cocobunga

the "b" in masgb...

When I was pregnant with our youngest child, Gary and I didn't find out whether the baby was going to be a girl or a boy.  I'm pretty sure that became the trend after he was born.

Speaking of which, does it bug anyone else out there when people say Oh, yes, we found out the sex of the baby but we're not telling anyone.  What the heck is that all about?  If you're not going to tell anyone, then why tell everyone that you know?  They may as well say I know something you don't know in a spoiled bratty voice.  And then they should just stick their tongues out at everyone around them.  Nannie, nannie, boo, boo.  Ugh!  Okay, okay...to each their own.  Personally, in order for me to know and not tell anyone, I would have had to cut my tongue out.

Anyway, if the baby was a boy, I really wanted a George.  I love, love, love that name.  I love everything about that name.  Just say it.  George. Oh, George.  Love the way my mouth moves when I say that.

When I presented to Gary that George would be the perfect name for a boy, I got less than the you are so right Lynn I was expecting.  It was more like a hell no Lynn, not happenin. 

What?  What's wrong with the name George.  Forgive me all of you George's out there reading this.  Personally I think your parents were brilliant!

In my own little mind, I thought to myself I'm not going to worry about it.  It may be a mute point anyway since the baby could be a girl, right?  I decided I would just go about my big belly business and when I went into labor and delivered the baby, Gary would feel so sorry for me and my excruciating pain that when the doctor says, "It's a boy", and the nurse asks, "What is his name?",  I planned to just scream out..."George!"  So, so sure my plan would work.

Well, guess what?  Didn't work.  I did scream out...George!  Gary then turned to the nurse and told her I was only kidding and that was not really his name.  So, I starting soliciting opinions of all the nurses and my doctor.  I was so looking for support while they were stitching me up.  Obviously they didn't want to get involved. It got pretty quiet in there.  Awkward, huh? 

Two days later, it was time to leave the hospital with our nameless newborn.  The nurse told us she needed a name before we leave the hospital or the paperwork would read Baby Coggin.  Well, that wasn't going to work so I asked Gary to just name the baby so we could leave the hospital.  He walked out of the room to let the nurse know the name. 

Now, in my own very hormonal world, I truly believed Gary was going to surprise me and come back to tell me that he named the baby George.  I was sure I had convinced him over the past two days that he looked like a George.  Umm...whatever that meant.

When Gary came back into the room, I was all packed and ready to go home with George.  So excited.

Me:  So, what's his name?

Gary:  Kevin Thomas.

Me:  Well, we agreed on Thomas as the middle name but Kevin?  Where did you come up with Kevin?

Gary:  I thought Kevin Coggin sounded good.

Me:  Really?  Umm..we never even discussed Kevin.

 

Well, we left the hospital with Kevin Thomas Coggin in tow.

 

After much discussion that night - yes, and tears...remember the hormones were raging - we realized Kevin wasn't going to work.  So, I called the hospital the next morning to see how I go about changing his name.  My file had already been sent down to Medical Records.  Oh, no.  Is is too late?  Please put me through to Medical Records.  Ridiculous as it was, I was sobbing.  Who was I?  Yikes.

Fortunately, the woman in Medical Records heard my desperate plea through my sniffling and told me she would hold the paperwork for two days before she sent it off to the state.  I was to call her on Thursday by 10:00am and she would change his name.  Whew.

For the next two days, we read every baby name book ever published and still couldn't come up with the oh most perfect baby boy name.  Next step?  God.  Surely He would have the answer.  We pulled out a book we had of male saint names.  We decided that we would ask God to name this baby.  I convinced Gary that we would open the book and point to a name on the page.  Gary would then have his choice between that name or George.  Yes, I still was holding out hope for that beloved name.  Sick, huh?

So, we closed our eyes, opened the book, and looked down.  HA!  Saint Blaise.  YAY!  Gary is never going to name this kid Blaise.  Woo-Hoo for me!  His name will be George, right?

Not.

Gary said Blaise it would be.

Wait.  What?  He must be bluffing. 

 

Me:  Gary, I'm calling the lady at the hospital.

Gary:  Okay, tell her Blaise.

Me:  I'm dialing...right now.  I am going to tell her Blaise Thomas.

Gary:  Okay.

