I went to the grocery store today and got a different bag boy who asked me if I was ready for the New Year. He was sort of philosophical with his comments by saying that he has a theory that there is a difference between "resolution" and "resolve". One would be something you say for the heck of it, and the other would mean actually carrying it out and doing it. I told him that I don't make resolutions. I have never understood why people do. Not because they never stick with the resolutions, but because who cares that in a new year you do this or do that. It is just time to me. I can make a resolution tomorrow to do something different and I will.

Like when I went shopping with my mother to buy clothes a good handful of years back. I had just had my girl a year prior and I was putting it on a bit. My mother was too, except her excuse was menopause or something. I hate shopping. Really, I do. I just don't ever want anything. So I observed how my mother shopped for clothes. She REFUSED to go up a size even if she was bulging out of the size she "thought" she should be. It really bugged me. I mean, it had such an impact on me that I thought, "I can't be like that. I am going to have to buy size tens here because I am getting a little hefty myself and if I don't want to wear them I will just lose the weight starting TODAY." And that is what I did. I started exercising the very next day on a regular basis and have not stopped since. It took me four long years but I got down a good many sizes. Which reminds me---

I was watching TV the other night with Dear Sir and someone asked Paris Hilton what her New Years resolution would be. She said that she will exercise more (because she is so slack) and she will eat less fast food because she eats so much of it. Yeah, we can tell, eh?

I just never realized that people took New Years day so seriously. What is your stinking resolution? I don't have one.


Vegan Hobbit

I have had no appetite for much---food is included. Just thought I would put that out there. I think I have been sick. I was telling the worship leader at my church last night at practice that I think I have had a virus. I think I still have one, I mean. When I start each day the thought of eating food is one of the highlights of my morning. I adore food. Lots of times I don't care if it is good food or not. I adore cold cereal and energy bars and stupid junk that really isn't real food. Right after breakfast I think again about food---what I will have for lunch, snack, you name it. Then I think about what I will make for dinner (and trust me, I have been really slack in this area of late---let's say the past couple of years now) but I still get excited over a side of peas and some brown rice.

I think I am a hobbit. First breakfast, second breakfast. I am even starting to like beer a little bit. So, with that in mind, I have no appetite, I think something is wrong with me, and I should take my temperature.

My Oldest said one day when we were going to have a roast that I would probably not enjoy that dinner very much. I asked him why. He said, "Well, because you are a vegetarian!"

I almost fell over. What in the heck would make him think I am a vegetarian?

I tried to tell him that I am not one and he would not believe me. I think it is because I refuse to eat my own fried chicken. I make it too much, Dear Sir adores it, and I am just plumb sick of it. Everyone else has a heyday while I feast on the veggies and other side I make. Not long from the time of the roast comment I made fried chicken. My Oldest noticed that I did not partake of the bird-flesh and he said, "See, I told you that you were a vegetarian!"

Dear Sir almost spit out his food. "Wha?!!!"
"He thinks I am a vegetarian, honey."
"She is NOT a vegetarian!" Dear Sir rebuked. "You have to never eat meat for that, got it?"

To this day my Oldest still thinks I am a vegetarian. He just believes it.

This is not the first person who has accused me of being a vegan. I remember back when I was a coolian right out of high school I went to a restaurant with a boyfriend and my good friend was the waitress. She leaned over as I was ordering and told me what she thought was good there. I told her that what she suggested sounded vile and I wanted some meat concoction. She almost toppled over the table and she grabbed her heart. "Why, Rachel! I thought you were all 'new agey'! I didn't know you ate meat! Don't you listen to Enya?"

I never knew that listening to Enya equalled eating only vegetables. I can't even eat them raw, how can I be a vegetarian? I have to eat SOMETHING, don't I? Good grief...



Absolutely nothing much is going on, which is a good thing. I have survived not gaining a pound while being unable to run because of my tingly weird leg that I promised Dear Sir I would not run on for two weeks (it is killing me not to run) while eating junk and cereal for meals because I have been too lazy to cook. Tonight I will attempt to roast a chicken once my stupid blonde brownies finish baking (I put them in too small of a pan and now they are taking an eternity to bake).

I am actually not in a bad mood; contrary to what I am typing. I am just a little annoyed that I can not find squat about my leg on the internet so I can help it along the recovery process. The inside of my calf tingles and has cramping and some pain when I sit still and then when I run on it or use it excessively (I did that the other night getting fancy while dueling light sabers with my daughter). It is a nerve problem, I am pretty sure, but there really is not much to be done with it except just not using my leg for a spell, which is rotten and hard to deal with for me. I live on running and then I live on it more, feel the need of it more keenly when I am not doing it. The blight of a woman addicted.

