1. "April showers bring May flowers." The May flowers damn well better be gorgeous, vibrant, and ever-blooming. Seriously, the rain can stop, or even ease up, anytime now.
2. Facebook. I thought about doing the Facebook thing where you can select five people you'd like to punch in the face. After giving it careful consideration, I think it might be easier to select five people I DON'T have the undying desire to punch right in the ole kisser.
3. The new puppy. He humps everything. A pillow. A blanket. The cat. The dog doesn't stop humping. To add to the humpfest that goes on daily in my household, the old dog (that is about 13 years old, never been neutered or humped anything in his life) has started trying to hump the puppy. This must stop before I lose what is left of my mind. The cat probably would appreciate it, too.
4. My mother-in-law passed away. On Easter Sunday, we get a knock on the door from a Deputy. My first thought was, "What did the youngest do now?" Then I thought, well, maybe they are here because the neighbors complained about me burning sticks in the backyard. When he asked for my husband, I thought oh, holy hell.
The Deputy starts by saying, "I'm sorry I've got some bad news for you."
At this point, I nearly puked on his shoes because our oldest had left about a half hour before this. I thought surely something had happened to my son. That's when we got the news that my husband's mom had died.
For whatever reason, his family couldn't wait to get home to get our phone number to call us. No. They had to call the sheriff's department so I could have the crap scared out of me. The week that followed, including a road trip to NY, was not so enjoyable. But, that's all I'll say about that.
5. People. The next person who asks me to do something for them is going to get added to the list of people I want to sucker punch. Seriously. I realize I don't "work outside the home." This doesn't mean that I sit around eating bon-bons all day, leaving an ass print on the couch cushion.
See, I do this little thing called writing. Now, yes, I do realize that I only currently have the weekly column. This doesn't necessarily mean that I don't work on other projects on occasion. I also have to run around and clean up after these three little pigs I call my two sons and husband.
Let's not forget that I'm running around trying to dissuade dogs trying to hump the cat and each other. I have plenty to keep me busy. Do no assume that I have all the time in the world to do whatever it is you want me to do for you. I'm not here to serve, contrary to poplar belief.
6. Sleep. If I don't get some soon, I see a lot of random points of disinterest I'll have to share.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Tales of Sixth Grade Summoning and Such
***Warning...this could probably be offensive to some people. But, hey, the setting is a time when we weren't politically correct. There was no such thing as political correctness. The "Special Ed" class wasn't called "The Resource Room." "Retarded" was used in place of "Mentally Handicapped." ****
Sally and Jane (names changed, of course) were my best friends. They were sisters, seperated by a grade, and their mom was an elder in the little Methodist church in our small town. I was their token heathen. The child they would save. I'd gone to church when I was younger with my grandma, but generally, I didn't attend unless I'd spent the night at Sally and Jane's house.
When they said the Lord's Prayer at a meal, I'd peek at the plaque on the wall because I didn't know it. They dragged me off to retreats, complete with stories about the Rapture - with felt board stories about kids being left to roam the earth alone because they hadn't accepted Jesus. One minute they were walking down the street with their parents, and poof! The next minute no more parents as they'd ascended to heaven. That's what you got when you were a sinner and all.
All they had to do is get me to ask Jesus into my heart, and there'd be one more jewel to toss at Jesus in the end, I suppose. They were good people, and I wasn't opposed to the Biblical teachings I was absorbing. It was a small price to pay for the fun and mayhem Sally, Jane, and I had.
I spent a lot of time at their house after my parents divorced the summer after fourth grade. We'd strip the cushions off the couch to do tumbling in the living room. Sometimes, we'd take a couple rolls of caps and a hammer out to the sidewalk for a make-shift seance. "Devil, if you're here, let us know," Sally would say before striking the red paper and waiting for a bang.
She had the white cat handy to throw at anyone who might get possessed...because as she told us, the devil was afraid of white cats, so all we had to do was toss Felicia into the face of the possessed, and voila! We'd be free once again.
When we grew tired of reading teen magazines like "Tiger Beat" and "Sixteen," we'd hop on our bicycles for a ride around the neighborhood. We were out minding our own business, riding our bikes, when Betsy(name changed) saw us.
Think "Electric Company" and "Hey, you guys," bellowed out in the distance.
Oh shit, it was Betsy. Yes, we said shit because we were in sixth grade and trying our hand at cussing. Plus, it was Indiana, and there wasn't much to do besides ride our bikes, have seances, and practice swearing.
The thing about Betsy was that she was in Special Ed because she was retarded. Physically, she looked somewhat normal, though she was our age and had boobs bigger than most adults we knew. She always looked like she needed to wash her hair. She grunted and laughed a lot, which set me on edge. Sometimes, the noises she made were almost primal, which made me worry what she would do next. I feared she'd hug me; other times, I feared she'd try to kill me. Another thing about her was you couldn't shake her once she latched on for the afternoon.
When her voice rang out behind us, there were two options- run like the wind or stick around for some entertainment. We opted for the former, but would get the latter before the day was over. We cut our ride short and headed back to Sally and Jane's house.
Betsy showed up at the door about ten minutes later, sweating and sucking wind from the four block run after us. Except she didn't really show up at the door. She climbed into the bush outside their kitchen window. We looked up from our snack of cookies and milk and there she was with her face pressed against the glass. Her nose and lips contorted against the glass. We shrieked simultaneously.
Sarah, their mom, went to the door, coaxing Betsy out of the bush. With this, we groaned simultaneously. We knew she was going to invite her in. It was a given.
We watched her suck down a couple cookies and a glass of milk before retiring to the family room. Her milk mustache, complete with cookie crumbs turned my stomach. If the truth be told, she scared me more than she annoyed me.
Sally popped in a VCR tape of "Nightmare Theater" that she recorded on a Saturday night. Scary movies terrified Betsy. We knew this, but again, it was Indiana, and why not watch her cry because she didn't want to watch "The Hand." We had to be nice to her and couldn't tell her to beat it. So, in other words, we made her visit as uncomfortable as possible.
The rage at the time was cinnamon toothpicks. We'd buy them in the little cellophane packages at the drug store, but the store-bought ones lacked a certain something - probably the ability to blister your tongue while delivering the cinnamon flavor. We started making our own by buying cinnamon oil that would render you blind for a day if you happened to touch your eyes after touching a toothpick.
The longer the toothpicks were soaked, the hotter they were. Sally had a batch brewing in the kitchen window going on two days of soaking. Betsy had asked for one more, and Sally wouldn't oblige.
I was lucky to get one, too. While we were friends, she wasn't always overly nice to me, either. I'd spent an afternoon hiding in a closet one day so that Jane's friend Karen wouldn't know that I was there. Sally had given me a cup of grape kool-aid and some candy to snack on during my stay in the closet. It was a long couple hours after it hit my bladder.
One other time, they made me hide in the stairwell behind the closed door so Karen wouldn't know I was there. She didn't like to visit when I was there because she'd end up picked on. It was the pecking order, I guess. At least that time, the cupboard at the bottom of the stairs served as their pantry, so I had plenty of snacks to pass my time.
We savored our cinnamon toothpicks from a previously completed batch when Betsy announced she had to poop. She went to the bathroom, and didn't come back right away. She stood in the kitchen. Busted. Toothpicks that had been in the tiny bottle of fire were missing.
"Betsy, did you take those toothpicks?" Sally asked her.
Betsy merely shook her head no, her lips tightly pressed.
Of course, we knew she had them in her mouth. At least ten of them by best estimation.
"Besty, are you lying? Jesus doesn't like liars," Jane said.
She shook her head no again. So we waited. Betsy's eyes began to water. Drool started trickling out the corners of her mouth. Still she insisted she didn't have the toothpicks as her face turned red. It seemed like a lifetime passed as we watched for something to happen next. Finally, she spit the toothpicks out and ran for the door.
Sarah asked where she went, and we said she had to go home, which was perfectly fine with us. We gathered a few rolls of caps and headed to the sidewalk to see if we could summon Elvis Presley or my dead grandpa.
Sally and Jane (names changed, of course) were my best friends. They were sisters, seperated by a grade, and their mom was an elder in the little Methodist church in our small town. I was their token heathen. The child they would save. I'd gone to church when I was younger with my grandma, but generally, I didn't attend unless I'd spent the night at Sally and Jane's house.
When they said the Lord's Prayer at a meal, I'd peek at the plaque on the wall because I didn't know it. They dragged me off to retreats, complete with stories about the Rapture - with felt board stories about kids being left to roam the earth alone because they hadn't accepted Jesus. One minute they were walking down the street with their parents, and poof! The next minute no more parents as they'd ascended to heaven. That's what you got when you were a sinner and all.
All they had to do is get me to ask Jesus into my heart, and there'd be one more jewel to toss at Jesus in the end, I suppose. They were good people, and I wasn't opposed to the Biblical teachings I was absorbing. It was a small price to pay for the fun and mayhem Sally, Jane, and I had.
I spent a lot of time at their house after my parents divorced the summer after fourth grade. We'd strip the cushions off the couch to do tumbling in the living room. Sometimes, we'd take a couple rolls of caps and a hammer out to the sidewalk for a make-shift seance. "Devil, if you're here, let us know," Sally would say before striking the red paper and waiting for a bang.
She had the white cat handy to throw at anyone who might get possessed...because as she told us, the devil was afraid of white cats, so all we had to do was toss Felicia into the face of the possessed, and voila! We'd be free once again.
When we grew tired of reading teen magazines like "Tiger Beat" and "Sixteen," we'd hop on our bicycles for a ride around the neighborhood. We were out minding our own business, riding our bikes, when Betsy(name changed) saw us.
Think "Electric Company" and "Hey, you guys," bellowed out in the distance.
Oh shit, it was Betsy. Yes, we said shit because we were in sixth grade and trying our hand at cussing. Plus, it was Indiana, and there wasn't much to do besides ride our bikes, have seances, and practice swearing.
The thing about Betsy was that she was in Special Ed because she was retarded. Physically, she looked somewhat normal, though she was our age and had boobs bigger than most adults we knew. She always looked like she needed to wash her hair. She grunted and laughed a lot, which set me on edge. Sometimes, the noises she made were almost primal, which made me worry what she would do next. I feared she'd hug me; other times, I feared she'd try to kill me. Another thing about her was you couldn't shake her once she latched on for the afternoon.
When her voice rang out behind us, there were two options- run like the wind or stick around for some entertainment. We opted for the former, but would get the latter before the day was over. We cut our ride short and headed back to Sally and Jane's house.
Betsy showed up at the door about ten minutes later, sweating and sucking wind from the four block run after us. Except she didn't really show up at the door. She climbed into the bush outside their kitchen window. We looked up from our snack of cookies and milk and there she was with her face pressed against the glass. Her nose and lips contorted against the glass. We shrieked simultaneously.
Sarah, their mom, went to the door, coaxing Betsy out of the bush. With this, we groaned simultaneously. We knew she was going to invite her in. It was a given.
We watched her suck down a couple cookies and a glass of milk before retiring to the family room. Her milk mustache, complete with cookie crumbs turned my stomach. If the truth be told, she scared me more than she annoyed me.
Sally popped in a VCR tape of "Nightmare Theater" that she recorded on a Saturday night. Scary movies terrified Betsy. We knew this, but again, it was Indiana, and why not watch her cry because she didn't want to watch "The Hand." We had to be nice to her and couldn't tell her to beat it. So, in other words, we made her visit as uncomfortable as possible.
The rage at the time was cinnamon toothpicks. We'd buy them in the little cellophane packages at the drug store, but the store-bought ones lacked a certain something - probably the ability to blister your tongue while delivering the cinnamon flavor. We started making our own by buying cinnamon oil that would render you blind for a day if you happened to touch your eyes after touching a toothpick.
The longer the toothpicks were soaked, the hotter they were. Sally had a batch brewing in the kitchen window going on two days of soaking. Betsy had asked for one more, and Sally wouldn't oblige.
I was lucky to get one, too. While we were friends, she wasn't always overly nice to me, either. I'd spent an afternoon hiding in a closet one day so that Jane's friend Karen wouldn't know that I was there. Sally had given me a cup of grape kool-aid and some candy to snack on during my stay in the closet. It was a long couple hours after it hit my bladder.
One other time, they made me hide in the stairwell behind the closed door so Karen wouldn't know I was there. She didn't like to visit when I was there because she'd end up picked on. It was the pecking order, I guess. At least that time, the cupboard at the bottom of the stairs served as their pantry, so I had plenty of snacks to pass my time.
We savored our cinnamon toothpicks from a previously completed batch when Betsy announced she had to poop. She went to the bathroom, and didn't come back right away. She stood in the kitchen. Busted. Toothpicks that had been in the tiny bottle of fire were missing.
"Betsy, did you take those toothpicks?" Sally asked her.
Betsy merely shook her head no, her lips tightly pressed.
Of course, we knew she had them in her mouth. At least ten of them by best estimation.
"Besty, are you lying? Jesus doesn't like liars," Jane said.
She shook her head no again. So we waited. Betsy's eyes began to water. Drool started trickling out the corners of her mouth. Still she insisted she didn't have the toothpicks as her face turned red. It seemed like a lifetime passed as we watched for something to happen next. Finally, she spit the toothpicks out and ran for the door.
Sarah asked where she went, and we said she had to go home, which was perfectly fine with us. We gathered a few rolls of caps and headed to the sidewalk to see if we could summon Elvis Presley or my dead grandpa.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Mr. Sandman? Bring me a dream...and preferably not a nightmare
I suffer, to the best of my ability to give it a name, something I like to call seasonal-can't-sleep-for-nothing syndrome. It's happened every year at the beginning of spring and again just as summer is making its way into fall since I was about 19 years old. Now that I think about it, I don't believe I was afflicted during that time I lived in AZ. Hmm.
I don't know what causes it. The only thing I do know is that it can be maddening. I lie there in bed listening to the night noises, which loosely translates into everyone snoring except for me. Even the new puppy snores. (That's an entire post of its own, so I'll save the puppy chronicles for another rant.)
Even more maddening are the thoughts that tromp around in my grey matter before I finally drift off. It's the perfect time to worry and fixate over the economy, my unemployment, my son graduating high school in May, being 40 (yet another entry for later), and trying to figure out the last name of the girl Connie in middle school who started out with one name, but was adopted by her step-dad, and then she moved away. Oh, and yeah, she was in my group in choir and we did a commercial for peanut butter as our project, and man oh man, what was her last name and whatever happened to her? And don't I have a middle school yearbook around here somewhere? Maybe I should look for that tomorrow and sneak a peek to solve that mystery. But where would it be? It might be in the trunk in the closet. I should really clean that closet. Oh, but there's so many other things I should be doing. I'm so behind on everything. And, man, this economy and recession are scaring me, and the cost of groceries are going up, and wow, so is everything else. Stupid Ethanol driving up costs for farmers to feed their livestock, so even milk is more expensive. And what is her last name?
Is it any wonder I can't sleep?
So, sometimes, I sing in my head. Everyone can be thankful for this because I couldn't carry a tune if it had a handle and was somehow affixed to my body with velcro and bungee straps. I don't know how some of these tunes get in my head, but I suspect it came about when I thought about the trunk and its contents.
Last night, it was this song.
Go ahead and listen and watch. You'll be glad you did. Really.
Okay, not so glad are you?
I didn't know that Ray Stevens sang "Along Came Jones" until I googled it this morning. I expect I heard it by "The Coasters" on one of those compilation albums that I loved so much as a child. Growing up, I had a special fondness for silly songs that told stories.
"And then he grabbed her...and then....he tied her up...and then...a train started coming...and then and then...along came Jones...." It didn't matter what else I tried thinking about, these lyrics kept cropping back up into my head.
One might think I'd dream about being tied to the railroad tracks, but I didn't. Nope. I dreamed that a girl I was friends with in high school was perming my hair. She got bored and decided to stop, leaving me with half a head of perm rollers. I started rolling myself only to discover my hair was dreadlocks and I couldn't roll it around those tiny rods.
Today, I'll shuffle through the day, hoping for some decent sleep tonight...and I just might try to solve the mystery of the girl named Connie between yawns and the undying desire to nap.
I don't know what causes it. The only thing I do know is that it can be maddening. I lie there in bed listening to the night noises, which loosely translates into everyone snoring except for me. Even the new puppy snores. (That's an entire post of its own, so I'll save the puppy chronicles for another rant.)