 

Hmm...

 

When I told the Medical Records woman the name, she was all like really, how do you spell that?

I had to look back at the book to see how it was spelled.

Now...I have to admit that Blaise is a perfect Blaise.  I can't imagine calling him anything else - even George.

Thank you God. 

Oh, yeah, and...gulp...Gary...you were right.

 

they're real and they're spectacular...

If you're an avid Seinfeld lover (like I am), the title of this post may have piqued your curiosity and you may be thinking uh-oh, what is Lynn going to confess now? 

Well, I just want to share these with you...

 

HA!  Aren't they spectacular?

I bought them yesterday and the flower heads were wrapped in netting.  When I removed the netting, they didn't explode until a few hours later after I put them in some water in a vase. 

Isn't Mother Nature genius?

tv in kids bedrooms...

Yesterday, I was very honored to be a guest blogger for Momversation.  Momversation is a website containing videos, forums and blogs which discuss issues pertinent to women and parenting.  You know how us ladies love to chat, right?

Anyway, here is an excerpt from my published post.

Having five children, I have often wondered whether having a television set in their bedroom is a good idea…or not so much. Here is my true confession: My kids have TV’s in their bedrooms. There I said it. Now, does that make me a neglectful parent? ...

To read the entire article, click here Momversation.  While you're over there, please feel free to comment with your views about this parenting topic.

Until then...cheers my friends!

 

me as a morning person...

So far my day isn't going very well.

It started off great.  I sprang out of bed at 6:20, opened the blinds to let the sun shine into my bedroom, and off I went to Starbucks to get Gary his venti bold obsession.  Ah.  My good-wife deed for the day.  It felt great to be the morning person I always strive to be.

When I came home, up the stairs I bounced with Gary's prized cup of java in my hand.  Look what I did for you this morning honey.  And then...

I went to put Gary's morning surprise down on the nightstand and...shit...it slipped right out of my hand and, in a nanosecond, there was $2.10 worth of coffee all over the alarm clock, the telephone, and my copy of Your Best Life Now - 7 Steps to Living at Your Full Potential by Joel Osteen (yes, it's been on my nightstand since 2007).  Oh, yeah, and my bottle of Tums, which is always next to my bed.

The worst part?  I moved the nightstand and there they were.  A whole family of dead coffee covered dust bunnies.  I killed them with the scalding hot beverage.  By the way, where the heck did they come from, how do they multiply so quietly, and just how long have we been sharing my bedroom?  Hmm...

Anyway, while I'm frantically unplugging everything, Gary tells me to be careful I don't get electrocuted.  Yikes.  All I could think of is how the headline in the obits would read...

Woman dies after doing good deed for her husband.  Electrocuted in pool of Starbucks while saturated dust bunnies shrivel beside her.

 

Well, that's what I get for trying to be a morning person.

 

hgtv green home...

Would you like to win this beautiful eco-friendly home in Plymouth, Massachusetts?

If you don't already know about this home, let me fill you in.

HGTV is giving away this charming New England home and all you have to do is register online.  You can enter once a day through June 4th.  The grand prize package is worth almost $800,000 and includes the HGTV Green Home, a 2010 GMC Terrain and $100,000.  Here are some other photos of this spectacular property:

To enter, simply go here http://www.hgtv.com/hgtv-green-home-2010-giveaway-enter/package/index.html and plug in your information.  It's that easy!

And, remember, if you win...I'd be happy to come visit!  I'll bring the wine.

still waiting for the birds and the bees...

According to Mom, my brother and I should have each had two children.  The first one being a boy, and the second a girl.  After all, that is the way she did it.  Why would anyone want more than two children if you do it the right way and have one of each sex?  Oh, yeah, Mom always reminded us that Jesus was a first born and He was a boy.  So, the girl would naturally come second.  This, my friends, is my Mom's logic.  

So, when my brother had his first child, guess what?  It was a girl.  Uh-oh.  LeRoy did it wrong right out of the gate?  How could that be?  Prince LeRoy never did anything wrong, right?  Fortunately, Christina was a beautiful healthy baby and Mom was obviously thrilled to bits with her first grandchild...boy or girl, didn't matter.