Christmas went well and was as low key as possible (which is always good). We sat around and watched Star Wars and ate popcorn. I baked a little yesterday and the day before with the girl on her new Easy Bake oven, and Dear Sir and the boys played Risk. Of course he pummeled them and taught them many lessons in world domination.

Dear Sir got me a new biography of Thomas Hardy (my favorite author who wrote Tess of The D'Ubervilles for those who have no real clue) and I have been reading snippets here and there while finishing up a few books that I have had bookmarks in. I won't elaborate at length my thorough enjoyment of Hardy because I know it will bore you to tears, but I have plenty of reading ahead of me pertaining to that particular subject and I know I will never grow weary of it!

I also got a really cool Shakespeare book from my sister in law and I think it will be a great read because it basically sets all the plays in narrative format. Thank you, Mindi.

I hope you all had a great Christmas!


I will break from writing since I am just not in the mood.

Can't run (my leg is all messed up), can't write, and can't make anymore cookies. I have made too many already.

Have a Merry Christmas and see you next week unless I change my mind.


Lost Ewe

Last night Dear Sir and I dropped the kids off at the local Baptist Church to their AWANA meeting. The Oldest bolted to his class and the younger ones lined up to sign themselves in, and I walked to the car and Dear Sir and I went to get something to eat and catch up.

When I walked in the building an hour later things were eerily quiet. I did find the Eraser Eater and the Daughter, but strangely my oldest son's class was not in session and every room was dark. I went to the other end of the building to the gym because perhaps he could be there, and lo, he was not. I went to the AWANA leader and asked him where the Oldest son's class was.
"There is no class. They did not meet today."
I immediately got this sinking feeling in my stomach. I almost freaked out, but Dear Sir was behind me and he said, "We will find him, don't worry."
I ridiculously started to search for my son in a frantic fashion. I climbed a million stairways and found classrooms upon classrooms but I could not get to the sanctuary, where I thought he could possibly be since there was a sermon going on there. I think there are four or five stairwells, and I met about four of them and plastered my face against windows in nearly every lit room I could. No son. Finally a man said to me: "You have lost a child."

I think he could tell by the look on my face. I was about to slay anyone who got in the way of me and my child. I felt so ridiculous. I tried to suppress my feelings but said sheepishly, "yes."

This man helped Dear Sir look and I looked everywhere else. Finally the man brought an usher from the service who guided me to the sanctuary and told me to search through the pews (it was very full) for my son. I scoped the place but could not see the other side, so I went to the next set of double doors.
Finally, I saw him. He was sitting down next to a teacher reading his Bible. He was reading Ecclesiastes.

I grabbed his arm and guided him out. I was sure to thank the teacher who sat next to him.

I thanked everyone who helped me including the usher, the man who knew I lost a child, and the AWANA superintendent (even though he did not tell me much).

I have been emotional the past few days. This topped the cake. I did not full out cry my eyes out or anything, but I pushed back a few tear drops and got in the car. I handed the Oldest the rest of my Diet Coke.
"Why are you giving this to me?" he said thankfully.

"Because I lost you and I feel bad for it," I said.
What made it even worse to me is that my son proceeded to tell me how when he found that his class was not in session he ran back to the parking lot to look for our car and we were gone. He said he hung his head and was disappointed that he had to go back inside and roam the halls.

Dear Sir grabbed my leg. "He is a big boy now, Rachel, he knows what to do."

I thought of the parable of the lost sheep during the whole thing. I didn't think about how God must feel when one of His own are lost until I was in the parking lot, three kids safe and sound, but I did think about how God loses sheep when I was looking through endless classrooms. Not until I got in the car, handing my kid the diet coke, did it occur to me that God feels like I felt when a sheep is lost. I felt frantic. I felt horrible. The weird thing is that I knew he was safe, it was the fact that he was not where I knew he should have been. The fact that he was lost.


Back in the Day

Back in the day before Eraser Eater ate erasers and only drank formula and the Oldest only said gibberish and the daughter did not exist yet (even a hint), I worked in a house filled with mentally disabled adults. I worked two days a week and believe me, not to be mean, but the house was mad. It was rather frightening. I don't even know why I worked there or allowed myself to. It was just sheer craziness.

At the interview I was hired on the spot and told to take a course in human restraint. Well, some sort of politically correct/non hurtful human restraint. I was taught to restrain someone from behind, knock them on the ground, and hold them down (many little ladies my size could do it just fine without a thought to it). In fact, I did it just fine but I have gotten a little rusty. Dear Sir is never up for a little practice session. I have never tried it on him before (well, I almost did but feared for my life if I went one step further---ha ha.) Men don't like it when their women can take them down. Gotta respect that.