Even more maddening are the thoughts that tromp around in my grey matter before I finally drift off. It's the perfect time to worry and fixate over the economy, my unemployment, my son graduating high school in May, being 40 (yet another entry for later), and trying to figure out the last name of the girl Connie in middle school who started out with one name, but was adopted by her step-dad, and then she moved away. Oh, and yeah, she was in my group in choir and we did a commercial for peanut butter as our project, and man oh man, what was her last name and whatever happened to her? And don't I have a middle school yearbook around here somewhere? Maybe I should look for that tomorrow and sneak a peek to solve that mystery. But where would it be? It might be in the trunk in the closet. I should really clean that closet. Oh, but there's so many other things I should be doing. I'm so behind on everything. And, man, this economy and recession are scaring me, and the cost of groceries are going up, and wow, so is everything else. Stupid Ethanol driving up costs for farmers to feed their livestock, so even milk is more expensive. And what is her last name?
Is it any wonder I can't sleep?
So, sometimes, I sing in my head. Everyone can be thankful for this because I couldn't carry a tune if it had a handle and was somehow affixed to my body with velcro and bungee straps. I don't know how some of these tunes get in my head, but I suspect it came about when I thought about the trunk and its contents.
Last night, it was this song.
Go ahead and listen and watch. You'll be glad you did. Really.
Okay, not so glad are you?
I didn't know that Ray Stevens sang "Along Came Jones" until I googled it this morning. I expect I heard it by "The Coasters" on one of those compilation albums that I loved so much as a child. Growing up, I had a special fondness for silly songs that told stories.
"And then he grabbed her...and then....he tied her up...and then...a train started coming...and then and then...along came Jones...." It didn't matter what else I tried thinking about, these lyrics kept cropping back up into my head.
One might think I'd dream about being tied to the railroad tracks, but I didn't. Nope. I dreamed that a girl I was friends with in high school was perming my hair. She got bored and decided to stop, leaving me with half a head of perm rollers. I started rolling myself only to discover my hair was dreadlocks and I couldn't roll it around those tiny rods.
Today, I'll shuffle through the day, hoping for some decent sleep tonight...and I just might try to solve the mystery of the girl named Connie between yawns and the undying desire to nap.
Monday, March 16, 2009
You're So Weird
"I can't wait to move out. When I leave, I'm never coming back to this house. Not even to visit. You are so WEIRD. You're overprotective. You're WEIRD," my youngest, soon-to-be 16 year old child lamented in the middle of the front yard, loud enough for half the neighborhood to hear.
He was pissed because he was up before noon on a Saturday. He was pissed that he was asked to do something besides hang out at his friend's house across the street, or sit around playing Halo and texting his girlfriend.
We may as well asked for a couple pints of blood and some vital organs when we had him outside helping to clean up the yard. After a couple months of ice and wind storms, compiled with the fact that the snow flew before the last of the leaves were raked, topped off with every piece of trash in the neighborhood manages to blow into our yard, we had some work to do.
The temps hovered around 50, the sun shined, and my son bitched.
I suppose my feelings might have been hurt by his admission that he wanted to leave and never come back. Perhaps, it should have tugged at my heart and made me sad. It didn't, though. I've been through this before with my other son. When he neared the tender age of 16, he thought I was the devil. I'm sure the only difference two years later is that he no longer "thinks" but "knows" I'm the devil.
"This your first day here?" I asked my son.
"Huh?" he replied, ever so eloquent.
"I'm weird. Are you just figuring this out?"
"Don't talk to me. You're weird," he said, and picked up the rake to continue on with leaf removal.
Seriously, though, it's taken him nearly 16 years to figure out his mother is weird? Was this a new discovery?
I would have loved to know what qualified me as weird in his eyes. I know I'm a bit left of center, off-kelter, out in left field, and don't exactly see things as others do. In fact, my drummer is prone to fits of epilepsy followed by bouts of narcolepsy. My beat is erratic or non-existant.
I watched my son rake as I sat there on the picnic table. More a man than a child these days, I fondly remembered when he thought of me in a different light, when I was mommy and not some weirdo he was forced to live with because of a random arrival into this world in a genetic game of Russian roulette. He was once a little boy who reveled in a game of peek-a-boo, laughed at my funny faces, and curled up beside me on the couch and fell asleep.
I didn't long for those days. I know this is course of motherhood. Babies become toddlers. Toddlers become pre-teens. Pre-teens transform into these monsters known as teenagers. It may be years before my "weirdness" is overlooked.
"I mean it. I'm moving out and never coming back," my son sneered just loud enough for me to hear as my husband rounded the corner of the house, his phone doubling as a mp3 player on his hip.
"We're not going to take it, no we're not going to take it, we're not going to take it anymore...." played out in the silence between my dear child and me.
My husband paused long enough to dance in the front yard to a song that had been an anthem of our youth. I smiled - at the reminder of my own teenage angst, my husband's dancing abilities (or lack thereof), and my son's reaction. I smiled because I'm not the only weird one.
"Oh mannnn, you're both so weird. Ugh. I can't stand it. Stop dancing. Weirdo!"
He was pissed because he was up before noon on a Saturday. He was pissed that he was asked to do something besides hang out at his friend's house across the street, or sit around playing Halo and texting his girlfriend.
We may as well asked for a couple pints of blood and some vital organs when we had him outside helping to clean up the yard. After a couple months of ice and wind storms, compiled with the fact that the snow flew before the last of the leaves were raked, topped off with every piece of trash in the neighborhood manages to blow into our yard, we had some work to do.
The temps hovered around 50, the sun shined, and my son bitched.
I suppose my feelings might have been hurt by his admission that he wanted to leave and never come back. Perhaps, it should have tugged at my heart and made me sad. It didn't, though. I've been through this before with my other son. When he neared the tender age of 16, he thought I was the devil. I'm sure the only difference two years later is that he no longer "thinks" but "knows" I'm the devil.
"This your first day here?" I asked my son.
"Huh?" he replied, ever so eloquent.
"I'm weird. Are you just figuring this out?"
"Don't talk to me. You're weird," he said, and picked up the rake to continue on with leaf removal.
Seriously, though, it's taken him nearly 16 years to figure out his mother is weird? Was this a new discovery?
I would have loved to know what qualified me as weird in his eyes. I know I'm a bit left of center, off-kelter, out in left field, and don't exactly see things as others do. In fact, my drummer is prone to fits of epilepsy followed by bouts of narcolepsy. My beat is erratic or non-existant.
I watched my son rake as I sat there on the picnic table. More a man than a child these days, I fondly remembered when he thought of me in a different light, when I was mommy and not some weirdo he was forced to live with because of a random arrival into this world in a genetic game of Russian roulette. He was once a little boy who reveled in a game of peek-a-boo, laughed at my funny faces, and curled up beside me on the couch and fell asleep.
I didn't long for those days. I know this is course of motherhood. Babies become toddlers. Toddlers become pre-teens. Pre-teens transform into these monsters known as teenagers. It may be years before my "weirdness" is overlooked.
"I mean it. I'm moving out and never coming back," my son sneered just loud enough for me to hear as my husband rounded the corner of the house, his phone doubling as a mp3 player on his hip.
"We're not going to take it, no we're not going to take it, we're not going to take it anymore...." played out in the silence between my dear child and me.
My husband paused long enough to dance in the front yard to a song that had been an anthem of our youth. I smiled - at the reminder of my own teenage angst, my husband's dancing abilities (or lack thereof), and my son's reaction. I smiled because I'm not the only weird one.
"Oh mannnn, you're both so weird. Ugh. I can't stand it. Stop dancing. Weirdo!"
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Oh, Those Crazy Kids
I got an email on Monday afternoon informing me that my youngest child, the freshman, had dozed off during Math class. The teacher noted it was to be expected following the Super Bowl, but I guess he wanted to let me know my child decided to catch forty winks in his classroom.
I asked my child about it, like a good parent is supposed to do. He swears he was sitting up straight and succumbed to sleep against his will. I offered to have him tested for narcolepsy, but he suggested it was probably because he didn't have his coffee that morning.
This is true. I know he didn't because my husband questioned why there was so much cold coffee in the pot later that evening. I hadn't gotten around to emptying the pot and rinsing it out. I didn't have much coffee either because I find by the time I'm off the treadmill, I'm not in the mood for more hot nectar from the gods.
The last couple mornings, the joke has been, "Get up and get your coffee. We can't have you dozing off in math class again today."
When I woke him up this morning, I told him to get up, get showered, and get a cup of Joe. After doing so, he plopped down on the couch and proceeded to flip through the channels, stopping on one of those "Chuckie" movies. You know, the ones where the doll comes to life and goes on killing sprees.
The movies used to scare the beejesus out of the kids when they were younger. Come to think of it, I've always found them slightly unsettling, too. It's a doll, obivously, possessed by some deranged killer (if memory serves). I understand the concept, and I do realize it's just a movie, but I never really got how a doll could possess superhuman powers. My feelings towards the movie ranged from, "Oh, c'mon, how stupid," to "I'm keeping an eye on any and all dolls because you never know when one is going to be inhabited by the spirit of a killer."
I was making my morning rounds, topping off the cat food, freshening the water dish, picking up dirty clothes, and all those other things I do first thing in the morning.
The oldest child never stirs until the last possible moment. He gives himself enough time to shower, get dressed, and start his car before having to hit the road to get to school a few minutes before the bell rings.
I overheard him say to his younger brother, "Great. You're watching Chuckie? Now you're going to have nightmares when you fall asleep in math class this morning."
While I certainly don't appreciate my child falling asleep during school, I definitely appreciate wit.
I asked my child about it, like a good parent is supposed to do. He swears he was sitting up straight and succumbed to sleep against his will. I offered to have him tested for narcolepsy, but he suggested it was probably because he didn't have his coffee that morning.
This is true. I know he didn't because my husband questioned why there was so much cold coffee in the pot later that evening. I hadn't gotten around to emptying the pot and rinsing it out. I didn't have much coffee either because I find by the time I'm off the treadmill, I'm not in the mood for more hot nectar from the gods.
The last couple mornings, the joke has been, "Get up and get your coffee. We can't have you dozing off in math class again today."
When I woke him up this morning, I told him to get up, get showered, and get a cup of Joe. After doing so, he plopped down on the couch and proceeded to flip through the channels, stopping on one of those "Chuckie" movies. You know, the ones where the doll comes to life and goes on killing sprees.
The movies used to scare the beejesus out of the kids when they were younger. Come to think of it, I've always found them slightly unsettling, too. It's a doll, obivously, possessed by some deranged killer (if memory serves). I understand the concept, and I do realize it's just a movie, but I never really got how a doll could possess superhuman powers. My feelings towards the movie ranged from, "Oh, c'mon, how stupid," to "I'm keeping an eye on any and all dolls because you never know when one is going to be inhabited by the spirit of a killer."
I was making my morning rounds, topping off the cat food, freshening the water dish, picking up dirty clothes, and all those other things I do first thing in the morning.
The oldest child never stirs until the last possible moment. He gives himself enough time to shower, get dressed, and start his car before having to hit the road to get to school a few minutes before the bell rings.
I overheard him say to his younger brother, "Great. You're watching Chuckie? Now you're going to have nightmares when you fall asleep in math class this morning."
While I certainly don't appreciate my child falling asleep during school, I definitely appreciate wit.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Walk Like An Egyptian...or anyway you please
For an early birthday present, (I turn 40 on Sunday the 8th), my husband let me get a treadmill a few weeks ago. I ended up taking a few days off last week due to the presence of my children caused by snow days. Yes, again, I know. It's winter. It's supposed to be cold. It's supposed to snow.
The only thing I can say is that the groundhog better do whatever signifies an early spring today and the children better not be missing any more school any time soon because I can't be held accountable for my actions.
Anyway, the treadmill. My husband offered to let me get a tattoo to celebrate my 40th birthday. Tattoos have been a point of contention for a while now. He once told me that tattoos were trashy on a chick. I wanted one a lot more until they became trite. Then I sort of thought, what the hell, why not. But, I met great resistence from him.
Maybe I didn't want a tattoo so much as I didn't appreciate being told what I could or could not do with my body by my husband. Regardless, he did agree to let me get two more holes put into my right earlobe to balance it all out. Since 1987, I've sported two holes in the right and four holes in the left. I don't remember what purpose it served, but I'd never gotten around to either letting holes grow shut or getting additional ones.
Back to the treadmill. Nope, I don't suffer from any attention deficit dis...look, the cat just found a dustbunny to bat about the floor and Barbara Walters is wearing some funky necklaces on "The View"....
I realized today it's a good thing I can't afford a gym membership. It's not because I wouldn't use it, which could be a valid reason not to have one since I tend to get distracted and not follow through on things. It's not because it would take too much time to drive there, work out, drive back, etc. and so forth.
The reason is that I would make a total fool of myself, I fear.
I've always known I don't like working out with an audience. It's mainly because I like to put some music on and dance about doing various moves from workout DVDs and tapes that I've had through the years. One never knows when I'll randomly go from "Sweatin' to the Oldies" to doing a few Tae-bo moves.
The treadmill seems to be no different. The first 60 minutes or so that I'm on it, I truly focus on doing a good work-out. Since I've got stubby legs, and as a rule I don't run unless someone is chasing me with an axe or a knife, I make use of the incline button and don't often go faster than 3.8 mph which is almost speedwalking for me.
But, in those last 20 minutes, I tend to goof off a bit. I still keep the pace up, but I find myself moving my arms around to burn more calories. At one point, I realized that I had quite the "Saturday Night Fever" thing going on with my first fingers pointed and getting a walking groove on.
I try to focus on my posture and not lean forward. I realized that perhaps good form would not make my lower back ache. So, I try to remember to keep my tummy tight and my back straight. Sometimes, I'll raise my arm above my head, and curl my hand in such a way that makes it look like I'm pulling up on a string to pull myself totally standing up straight.
Yes, weird, I know. One could only imagine how weird an onlooker would think I am if I were in the middle of a public gym.
Overall, the treadmill has been quite the learning experience. The first day on it, I tried the option where you can enter your weight, how many calories you'd like to burn, and how much time you'd like to dedicate to the experience. I punched in some numbers and that baby took off at 6.5 mph. I don't think I could move that fast even if someone was coming at me with a machete.
I learned today that it's fun to try to walk like a runway model on the treadmill. However, I wouldn't suggest trying this at excessive speeds. It can be dangerous. The same goes for dislodging a wedgie. If you get one, hit the stop button before trying to dig your drawers out of your nether regions. It's a good idea to try not to look behind you, either. I turned around to check the clock on the range in the kitchen and was nearly propelled the 15' back into the room.
Yes, it's a very good thing I can't afford a gym membership. I don't think I'm up for paying for public humiliation.
The only thing I can say is that the groundhog better do whatever signifies an early spring today and the children better not be missing any more school any time soon because I can't be held accountable for my actions.
Anyway, the treadmill. My husband offered to let me get a tattoo to celebrate my 40th birthday. Tattoos have been a point of contention for a while now. He once told me that tattoos were trashy on a chick. I wanted one a lot more until they became trite. Then I sort of thought, what the hell, why not. But, I met great resistence from him.
Maybe I didn't want a tattoo so much as I didn't appreciate being told what I could or could not do with my body by my husband. Regardless, he did agree to let me get two more holes put into my right earlobe to balance it all out. Since 1987, I've sported two holes in the right and four holes in the left. I don't remember what purpose it served, but I'd never gotten around to either letting holes grow shut or getting additional ones.
Back to the treadmill. Nope, I don't suffer from any attention deficit dis...look, the cat just found a dustbunny to bat about the floor and Barbara Walters is wearing some funky necklaces on "The View"....
I realized today it's a good thing I can't afford a gym membership. It's not because I wouldn't use it, which could be a valid reason not to have one since I tend to get distracted and not follow through on things. It's not because it would take too much time to drive there, work out, drive back, etc. and so forth.
The reason is that I would make a total fool of myself, I fear.
I've always known I don't like working out with an audience. It's mainly because I like to put some music on and dance about doing various moves from workout DVDs and tapes that I've had through the years. One never knows when I'll randomly go from "Sweatin' to the Oldies" to doing a few Tae-bo moves.
The treadmill seems to be no different. The first 60 minutes or so that I'm on it, I truly focus on doing a good work-out. Since I've got stubby legs, and as a rule I don't run unless someone is chasing me with an axe or a knife, I make use of the incline button and don't often go faster than 3.8 mph which is almost speedwalking for me.
But, in those last 20 minutes, I tend to goof off a bit. I still keep the pace up, but I find myself moving my arms around to burn more calories. At one point, I realized that I had quite the "Saturday Night Fever" thing going on with my first fingers pointed and getting a walking groove on.
