Greetings from Ocean City, Maryland: A Photo Epic

Below, you will find the much-anticipated, long-awaited, Memorial Day weekend spent in OCMD photo epic. It's not a regular story, nor is it a short story, it's an EPIC. Why? The last two pictures and the story that accompanies them make this a photo epic. Read on and see for yourself:

Rob and Dan are friends, word.

When you need some space to primp, take over a laundry room.

I could say I rarely make this face, but I'd be lying.

Not 25 or 27, and don't you forget it.

Yum, stay away from the soft shell.

A true wilderness girl takes pictures with her prey before she consumes it.

Pepsi is in no way affiliated with pepper&poppy...or are they?

It's fries, relax.

I ate this.

Average thieves wouldn't dress in iridescent; but, he's too slick to be caught.

The End! Wait..

Not the end! Readers, you need to hear the story of Centerfudge. Who is Centerfudge, you ask? Centerfudge is one of Ocean City, Maryland's finest boardwalk folk. The OCMD boardwalk-folk range from a one-man band who stands on one-leg to a portly dude who spray paints trippy space scenes while listening to crappy techno. These people are the salt of the earth and Centerfudge wasn't even working, he was entertaining people on the boardwalk out of the goodness of his own drop-kicking heart. Instead of re-write the story that is Centerfudge, I cut and paste my original telling of this tale from an e-mail I sent to a friend after my vacation. Unlike the original recipient of this e-mail, you, dear readers, get an illustrated version. Read on and enjoy:

Have you ever seen those boxing video games in bars or arcades where a speed bag comes down and you have to hit it as hard as you can for points? If not, you're going to all the right bars. These games are very popular with the jersey shore crowd, many a no-neck orange skinned bro will hog this machine for hours to see just how high his punches can score. It can be pretty hysterical to watch, especially if the puncher has been drinking. This particular OCMD boardwalk-er who wanted to score some points was a little different than others I'd observed. The puncher was not a meathead with a terrible ed hardy t-shirt, he was a scrawny skater with dredlocks. He also had a voice similar to Sean Penn in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I loved him already. The puncher was also not going to punch the speed bag, he announced the very loudly to his group of friends, he was going to "backwards cyclone kick" it. Unbeknownest to him, my camera was ready to document his feat. I'm not sure if he was drinking, but he was hilarious anyway. First he had some trouble getting the machine to accept his dollar, to which he said, "C'mon baby! Pleeease take my dollar!" Nothing like sweet talking a video game to make it do what you want. Secondly, when it came time to choose whether a man or woman was punching the speedbag, he pressed the button that said woman. **See arrow below**

When his friends started laughing at him, he said, "Umm, I'm kicking. It's just like a girl punch." Good point. I've been told after I punch someone that it feels just like a backwards cyclone kick from a man. Down came the speedbag, skinny skater dreds took a very dramatic step back and jumped about five feet off the ground and literally "backwards cyclone kick(ed)" the crap out of this speedbag. 

I was so proud of him. My hopes weren't high for him either, I thought he was going to either completely miss or seriously injure himself in a way that would have prevented future generations of skinny skater dreds frequenting the OCMD boardwalk. The story doesn't end here, (sorry if you're bored). I got a perfect shot of SSD, in mid air, backwards cyclone kicking the bag. I'm pretty sure the woman button is lit up in it, too. I was perfectly happy keeping this shot for my own personal enjoyment, but my friend Keally (who is much too friendly with strangers, in my opinion) begged me to show the shot to SSD. I did and he was ecstatic. He took one look, backed up and jumped up in the air repeatedly. He then proceeded to high five me several times while saying, "Will you add me on facebook so I can make this my default?" No, but I will take down your e-mail so I can send it to you. "Ok, its center, c-e-n-t-e-r, fudge, f-u-g-e, 2003, I know I had this for a hot minute, at..." I wonder if he knows that his email could actually be a real word if he spelled it correctly? Is that what he was going for? Or did he misspell fudge? I don't know or care, I'm just pleased to have provided his new default pic.