Anyway, once in awhile I remember I can do this little maneuver and use it on my Oldest. You know, a mentally retarded person is not going to expect it, but a ten year old boy will if you are messing around with him anyway. They are all struggles. And they sweat so much. Tonight I put the smack down on the boy and he was saying to me, "How do you DO that?!"

I remember one day while in the handicap van (we were taking a drive with the clients) one of the unfortunate fellows sat next to me. In fact, I had to sit between two of them because lots of times they would pull each other's hair or bite each other---the idea is for them to bite me instead. Great, huh. Why the heck did I work there, I don't know. Anyway, This one client in particular would snuggle up against me and I would rub his head (he was a sixty something year old man and he was the most horrific looking person imaginable. I would not have liked to see him in an alley way. He looked scary.) and he seemed to like that. He would rub my arm as well and smile and drool all over me. I thought the drive was going well for the most part and then about half way through it he jolted up on a sudden and punched me as hard as he could on my forearm. His face was set in complete anger and his teeth looked menacing. He kept blowing me but the punches lessened in force and eventually he stopped. While that was going on my particular unfavorite client who had the habit and utter love of pulling hair at all times was trying to get his sneaky little hand at mine. I had the luxury of coming in in the mornings and having to dress him from time to time. All he wanted to do was bite and pull. Finally one day this snotty lady I worked with told me to deal with him for some reason and he was not cooperating with me and I just called her to me and told her I was done with him, she can do it. He gets dressed somehow every morning.

I had to deal with the ladies a lot too. There were a few in wheelchairs and they were interesting. I worked with one in particular quite often and she was not abusive at all. She was just a lot of work. Changing clothes, wiping butts, flushing toilets, giving showers, wiping mouths, feeding, EVERYTHING. She was really sweet natured and I felt so bad for her having to live with some of these harmful ones.

Another lady talked incessantly about nothing. Well, she said stuff but she would repeat it over and over again. I remember one time I was brushing her hair and getting her dressed and she looked at me in the mirror and said, "Who cares about you! Who cares about you! Who cares about you! Who cares about you!......." over and over again. She would get in these moods where she would call you names over and over and pretty soon you would be like, "yeah, who the heck cares about me, anyway?" Dear Sir and I often quote this when we are in a jolly good mood.

I eventually had to quit because one of the clients who had the mentality of maybe a six year old but the body and drive of a twenty year old man (he was around my age at the time) seemed to take a liking to me and started to harass me. I mean, grab me and pretty much would have gone further if I had not watched myself and gotten out of his way. He was a big guy and the most frightening of all of them. I had heard that he had about seven or so full grown strong men on him when he went through a tantrum of sorts and he put most of them in the emergency room. I knew that if I were to tell him no with the grabbings and things and didn't put it as lightly as possible, he would literally snap me in half. It was rather frightening. The last straw was when he got a little too liberal when I was changing his bed (he followed me everywhere) and I had to bow out and he was getting angry and someone had to calm him down. I just called them and told them that I could not return to work. Insane.

It is so sad that people live like this. There is a whole world of them living in little independent homes like this because their parents can not care for them and it is just utterly depressing. It is literally like a whole different world from ours---we are all obsessed with ourselves and looking beautiful and young. These people hardly talk, walk around aimlessly, hurt others because they don't know any better, and do the most vile things. I have seen a lot of body parts I wish I hadn't, that is for sure!


Attack of the Killer Rock

Yesterday I took the kids to the park since it was in the 70's. Where do I live? Florida? California? Nope. An hour from D.C. Give me a break huh? So we went out and had a mini spring day. My daughter took the binoculars and ran around looking like Dora and the Oldest and Eraser Eater went their separate ways-- one to the see-saw and the other to find lizards. I think they literally thought it was summer again.

I went through a mini (I will use the word again) flashback of how horrendous last summer was because of my Oldest son and flying insects. He refused to go by the water (there is a lake by the park) because of possible dragonflies. There was not a bug to be seen for miles and he was wigging out again. "I'm staying right here!" he would yell. I gave up and went on the see saw with him for a bit and taught him my trick on how to make someone freak out and bounce. He didn't like the lesson because I did it to him a million times.

I got tired of the see-saw and moved on to see what the other two were doing by the water and they were taking sticks and pretending that they were fishing. I thought this was a good idea and got a massive branch and said to my oldest: "Look at this thing! You can be Huck Finn and fish with this thing!"