I try to focus on my posture and not lean forward. I realized that perhaps good form would not make my lower back ache. So, I try to remember to keep my tummy tight and my back straight. Sometimes, I'll raise my arm above my head, and curl my hand in such a way that makes it look like I'm pulling up on a string to pull myself totally standing up straight.
Yes, weird, I know. One could only imagine how weird an onlooker would think I am if I were in the middle of a public gym.
Overall, the treadmill has been quite the learning experience. The first day on it, I tried the option where you can enter your weight, how many calories you'd like to burn, and how much time you'd like to dedicate to the experience. I punched in some numbers and that baby took off at 6.5 mph. I don't think I could move that fast even if someone was coming at me with a machete.
I learned today that it's fun to try to walk like a runway model on the treadmill. However, I wouldn't suggest trying this at excessive speeds. It can be dangerous. The same goes for dislodging a wedgie. If you get one, hit the stop button before trying to dig your drawers out of your nether regions. It's a good idea to try not to look behind you, either. I turned around to check the clock on the range in the kitchen and was nearly propelled the 15' back into the room.
Yes, it's a very good thing I can't afford a gym membership. I don't think I'm up for paying for public humiliation.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Let Me Get My Spoon
Wow, time sure flies when you're in the midst of a winter mental breakdown, or a near facsimile of such. Yes, I'm aware it's been over a month since I blogged. I did, however, finish the story over on the other blog. As soon as I'm sure everyone who wanted to read has read, I'll be pulling it and starting a rewrite.
That loosely translated into, "Take your time people. I'm in no rush to get down to the nitty gritty of rewriting. So, please, read at your leisure even if it takes you six months."
Yeah, I've got to get to the rewrite and I know it's going to be a lot like work.
I can't honestly remember the last time winter was so gee, golly, darn COLD. I realize it's winter. Winter is supposed to be, well, like winter and not like spring. It's been a full-time job keeping the pipes from freezing. When it gets down to -30, things start freezing up. Like my spirit and will to get out of bed in the morning.
We've been fairly lucky thus far. Knock on wood. We had to replace the tub faucet the weekend before last. I guess you can only get about 14 years out of them when you've got hard water and old galvanized pipes as part of your plumbing. Naturally, this would happen when it's 20 below zero. No, it wouldn't happen in spring.
While in the crawlspace hole, my husband inadvertently snapped a pipe. Water proceeded to spray all over. He proceeded to yell at me to sprint to the garage to turn off the pump. Thankfully, he fixed that without too much swearing.
Then in the meantime, an element in the water heater decided to go on strike.
While my husband was on his way to get new elements, I took it upon myself to turn off the breaker to the water heater, hook up a hose to it, and turn off the water in preparation to drain it.
It drained so very, very slowly. He got impatient and decided to go ahead and take out the top element. I was standing about 5' away when I took a full blast of water to the chest. Fun times. Good times. Fun, good times.
There were no leaks and things seemed to be looking up upon completion of the water heater project. That was until we tried to coax some hot water from the kitchen sink. The cold water cooperated, but not so with the hot. It trickled much like the tub faucet had done.
Typically, in the midst of these unplanned projects, my husband gets very frustrated. Which is to say, he suggests burning the house down as a viable option to fix the problem at hand. This time, he only commented, "I hate this house. I really do."
He started clearing the cupboard beneath the sink, grumbling at my collection of coffee cans and canning jars, potting soil, and other crap that resides underneath there.
I was standing there mentally trying to collect myself because I knew this project would be no less than a hundred bucks, conservatively. It was then I noticed a big plastic spoon in the dishdrainer beside the sink.
I picked it up, eyeing the hot water handle. What could it hurt, I thought. I delivered a quick whap of the spoon to the knob. Voila! Water began to flow.
"There. I fixed it for you," I said to my husband and went to sit down after doing my part.
"You know, that's only a temporary fix. There had to be sediment in there plugging it up. It's going to happen again," he said.
He collected his tools and started putting them back into his toolbox to return to his truck. I offered him my spoon.
"Sure you don't want to put this in there? It seems to come in handy for fixing things. You know, me and my spoon. You and your toolbox. There's nothing we couldn't fix,"I told him.
Of course, this is a lot funnier to me because I'm constantly using knives as screwdrivers and my rolling pin as a hammer when I'm forced to improvise. This drives him crazy when he tries to butter some toast with a butter knife with a tip that has been used to pry something open.
At any rate, I've grown weary of winter weather. How many more days until spring?
That loosely translated into, "Take your time people. I'm in no rush to get down to the nitty gritty of rewriting. So, please, read at your leisure even if it takes you six months."
Yeah, I've got to get to the rewrite and I know it's going to be a lot like work.
I can't honestly remember the last time winter was so gee, golly, darn COLD. I realize it's winter. Winter is supposed to be, well, like winter and not like spring. It's been a full-time job keeping the pipes from freezing. When it gets down to -30, things start freezing up. Like my spirit and will to get out of bed in the morning.
We've been fairly lucky thus far. Knock on wood. We had to replace the tub faucet the weekend before last. I guess you can only get about 14 years out of them when you've got hard water and old galvanized pipes as part of your plumbing. Naturally, this would happen when it's 20 below zero. No, it wouldn't happen in spring.
While in the crawlspace hole, my husband inadvertently snapped a pipe. Water proceeded to spray all over. He proceeded to yell at me to sprint to the garage to turn off the pump. Thankfully, he fixed that without too much swearing.
Then in the meantime, an element in the water heater decided to go on strike.
While my husband was on his way to get new elements, I took it upon myself to turn off the breaker to the water heater, hook up a hose to it, and turn off the water in preparation to drain it.
It drained so very, very slowly. He got impatient and decided to go ahead and take out the top element. I was standing about 5' away when I took a full blast of water to the chest. Fun times. Good times. Fun, good times.
There were no leaks and things seemed to be looking up upon completion of the water heater project. That was until we tried to coax some hot water from the kitchen sink. The cold water cooperated, but not so with the hot. It trickled much like the tub faucet had done.
Typically, in the midst of these unplanned projects, my husband gets very frustrated. Which is to say, he suggests burning the house down as a viable option to fix the problem at hand. This time, he only commented, "I hate this house. I really do."
He started clearing the cupboard beneath the sink, grumbling at my collection of coffee cans and canning jars, potting soil, and other crap that resides underneath there.
I was standing there mentally trying to collect myself because I knew this project would be no less than a hundred bucks, conservatively. It was then I noticed a big plastic spoon in the dishdrainer beside the sink.
I picked it up, eyeing the hot water handle. What could it hurt, I thought. I delivered a quick whap of the spoon to the knob. Voila! Water began to flow.
"There. I fixed it for you," I said to my husband and went to sit down after doing my part.
"You know, that's only a temporary fix. There had to be sediment in there plugging it up. It's going to happen again," he said.
He collected his tools and started putting them back into his toolbox to return to his truck. I offered him my spoon.
"Sure you don't want to put this in there? It seems to come in handy for fixing things. You know, me and my spoon. You and your toolbox. There's nothing we couldn't fix,"I told him.
Of course, this is a lot funnier to me because I'm constantly using knives as screwdrivers and my rolling pin as a hammer when I'm forced to improvise. This drives him crazy when he tries to butter some toast with a butter knife with a tip that has been used to pry something open.
At any rate, I've grown weary of winter weather. How many more days until spring?
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
What the Heck?
In my 18 years of parenting, I'm accustomed to finding bizarre things in even more bizarre locations. There was the "toilet incident" when I found a treasure trove of things in the bottom of the bowl when it was necessary for me to stick my hand deep into the stool. Ack. I shudder at the thought. But, I'm not sure what was more disturbing - what I found or where I was placing my hand. I fished out a AA battery, rocks, fifty-three cents, a safety pin, two buttons, and a marble. Granted, it was a very old toilet that had been in the house since probably the advent of indoor plumbing, but a battery? I don't even want to know which of the things were once ingested. (Why was I digging around in the john, you ask? A bottle of Frizz-ease fell into the toilet and someone tried to flush it. So in lieu of pulling the stool, I went fishing.)
I pulled back the shower curtain once to find a motorcycle helmet in the tub. I've found lunch meat in the cupboard and bread in the fridge. Okay, okay...so I absentmindedly did that. Point being, things turn up in odd locations when you have children running around.
I found this today in the middle of the living room. A tiny little skeleton foot. I've no idea where it came from. No one else seems to know either. It's slightly reassuring that it is indeed plastic and not actual bone. At first glance, I wondered what a cat killed and when.
It's another one of those great mysteries that leaves me scratching my head and asking, "What the heck?"
Friday, December 12, 2008
Oh, Honey...It'll Be Alright
My grandma died three years ago last week. It was two days before my oldest son's birthday. About a month after this, my old dog Bart that I had for most of my adult life died. 2005 and early 2006 wasn't a good time. Combine my general dislike for the holiday season with these events, and this time of year is such a freakin' joy for me. Ho, ho, ho...bite me.
Or something like that.
There was no funeral service for Grandma. No graveside services. No memorial. No one was allowed in to say good-bye, with special thanks to her second husband at the time. She was whisked off to be cremated. She didn't want gawked at lying in a casket, and maybe she had a point. Her ashes were interred at some point beside my grandpa.
I noted the day last week, if nothing more than looking at the date and thinking she's been gone for three years now. I've managed to come to terms with not saying good-bye, and I don't think maybe that you need a funeral service to do so. I don't imagine there's a week that goes by that she doesn't cross my mind. I'd say a day, but maybe that would give it all an air of drama. That's not my intention. After all, I'm pushing 40 years old and shouldn't be crying like a little girl who can't find her babydoll.
I do think of Grandma often since I live in the house where she dwelled for some forty years. It's also the house I spent a lot of time growing up in. I was scrubbing the kitchen counter and it crossed my mind this was the same counter that she must have scrubbed thousands of times. I heard her voice in my head, "Oooh, now be careful you don't scratch it."
I think of her sometimes when I open the cupboard and take out the bread. "I've got some nice fresh bread, honey. Do you want a cold meat sandwich? I've got an Eckrich smorgas pack that's nice and fresh. Are you hungry?"
She pushed food on me like a drug dealer, though I never gave the appearance that I was wasting away to nothing. "I've got some candy bars. Do you want some candy?" she'd pressure me if I turned down the sandwich and a nice bowl of Campbell's soup.
I miss her. Not to incite pity or create the illusion that I'm the only one who has ever grieved or lost a loved one because I understand I'm not. But, I do really still miss her. It hits me at the strangest times.
Like while scrubbing the counter.
I can glance in the corner of the dining room and remember the green box that held her old Eureka vacuum cleaner. It smelled of oil and the workings of an old machine. Even when it stopped working, she left it set right there because she used the box as a stool when she talked on her old dial telephone.
A walk through the yard in the summer time, my steps releasing a fragrance from a plant (a weed by most other's estimation that grows like crazy in this yard, and I won't have my husband weeding and feeding that area or resowing it), reminds me of days past playing "Mother May I?" or "Red Light, Green Light" as she sat in the glider swing and played the part of Mother.
When I was sad, hurt, discouraged, angry, in the midst of teenage angst, or ready to pull my hair out being the mother of two boys, she'd reassure me with her words. "Oh, honey, I know. I know. It'll all be alright. It'll be okay. Life gets tedious sometimes. I know."
She treated me like gold. I was the daughter she never had. She was the mother who didn't bear me, but considered me hers, nonetheless. Grandma's house was a safe haven. A place where I could do no wrong and was always welcome. Not only was she on my side, but she was my biggest fan. Her love was as unconditional as it gets.
I try not to shed too many tears when I think of her because I know she would hate to be the cause of any boo-hooing. As they say, I try to look at the bright side and remember her fondly. That's not always easy because I do miss her, but I know it'll all be alright, and that's what she'd tell me.
"Oh, honey...it'll be alright."
Or something like that.
There was no funeral service for Grandma. No graveside services. No memorial. No one was allowed in to say good-bye, with special thanks to her second husband at the time. She was whisked off to be cremated. She didn't want gawked at lying in a casket, and maybe she had a point. Her ashes were interred at some point beside my grandpa.
I noted the day last week, if nothing more than looking at the date and thinking she's been gone for three years now. I've managed to come to terms with not saying good-bye, and I don't think maybe that you need a funeral service to do so. I don't imagine there's a week that goes by that she doesn't cross my mind. I'd say a day, but maybe that would give it all an air of drama. That's not my intention. After all, I'm pushing 40 years old and shouldn't be crying like a little girl who can't find her babydoll.
I do think of Grandma often since I live in the house where she dwelled for some forty years. It's also the house I spent a lot of time growing up in. I was scrubbing the kitchen counter and it crossed my mind this was the same counter that she must have scrubbed thousands of times. I heard her voice in my head, "Oooh, now be careful you don't scratch it."
I think of her sometimes when I open the cupboard and take out the bread. "I've got some nice fresh bread, honey. Do you want a cold meat sandwich? I've got an Eckrich smorgas pack that's nice and fresh. Are you hungry?"
She pushed food on me like a drug dealer, though I never gave the appearance that I was wasting away to nothing. "I've got some candy bars. Do you want some candy?" she'd pressure me if I turned down the sandwich and a nice bowl of Campbell's soup.
I miss her. Not to incite pity or create the illusion that I'm the only one who has ever grieved or lost a loved one because I understand I'm not. But, I do really still miss her. It hits me at the strangest times.
Like while scrubbing the counter.
I can glance in the corner of the dining room and remember the green box that held her old Eureka vacuum cleaner. It smelled of oil and the workings of an old machine. Even when it stopped working, she left it set right there because she used the box as a stool when she talked on her old dial telephone.
A walk through the yard in the summer time, my steps releasing a fragrance from a plant (a weed by most other's estimation that grows like crazy in this yard, and I won't have my husband weeding and feeding that area or resowing it), reminds me of days past playing "Mother May I?" or "Red Light, Green Light" as she sat in the glider swing and played the part of Mother.
When I was sad, hurt, discouraged, angry, in the midst of teenage angst, or ready to pull my hair out being the mother of two boys, she'd reassure me with her words. "Oh, honey, I know. I know. It'll all be alright. It'll be okay. Life gets tedious sometimes. I know."
She treated me like gold. I was the daughter she never had. She was the mother who didn't bear me, but considered me hers, nonetheless. Grandma's house was a safe haven. A place where I could do no wrong and was always welcome. Not only was she on my side, but she was my biggest fan. Her love was as unconditional as it gets.
I try not to shed too many tears when I think of her because I know she would hate to be the cause of any boo-hooing. As they say, I try to look at the bright side and remember her fondly. That's not always easy because I do miss her, but I know it'll all be alright, and that's what she'd tell me.
"Oh, honey...it'll be alright."
Raise Your Hand If You're a Dumbass
Well, it's been a while.
Let me first say you don't want this flu crap that is going around. It does horrid things to one's body. Terrible, horrible things emit from various orifices. Trust me. I had it. In fact, I celebrated my oldest son's 18th birthday by hurling out the back door because I knew there was no way I was going to make it to the bathroom when the wave of nausea hit me out of nowhere.
I'm just not one of those puker sorts, either. I will actually will myself not to pay homage to the porcelain god. "I'm not going to throw up. I will not throw up. Nope. I'm not going to throw up. I refuse to throw up," will be the thought process as I'm talking myself out of it. When this hit, I didn't even have time to think about it.
Take your Airborne. Spray yourself down with Lysol. Don a surgical mask. Drink your O.J. and load up on vitamin C if necessary because I can't emphasize enough how much you do not want this particular strain of the plague.
In other news, my poor old laptop went off to the great computer graveyard in the sky. I'd had it for quite a number of years, so I shouldn't have been surprised. But it's par for the course that this time of the year something will decide to go off and be with Jesus. One year, it was the water heater. The next, it was the refrigerator. Another year, it was the stove when my oven stopped working.
It was something in the ability to run off A/C power that caused the problem. The battery would charge so long as the laptop was not running. My husband even tried hardwiring it, but to no avail. I wish I could get excited about this new one. It's nice and all, but it was definitely not something I wanted to add to the monthly budget this close to Christmas. Luckily, I was able to get my files off of it. That's a relief all things considered.
Another fun bit from the past week involves the attic panel that resides in the utility room ceiling, my left hand, and my skull. I'd fixed it once, which is probably why what happened did actually happen. The trim pieces that serve as a lip to hold it in place weren't doing the job. I prodded around a bit, and since the ceiling is so low, I was able to stand on my tippy toes while doing this. I thought I'd had it positioned correctly and securely, but after seeing stars, I knew I was wrong.