There you have it, readers. The story of Centerfudge. He still hasn't responded to my e-mail, either. Oh well, as long as he's still drawing a crowd with his backwards cyclone woman kick, I'm happy.

P.S.

I'm going to a workshop on blogging tomorrow. I wonder if I can still get professional development hours for "reading up" on all of my blogs or catching up on the two bridal shower photo stories I haven't had chances to post? Something tells me the abnormally tall woman hosting this workshop,  whose oxygen levels I worry about since she is so very high up, wouldn't be okay with this. Sigh.

-L

Bowl Cuts: A Photo Short Story

Tomorrow is graduation day for my high school seniors. First and foremost, I must congratulate my twelfth grade lovelies. You made it! Second, I must share with you, dear readers, what I discovered at Betty's as I searched for my hood. To clear things up, I wasn't looking for a neighborhood that makes you nervous at my mother's. A hood is that very annoying Kentucky Derby garland-esque thing that they make you wear at your college graduation. Most folks never have to don it again; however, lucky educators like myself get to wear their hoods two times a year for convocation in September and graduation in June.

Anyway, as I was looking around the house for my hood (which I still haven't located), I came across the tri-fold photo board Betty and I made for my sweet sixteen. It was such a cute idea, we collected different pictures of me and my family and friends from over the years and made a poster that all the guests could sign. As I reminisced over this photo board, I realized, with horror, that a majority of the photos on this poster are of me...with a bowl cut. Not just pictures from when I was two or three, this atrocious haircut spans into at least ages seven or eight. Some of the pictures are just too embarrassing to share, so I made this photo story a short one. Check it out:

I was not the only child in the M family to whom's hair Betty trimmed into this shape. Brant and Brian had matching ones, since they were closer in age. I guess when the surprise came along (me!), my mom didn't feel like reinventing the wheel with a new haircut. She knew a good thing when she saw it and I was forced to get the bowl cut, too. If you ask Betty why I had to endure this crown of embarassment, she will give you a few reasons:

"You have four cowlicks. Anything else would've looked ridiculous." Compared to...
"It was a popular style." Yeah, for boys.
"All the moms asked me where I got your haircut. I cut it myself, thank you very much. You looked like a little Dorothy Hamill."

Thanks, Mom.

Again, congratulations Seniors. I wonder what fashion faux pauxs their parents forced them into as wee ones? I'll check their correctly-spelled blog posts in a couple of years to find out. What about you, dear readers? Care to share any stories of awful haircuts or outfits you were involuntarily made to wear as a little kid?

-L

Father's Day: A Photo Story

May 26th. It has almost been ONE whole month since I posted, dear readers! Instead of making apologies and lamenting about how incredibly busy I've been (I know, you don't speak Whine, either), I will attempt to make up for my very long absence with..what else?..a photo story of the M family's Father's Day. Brian and Kacie were our gracious hosts this Sunday and made our afternoon extra delicious and fun with some grillin' and chillin', kiddie-poolside. Check it out:

The sole reason for everything in our house being apple-cinnamon flavored for my entire childhood.

Oskar wears a bucket hat, Pop wears an Oskar hat.

Don't even think of stealing this kid's portrait idea, etsy-thieves, I've already patented it on legalzoom.

Assaulted by cuteness.

Ukulele with the Uncle-lele.

Salted Caramel Popcorn Cupcakes. They had incredible caramel middles. Niko ate his too fast for me to document it.

Bitty teeth!

This guy had to work, but as you can tell from the boys' faces, he is one loved Rad-Dad.