"Not by that water I'm not! That is where dragonflies go!"

I had to convince him that there weren't any dragonflies. To be honest, he was really enthralled with the massive stick. It was taller than me. He took it greedily and announced to the whole park that he was going to go fishing and begged where he could find a worm. I dallied around by the stream and found a worm but I did not touch it. I hate worms. Looking at them makes me sick. Kind of like metal. "I found a worm!" I yelled.

The voice of Mickey Mouse made its way toward me filled with glee and he GRABBED THE WORM from the ground. I almost screamed, but I realized that he was touching a bug like regular boys and this is good.

"So, uh, how do I put it on the end of my stick?"

"I guess you have to pierce it's flesh and stick it on that way," I said, a little unsure of myself.

"Ok." He tried. "It's slippy." It didn't work. "Oh well. I guess I could just take him and dangle him in the water and a fish would come to me." He cupped the worm in his hand. "He feels wiggly in my hand! I kind of like it!"

The thought of that made me feel a little green and pale, but I ignored it and went on.
Finally he decided that dangling the worm would not work so he just threw it in the water. A lot of good that did. All I could think about was hand sanitizer.

I got distracted after a spell and started looking in the binoculars. I saw the Oldest on a rock by the little stream-creek thing and then I saw him WALK THROUGH THE WATER. I about had a cow. That is when I took them home. They were all soaked from being ridiculous and walking through water rather than walking around. The lake water is filthy. Remember the dead duck? Yeah, you get my point. I had to wash everything when I got home. Sick.

Except when I got home the Oldest did not want to go inside. He approached the front porch and then ran screaming from it to the car again. Flash back of the past summer. He stood there, fingers on lip (worm infested fingers, mind you), trembling and crying his ten year old rear end off. "A big black bee! I saw it!"

"There is no bee."

"Yes! I saw it! It was by the rail! It was flying toward me! I will not go in until you kill it!" He was inconsolable, irrational, and petrified. Of nothing. There was nothing.

"No. There is nothing here. I will guide you. Let me take your hand."

"No! I saw it!"

"Look! THERE IS NOTHING! THERE ARE NEIGHBORS! THEY CAN HEAR YOU!" I said this in a loud whisper. Even shame does not shape him up.

"Is there...is there anything black around the porch?" He cried out in a whimper.

"Yes. A rock. A black rock."

"That must be it then."

"Yes. That is probably it. Now come on, and get inside."

He ran in like the devil was on his tail and took the sopping wet shoes off as fast as he could. He refused to go outside the rest of the day.

I can already foresee next summer...again. Ugh.


Christmas Malarkey

Its been ridiculously warm here. I think it did this last year too. The kids are somewhat depressed, wishing for snow, and frankly, I am not sure it will come being this warm in DECEMBER. Dear Sir says that it feels like spring.

James Blunt is still staring me in the face (here, I will turn the card over---hold on a sec--done), and I forgot to mention what else Dear Sir got me for my birthday: a guitar stand (I really needed one!), a shirt that has the British flag on it, the Complete stories of Flannery O'Connor, and a pair of sunglasses that cover more than half of my face. I wish the smaller ones were in style right now. Sheesh. I told him to get me NOTHING because I don't really want anything (I know, aren't I weird? It has taken me this long to figure out how to use the stinking James Blunt gift card). And I still have not done it.

The boys made me Christmas lists this year, which was fun and on BOTH of their lists they wrote that they wanted their sister to have a "purple light saber", which I thought was very sweet. So I found one and wrapped it up and said it was from the Oldest and Eraser Eater. She will be delighted to be able to duel them. I find that she often conforms to their kind of play because there is not another girl her age often around. She goes between being Kim Possible to batgirl to some jedi girl warrior. She will put on her black sweater and dart around with a lady bug utility belt on. It is kind of hilarious. It brings me back to my Wonder Woman days. You couldn't get those underroos off me.