It was all because of instincts that I tried maiming myself. The dryer buzzed, and like an idiot, I turned my head to the direction of the sound. It's not like I hadn't heard that infernal buzzer buzz a gazillion times or more because laundry is my life. Anyway, I looked, and looked back up just in time to see the panel, which weighs no less than 30 lbs, plummeting towards my noggin.
As I've learned in my life, you can't fight gravity or human instinct. My caveman genes said to me, "Protect your head, you damned fool!" So, listening as one is apt to do when the danger is present, I raised my left hand to shield my grey matter.
My first thought was something like $*$% @ %$^% &^@ @! &*$%, which loosely translate into, "There. I've gone and done it. I've finally broken something besides my little toe."
I had quite the lump on my head for a few days. My hand is still a bit bruised and tender, but I don't think it's broken. I seemed to have regained use of it for the most part. And the attic panel? Still not fixed. The pain killers? Absolutely wonderful.
One might wonder why I didn't just take a step back and avoid the whole scene? That I can't answer. It didn't occur to me to flee. Nope, I just stood there like an idiot raising my hand as if to answer "Who's the dumbass? Raise your hand."
I've been raising my hand a lot these days.
Let me first say you don't want this flu crap that is going around. It does horrid things to one's body. Terrible, horrible things emit from various orifices. Trust me. I had it. In fact, I celebrated my oldest son's 18th birthday by hurling out the back door because I knew there was no way I was going to make it to the bathroom when the wave of nausea hit me out of nowhere.
I'm just not one of those puker sorts, either. I will actually will myself not to pay homage to the porcelain god. "I'm not going to throw up. I will not throw up. Nope. I'm not going to throw up. I refuse to throw up," will be the thought process as I'm talking myself out of it. When this hit, I didn't even have time to think about it.
Take your Airborne. Spray yourself down with Lysol. Don a surgical mask. Drink your O.J. and load up on vitamin C if necessary because I can't emphasize enough how much you do not want this particular strain of the plague.
In other news, my poor old laptop went off to the great computer graveyard in the sky. I'd had it for quite a number of years, so I shouldn't have been surprised. But it's par for the course that this time of the year something will decide to go off and be with Jesus. One year, it was the water heater. The next, it was the refrigerator. Another year, it was the stove when my oven stopped working.
It was something in the ability to run off A/C power that caused the problem. The battery would charge so long as the laptop was not running. My husband even tried hardwiring it, but to no avail. I wish I could get excited about this new one. It's nice and all, but it was definitely not something I wanted to add to the monthly budget this close to Christmas. Luckily, I was able to get my files off of it. That's a relief all things considered.
Another fun bit from the past week involves the attic panel that resides in the utility room ceiling, my left hand, and my skull. I'd fixed it once, which is probably why what happened did actually happen. The trim pieces that serve as a lip to hold it in place weren't doing the job. I prodded around a bit, and since the ceiling is so low, I was able to stand on my tippy toes while doing this. I thought I'd had it positioned correctly and securely, but after seeing stars, I knew I was wrong.
It was all because of instincts that I tried maiming myself. The dryer buzzed, and like an idiot, I turned my head to the direction of the sound. It's not like I hadn't heard that infernal buzzer buzz a gazillion times or more because laundry is my life. Anyway, I looked, and looked back up just in time to see the panel, which weighs no less than 30 lbs, plummeting towards my noggin.
As I've learned in my life, you can't fight gravity or human instinct. My caveman genes said to me, "Protect your head, you damned fool!" So, listening as one is apt to do when the danger is present, I raised my left hand to shield my grey matter.
My first thought was something like $*$% @ %$^% &^@ @! &*$%, which loosely translate into, "There. I've gone and done it. I've finally broken something besides my little toe."
I had quite the lump on my head for a few days. My hand is still a bit bruised and tender, but I don't think it's broken. I seemed to have regained use of it for the most part. And the attic panel? Still not fixed. The pain killers? Absolutely wonderful.
One might wonder why I didn't just take a step back and avoid the whole scene? That I can't answer. It didn't occur to me to flee. Nope, I just stood there like an idiot raising my hand as if to answer "Who's the dumbass? Raise your hand."
I've been raising my hand a lot these days.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
The Humanitarian
I had to go to the grocery today. I mean I absolutely had to. The kids were going to turn into cannibals. The cats would elect the smartest one to open the cupboard and start eating through boxes of cereal and the half loaf of bread that remained. I'd been putting it off all week under the guise of "Let's clean out the freezer and cupboards a bit and eat what no one wants to eat."
The lines were long, but the plus was that my favorite wine was on sale for $5.99 a bottle, marked down from it's normal $8.99 price. This was good.
I didn't think I was ever going to get out of the store, so I started bagging my own groceries, using the same skills I've witnessed time and time again by other baggers, when my cell rang. No one ever calls me unless I'm in line somewhere. Never. I can't remember the last time my cell rang and I wasn't standing and waiting on someone to hurry the hell up and scan my items so I could get the show on the road.
It was a friend of mine. I said I'd return the call just as soon as I was on the road to home. What I forgot to mention is that I was on a mission to find red thread and some needles. After a stop into Dollar General and CVS, I was slightly frustrated. One - because they didn't have what I was looking for. Two - I did not want to drive across town to Walmart for thread. And three - it had to have been "Idiots Day Out."
This chick was ahead of me in line at CVS. She possessed one of those coupons that spit out on the receipt when you use your Extra Care card. It was for a free bottle of lotion. The thing was, if you read the small print, that it didn't cover the tax. So, her total was 20 cents.
She didn't grasp what the clerk was telling her. "Huh? What do you mean? It says free. Why do I have to pay?" she kept asking. I was ready to give her the 20 cents so I could get on with my life.
I left CVS and tried calling my friend. There was no answer. I sent a text.
Me: Tried calling. I had to go to CVS. Must have been idiots' day out.
Friend: It's drive you nuts day. Didn't you get the memo?
Me: Isn't that a daily event? Behind this girl who had no concept of coupons. I was ready to give her 20 cents to cover tax.
Friend: What a humanitarian!
Me: Yeah, I probably would have bounced the change off her skull, but yes, that's me. I'm very giving by nature.
The lines were long, but the plus was that my favorite wine was on sale for $5.99 a bottle, marked down from it's normal $8.99 price. This was good.
I didn't think I was ever going to get out of the store, so I started bagging my own groceries, using the same skills I've witnessed time and time again by other baggers, when my cell rang. No one ever calls me unless I'm in line somewhere. Never. I can't remember the last time my cell rang and I wasn't standing and waiting on someone to hurry the hell up and scan my items so I could get the show on the road.
It was a friend of mine. I said I'd return the call just as soon as I was on the road to home. What I forgot to mention is that I was on a mission to find red thread and some needles. After a stop into Dollar General and CVS, I was slightly frustrated. One - because they didn't have what I was looking for. Two - I did not want to drive across town to Walmart for thread. And three - it had to have been "Idiots Day Out."
This chick was ahead of me in line at CVS. She possessed one of those coupons that spit out on the receipt when you use your Extra Care card. It was for a free bottle of lotion. The thing was, if you read the small print, that it didn't cover the tax. So, her total was 20 cents.
She didn't grasp what the clerk was telling her. "Huh? What do you mean? It says free. Why do I have to pay?" she kept asking. I was ready to give her the 20 cents so I could get on with my life.
I left CVS and tried calling my friend. There was no answer. I sent a text.
Me: Tried calling. I had to go to CVS. Must have been idiots' day out.
Friend: It's drive you nuts day. Didn't you get the memo?
Me: Isn't that a daily event? Behind this girl who had no concept of coupons. I was ready to give her 20 cents to cover tax.
Friend: What a humanitarian!
Me: Yeah, I probably would have bounced the change off her skull, but yes, that's me. I'm very giving by nature.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Things I Dig
Now, I do realize I'm not a "woman of color," unless you consider "pasty white" without a tan a color. I've always loved Pantene shampoos, and I really liked the line for curls, until they did something and changed the formula. At that point, it just didn't do it for me anymore.Anyway, one day, I found some shampoo and condtioner on clearance in the "women of color" line. I thought hmm, the price is right, I'll try it.
I've always had wirey, coarse, thick hair. (Read "on the verge of making good on my promise to shear my head on a good day.") The shampoos and conditioner are wonderful, but I do caution to change it up every couple of days because it does tend to get a good build-up going on.
Next, I discovered that itty bitty section in our grocery for "women of color." Because, honestly, we are a rather light-complected community, so I suppose the 2 x 6 area devoted to these products is deemed adequate. And let me tell you something, I get some bizarre looks when I purchase these products. The checker-outer will look at the product, look at me, look at the product again, and get a slightly perplexed look upon their face.
One day while getting the strange look, I said, "I'm not ethnic, but my hair is, however that happened."
That'll teach them to look too closely at what I buy.
Anyway, I digress. This Olive Oil pack is a gift from the heavens above. I use it every couple weeks, and for 99 cents a packet, it's cheap and does the job.
While perusing that little section, I noticed this shampoo, "Dark and Lovely," was a close-out clearance. I imagine I'm the only person shopping that 2 x 6 section in our entire county. I thought what the heck, for $1.50, I wouldn't be out much if I didn't like it. Other than the fragrance being a little mediciney, it's also a great shampoo. Again, I can't use it many days straight without looking a bit like I dipped my head in an oil slick, but it's good stuff.
I did have my doubts, initially, that these products would work. After all, I did try those mane and tail shampoos meant for horses, and well, they didn't do anything for me. Didn't even make me whinny or stomp. Ok, just kidding. I did crave a salt lick. Ok, not really.
So, if you're like me - a nappy headed white girl - don't be afraid to check out these products. You might get looked at funny, but they do work miracles.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
The SAHM Saga Continues
Once upon a time, about three months ago, stay-at-home mom was well on her way to becoming "The Crazy Cat Lady," so SAHM decided to look for part-time employment outside the home. She wavered a bit on whether to quit her weekly column, but she kept telling herself it would all get better, she'd adjust, and find time for writing.
SAHM found the almost ideal part-time job working 9-2 daily at a powersports distributor about two months ago. It wasn't too far from home, and she even commented that when the gas prices dropped, she was actually making even more money. While the work wasn't rocket science, and calling out to customers was sometimes a bit gruelling, she was adjusting to the routine. She managed to find some balance between house-work, work-work, and writing-work. She was far from superwoman, but you know what? She adjusted and was getting better at doing what needed to get done.
SAHM revelled in getting some new clothes and shoes for work because it was a casual dress atmosphere, so she was able to get some nice sweaters and boots. She found it was great to get out of the house and be someone other than "Mom" or "Hon." She revelled to the tune of almost blowing an entire paycheck on clothes, shoes, and jeans.
SAHM really dug the folks she worked with, too. The office manager was a youngin', but not in that annoy-the-piss-out-older-chicks way. She was, in fact, pretty damn cool. The two guys who worked in the warehouse were equally cool, and it was a fun atmosphere full of practical jokes, sidling up to scare each other. The latter of which was pretty easy considering one of the warehouse guys was deaf in one ear and didn't hear anyone approaching from his left side.
SAHM watched two people get laid off, but she was assured that she wasn't going anywhere. So, she started enjoying the fact that she was making some extra money. She bought a new bed for herself and husband, and even bought some new flooring for her dining room floor.
On Monday morning, she commented to the office manager it was really a great time to start working for the company because things had been slow. Orders had picked up the past few weeks, and instead of being frazzled, she sold four-wheelers and dirt bikes with ease. She learned which units were manufactured by which company, and even was learning the Chinglish that the workers for those company tended to speak.
Around 1:30, about a half hour before she was due to leave, she was looking up a go-kart when the warehouse manager came to the front office holding two sets of papers. It was then the bomb was dropped that SAHM was getting laid off.
And not just the SAHM/customer service representative, but the office manager as well. This was a total shock. But SAHM didn't cry even though she was slightly perturbed. She was even asked to clock out before her daily five hours were up. This seemed rather shitty, but the office manager was asked to vacate the premises, too.
After a conference call with the main man, SAHM collected her things and left. She sent texts to those important to her to deliver the news. She returned home, still in total disbelief, when she made a phone call from home to the main man. Perhaps, in March, they would call her back to work. She did the math on her fingers. Three months was a long time to be sitting around again.
She was glad, however, that she didn't quit her weekly column. She did appreciate the letter of recommendation she was given that stated her dismissal had nothing to do with her work performance, and she was highly recommended to other places of employment.
SAHM isn't enjoying being home this morning. Even after running the kids to school, doing the dishes, starting a load of laundry, sending two resumes, she's a bit lost.
She usually subscribes to the notion that everything happens for a reason, but she's not seeing a bright side this morning. Nope, instead, she's wondering what to do next.
Perhaps, she'll concentrate on some writing once again. Maybe she'll do a deep cleaning of the house. Who knows what she'll do next, but it's apparent she's going to miss working outside the home.
SAHM found the almost ideal part-time job working 9-2 daily at a powersports distributor about two months ago. It wasn't too far from home, and she even commented that when the gas prices dropped, she was actually making even more money. While the work wasn't rocket science, and calling out to customers was sometimes a bit gruelling, she was adjusting to the routine. She managed to find some balance between house-work, work-work, and writing-work. She was far from superwoman, but you know what? She adjusted and was getting better at doing what needed to get done.
SAHM revelled in getting some new clothes and shoes for work because it was a casual dress atmosphere, so she was able to get some nice sweaters and boots. She found it was great to get out of the house and be someone other than "Mom" or "Hon." She revelled to the tune of almost blowing an entire paycheck on clothes, shoes, and jeans.
SAHM really dug the folks she worked with, too. The office manager was a youngin', but not in that annoy-the-piss-out-older-chicks way. She was, in fact, pretty damn cool. The two guys who worked in the warehouse were equally cool, and it was a fun atmosphere full of practical jokes, sidling up to scare each other. The latter of which was pretty easy considering one of the warehouse guys was deaf in one ear and didn't hear anyone approaching from his left side.
SAHM watched two people get laid off, but she was assured that she wasn't going anywhere. So, she started enjoying the fact that she was making some extra money. She bought a new bed for herself and husband, and even bought some new flooring for her dining room floor.
On Monday morning, she commented to the office manager it was really a great time to start working for the company because things had been slow. Orders had picked up the past few weeks, and instead of being frazzled, she sold four-wheelers and dirt bikes with ease. She learned which units were manufactured by which company, and even was learning the Chinglish that the workers for those company tended to speak.
Around 1:30, about a half hour before she was due to leave, she was looking up a go-kart when the warehouse manager came to the front office holding two sets of papers. It was then the bomb was dropped that SAHM was getting laid off.
And not just the SAHM/customer service representative, but the office manager as well. This was a total shock. But SAHM didn't cry even though she was slightly perturbed. She was even asked to clock out before her daily five hours were up. This seemed rather shitty, but the office manager was asked to vacate the premises, too.
After a conference call with the main man, SAHM collected her things and left. She sent texts to those important to her to deliver the news. She returned home, still in total disbelief, when she made a phone call from home to the main man. Perhaps, in March, they would call her back to work. She did the math on her fingers. Three months was a long time to be sitting around again.
She was glad, however, that she didn't quit her weekly column. She did appreciate the letter of recommendation she was given that stated her dismissal had nothing to do with her work performance, and she was highly recommended to other places of employment.
SAHM isn't enjoying being home this morning. Even after running the kids to school, doing the dishes, starting a load of laundry, sending two resumes, she's a bit lost.
She usually subscribes to the notion that everything happens for a reason, but she's not seeing a bright side this morning. Nope, instead, she's wondering what to do next.
Perhaps, she'll concentrate on some writing once again. Maybe she'll do a deep cleaning of the house. Who knows what she'll do next, but it's apparent she's going to miss working outside the home.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
What Was I Doing Again?
It used to be that either that I was at home or I wasn't. Where "wasn't" seemed to equal at the grocery. Thankfully, work has added some spice to my existence, so now I'm either at home, at work, or at the grocery.
Let's not forget one more location where I might be found - I'm either at home, at work, at the grocery, or sitting on a bleacher.
Wait, it seems like I'm spending a lot of time driving these days. So, I'm either at home, work, the grocery, sitting on a bleacher, or sitting on my ass driving. It's wrong. Wrong, I tell you. If I don't get out and have some fun soon, I really can't be held accountable for my actions.
Consider that a warning shot fired. Must.have.some.fun.soon. Or else. Where "else" equals I'll just bitch about never doing anything fun on my blog some more.