In spirit of Father's Day, many of my loyal readers already know that I refer to my dear ol' dad as the GOAT, or The Greatest Of All Time. Many of you also know that he gave himself this moniker for his BBM; however, after you read the following list, you'll understand why the label extends far beyond the world of Blackberry Messenger:

Ever the midnight oil burner, the GOAT worked many a late night when my brothers and I were kids. He also left the house pretty early in the morning for work. As a result, The GOAT would leave us notes on the counter to say good morning or keep us aware of our dog's bathroom schedule. The notes were and still are always in a very difficult to decipher form of shorthand known as Pollack. Ever heard of it?

Once, when I was seven or so, I was going to a pool party. Betty wasn't home and I needed my toenails painted. Had these toenails not been painted, the party would obviously have been a total bust. The GOAT came through, gave me a pedi, and made me promise not to tell Ashley's dad. Don't worry, Ken, I don't think he reads my blog. On a sidenote, my toes looked great.

The Girl Scouts have a one-sided tradition of hosting a father-daughter square dance. Why is it one-sided? Because all the Brownies LOVE dressing up like cowgirls, while their dads find it totally awkward. All the dads but the GOAT, that is. My dad pulled out all the stops for the father daughter square dance including a brown Stetson hat, a bandanna, and a denim vest. I'm also pretty sure that because the GOAT is a product of the 70s, he had much more cowboy gear that he wanted to showcase, but Betty made him hold back so as not to embarrass the other less enthusiastic dads. If there was a prize for best dressed, we would've won it. We also cut a mean rug on the dance floor, the GOAT and I. Still do, too. P.S. Look out Osters, we're coming for you in July. No promises we won't break out the denim vests, either.

The final reason the GOAT is truly the Greatest Of All Time, he saves the day. When I was a senior at KU, I planned a 300+ person banquet for an academic honor society. Not one for ad-libbing or speaking out loud at all (I have a blog for gods-sakes), I typed out everything, from introductions of keynote speakers to instructing the guests that the salad bar was open, everything I had to say was on this piece of paper. The banquet went better than I could've hoped for, until the end. As our chapter's president made her final remarks, I made my way up to the podium to make the announcements for honor cords. Low and behold, my notes were gone. She mistakenly had taken my notes with her when she left the podium. Before I could go into cardiac arrest or set the place on fire to save myself from embarrassment, the GOAT stood up from his table and fished a second set of notes out of his suit-jacket pocket. Before we left my apartment to go to the banquet, he made me print a second copy, "Just in case of an emergency." Besides the countless others, this reason alone is enough for me to proudly call my dad: the Greatest Of All Time.

Happy Father's Day to the GOAT and all the other Rad Dad's:

My brother, Brant  (Amazing storyteller, make-believe player, card-board weapon builder, and above-all, dad. Love him.)

Sissy-to-be, Kacie's dad, Tim (Another day saver, Tiki Torch fuel, anyone?)

New dads Adam W. and Pat H. (Making new parenthood look easy, these guys.)

Daddy-to-Be, Joe M. (So soon!)

Deacon Rich (Is there a cooler dad out there? I think not.)

Tricia Gail and Jillian's dad, Mr. M. (If there's a sign, it's a rule. He also makes a mean garbage can trapdoor invention thing.)

Steph B's dad, Brock  (I know we haven't met, but any guy who makes his dog an egg every morning and builds his daughter a second-hand above ground pool is OK by me)

Lydia's dad, Big Don (The Kraut King)

Keally's dad, Mr. G (Just try not to smile or escape a bearhug around KBP's dad!) and dad-in-law, Mr. P (The Master of Grills!)

Ashley's dad, Mr. M (I think he's the only reason I ever left the bench during my basketball career. Nope, I'm positive.)

Rosie's B's dad, The Braudler (Another day saver, can we say fourth of July fireworks debacle?)

Laura's dad, Mr. P (Only a rad-dad can make pleasant conversation with annoying teenage girls who invaded his home during a Mariners game)

Jenny's dad, Mr. B (Whatever comes out of the pot! He also owns a pub, 'nuff said)

Did you miss me, readers? Because I missed you.

-L