I got Eraser Eater a metal detector (I hate metal, but he will have fun finding some Civil War shells in the backyard perhaps), The Oldest a rubix cube, and the girl this stupid Little Mermaid chariot thing with all the trimmings. I got them more things (obviously), but I am trying to focus on not buying them so much junk. I kept the presents at about ten each (I usually do only seven each) but since family is not around we have to compensate a bit. Plus, they have stockings full of stuff. I remember watching a show once about how poor families try to make up for being poor by blowing up balloons all around the tree for Christmas so when the kids wake up they think it is a big deal and are happy with the little they get. I am not "poor" but I am not with that sort of concept. I understand that I said that I gave them ten presents instead of seven to "compensate" but that is only because the things my kids asked for were so ridiculously simple, like notebooks, pens and erasers, that I wanted to get them things other than just those things! I remember when I was a kid and there were some rough years for Christmas and we had a big family. I was a little more aware I think than some in my family because for some reason I was just built that way. More sensitive, I guess. Believe me, it had its pros and cons. Yeah, we sometimes would not get the usual 20 presents or so for Christmas and would get only ten or seven. I remember one year we had moved and my parents spent a lot of their money on new furniture and things like that (which they needed) and I just figured in my mind that we almost had our Christmas with all that new stuff already. When Christmas that year rolled around and we got less than other years, I did not think what a bummer. I felt bad that my parents had to put up with complaints about it because you know, we were lucky we got anything.

My point is, I don't want my kids to be like that---thinking they deserve more. You get what you get. Thankfulness needs to be encompassing all of it, no matter what it is.


Bulk Buying and Screaming Spouses

So last week Dear Sir didn't even have to pull out the almost -empty carton of milk to send me off to the store. I had it planned in my mind already (believe it or not) and I even planned to go to Costco so I could buy tons of it. I had just been at church with the kids (Dear Sir was home with the Oldest who was sick) and I came home, plan on the brain. Drop the kids off, leave them with Dear Sir, and then high tail it to Costco.

When I got to church the only place where there was room for me to sit was in the back with the people who have the unruly children. They talk incessantly, make noise, and always knock the pile of toys down and make a disturbing crash while the pastor is reading off the liturgy. It is highly annoying. The thing that made me feel more terrible is that my kids (Daughter and Eraser Eater) were perfectly still and behaved while their kids were just out of control and then trying to get my kids out of control too! Mine would not partake, but I felt bad---like the parents would think I am snooty. Well, I felt kind of snooty. The parents were even loud. I was actually "shushing" their kids so they would not influence mine. Before Communion the Dad would say, "Come on, Buddy, let's go get a SNACK!" Yeah, let's just call the body and blood of Christ a stinking SNACK. That is really reverent.

Anyway, after church the mother wanted to make chit chat with me. She said we hadn't been properly introduced, and so I answered some of her questions and tried to keep an open mind. The sanctuary was pretty much cleared out by this time and I could see her husband and at least two of the kids hanging off of him in the foyer. He was maybe three yards away. He sort of called her name out or something and she turned around and told him that she wanted to go downstairs to buy something at the youth bake sale before they left. The man's eyes fired up like I have never seen eyes fire up before and and he BARKED at her:"We are either RIGHT HERE OR OUT THE DOOR!" meaning, I take it, "no." The look on his face and the anger in his whole constitution was alarming. I would not have been shocked if he came up and whapped her one over the head. The horrible thing is that he did this right in front of me. I looked right at him as he said it all and he could care less.

She turned to me and rolled her eyes and said, "Gotta go."

So I went home and then went on my way to Costco. I reached the four-way stop near the end of my cross street and a car was first, I was second, and then a big truck directly to my right was third. I waited for the first car to cross me, then I started to move forward since it was my turn. I was moving and turning the dial on my radio at the same time. I quickly looked up, almost about to crash into the truck (the person who was supposed to WAIT to go next). I stopped shortly and the truck stayed put, blocking me on purpose from going forward. The woman driving the truck was screaming at the top of her lungs, "IT WAS MY TURN!!!!!!!!!!!!" I heard it through her window and through my windshield. She stayed there a good few seconds to notify me of this. She was looking into my eyes and she was PISSED.

I just honked my horn at her in one big honk because I was not about to scream back at her like a nimrod. It was my turn anyway. It is not my fault that she didn't know how to count.

I am surprised at how ridiculous people are. They get mad over anything. Yesterday I went to the post office to mail a little package and the guy that pulled into the parking lot next to me bolted out of his car like he was racing me to get ahead of me in the line. Give me a BREAK!

At Costco I ran into the lady at church with the screaming husband. She was quick to call my name and say hello. I couldn't remember her name but I was sort of rude I think because I was just getting paper products and hoping she would go away. I could tell she was in a hurry anyway----but I felt bad. Lots of times I don't know what to say to someone, I am so tired of being fake, that I just smile and say, "hey" and hope they depart because I really could not move forward with that person anyway.

Dear Sir is almost positive the the screaming husband works in his building (an hour away from where we live!). He is quick to ignore Dear Sir and pretend he does not notice him. Weird, I know.



Yesterday I turned the year that I would be in my twenties for the last time. My father in law said, "I suppose this is the year you will remain forever, huh?"