So, tomorrow night is the regional round of the football play-offs. We are heading in a northwest direction about a hour and a half away. This is a slight relief because we could have been heading in a westernly direction towards IL, about 3 1/2 hours away. I'm nearly as nervous as my kiddo is about this game. I hope they take the field and play hard and strong, taking away another victory.
Oh, and where was I again? Yeah, after hauling a kid to wrestling practice, mopping the kitchen floor so that no one gets ptomaine poisoning from it, and doing some laundry, it was only then I realized I'd been blogging.
Adult A.D.D., anyone?
Anyway, here's the deep thought of the month:
Recently, I found myself in contact with a girl who was a classmate of mine in high school. We were never close, though as small schools go, we did share many of the same classes throughout the years. We had a couple mutual friends, and she was in band when I was in Color Guard. Yeah, okay, so I was a band geek one year if you count twirling a flag as being a band geek. And in my defense, I didn't even do it well. Hence, my one year tour in Color Guard.
I'm realizing some things. For one, teenagers are incredibly self-absorbed. I had no clue about her struggles. She had no clue about mine. I don't know that I ever stopped to think about what another kid was going through. The blinders were on focusing me solely on cute boys, fashionable clothes, and the school dance. Or, my nose was firmly planted in a book or writing in a journal.
And for two, well, I don't know yet, but I've enjoyed the conversations immensely. It's like taking a walk down memory lane with someone who saw the same landscape and landmarks much differently.
Let's not forget one more location where I might be found - I'm either at home, at work, at the grocery, or sitting on a bleacher.
Wait, it seems like I'm spending a lot of time driving these days. So, I'm either at home, work, the grocery, sitting on a bleacher, or sitting on my ass driving. It's wrong. Wrong, I tell you. If I don't get out and have some fun soon, I really can't be held accountable for my actions.
Consider that a warning shot fired. Must.have.some.fun.soon. Or else. Where "else" equals I'll just bitch about never doing anything fun on my blog some more.
So, tomorrow night is the regional round of the football play-offs. We are heading in a northwest direction about a hour and a half away. This is a slight relief because we could have been heading in a westernly direction towards IL, about 3 1/2 hours away. I'm nearly as nervous as my kiddo is about this game. I hope they take the field and play hard and strong, taking away another victory.
Oh, and where was I again? Yeah, after hauling a kid to wrestling practice, mopping the kitchen floor so that no one gets ptomaine poisoning from it, and doing some laundry, it was only then I realized I'd been blogging.
Adult A.D.D., anyone?
Anyway, here's the deep thought of the month:
Recently, I found myself in contact with a girl who was a classmate of mine in high school. We were never close, though as small schools go, we did share many of the same classes throughout the years. We had a couple mutual friends, and she was in band when I was in Color Guard. Yeah, okay, so I was a band geek one year if you count twirling a flag as being a band geek. And in my defense, I didn't even do it well. Hence, my one year tour in Color Guard.
I'm realizing some things. For one, teenagers are incredibly self-absorbed. I had no clue about her struggles. She had no clue about mine. I don't know that I ever stopped to think about what another kid was going through. The blinders were on focusing me solely on cute boys, fashionable clothes, and the school dance. Or, my nose was firmly planted in a book or writing in a journal.
And for two, well, I don't know yet, but I've enjoyed the conversations immensely. It's like taking a walk down memory lane with someone who saw the same landscape and landmarks much differently.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Don't Patronize Me, Cookie
My husband and I had a mutually desired outing to Lowe's yesterday. Typically, he's dragging me there. Or vice versa.
"Let's go to Lowe's," he'll suggest to me. This translates into, "Let's go roam every single aisle aimlessly with nothing in mind, and no extra money to spend."
When I suggest, "Let's go to Lowe's," it translates into a specific mission - getting paint, something to plant in the flowerbeds, bug killer, etc.
I think I lost the female shopping gene during childbirth that used to give me the undying desire to go walk around a place of business with only a few dollars in my pocket as a source of entertainment.
I wanted to go look at paint and flooring for the dining room. He wanted to go get a piece of plywood for the well-housing in the garage. I'd informed him when I started working that I most certainly would not be in the mood to thaw pipes in the morning before heading off to work, and that we needed to work on further weather-proofing around here. He concurred when I got a bit homicidal after crawling under the house several times last winter because of a frozen elbow going to the tub.
After leaving Lowe's, he asked me, "Anything else?"
He seemed to be in a good mood, so I said, "Stop by Fashion Bug. You can sit in the truck when I go in. I need a sweater."
He obliged. I guess since I was in there long enough to pick up a couple jackets, three sweaters, and two pairs of shoes, he worked up an appetite sitting there waiting on me. We went into the Chinese buffet place next door.
Man, I love that place. I don't eat red meat, and it's like heaven on earth for me with all the seafood and chicken. And crab rangoon? I could make a meal of that alone.
They brought the bill and the fortune cookies while my husband had excused himself to the little boys' room. I waited for him to return before I took a cookie, cracked it open, and read the fortune.
It read, "You are talented in many ways."
I chuckled. "What's so funny?" he asked.
I read it out loud to him, and he commented that yes, not many people can trip over their own feet, and that just might be considered talent.
"Isn't that a bit like being told 'you're special'?" I asked him. "I think my fortune cookie just patronized me. This cookie essentially says I'm special."
It reminded me of a text message a dear friend sent me a while back:
I don't care if you lick the windows, take the short bus, or occasionally pee on yourself. You hang in there, sunshine. You're friggin' special!
It's pretty bad when you're picked on by an inaminate object.
"Let's go to Lowe's," he'll suggest to me. This translates into, "Let's go roam every single aisle aimlessly with nothing in mind, and no extra money to spend."
When I suggest, "Let's go to Lowe's," it translates into a specific mission - getting paint, something to plant in the flowerbeds, bug killer, etc.
I think I lost the female shopping gene during childbirth that used to give me the undying desire to go walk around a place of business with only a few dollars in my pocket as a source of entertainment.
I wanted to go look at paint and flooring for the dining room. He wanted to go get a piece of plywood for the well-housing in the garage. I'd informed him when I started working that I most certainly would not be in the mood to thaw pipes in the morning before heading off to work, and that we needed to work on further weather-proofing around here. He concurred when I got a bit homicidal after crawling under the house several times last winter because of a frozen elbow going to the tub.
After leaving Lowe's, he asked me, "Anything else?"
He seemed to be in a good mood, so I said, "Stop by Fashion Bug. You can sit in the truck when I go in. I need a sweater."
He obliged. I guess since I was in there long enough to pick up a couple jackets, three sweaters, and two pairs of shoes, he worked up an appetite sitting there waiting on me. We went into the Chinese buffet place next door.
Man, I love that place. I don't eat red meat, and it's like heaven on earth for me with all the seafood and chicken. And crab rangoon? I could make a meal of that alone.
They brought the bill and the fortune cookies while my husband had excused himself to the little boys' room. I waited for him to return before I took a cookie, cracked it open, and read the fortune.
It read, "You are talented in many ways."
I chuckled. "What's so funny?" he asked.
I read it out loud to him, and he commented that yes, not many people can trip over their own feet, and that just might be considered talent.
"Isn't that a bit like being told 'you're special'?" I asked him. "I think my fortune cookie just patronized me. This cookie essentially says I'm special."
It reminded me of a text message a dear friend sent me a while back:
I don't care if you lick the windows, take the short bus, or occasionally pee on yourself. You hang in there, sunshine. You're friggin' special!
It's pretty bad when you're picked on by an inaminate object.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Crazy Kids, Crazy Neighbors, Crazy Mothers
My 17 year old has lost his flipping mind. Now, I'm not necessarily saying that there's no way I could have birthed this child. I've been known to teeter on the edge of sanity. Okay, I've been known to thrive there.
He came home from football practice, showered, and was off to a mandatory meeting at the nursing home where he works. While he was gone, I watched election updates, though I wasn't paying much attention.
He bursted through the front door rambling about biblical prophecies, Nostradomas, Muslim leaders, the end of the world, the Mayan calendar, and building a bunker.
"What in the bloody hell are you talking about?" I asked him.
He explained how this theory matched up with this one, and how the bible told him so, and oh my gosh, I was ready to find a sedative for him after he sat down at the computer and started looking things up. "If Obama is elected, we're all going to die. It's the end of the world, I'm telling ya. Just you wait and see. It says so right here."
"I read it on the internet. It must be true!" I told him.
I suggested that he get a grip and simmer himself down. He's known to work himself into quite a frenzy. No, I've no clue where he gets that. Nope. Not a one.
Last night, at 11, when they projected Obama the president elect, I nudged the youngest child from his sleep and told him. Then I went to the eldest child's room and tapped his leg until I roused him.
"History was just made," I told him. "Obama is president."
"Nu-uh. No way. You're lying," he replied.
"No, really," I told him and went back to bed myself.
I'd just settled in under the covers when I heard what sounded like gun shots. It wasn't, but someone around the corner was setting off one hell of a firework display. This didn't set well with the dog, and I must admit that my heart raced a bit because I did think it sounded like someone had been shot before I realized it was merely my neighbors celebrating. Idiots.
I must say I was unsettled. Though I had a bit of a hard time picking what I considered the lesser of two evils in this election, I had to wonder what was going to happen next. The loud noise ringing out into the night frazzled my nerves a bit, and I had a hard time drifting off to sleep.
"We're all dead," my son told me this morning as he surfed the web looking for more theories and predictions. It didn't matter what I told him, he's convinced the signs are there. I'm not sure which signs he's talking about, but he tells me they are there.
I gave up trying to calm him down. Instead, I started singing some R.E.M.
"It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine...."
After all, singing always seemed to calm him when he was a wee one.
He came home from football practice, showered, and was off to a mandatory meeting at the nursing home where he works. While he was gone, I watched election updates, though I wasn't paying much attention.
He bursted through the front door rambling about biblical prophecies, Nostradomas, Muslim leaders, the end of the world, the Mayan calendar, and building a bunker.
"What in the bloody hell are you talking about?" I asked him.
He explained how this theory matched up with this one, and how the bible told him so, and oh my gosh, I was ready to find a sedative for him after he sat down at the computer and started looking things up. "If Obama is elected, we're all going to die. It's the end of the world, I'm telling ya. Just you wait and see. It says so right here."
"I read it on the internet. It must be true!" I told him.
I suggested that he get a grip and simmer himself down. He's known to work himself into quite a frenzy. No, I've no clue where he gets that. Nope. Not a one.
Last night, at 11, when they projected Obama the president elect, I nudged the youngest child from his sleep and told him. Then I went to the eldest child's room and tapped his leg until I roused him.
"History was just made," I told him. "Obama is president."
"Nu-uh. No way. You're lying," he replied.
"No, really," I told him and went back to bed myself.
I'd just settled in under the covers when I heard what sounded like gun shots. It wasn't, but someone around the corner was setting off one hell of a firework display. This didn't set well with the dog, and I must admit that my heart raced a bit because I did think it sounded like someone had been shot before I realized it was merely my neighbors celebrating. Idiots.
I must say I was unsettled. Though I had a bit of a hard time picking what I considered the lesser of two evils in this election, I had to wonder what was going to happen next. The loud noise ringing out into the night frazzled my nerves a bit, and I had a hard time drifting off to sleep.
"We're all dead," my son told me this morning as he surfed the web looking for more theories and predictions. It didn't matter what I told him, he's convinced the signs are there. I'm not sure which signs he's talking about, but he tells me they are there.
I gave up trying to calm him down. Instead, I started singing some R.E.M.
"It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine...."
After all, singing always seemed to calm him when he was a wee one.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Reader's Digest Version Update
This is Miss Yvonne. Yes, named after a character on "Pee-Wee's Playhouse." Good golly, I loved that show. Anyway, Miss Yvonne is a pest. She's not one to light. Instead, she does her rendition of pacing on my lap. Or my chest. Or on my shoulders. As you can see, she doesn't mind having her ears flipped back to expose the biggest tufts of ear hair that I've ever seen on a cat, or on any animal for that matter.
This is how I amuse myself after a long five hours at work.
Yeah, work. It's going okay. Two people have been laid-off/let go/dismissed/your-services-are-no-longer-required. Sales are slow due to the economy. I'm told I don't have to worry about going next.
Though, I must admit there's a small part of me who longs to be at home working hard at nothing all day once again. Honestly. I've acclimated somewhat to the whole getting up and going to work thing. I'm still trying to strike some sort of balance between housework, grocery shopping, and working. Writing is still a struggle. I'm mentally exhausted when I get home. I think my brain has grown old and tired.
In other news, my son's varsity football team remains undefeated. Friday night is the final sectional game. If they win, we're off to regionals. I'm told we may have to go almost to the IL border for that game. But if they win that, semi-state will be at home. At the beginning of the season, it was said of the team that they could be the sleeper team of the season. It's truly a wonderous thing, and I'm so glad my son is having this experience. When they won the conference championship title, it was pointed out to me by a good friend that not many people can lay claim to being the champion of anything.
And, I guess, if nothing else, it gives him something to talk about when he's sitting around talking about those glory days. I'm thrilled for him and all the other boys on the team.
That might very well be a truth - that not many people win a championship. I've never been a champion anything.
Well, maybe not unlike Miss Yvonne, I'm a champion pain-in-the-ass.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Wardrobe Malfunctions and Other Fun
I think it's probably time that I go shopping for some new undergarments. I'm not one of those can't-get-enough-of-Victoria's-Secret kind of gals because well, if you're bigger than a size 2 and wear anything other than a 32D, the secret is that you're not going to look good in them.
And besides that, I found a kind of drawers that I loved - a nice string bikini type of underwear - and suddenly, they are nowhere to be found. Next were some nice boy-cut panties that I liked, so that's what I've gone with. But wouldn't you know it? I haven't seen anything similar for eons.
Now that you're up to speed on my choice of underwear...we'll moving right along here.
Point being, I don't think about needing new bras and underwear all that often. It's apparent I do, though. I walked in the front door of work the other day, and boing, there went the front clasp on my bra.
Okay, so it wasn't much of a "boing," but I suddenly became aware the my add-a-cup-size cup was making me appear as though I had boobs below my actual boobs on my ribcage. It appeared that I had a second set of boobs. Yep.
I quickly excused myself to the restroom where I snapped things back into place. It was only a temporary fix because dang if I didn't have the same problem while sitting at my desk.
I asked if we had any duct tape, and the office manager went back to the warehouse to see what she could find. She came back with a huge roll of packing tape. I took it into the bathroom and tried to work some magic.
It was short-lived. I finally got my hands on some duct tape, and I mean to tell you, I taped that clasp up so much that it wasn't going anywhere. It was only slightly embarrassing when the warehouse manager asked me why I needed it, and that he heard something about me having a wardrobe malfunction. I'm pretty sure I blushed when he asked me to explain how one's bra breaks and can be fixed with tape.
When I got home, I had to rip the bra off my body before tossing it into the trash.
My underwear, later that week on Friday, made their appearance in the varsity football team's locker room. No, I wasn't wearing them at the time.
My son is superstitious. He will do, wear and eat the same thing from Thursday morning until the game begins on Friday night under the lights. This meant he needed a particular cut-up t-shirt. It was in a load of laundry I'd taken out of the dryer on Friday morning.
He packed the shirt in his bag, didn't think too much about it, and went on his way to school. When he was changing in the locker room, he pulled out the shirt and there my drawers landed on the locker room floor.
Ugh. That same night I had the honor of going out on the track with all the other parents with their senior football playing sons. Yeah, the sons who'd probably gotten a good look at my delicates.
According to my son, it was my fault. I do the laundry after all, so I should have kept my undies from mingling with his clothes. I bought some dryer sheets with hopes of alleviating this problem in the future. Now if I could just find some undergarments to my liking, I'd be good to go.
And besides that, I found a kind of drawers that I loved - a nice string bikini type of underwear - and suddenly, they are nowhere to be found. Next were some nice boy-cut panties that I liked, so that's what I've gone with. But wouldn't you know it? I haven't seen anything similar for eons.
Now that you're up to speed on my choice of underwear...we'll moving right along here.
Point being, I don't think about needing new bras and underwear all that often. It's apparent I do, though. I walked in the front door of work the other day, and boing, there went the front clasp on my bra.
Okay, so it wasn't much of a "boing," but I suddenly became aware the my add-a-cup-size cup was making me appear as though I had boobs below my actual boobs on my ribcage. It appeared that I had a second set of boobs. Yep.
I quickly excused myself to the restroom where I snapped things back into place. It was only a temporary fix because dang if I didn't have the same problem while sitting at my desk.