Then, I had my first child, Michael.  Yay for me!  I did something right.  Whew.  I'm pretty sure that was the first right thing I ever did right and I was a mere 23 years old.  And...for once, LeRoy couldn't tell me that he let me win.  Go Lynn.  Go Lynn.

Well, then came our second, Alex.  Oopsie.  Two boys in a row.  How could that have happened?  Again, Mom was bewildered but truly delighted.

Mom cut me a break after I had my third because...lo and behold, praise the Lord...Sam(antha) was born.  Now, you can be done Lynn Ellen.  Notice how Mom uses my middle name when she feels strongly about something.  Why do mothers do that?  Wait, why do I do that?  Maybe the only real purpose for middle names is so that moms across the world can make a point to their kids without using curse words.  Yep, that must be it.

Fast forward four years.  Gary and I had to delicately break the news to Mom that I was pregnant again.  She was pretty puzzled by it but got used to the idea.  She was overjoyed when Gabrielle entered this world.  Two boys, two girls.  Perfect.  Again, Mom was all about now you can be done Lynn Ellen.

Umm...

Let's see, Gabrielle was four months old.  Yes, four months old when Gary and I had to go to have another chat with Mom.  Gulp.  Okay, here it comes.  What were you thinking Lynn Ellen?  Ahhh!  I was prepared this time with my reply.

Mom, you know, how I'm still waiting for you to tell me about the birds and the bees?  You know...s--e--x?  And...my period Mom?  Thank goodness Tina Merenda had older sisters and she explained it to me.  Remember how in sixth grade I had to sit in the hallway with the nuns because you wouldn't sign the permission slip for me to see "the film"?  Well, there you have it Mom.

Seriously now, I was the only kid who was not allowed to see "the film".  I remember Mom clearly stating, "No mother is going to sign this permission slip to see that film."  Hmm...needless to say, I was the only one sitting in the hallway with the nuns while the girls were in one room and the boys were in a room across the hall watching "the film".  My friends couldn't wait to come out to tell me all about it (even though they had to swear on the bible never to discuss what they saw) and I couldn't wait to hear every detail.  I still think the nuns could have given me the little party bag filled with giant Kotex and hygiene pamphlets, don't you?

Truth be told, I have learned to love my childhood stories so - thank you Mom for being an Italian over-protective mother and a wonderful Grandmother.  By the way, Mom, aren't you glad we named our fifth child after Saint Blaise?

Just earning my brownie points while I can, folks.

 

the "g" in masgb...

Gabrielle got a detention yesterday from one of her teachers for - wait for it - talking in class.  Okay, so maybe, I should take full responsibility for the following reasons:

#1.  She is my daughter and we all know that excessive chatting is probably inherited from my side of the family.

#2.  Gary and I named her Gabrielle.  She is often called Gabby by her peers and her teachers.  Now, sometimes I'm not sure if that is a nickname short for Gabrielle; or if she would have ended up with that nickname anyway considering the amount of time her mouth is moving.  So, what were we thinking with that name pick?  Hmm...

Just for the record, the definition of Gabby is "tending to talk excessively; garrulous."  Garrulous is "tiresomely talkative; wordy and rambling." 

Ah-ha.

This morning I woke her up early because she had to be school for her detention at 7:30 rather than the normal 8:00.  Even though we only live a couple of blocks from school, Blaise and Gab - yes, this is often what we call her and it means "chatter" - often get a ride because one of us is heading out anyway to get a newspaper.  However, this morning, I was all about...Gab, you need to take responsibility and get there on time on your own.  I thought this would be a good lesson for her considering she usually likes to sleep in until the first last second.

So, off Gab went a bit earlier, and a bit crankier, than usual to serve her time.  My hope is that she learned a lesson and that her extroverted genetic make-up would be altered in some miraculous way.  Maybe I should have had more "quiet time" when she was a toddler or at least invested in some duct tape. 

Just to make myself feel better, I can kind of blame part of this on Gary.  I wanted to name her Olivia.  Love that name.  However, Olivia means "olive tree".  And...the only thing Gary will not even attempt to eat is olives.  Hence, Gabrielle was born and she has filled our world with excessive chatter that, in all honesty, we wouldn't trade for anything.  Her name fits her perfectly.  Who knew?

sitting on my hands...