I told him no, I don't mind getting older.

Then Dear Sir and I talked about death over dinner last night and then I got a sick feeling in my stomach. He said something about these years being our prime, etc, etc. I don't fear death at all---I just hate the oblivion people get lost in because no one cares for them anymore because they are not young and budding. That is sad to me.

One of my favorite gifts was an itunes gift card (among other things from Dear Sir) with James Blunt on it. I hate James Blunt and Dear Sir knew this. I almost screamed when I saw it because I can't stand his face (it reminds me of his annoying voice---talk about mean on my part, huh?) and then Dear Sir had the nerve to quote one of his songs on my card for me just to make things a little funny. I laughed really hard and gave him a shove. He said, "Hey, it's our song!" (We don't have a song and he can't stand James Blunt too). And then we both laughed.

I can't think of any music I want to buy on itunes. Is that not crazy? I thought finally that I would get the Nickel Creek album I wanted but then there is room for some more. Yikes. Can't think. Brain freeze. I really am getting old.



I don't feel like writing at all. Things are way too busy. I am turning 29 in two days and that is kind of crazy. I am sick of cookies and chocolate and I want Christmas to hurry up and come.

My daughter was just looking at some of my "paintings" that I shoved in a corner in the office. (I don't really paint, in fact I am not really good at it---I just used to amateurly pastel icons---and did it badly, at that)

"Why don't you put these in a museum, Mommy?"

"Because they are horrible; they have to be extra special good," I say.

"But they are NOT horrible and they ARE extra special good!" She glares at me. "They are masterful!"

"Well, I am totally content with the fact that I am not a painter," I say dryly.

"You're a musician," She says matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, kind of."

I remember thinking that anything my parents did was totally the greatest when I was little. I am of the mind to completely knock that silly idea directly out of their heads. Many of us take ourselves so seriously. No, I am not some amazing musician. I am a musician but not a paid one. I am a musician only because I was born knowing how to sing. It took absolutely no effort at all on my part. I was not, however, born knowing how to paint, and I was not even good when I did do it, so I would never consider myself a painter. In fact, the thought is just absolutely offensive.

What I really am is a mother, which reminds me that I need to go so I can knock some heads together....


Decorating the Tree

Last night we decorated the tree so here we are taking a silly little family photo with the mac. We had so much fun with the kids. They were so excited they were jumping up and down. I think I put up two ornaments and arranged the rest. Kids put stupid ones in horrible places; some on the same branch and some barely hanging on the bottom. That's going to last.

We topped off our ornament placing with hot cocoa and some truffles and cookies (we all felt gross when we were done) and then Dear Sir caved in and let them watch another installment of The Return of the King. Mind you, our daughter had to "hug" me most of the time and was not allowed to see a lot of it. I still get tense and freak out every time Shelob is around. I hate spiders and I hate big fat ones. That one is the Mack Daddy. Dear Sir continually reminds me that it is "just a movie" which I know and can handle, but it is still hard to look at a spider that size chasing someone. It does look REAL, you know.



THE RULES: Each player of this game starts with the '6 weird things about you.' People who get tagged need to write a blog post of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave a comment that says 'you are tagged' in their comments and tell them to read your blog."

I have a lot of weird things about myself that surpass all weirdness and I do talk about them on here like they are not all too weird, so I will finally admit they are what makes me weird, so here goes (six is not enough by the way):

1. When I am doing something (pretty much anything) I can't talk to you. When I am on the phone, I am stupid enough to pick it up and *try* to talk. Dear Sir experiences this all the time. I completely stutter, leave huge spaces between words, and pretty much can not think of anything except the task at hand. This also goes for computer stuff, guitar playing, raking leaves, and any other manual or brain consuming task (at least for me). The kids don't dare to talk to me while I run on the treadmill. They pretty much stay clear. I would spin off that thing and break my jaw. Dear Sir calls this "one track minded" and "not a multi- tasker".

2. When I drink any drink (especially wine or coffee), I am sure to have a napkin so I can wipe the little dribble of fluid on the rim of the drinking apparatus. It literally makes me sick to see it.

3. I don't like coins, I don't like cheese that is warm and finger-printed, I don't like hair balls, I don't like any of the aforementioned things in the same sentence like I just did. It literally makes my stomach do that sharp lurching. I just don't like finger prints. I think of coins and how dirty they are and how they would put dirt on fingerprints and then without washing hands people would touch other things like cheese or something else porous and sick.

4. I hate being rubbed on the chin. I had it done to me in highschool after I told a football player I hated it and I slapped him so hard his head fell back.