I asked if we had any duct tape, and the office manager went back to the warehouse to see what she could find. She came back with a huge roll of packing tape. I took it into the bathroom and tried to work some magic.
It was short-lived. I finally got my hands on some duct tape, and I mean to tell you, I taped that clasp up so much that it wasn't going anywhere. It was only slightly embarrassing when the warehouse manager asked me why I needed it, and that he heard something about me having a wardrobe malfunction. I'm pretty sure I blushed when he asked me to explain how one's bra breaks and can be fixed with tape.
When I got home, I had to rip the bra off my body before tossing it into the trash.
My underwear, later that week on Friday, made their appearance in the varsity football team's locker room. No, I wasn't wearing them at the time.
My son is superstitious. He will do, wear and eat the same thing from Thursday morning until the game begins on Friday night under the lights. This meant he needed a particular cut-up t-shirt. It was in a load of laundry I'd taken out of the dryer on Friday morning.
He packed the shirt in his bag, didn't think too much about it, and went on his way to school. When he was changing in the locker room, he pulled out the shirt and there my drawers landed on the locker room floor.
Ugh. That same night I had the honor of going out on the track with all the other parents with their senior football playing sons. Yeah, the sons who'd probably gotten a good look at my delicates.
According to my son, it was my fault. I do the laundry after all, so I should have kept my undies from mingling with his clothes. I bought some dryer sheets with hopes of alleviating this problem in the future. Now if I could just find some undergarments to my liking, I'd be good to go.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Random, Cold Medicine-Fueled Thoughts
1. I was scrounging for something in the cupboard that would make me feel better, or at the least make me not care that I feel as though I spent last night moonlighting as a speed bump on a busy thoroughfare. (We don't necessarily have thoroughfares in IN, but it sounds like I'd be sore if I had laid down on one.)
I found one of these heat packet things. I must have gotten it free in mail ten years ago or more. It was made by Playtex, and designed to stick on the inside of your underwear to combat cramps. I tossed it in the cupboard, mainly thinking should I ever wear granny panties or have female problems as such that I needed a mini-heating pad in my drawers, I might consider using it.
I didn't really think it would still produce heat, but lo and behold, it did. And it felt wonderful on my neck and shoulders. I stuck it on the inside of my sweatshirt, and moved it around enough that it stopped sticking.
"Lasts up to 10 hours..." my ass. Maybe because it was so old, but I did appreciate the heat while it lasted. I wish I knew where the heating pad was because I'd likely wrap my head and neck in it.
2. I looked up from the couch at one point today to see a cat lounging in a hanging potted plant. She didn't seem to mind that I'd just watered it earlier today when I noted the center plant had been obliterated by some force unknown. I'm sure she had something to do with it. She sat up there in the basket, sort of like a baby in that nursery rhyme about the baby and when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and all.
Two times I got up and reprimanded her. She'd wait for me to doze off, and she'd climb back up there. I gave up. Fine, sleep in the damn plant, I don't have the energy to keep getting up. When I don't feel so dizzy and foggy, I shall find a higher location for the bracket it hangs from. Though by the time she's done with it, I imagine I'll be less one houseplant, anyway.
3. I've reached the conclusion that there are always going to be people who disappoint you, let you down, and not live up to your expectations. I used to think it was my fault for having too high of expectations, maybe setting standards too high for any other individual to achieve, which made me an impossible to please, "wouldn't be happy if I were hung with a new rope," sort of bitchy bitch. I thought it was okay to expect absolutely nothing from those in my life because hell, who do I think I am thinking I deserve being treated as though I have feelings and that I'm actually human? If my feelings got hurt, then obviously I should have known better. Expect nothing and then you aren't disappointed when that's exactly what you get. Right?
But more and more, I don't think it's my problem, after all. I mean I don't think expecting kindness, respect, and common courtesy fall into the realm of impossible to meet expectations. Some people will never get "it," and I'm the idiot if I tolerate it or continue to make excuses for what I feel I deserve from them.
"Oh well, she's not good at expressing her appreciation for her friends."
"Oh, he's not good at expressing any emotion, so I shouldn't take it personally."
"I know she didn't mean to make me feel bad. It wasn't premeditated, so it's alright."
I'm also the dumbass for thinking if my thoughts fall on deaf ears that screaming a bit louder is going to make it sink in.
4. When the kids wanted to go to Taco Bell last night, I told them no, that I needed them to stay home. Now, basically, I didn't want a phone call from them that required me to get out of bed and go rescue them for any reason. My oldest said to me, "Why? Do you think you're going to die or something?" when I told him to stick around.
"Do I look like I'm dying?" I asked.
"I don't know. Maybe," the oldest spawn replied. "I think we could make it to Taco Bell and back before it happens, though."
That's my child. Always thinking.
5. There was something else I was going to bring to light, but I don't remember what it was. Which proves I did find something that made me not care that I'm feeling so poorly.
Editted: Oh, I remember now.
6. Yesterday at work, the general operations/warehouse dude gave us all his cell phone number in case we needed to get in touch with him. I was storing it in my cell after that, when I happened to think, hmm, wonder if he has text messaging. So, I asked the other girl, and she said yes.
"Do you think we should mess with him?" I asked. Because honestly, it's painfully slow at work, and we all find ways to provide entertainment during the course of the slow, slow days.
She agreed we should, so I sent him a text.
"Hi =)" I sent.
"Who is this?" he replied.
"I was wondering if you had any 150s."
"Who is this?"
"And parts. I need lots of parts," I replied.
At this point, I heard someone out in the kitchen area using the microwave. He shot me a look into my office, and I did my best to appear innocent.
I walked to the kitchen, just to be sure someone else wasn't in there using the microwave. Nope, it was him. He'd sat down in the manager's office while he was waiting on his food.
"Whatcha cooking?" I sent.
He walked up to my office and asked me if I'd been texting him.
"Now why would I do something like that?" I teased, and then admitted that yes, it was me.
"I was starting to get pissed, but I knew it had to be you when I read the last one about cooking."
I explained we'd toyed with answering "Your secret admirer" or "Your worst nightmare" in response to who it was. I drew the line on sending, "Hey big boy, you look mighty sexy in those Levis." Of course, we did have to read about sexual harrassment in the employee handbook.
"Really," I told him, "it was mild in comparison to what we might have said."
He laughed, shook his head, and gave me one of those "you're such a pain in the ass" kind of looks that I'm accustomed to getting.
Did I mention I really do like my co-workers?
I found one of these heat packet things. I must have gotten it free in mail ten years ago or more. It was made by Playtex, and designed to stick on the inside of your underwear to combat cramps. I tossed it in the cupboard, mainly thinking should I ever wear granny panties or have female problems as such that I needed a mini-heating pad in my drawers, I might consider using it.
I didn't really think it would still produce heat, but lo and behold, it did. And it felt wonderful on my neck and shoulders. I stuck it on the inside of my sweatshirt, and moved it around enough that it stopped sticking.
"Lasts up to 10 hours..." my ass. Maybe because it was so old, but I did appreciate the heat while it lasted. I wish I knew where the heating pad was because I'd likely wrap my head and neck in it.
2. I looked up from the couch at one point today to see a cat lounging in a hanging potted plant. She didn't seem to mind that I'd just watered it earlier today when I noted the center plant had been obliterated by some force unknown. I'm sure she had something to do with it. She sat up there in the basket, sort of like a baby in that nursery rhyme about the baby and when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and all.
Two times I got up and reprimanded her. She'd wait for me to doze off, and she'd climb back up there. I gave up. Fine, sleep in the damn plant, I don't have the energy to keep getting up. When I don't feel so dizzy and foggy, I shall find a higher location for the bracket it hangs from. Though by the time she's done with it, I imagine I'll be less one houseplant, anyway.
3. I've reached the conclusion that there are always going to be people who disappoint you, let you down, and not live up to your expectations. I used to think it was my fault for having too high of expectations, maybe setting standards too high for any other individual to achieve, which made me an impossible to please, "wouldn't be happy if I were hung with a new rope," sort of bitchy bitch. I thought it was okay to expect absolutely nothing from those in my life because hell, who do I think I am thinking I deserve being treated as though I have feelings and that I'm actually human? If my feelings got hurt, then obviously I should have known better. Expect nothing and then you aren't disappointed when that's exactly what you get. Right?
But more and more, I don't think it's my problem, after all. I mean I don't think expecting kindness, respect, and common courtesy fall into the realm of impossible to meet expectations. Some people will never get "it," and I'm the idiot if I tolerate it or continue to make excuses for what I feel I deserve from them.
"Oh well, she's not good at expressing her appreciation for her friends."
"Oh, he's not good at expressing any emotion, so I shouldn't take it personally."
"I know she didn't mean to make me feel bad. It wasn't premeditated, so it's alright."
I'm also the dumbass for thinking if my thoughts fall on deaf ears that screaming a bit louder is going to make it sink in.
4. When the kids wanted to go to Taco Bell last night, I told them no, that I needed them to stay home. Now, basically, I didn't want a phone call from them that required me to get out of bed and go rescue them for any reason. My oldest said to me, "Why? Do you think you're going to die or something?" when I told him to stick around.
"Do I look like I'm dying?" I asked.
"I don't know. Maybe," the oldest spawn replied. "I think we could make it to Taco Bell and back before it happens, though."
That's my child. Always thinking.
5. There was something else I was going to bring to light, but I don't remember what it was. Which proves I did find something that made me not care that I'm feeling so poorly.
Editted: Oh, I remember now.
6. Yesterday at work, the general operations/warehouse dude gave us all his cell phone number in case we needed to get in touch with him. I was storing it in my cell after that, when I happened to think, hmm, wonder if he has text messaging. So, I asked the other girl, and she said yes.
"Do you think we should mess with him?" I asked. Because honestly, it's painfully slow at work, and we all find ways to provide entertainment during the course of the slow, slow days.
She agreed we should, so I sent him a text.
"Hi =)" I sent.
"Who is this?" he replied.
"I was wondering if you had any 150s."
"Who is this?"
"And parts. I need lots of parts," I replied.
At this point, I heard someone out in the kitchen area using the microwave. He shot me a look into my office, and I did my best to appear innocent.
I walked to the kitchen, just to be sure someone else wasn't in there using the microwave. Nope, it was him. He'd sat down in the manager's office while he was waiting on his food.
"Whatcha cooking?" I sent.
He walked up to my office and asked me if I'd been texting him.
"Now why would I do something like that?" I teased, and then admitted that yes, it was me.
"I was starting to get pissed, but I knew it had to be you when I read the last one about cooking."
I explained we'd toyed with answering "Your secret admirer" or "Your worst nightmare" in response to who it was. I drew the line on sending, "Hey big boy, you look mighty sexy in those Levis." Of course, we did have to read about sexual harrassment in the employee handbook.
"Really," I told him, "it was mild in comparison to what we might have said."
He laughed, shook his head, and gave me one of those "you're such a pain in the ass" kind of looks that I'm accustomed to getting.
Did I mention I really do like my co-workers?
Blog? What Blog?
Yesterday, I arrived home after work around 2:30ish. I went around and tended to some laundry, a general picking up, and slopping the hogs (the dog and cats). I sat down on the couch, and I couldn't figure out why I couldn't get warm. I'd commented several times at work that I was cold. I was assured by both of the girls in the office area that it was not cold, and in fact, they were a bit on the warm side in short sleeves.
I felt particularly pissy and achey, too. I figured I was a little stressed because my shoulders and neck were singing.
I covered up with a blanket after checking the thermostat. It was a balmy 73 in the house. Despite huddling up on the couch, I was still shivering. At 4:30, I crawled into bed in a sweatshirt and jeans, and burrowed under three heavy blankets. Nope, still couldn't get warm.
At 6, the kids got home from football practice. I instructed them to bring me a cup of hot water and a packet of Thera-flu. At 8:30, I was still miserably achey, and I asked for one ibuprofen. By 10, the boogers were still not in bed. I knew this because I heard them arguing in the living room. I beckoned for a couple night-time Aleve. I gave careful consideration to over-medicating myself, but all I wanted was some relief.
I woke up sometime around 3ish, sweating like a whore in church on Sunday. Not only do I look like something the cat dragged in this morning, but I smell like it, too.
I didn't want to have to call into work today, but I did. I don't know who I have to thank for giving me the plague, but here's a big freakin' THANK YOU to the bearer of said germs. I never get sick like this. I might feel a little poorly, but very seldom do I lie in bed if it's not for sleeping at nighttime purposes. Whatever this particular strain of flu is, it's kicked my ass.
My husband thinks it's because I'm not used to working outside the home and keeping up with everything else around here, including football games twice a week. I've managed to get 8 hours of sleep a night. I haven't had any booze to speak of, other than about a third of a bottle of wine over the weekend. I was too tired to stay up and drink more than that.
The jury is still out on this whole working outside the home thing. I like the extra money. I like the idea of serving a purpose outside of these four walls. But, there's always a but....but, it seems like either I'm working or cleaning. Working or doing laundry. Working or stopping at the grocery, so I can get home and repeat it all the next day. I have a great amount of respect for single working women because that's about what I am with my husband gone all week for work.
I suppose I need to try harder to get into a routine, and the difference is that typically, I waited for inspiration to write to strike. I need to train myself to write when I have the time, I suppose.
I'm sure I'll get it figured out eventually, but for now, I'm going to hold down the couch for the remainder of the day, drink plenty of fluids, and take some good meds.
I felt particularly pissy and achey, too. I figured I was a little stressed because my shoulders and neck were singing.
I covered up with a blanket after checking the thermostat. It was a balmy 73 in the house. Despite huddling up on the couch, I was still shivering. At 4:30, I crawled into bed in a sweatshirt and jeans, and burrowed under three heavy blankets. Nope, still couldn't get warm.
At 6, the kids got home from football practice. I instructed them to bring me a cup of hot water and a packet of Thera-flu. At 8:30, I was still miserably achey, and I asked for one ibuprofen. By 10, the boogers were still not in bed. I knew this because I heard them arguing in the living room. I beckoned for a couple night-time Aleve. I gave careful consideration to over-medicating myself, but all I wanted was some relief.
I woke up sometime around 3ish, sweating like a whore in church on Sunday. Not only do I look like something the cat dragged in this morning, but I smell like it, too.
I didn't want to have to call into work today, but I did. I don't know who I have to thank for giving me the plague, but here's a big freakin' THANK YOU to the bearer of said germs. I never get sick like this. I might feel a little poorly, but very seldom do I lie in bed if it's not for sleeping at nighttime purposes. Whatever this particular strain of flu is, it's kicked my ass.
My husband thinks it's because I'm not used to working outside the home and keeping up with everything else around here, including football games twice a week. I've managed to get 8 hours of sleep a night. I haven't had any booze to speak of, other than about a third of a bottle of wine over the weekend. I was too tired to stay up and drink more than that.
The jury is still out on this whole working outside the home thing. I like the extra money. I like the idea of serving a purpose outside of these four walls. But, there's always a but....but, it seems like either I'm working or cleaning. Working or doing laundry. Working or stopping at the grocery, so I can get home and repeat it all the next day. I have a great amount of respect for single working women because that's about what I am with my husband gone all week for work.
I suppose I need to try harder to get into a routine, and the difference is that typically, I waited for inspiration to write to strike. I need to train myself to write when I have the time, I suppose.
I'm sure I'll get it figured out eventually, but for now, I'm going to hold down the couch for the remainder of the day, drink plenty of fluids, and take some good meds.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Why Everyone Should Have a Dozen Kids
So, it's my fourth day of work, and I'm working through my lunch so I can leave early to come home and then head off to a freshman football game.
The phone rings, I answer, "This is Kelly, can I help you?"
I hear, "Uh, mom?"
I knew it wasn't going to be good. It's my senior...calling from the principal's office. He got a "green slip." The child has never been in trouble at school. EVER. First time he's been in the office.
He dropped his wallet in the hallway, bent over to pick it up, and said "piece of shit wallet" because his debit card fell out of it. The principal was standing behind him.
He ended up with four lunch detentions where he sits for 30 minutes alone. That was so he didn't get after school detention, miss football practice, and not be able to play in Friday's game against our biggest rivals. I am assuming he'll have to sit out a few plays on Friday.
I guess he did learn one thing from me, though I shouldn't be proud - he's learned to cuss like a drunken sailor when he's irritated or annoyed. And yet, my lessons on hydroplaning, and other worthwhile words of wisdom seems to have fallen on deaf ears.
Hey, but I did tell him, "No cussing. One of these days, you're going to let it slip, and then you'll be in trouble."
Did I call that one or what?
Really, I don't know why everyone doesn't have a dozen or more kids.
