids to be kind, upstanding citizens.

And then, Big Brother would saunter over singing a song he titled “Dirty Butt Poopy Farthead” and it would all go right out the window.

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Happy  Royal Wedding to you!

Cheerio!

(Don’t get all excited, dog.  I wasn’t calling you for dinner.)