5. I hate it when people say "I dunno". It sounds "du-dumb". Someone dear and close to me is sure to email that response to me once in awhile to keep me under his thumb.

6. I am so ridiculous that I have a kitchen cabinet smack between the kitchen and the dining (school) area and I dedicate it both as a food cupboard AND homeschool supply. I told my friend this once (not thinking anything of it) and she said, "interesting."

So, I tag these people:



The Kids These Days 4

Yesterday morning my daughter woke up with bile coming out of her stomach projectile style. I thought I had heard some voice calling in the middle of the night but I fell asleep again.

I battled this all the morning and rubbed her back and pulled her hair back while she cried and said "help!" when she was "barfing." It was entirely sad to see. I also washed just about everything, cleaned the house, disinfected, and doled out acicophilus pills. So far no one else has gotten this. I really hope no one does. I used to say, "hold on to your hats, we are going to have a rough week!" But since acidophilus, I haven't worried as much.

Monday night I took the boys to Chess Club. The daughter had to go with, so we went grocery shopping since the club meets at a grocery store. Weird, I know, but it works. The same bag boy from a prior post loaded up my trunk with groceries again.

"You're the guy with the pink polo shirt," I said.

"Oh yeah. You should have seen me on Sunday for a reception I had to go to. I wore a crazy grey suit with a yellow tie. I was looking sharp," he sucked in his breath like he was the cat's meow. "I lived life the easy way too. Everyone else was in the car busy with stuff and I just took a nap all the way to Maryland."

"Oh sure, gotta do that," I said, not knowing what the heck he was talking about.

He loaded up my groceries. Since I had to go back in to get the boys from the club he kept talking to me as I walked back.

"My kids are at Chess club," I said, "I have to go back inside."

"Chess club. I was never a chess club sort of guy. I was on the Varsity Football team."

I didn't believe this for one second. This guy is a total pipsqueak.

"Yeah---I would sneak out of the locker room and look at the cheerleaders. They were making this banner for me---I told the other guys that I was busy outside for a second and they believed me. I went out there and they were all over me."
He sucked in his breath again like he thought he was hot stuff. He rumpled up his hair and messed with his collar. He jerked his head around as I nodded at him with obvious polite uninterest. He did not heed this.

"Yeah--they were like, all over me. And I had to tell them that I had to go back to the locker room to be with the guys and they came to me weeping, tears rolling down their cheeks---" he was sure to use his index fingers to make a little stream-line down his own cheeks for effect, " and they showed me the banner they made. I was like, 'I am sorry ladies, I have to go--' and they both gave me a gift of one kiss on each of my cheeks---" he pointed to each cheek, "and then it was really crazy but they finished by kissing me right here--" and he pointed to his lips, "and it was sort of gross, but they kept doing it and I was like, 'ladies! I have to GO HERE!' and I..."

At this point we were totally inside the building and I couldn't handle it anymore. I said, "hand sanitizer is good to use in that situation. Lots of germs. Just wipe it all over your face..." I proceeded to use my hands in a circular motion around my face for effect since he was so fond of using hand gestures.

He looked at me and did not skip a beat.
And he walked off.


Love Your Monk

Dear Sir says that this is "the life." That is a monk, above, walking around in his sandals in his modern and simple monastery. As a monk, one can wake up at four in the morning to pray, write on vellum with a quill pen, and read books when not gardening and helping the poor---um, and going to many different prayer times like vespers and compline and all that. We were looking around some site with this picture on it when Dear Sir could not stop exclaiming, "Just Look at that! That is AWESOME!" I told him to save this pic so that I could complain about his love for the single life. Ha ha.

Actually, monks are pretty cool. When I read The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco I could not stop drawing them. I soon discovered that I pretty much stink at drawing; I will never go anywhere with it so I guess I will just stick to singing. But, I just wanted to express my love for the mysteriousness of monkhood.

So, when we went to the National Gallery of Art a few weekends ago Dear Sir and the crew and I were walking out of the building to cross the street to get to the parking garage. Dear Sir was suddenly distracted by a monk walking the streets opposite and forgot where he was. He politely jerked his head in the monk's direction so that I could view him (how could I not? He looked so odd compared to all the other stuff around him). Suddenly a scream pealed behind us just as the monk was to come into full view and we had to turn to console our crying daughter who tripped and fell on the ground.

"I am very sorry to have not had a closer look at the monk," mumbled Dear Sir.