The phone rings, I answer, "This is Kelly, can I help you?"
I hear, "Uh, mom?"
I knew it wasn't going to be good. It's my senior...calling from the principal's office. He got a "green slip." The child has never been in trouble at school. EVER. First time he's been in the office.
He dropped his wallet in the hallway, bent over to pick it up, and said "piece of shit wallet" because his debit card fell out of it. The principal was standing behind him.
He ended up with four lunch detentions where he sits for 30 minutes alone. That was so he didn't get after school detention, miss football practice, and not be able to play in Friday's game against our biggest rivals. I am assuming he'll have to sit out a few plays on Friday.
I guess he did learn one thing from me, though I shouldn't be proud - he's learned to cuss like a drunken sailor when he's irritated or annoyed. And yet, my lessons on hydroplaning, and other worthwhile words of wisdom seems to have fallen on deaf ears.
Hey, but I did tell him, "No cussing. One of these days, you're going to let it slip, and then you'll be in trouble."
Did I call that one or what?
Really, I don't know why everyone doesn't have a dozen or more kids.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
She Lives
I'm alive, kinda. I probably should go get a mirror to breathe on just to be certain. The whole having a job thing is really cutting into my squandering-time-online thing.
Next week will be better, though. My hours will go to part-time. This week has been training as three new girls will be taking over the office duties come Monday morning. Yes, that's with one week of training. Ack. If I think too much about it, I get a little nervous about how things will go when we don't have someone on hand who knows what she is doing.
Even though I'm SO.DAMNED.TIRED, I do like the work. It's not rocket science, and I don't mind so much talking to customers on the phone. I also like the people I work with. It's a very laid-back atmosphere. It's a power sport distributor. I take orders, start the paperwork, and then things like ATVs and scooters get shipped out.
The best part is that I can wear jeans and flip-flops with a nice shirt.
Did I mention I haven't worked outside the home for almost two decades? I did some substitute teaching here and there, but to get up and go to a 8-5 job, nope. My body revolted the first two days. I was mentally and physically exhausted. Since I wasn't sleeping so great, nerves and all, I took two Benadryl last night, and it knocked my ass out. I slept a good 8 hours. The bitch of it was that I woke up shortly before 5 and didn't need up until 5:30.
Next week, though, I will have one hour after the kidlets leave before I have to leave for work. Then I'll be home alone for about 3 1/2 hours before they make their appearance after football.
The pay isn't bad, either, considering I'm reentering the ole work force. Even though I'd so much prefer being home and writing, at least I'm getting some work experience back on my resume, making some extra bucks, and getting out of these four walls. Which the latter is probably a good thing because it narrows down the chance that my husband will come home one day, find me sitting in a corner eating crayons, or having the cats dressed in matching sweaters and rocking them to sleep.
Next week will be better, though. My hours will go to part-time. This week has been training as three new girls will be taking over the office duties come Monday morning. Yes, that's with one week of training. Ack. If I think too much about it, I get a little nervous about how things will go when we don't have someone on hand who knows what she is doing.
Even though I'm SO.DAMNED.TIRED, I do like the work. It's not rocket science, and I don't mind so much talking to customers on the phone. I also like the people I work with. It's a very laid-back atmosphere. It's a power sport distributor. I take orders, start the paperwork, and then things like ATVs and scooters get shipped out.
The best part is that I can wear jeans and flip-flops with a nice shirt.
Did I mention I haven't worked outside the home for almost two decades? I did some substitute teaching here and there, but to get up and go to a 8-5 job, nope. My body revolted the first two days. I was mentally and physically exhausted. Since I wasn't sleeping so great, nerves and all, I took two Benadryl last night, and it knocked my ass out. I slept a good 8 hours. The bitch of it was that I woke up shortly before 5 and didn't need up until 5:30.
Next week, though, I will have one hour after the kidlets leave before I have to leave for work. Then I'll be home alone for about 3 1/2 hours before they make their appearance after football.
The pay isn't bad, either, considering I'm reentering the ole work force. Even though I'd so much prefer being home and writing, at least I'm getting some work experience back on my resume, making some extra bucks, and getting out of these four walls. Which the latter is probably a good thing because it narrows down the chance that my husband will come home one day, find me sitting in a corner eating crayons, or having the cats dressed in matching sweaters and rocking them to sleep.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Channeling Stuart Smalley
I had the interview today. I have to say it was the most challenging interview of sorts that I've ever had. All six women who were interested in the two positions showed up. We were initially interviewed by the owner via phone and email from TX. Essentially, we went in for the office staff to show us around, show us the building, meet the other staff, etc. They probably also wanted to make sure we didn't show up in tube tops and cut-offs before offering employment sight unseen.
I made an effort to speak up and try to ask intelligent questions. I'm guessing if you're applying for a customer service position, it's not a wise thing to appear about as personable as a bump on a log. I'll admit when I walked in ten minutes early, and almost everyone was there, I about resigned to my defeat.
I was thinking c'mon now, I haven't worked in an office for 18 years. Why would they want me?
But I put on the happy face, remembered that I vowed to put on the big girl panties, and I gave myself one of those SNL Stuart Smalley pep talks. "I'm good enough. Smart enough. And doggone it, people like me!"
Fortunately, I kept that as an internal dialogue. But I have to admit, it was odd standing around there with these other women knowing that only two were going to get the jobs.
We were told we'd know something by the end of the day. So, I came home, made some phone calls, sent some texts, worked on my column, and headed off to the tanning bed. When I returned, I had a voicemail.
I got the job - part-time hours, but a full week next week for training. I'll be taking phone calls, placing orders, checking up on payments, and general office duties. Sometime after October, I'll be offered full-time or another person will be hired.
I was torn between doing a touchdown dance or puking in the trashcan.
It's been a long time since I worked. A long, long time.
So now instead of working on everyone's last nerve, I'll be working at a job outside my home and bringing home some bacon. I hope a little change does me some good.
Where's Stuart when I need him?
I made an effort to speak up and try to ask intelligent questions. I'm guessing if you're applying for a customer service position, it's not a wise thing to appear about as personable as a bump on a log. I'll admit when I walked in ten minutes early, and almost everyone was there, I about resigned to my defeat.
I was thinking c'mon now, I haven't worked in an office for 18 years. Why would they want me?
But I put on the happy face, remembered that I vowed to put on the big girl panties, and I gave myself one of those SNL Stuart Smalley pep talks. "I'm good enough. Smart enough. And doggone it, people like me!"
Fortunately, I kept that as an internal dialogue. But I have to admit, it was odd standing around there with these other women knowing that only two were going to get the jobs.
We were told we'd know something by the end of the day. So, I came home, made some phone calls, sent some texts, worked on my column, and headed off to the tanning bed. When I returned, I had a voicemail.
I got the job - part-time hours, but a full week next week for training. I'll be taking phone calls, placing orders, checking up on payments, and general office duties. Sometime after October, I'll be offered full-time or another person will be hired.
I was torn between doing a touchdown dance or puking in the trashcan.
It's been a long time since I worked. A long, long time.
So now instead of working on everyone's last nerve, I'll be working at a job outside my home and bringing home some bacon. I hope a little change does me some good.
Where's Stuart when I need him?
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
News, and in Other News
Tomorrow, I have an interview for a "real" job. I had an email interview last week. Today, a phone interview. I must have done well since I'm scheduled to go in tomorrow.
I've been doing the stay-at-home mom/writer thing since 1990. That's a lot of years. Well, I did do some substitute teaching...until other people's little heathens started sucking the life force right out of me. I don't intend on giving up the writing, though, should I find employment.
I'm a tad bit nervous. I won't jinx myself by going into details, but it sounds like a pretty cool place to work. It would be in an office, which is what I did B.C. - before children.
Cross your fingers, toes, eyes, whatever you feel like crossing for me. Send me good Karma, good wishes, that kind of thing. I could use it.
***
Now, here's something I want to know.
My husband had control of the remote last evening, and he was watching "Entertainment Tonight," or something of that ilk. I was getting up to go stir dinner on the stove, and I hear, "Want to recreate Sarah Palin's look? Stay tuned, and we'll show you how!"
I said to no one in particular, "Uh, why would you want to recreate her look?"
I walked back into the living room and said to myself, but loud enough so my husband could hear me, "Oftentimes, I have this undying urge to look just like Peggy Hill."
This annoys him when I refer to Palin as Peggy because he's one of those die-hard Republican sorts. And well, as he puts it, so long as I have my internet connection and computer, and the occasional monster margarita, I'm pretty happy with life.
I'm not saying she's an unattractive lady if you compare her to say, oh, maybe Hillary Clinton. I'm assuming it's the whole "school teacher/naughty librarian" thing that is playing into men's fantasies here. The bun, the glasses. She looks much older than she actually is. Didn't she get the memo that the new 40 is the old 30?
But please, I beg of anyone to shoot me should I decide that I need to get me some glasses like hers and start wearing my hair up like that. I'm just saying. I'm 39, and I've no desire to look like an old spinster.
***
Speaking of old, this aging thing isn't really agreeing with me. I've always prided myself on my quick wit and memory like a steel trap.
I was in the utility room, and my youngest son was standing there talking to me as I transferred clothes to the dryer. I realized I'd washed a pencil.
It was a pencil, alrighty. Yellow, had an eraser, a pointed tip of lead. I'm certain I know what a pencil is. Pencil - the thing you write with when you can't find a pen and you're desperate to jot something down. Yes, that's a pencil.
But what did I say? "Oh great, someone decided to leave a pizza in their pocket."
A pizza? Uh. I wasn't hungry. I didn't have pizza on the brain. I didn't just eat pizza. No one had just mentioned pizza. I hadn't read the word pizza. Yet, I called a pencil a pizza.
Uh, yeah. I need help, I suspect.
I've been doing the stay-at-home mom/writer thing since 1990. That's a lot of years. Well, I did do some substitute teaching...until other people's little heathens started sucking the life force right out of me. I don't intend on giving up the writing, though, should I find employment.
I'm a tad bit nervous. I won't jinx myself by going into details, but it sounds like a pretty cool place to work. It would be in an office, which is what I did B.C. - before children.
Cross your fingers, toes, eyes, whatever you feel like crossing for me. Send me good Karma, good wishes, that kind of thing. I could use it.
***
Now, here's something I want to know.
My husband had control of the remote last evening, and he was watching "Entertainment Tonight," or something of that ilk. I was getting up to go stir dinner on the stove, and I hear, "Want to recreate Sarah Palin's look? Stay tuned, and we'll show you how!"
I said to no one in particular, "Uh, why would you want to recreate her look?"
I walked back into the living room and said to myself, but loud enough so my husband could hear me, "Oftentimes, I have this undying urge to look just like Peggy Hill."
This annoys him when I refer to Palin as Peggy because he's one of those die-hard Republican sorts. And well, as he puts it, so long as I have my internet connection and computer, and the occasional monster margarita, I'm pretty happy with life.
I'm not saying she's an unattractive lady if you compare her to say, oh, maybe Hillary Clinton. I'm assuming it's the whole "school teacher/naughty librarian" thing that is playing into men's fantasies here. The bun, the glasses. She looks much older than she actually is. Didn't she get the memo that the new 40 is the old 30?
But please, I beg of anyone to shoot me should I decide that I need to get me some glasses like hers and start wearing my hair up like that. I'm just saying. I'm 39, and I've no desire to look like an old spinster.
***
Speaking of old, this aging thing isn't really agreeing with me. I've always prided myself on my quick wit and memory like a steel trap.
I was in the utility room, and my youngest son was standing there talking to me as I transferred clothes to the dryer. I realized I'd washed a pencil.
It was a pencil, alrighty. Yellow, had an eraser, a pointed tip of lead. I'm certain I know what a pencil is. Pencil - the thing you write with when you can't find a pen and you're desperate to jot something down. Yes, that's a pencil.
But what did I say? "Oh great, someone decided to leave a pizza in their pocket."
A pizza? Uh. I wasn't hungry. I didn't have pizza on the brain. I didn't just eat pizza. No one had just mentioned pizza. I hadn't read the word pizza. Yet, I called a pencil a pizza.
Uh, yeah. I need help, I suspect.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Boys I Want to Marry, III
This edition is brought to you by Chantix. I had some funky dreams last night, which has prompted today's offering of Boys I Want to Marry.
This is Dan. Dazzling photography, wouldn't you say? Actually, I snapped both photos from yearbooks. In the bottom one, he's playing a carnival game at Street Fair our junior year. I was there when my friend Dave, our yearbook/newspaper photographer, snapped this photo of Dan getting ready to slam the rubber frog into flight to win a prize.
I dreamed about Dan last night. I walked up to him in the dream, and said, "Oh Dan, I'm so sorry."
He gave me a perplexed look, and I said, "You don't recognize me, do you?"
When I told him who I was, he gave me a hug.
I'll spare you the rambling details, but let's just say, part way into the dream, I realized that Dan is dead. Though, in the dream, my friend and I were attending the funeral of Dan's five-year-old son. No, I don't pretend to understand the finer workings of my subconscious, either.
It's been a while since I've thought of Dan. Strangely enough, a few weeks ago, oh hell, maybe it was a few months ago...the older I get, "just the other day," could mean 1999.
Anyway, I went to the kitchen to do kitchen-type things, when I noticed a yellowed newspaper clipping on the floor. I picked it up and read the headline from Monday, January 2, 1989, "Hunting Accident Fatal, Despite Ardent Rescue."
I don't know why or how it ended up on the floor. I can't remember the last time I saw the article. However, I did have each of my kids read it, especially my younger child who has a penchant for hunting.
New Year's Eve day, 1988, I was 19 years old. The class of '87 had been out of school for about a year and a half. Most of my classmates were home for Christmas break. New Year's Eve parties were planned, and at the time, my friend Ryan was at my apartment when there was a knock on the door.
Ryan answered as I was making myself pretty, and my neighbor, another classmate of ours, announced the bad news - Dan was dead from a shotgun blow to his head. Overcome with disbelief, I had this guy repeat what he said three times.
I didn't know what to make of it. Ryan dismissed my neighbor, as he was a bit on the annoying side. His attitude was, "Shit happens, let's go celebrate New Year's Eve."
It wasn't the most joyous New Year's I've ever celebrated. Rumors circulated as to what happened, and I didn't find out for sure until I read the newspaper article. He'd been hunting, and when one of the beagles started eating a rabbit he'd shot (as reported by the kid who'd been the hunting partner that day), he used the stock of the gun to hit at the dog, some briar thicket caught the hammer of the shotgun. As they say, the rest is history. The shot struck his left temple.
I took some time off work to attend the calling before the funeral. It was our first class reunion - the room was packed with those I'd gone to school with.
It would be the first funeral I ever attended. I stood at the casket, his mom put her arm around me, and I fought back the tears. I had a silent conversation with him, mainly asking him what he was thinking being so careless. A photo of his nephew, who'd been accidentally backed over by a car when he was about two years old, was position in Dan's hands. There was no evidence that his temple had been blasted away, though I resisted the urge to stand on my tippy-toes to peer to the other side of the casket.
I'd known Dan since kindergarten. While I had the warm fuzzies for him during much of elementary school, he was never my boyfriend. I've tried to explain it many times, but when you are a classmate with someone for 13 years, and the class size for 7 of those years was maybe 25 students tops, if you don't become boyfriend/girlfriend, you become a bit like siblings.
Dan was a goofy boy, which was part of his charm. His feet grew years before the rest of him caught up with them. Seems like he was always tripping over them. He almost always appeared to have a tan, and man oh man, could he feather his hair. He was always bringing in trophies and ribbons he'd won in 4-H and other farming or hunting contests. A few times, his mom actually brought in some of his pets for show and tell.
Fourth grade was the beginning of my crush on him. I don't recall the specifics, but I know I was smitten with him. Perhaps there was no other reason than he was a cute, nice boy who had lots of pets, wore cowboy boots, and rode horses. In sixth grade, I secretly fantasized about sitting with him during the "Friday movie" and holding hands with him. (We watched a movie or some sort of film on the old projector every Friday. They weren't even educational flicks, unless you count learning to hold hands learning something.)
I don't think I ever heard him utter a bad word about anyone. He was a sweet country boy who always had tons of friends. In high school, I'll never forget him still tripping over his clunky feet, with a trail of notebook paper, likely assignments, from his locker and textbooks.
The funeral was held in a large church. Even though a group of us walked the block from the funeral home to the church, we had to take a seat in the balcony area. By the time the service started, it was standing room only.