Recently, Gary bet me that I couldn't tell a complete story if I was sitting on my hands.  What?  Do I really flail my arms uncontrollably and make a spectacle of myself when telling one of my never-ending stories?  Okay, well maybe.  I concede.  Hey, he's the one who married an Italian girl from a Philly suburb.  I married an Irish guy from the southern hospitality part of the country.

So, one night, I actually tried to sit on my hands while telling one of my full length movie stories to some friends.  Crazy.  Everything came out garbled.  My mind shut down.  I tell you it really shut down.  My mouth felt glued shut and my tongue just sat there in my mouth motionless.  I couldn't think - let alone speak.

Truth be told, it was kinda nice for a moment or two because my brain is always working overtime.  It was quite peaceful and no one's ears were bleeding.  I'm pretty sure it was pleasant for everyone.  Gary and our friends actually got to tell one of their - shall we call them short - normal length stories and I got to listen.

Apparently, I tend to put in a lot of details into my conversations.  Is there something wrong with that?  You have to gain the perspective, right?

Anyway, fortunately, for my readers my hands are moving while I'm typing so I actually can think straight when I write.  If I had to sit on my hands, my posts would most probably look like this...

j*#st th7eidn q fahe acndika; fne fouet to fo the oafnasdilnao apdinca anga fna feoinasd falacind xeirha fa%!!!!!

And, it wouldn't be because I was using my toes to type.

to catdog from rocket...

For those of you who read about the almost Easter Sunday Massacre of CatDog, I want to share with you how extremely polite Rocket, the dog next door, is:

 

Rocket left a gift for Catdog along with this little note of apology...

 

 

The Irresistible Ultimate Cat Toy...wow.  Truth be told, I think CatDog was unscathed - physically anyway.  Rocket, on the other hand, had some cuts and scrapes on his nose and his people were mad at him.  Poor Rocket.

 

reading glasses...

Perfect vision.  I have prided myself by saying, "I have 20/20!"  And then BOOM!

I turned 43 and...shit...overnight, I needed reading glasses to find my reading glasses.  I've tried to compensate over the years.  Now, sometimes I can actually find them because I use them as a hair accessory...kinda like a scrunchie...remember them?  I think they died a slow death in the nineties along with fanny packs...frightful.  Oh, yeah, and I'm starting to get dents in both sides of my head from the arms of my glasses.  Is that normal or is that doing something to the outside of my brain?  I wonder.

At last count, I have about forty-seven pair of glasses scattered throughout various place in my little world.  Car - check.  Kitchen - check.  Bedroom - check.  Back of the toilet - check.  Home office - okay, let's not go there again.  I know they are under something in there somewhere.  I actually Velcroed a pair to my computer.  Okay, not really...but I thought it would be genius, just never remember to do it.  Ugh.

I could start wearing those beaded eyeglass necklaces.  Some people buy one to match each of their outfits.  A fashion statement, really?  Not a fan.  Although in looking at my pitiful wardrobe lately, one black necklace would probably suffice.  Such a sad closet.  I so need to shop.

Just for the record, my theory is that "old age" has nothing, let me repeat nothing, to do with needing reading glasses.  I think the key factor to poor eyesight is when are old enough to be paying your own electric bills and then you add teenage kids to the mix.  The kids get older and then you need glasses.  It has nothing to do with YOU getting older.  

Haven't you noticed that teenage kids leave every light in the house on?  You become vividly aware that your electric bill is skyrocketing.  So, you - and your husband because you threaten him - compensate by dimming every light and unplugging the toaster in order to save, save, save.  Oh, yes, and conserve, conserve, conserve.  Which reminds me...when I was little, being "green" simply reminded me of the grinch.  My kids have been taught about living "green" since they were little and they are the ones wasting energy?  Crazy.

Anyway, back to the eyesight thing.   All of a sudden, you're saving.  You're conserving.  It's dark.  You need glasses because you are trying like hell to function in the dark and your eyes are screaming I wanna see the light.  As you're trying to adjust you electric bill, your pupils are adjusting to the dark.  They're so confused, they just give up.   Hence, reading glasses.

So, there you have it folks.  Have no fear.  It couldn't possibly be that you're middle aged or getting old.  No way.  It's much simpler than that...your eyes take the brunt of your kids leaving the lights on.

Well, anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.