I totally lost it standing on the steps outside the church after the services. While others had a few tears flowing, I couldn't stop mine. Classmates who barely spoke to each other during the course of our high school years, comforted each other on those steps.
My apartment was across the street, and instead of going on to the graveside services, I opted to go home and mourn alone the loss of the boy I wanted to marry.
Note: "Boys I Want to Marry" is not to be taken in a literal sense. If your first thought is, "Oh my gawd, she's married and she's making blog entries about other boys she wants to marry, why I never!" you shouldn't be reading my blog in the first place. It was merely how I expressed myself as a young girl. When I was seven years old and watched Rick Dees perform "Disco Duck" on TV, I announced to my grandma that I wanted to marry him. Because of course, I was young, and when you loved someone, it was in my estimation that the logical thing to do was marry him. My immature mind and vocabulary limited my ability to express triggered emotions. Perhaps they still do.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The Old Lady
When we went back to school shopping, the 15 year old child didn't want to go. He couldn't give a crap less really what he wears. T-shirt and jean shorts, no problem. T-shirt and "non-gay" jeans, no problem.
Try as I might to pick out things that don't push his boundaries on being too stylish, there's usually at least one t-shirt he doesn't like. I usually end up wearing it.
This time was no different. A grey shirt with shiny, big block red lettering of "OLD NAVY." Think late 70s style lettering. He hated the shirt. I said fine, I'll take it.
I got dressed one morning, put on the t-shirt, and made my appearance in the living room.
My husband said, "Got that right."
"Huh?" I asked, because I'm eloquent like that at times. Sometimes, he does blurt out strange things. It could be Tourette's. I don't know. Oftentimes, I think he thinks he's only thinking, but instead, he says out loud something strange and random. Any day now, I expect to dementia to fully set in and he'll be calling out random phrases from the cold war like "Run to the fall-out shelter!"
"The shirt. Got that right," he repeated.
Yeah, I had no clue what he was talking about. "Yes, I'm usually right. Thanks for noticing. What ARE you talking about???"
"The shirt. It would be correct."
He thought the shirt said OLD LADY.
Try as I might to pick out things that don't push his boundaries on being too stylish, there's usually at least one t-shirt he doesn't like. I usually end up wearing it.
This time was no different. A grey shirt with shiny, big block red lettering of "OLD NAVY." Think late 70s style lettering. He hated the shirt. I said fine, I'll take it.
I got dressed one morning, put on the t-shirt, and made my appearance in the living room.
My husband said, "Got that right."
"Huh?" I asked, because I'm eloquent like that at times. Sometimes, he does blurt out strange things. It could be Tourette's. I don't know. Oftentimes, I think he thinks he's only thinking, but instead, he says out loud something strange and random. Any day now, I expect to dementia to fully set in and he'll be calling out random phrases from the cold war like "Run to the fall-out shelter!"
"The shirt. Got that right," he repeated.
Yeah, I had no clue what he was talking about. "Yes, I'm usually right. Thanks for noticing. What ARE you talking about???"
"The shirt. It would be correct."
He thought the shirt said OLD LADY.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Something is Irritated, Alrighty
I've not had a good week, and I don't mind saying as much.
Last week at a football game, the girl who works in the eye dr.'s office turned around and asked me how I liked my contact lenses. (She has a son who plays on my youngest son's team, so it wasn't like she was just randomly at the game. Because that would be a little odd. Anyway, what compelled me to say as much probably sums up my state of mind about right now.)
I proclaimed that I didn't like them. I've had nothing but trouble with them since May. The two-week disposable with a name that rhymes with Acuvue 2 didn't come close to lasting two weeks. They seemed to move about my eyeball a good bit. They weren't comfortable, and I'd find myself having to take a few days rest here and there from contacts.
You see, Bausch & Lomb discontinued the contacts I had been wearing. Those that I loved. Those I could wear up to 30 days and not go blind. They fit perfectly. Didn't tear. They had a nice visi-tint so those of use who are blind as bats could see them to insert them.
"Oh, you should come in," she told me. "I'll pull your chart and let the dr. know."
I like her.
So, the next day I called her and made an appointment to go on Wednesday.
During a follow-up appointment, I'd told the eye dr. I wasn't too thrilled with my new lenses. I explained they weren't all that comfortable, and oftentimes, I'd find myself with the strong need to get the son of a guns out of my eye like ten minutes ago. He didn't seem overly concerned. I all but begged to get a Bausch & Lomb lens as a replacement.
I brought in the pair that lasted ten days before I couldn't bear them any longer, which had no appearance of an abundance of build-up or debris on them. He poked around my eyes some, and had me take the lenses out.
As I've mentioned, I suffer from vasovagal syncope. You can read my rantings about it here. What happens is if someone touches my eyeball, I drop like a fly. There's a post-it note on my file that says, "Don't touch her eyeball. She will pass out."
It sort of makes me pull one of these numbers, except without the benefit of cuteness or alcohol.
He tells me he's going to look at the inside of my eyelids, which I just about took the same opportunity to do. He sort of rolled my eyelid up in a wooden swab like an old-fashioned blind. I sort of squealed, "Don't forget my passing out thing!"
He asked if I were okay, and I had to say not for much longer. My ears started ringing. I started getting dizzy. Ugh. Thankfully, he didn't feel the desire to check out both eyelids.
I left with a prescription for steriod eyedrops. My corneas are irritated. After I was grilled about taking proper care of my contacts, and professing that I learned the hard way years ago that one shouldn't go on contact wearing marathons and should actually follow the cleaning directions, he thought perhaps the poorly fitting contacts have caused my corneas to revolt.
I knew something wasn't right. I knew the contacts didn't feel like those I've worn for the last 20 plus years.
So, here's another fun part of this whole experience. I'm supposed to go as many days as possible without wearing contacts (he gave me another pair of Acuvue, these are Oasis, though), and use the drops four times a day. I go back next Thursday.
Well, this only poses a small problem. I don't do glasses. I have a pair of old ones that are good enough for first thing in the morning and before I retire in the evenings. There's that, and if I want to see what I'm running over while driving, it's generally a good idea that I wear contacts. I don't see worth a gee golly darn with glasses.
Oh, and not to forget that I look like this wearing glasses.
Last week at a football game, the girl who works in the eye dr.'s office turned around and asked me how I liked my contact lenses. (She has a son who plays on my youngest son's team, so it wasn't like she was just randomly at the game. Because that would be a little odd. Anyway, what compelled me to say as much probably sums up my state of mind about right now.)
I proclaimed that I didn't like them. I've had nothing but trouble with them since May. The two-week disposable with a name that rhymes with Acuvue 2 didn't come close to lasting two weeks. They seemed to move about my eyeball a good bit. They weren't comfortable, and I'd find myself having to take a few days rest here and there from contacts.
You see, Bausch & Lomb discontinued the contacts I had been wearing. Those that I loved. Those I could wear up to 30 days and not go blind. They fit perfectly. Didn't tear. They had a nice visi-tint so those of use who are blind as bats could see them to insert them.
"Oh, you should come in," she told me. "I'll pull your chart and let the dr. know."
I like her.
So, the next day I called her and made an appointment to go on Wednesday.
During a follow-up appointment, I'd told the eye dr. I wasn't too thrilled with my new lenses. I explained they weren't all that comfortable, and oftentimes, I'd find myself with the strong need to get the son of a guns out of my eye like ten minutes ago. He didn't seem overly concerned. I all but begged to get a Bausch & Lomb lens as a replacement.
I brought in the pair that lasted ten days before I couldn't bear them any longer, which had no appearance of an abundance of build-up or debris on them. He poked around my eyes some, and had me take the lenses out.
As I've mentioned, I suffer from vasovagal syncope. You can read my rantings about it here. What happens is if someone touches my eyeball, I drop like a fly. There's a post-it note on my file that says, "Don't touch her eyeball. She will pass out."
It sort of makes me pull one of these numbers, except without the benefit of cuteness or alcohol.
He tells me he's going to look at the inside of my eyelids, which I just about took the same opportunity to do. He sort of rolled my eyelid up in a wooden swab like an old-fashioned blind. I sort of squealed, "Don't forget my passing out thing!"
He asked if I were okay, and I had to say not for much longer. My ears started ringing. I started getting dizzy. Ugh. Thankfully, he didn't feel the desire to check out both eyelids.
I left with a prescription for steriod eyedrops. My corneas are irritated. After I was grilled about taking proper care of my contacts, and professing that I learned the hard way years ago that one shouldn't go on contact wearing marathons and should actually follow the cleaning directions, he thought perhaps the poorly fitting contacts have caused my corneas to revolt.
I knew something wasn't right. I knew the contacts didn't feel like those I've worn for the last 20 plus years.
So, here's another fun part of this whole experience. I'm supposed to go as many days as possible without wearing contacts (he gave me another pair of Acuvue, these are Oasis, though), and use the drops four times a day. I go back next Thursday.
Well, this only poses a small problem. I don't do glasses. I have a pair of old ones that are good enough for first thing in the morning and before I retire in the evenings. There's that, and if I want to see what I'm running over while driving, it's generally a good idea that I wear contacts. I don't see worth a gee golly darn with glasses.
Oh, and not to forget that I look like this wearing glasses.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
'Memba This Song?
"Time and Tide" was released in 1987 by Basia Trzetrzelewska, known only as Basia. That's a good thing because I couldn't even begin to pronounce that last name.
I'd say this was my favorite song in the fall of '87. I remember it well. I bought the cassette, and was terribly disappointed that the rest of her music didn't have the same feel as this song.
When I happened to think of it today, I even remembered all the words to the song, though it's been eons since I've heard it. I've never seen it compiled in playlists of one-hit wonders, but I'm guessing it was her only hit in the US, anyway.
It was one of those obscure songs that either you loved or hated. I happened to love it.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Music, Books, and Such
I really can't emphasize enough the impact that music has on me and my mental well-being. While the notion of "music therapy" might easily be poo-poo'ed by most, it works.
For example, back in the day when mornings around here were rough with two youngins' who didn't want to get out of bed, much less cooperate with me, I'd put on some music.
Rather than spend the time mired in arguments and fit-throwing, I'd put on some tunes. This often garnered me the title of "cool mom" as we all danced to "Busta Move," "Baby Got Back," or "It's Tricky." Really, how can you have a bad day if it starts with jamming to some Run-D.M.C.?
Sometimes, I will carefully construct a playlist on Rhapsody, picking out what I want to hear. Other times, I'll click "add playlist" and let some stranger decide on my music repertoire.
Today, I picked one called "Hey Old Guys." I promised myself that I wouldn't be offended if I did indeed enjoy the musical offering. I clicked shuffle and let the music take me where it would.
Several songs into the list, I caught myself smiling, wowing that I hadn't heard it in ages, and doing a little head-bobbing here and there as I folded some laundry. Song after song, I might have been mistaken for Cuba Gooding Jr. in "Radio."
"That's a goo' one. C'mon an dance. That's a goo' one!"
*****
In other news, I stopped by the local Salvation Army type place. It's ran by the Ladies' Auxillary of the hospital. They take donations of clothing and small items from the community.
One thing I can say about their clothing selection is this - we are a poorly dressed community with no sense of fashion whatsoever. It was Hoosier Hillbilly Heaven. (Though, I must admit I almost bought an 80s style jean jacket, but my motivation was that it was almost like the one I once owned. I came to my senses.)
The book section is hit or miss. The last several times I've gone in, I've walked out with nothing. Today, I had my arms loaded up when I made my way to the check-out. You can't beat 25 cent paperbacks and 50 cent hardcover.
I beg of someone to analzye my selections because this is what I walked out with:
100 Ghastly Little Ghost Stories - they appear to be fictional and not true accounts.
Sybil (The true and extraordinary story of a woman possessed by sixteen separate personalities) by Flora Rheta Schreiber - I can't recall if I've read this before or not. I do remember reading the one about the faces of Eve. Not sure about this, however.
Carrie by Stephen King - This was the second book by King that I read in high school and became an avid fan. Should I get bored, I'll give it another go.
Cell by Stephen King - I read mixed reviews about this, so I didn't rush out and get it in hardcover. Then it came out in paperback, and I guess I forgot about it. (Well worth the $2.50 I spent on all of these.)
Resistance by Anita Shreve - So what? It's a love story. I dig her prose. Something about a passionate love affair conquering all in a Nazi-occupied Belgian village.
Give Me My Father's Body (The life of Minik, the New York Eskimo) by Kenn Harper - The forward is by Kevin Spacey. I've been having a secret affair with him since I saw him sing on a tribute to John Lennon show. Yes, so secret that he doesn't even know about it. I've not clue what is so incredibly sexy about him, but I'd do him. The book is something about Robert Peary and his dumping off Eskimos as "live specimens" to be gawked at by the paying public at the American Museum of National History.
If life is a bowl of cherries - what am I doing in the pits? by Erma Bombeck- This was the first Erma book I read. I think I was about 10 and I picked it up off my mom's stack of books. I didn't really understand why it was so funny since I wasn't able to relate as a mom and wife, but I knew there was something about Erma that I loved even as a child.
And lastly....
The Benham book of Palmistry by Wm. G. Benham - Ehh, who knows what drives my interests. An Indian guy in a bar read my palm back one night in the summer, and it was fascinating. Perhaps it'll shed some light on my Simian line.
For example, back in the day when mornings around here were rough with two youngins' who didn't want to get out of bed, much less cooperate with me, I'd put on some music.
Rather than spend the time mired in arguments and fit-throwing, I'd put on some tunes. This often garnered me the title of "cool mom" as we all danced to "Busta Move," "Baby Got Back," or "It's Tricky." Really, how can you have a bad day if it starts with jamming to some Run-D.M.C.?
Sometimes, I will carefully construct a playlist on Rhapsody, picking out what I want to hear. Other times, I'll click "add playlist" and let some stranger decide on my music repertoire.
Today, I picked one called "Hey Old Guys." I promised myself that I wouldn't be offended if I did indeed enjoy the musical offering. I clicked shuffle and let the music take me where it would.
Several songs into the list, I caught myself smiling, wowing that I hadn't heard it in ages, and doing a little head-bobbing here and there as I folded some laundry. Song after song, I might have been mistaken for Cuba Gooding Jr. in "Radio."
"That's a goo' one. C'mon an dance. That's a goo' one!"
*****
In other news, I stopped by the local Salvation Army type place. It's ran by the Ladies' Auxillary of the hospital. They take donations of clothing and small items from the community.
One thing I can say about their clothing selection is this - we are a poorly dressed community with no sense of fashion whatsoever. It was Hoosier Hillbilly Heaven. (Though, I must admit I almost bought an 80s style jean jacket, but my motivation was that it was almost like the one I once owned. I came to my senses.)
The book section is hit or miss. The last several times I've gone in, I've walked out with nothing. Today, I had my arms loaded up when I made my way to the check-out. You can't beat 25 cent paperbacks and 50 cent hardcover.
I beg of someone to analzye my selections because this is what I walked out with:
100 Ghastly Little Ghost Stories - they appear to be fictional and not true accounts.
Sybil (The true and extraordinary story of a woman possessed by sixteen separate personalities) by Flora Rheta Schreiber - I can't recall if I've read this before or not. I do remember reading the one about the faces of Eve. Not sure about this, however.
Carrie by Stephen King - This was the second book by King that I read in high school and became an avid fan. Should I get bored, I'll give it another go.
Cell by Stephen King - I read mixed reviews about this, so I didn't rush out and get it in hardcover. Then it came out in paperback, and I guess I forgot about it. (Well worth the $2.50 I spent on all of these.)
Resistance by Anita Shreve - So what? It's a love story. I dig her prose. Something about a passionate love affair conquering all in a Nazi-occupied Belgian village.
Give Me My Father's Body (The life of Minik, the New York Eskimo) by Kenn Harper - The forward is by Kevin Spacey. I've been having a secret affair with him since I saw him sing on a tribute to John Lennon show. Yes, so secret that he doesn't even know about it. I've not clue what is so incredibly sexy about him, but I'd do him. The book is something about Robert Peary and his dumping off Eskimos as "live specimens" to be gawked at by the paying public at the American Museum of National History.
If life is a bowl of cherries - what am I doing in the pits? by Erma Bombeck- This was the first Erma book I read. I think I was about 10 and I picked it up off my mom's stack of books. I didn't really understand why it was so funny since I wasn't able to relate as a mom and wife, but I knew there was something about Erma that I loved even as a child.
And lastly....
The Benham book of Palmistry by Wm. G. Benham - Ehh, who knows what drives my interests. An Indian guy in a bar read my palm back one night in the summer, and it was fascinating. Perhaps it'll shed some light on my Simian line.
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