I Actually Watched TV Last Night

Last night I stayed up because I was #1 Not tired and #2 I wanted to finally see Sarah McLachlan perform something. I missed the Oprah show, I missed the parades and stuff, so I thought I could stay up and watch Conan O'Brien. Dear Sir asked me this morning if it was worth it. Well, not really, but it took me forever to fall asleep anyway, so it is not like I missed sleep I could have had.

She looked sort of weird. She sang just fine, I thought though, contrary to what others have said of her past performances for this Christmas album. My friend L. said that when she saw her something was "off" and her daughter even noticed it. Someone else---Funky Red or someone told me that she saw her perform for the Macy parade and she was nervous and it showed. I was a little curious last night, to be honest. I wanted to see what was up. She looked a little like she gained some pounds---but you know, the camera adds some weight and plus, it was focusing at a bad angle, so I am sure no one would look too pretty in her situation. I don't know.

I watched a bunch of other garbage. I watched Manheim Steamroller perform some of their silly trash. I swear, I thought what I was watching was back in the late 80's. The camera work was not 80's looking, but every person in that "band" or "group" or whatever you call it looked like a person permanently glued to that era. Not the more retro hip way the kids do it now days, more like early 90's hair that is full of hair spray, old fogey guys playing violins with long curly hair. More Yanni and Michael Bolton type looks. Cheesy Baby Boomer Embarrassing kind of look. And they were into it. I mean, INTO it. They were swaying with the music and closing their eyes like they were blasting out Jimmy Page guitar riffs and waltzing around waving their arms between bell chimings and stuff like they were the world's greatest musical group. I had a huge laugh over it. I don't know how anyone could take them seriously. The music itself was not even updated sounding. I am sure there are keyboards and stuff that play things better than what Flock of Seagulls had to offer way back when MTV just got started? The electronics sounded like a ten cent keyboard. So, I was CONVINCED that the performance was old. It was on PBS. You know, it could be old. I clicked the info button. It was from LAST YEAR! I have one thing to say to Manheim Steamroller: "QUIT."

And that was for Emma, who hates them, and for me, who had a really good belly laugh watching it.


Foul I To the Fountain Fly

I am wrapping soap and having a decent time with it. I am supposed to get on that treadmill and run but I am running away from it right now. I am a bit tired. I took the kids to the mall today to get Dear Sir a replacement sweater for the favorite sweater I ruined last night by one push in the dryer. He tried the thing on and it was considerably smaller and just "not right". I immediately called the Polo Outlet store and asked if they had a replacement. They did. I had them put the thing on hold and so I high tailed my behind over there this morning. Walking around the mall and telling kids to "stand here" for ever and a day is not my idea of amusement. I stood in line at the Polo store waiting for the lady to return a billion hot pink polo shirts. Then the cashier got on the phone and ticked away at his computer and I stood there waiting while a kid wandered a little over here and another wandered over there and pretty soon I would be calling this kid's name or that kids name (or every kid the wrong name) and giving the evil stare. The evil stare never works even though I tell myself when I am doing it that I look intimidating.

I can jerk my hand in a quick motion pointing to the empty space beside me but it is not heeded. I can purse my lips and clench my jaw and even my fist but that does not help. I am stuck. In line. The dope behind me will think I left my place and say, "Sorry chick."

So, I stand in my little plot and pray for the child to make eye contact so I can lure them over with SOMETHING. I just get tired of speaking. You know what I mean, moms? Speaking is just something I wish I never had to do. I repeat the same thing over and over and it is never heard. "Stop talking. I said, stop talking. Please be quiet. Be Quiet. SHUT YOUR MOUTHS FOR THE LOVE OF PETE!"

I understand how Jesus felt when he would say to the people, "Listen to me!" or "I am telling you the truth!" Try to count how many times He said that stuff. Tons. This is our human condition. We do not listen. We do not hear. We do not care. It is very interesting to me that we are told in these times to be attentive because no one knows when Jesus will be coming again. Being attentive is just not something we NATURALLY do. Look at my kids. I don't teach them to be UNattentive. Nope.

So, I got the sweater, all was well and we went to the bookstore. I thought of getting some coffee but decided against it because I did not want to stand in another line and bear the torture of THAT again.

Last night I was sort of in a foul mood (this was BEFORE I realized my major blunder in shrinking the sweater) because I let the kids get to me when I should have just been cool about stuff. I was in a hurry or something, I can't quite remember, and I opened the door to go to the bathroom and slammed the door and my index finger with it. Believe me, other words came to my mind as I yelped in pain but a thunderous "CRAP!!!" was all that came out. Dear Sir was right outside the door on the computer and as I sat there in the bathroom nursing my wound I thought how he must think I died. I walked out and acted like nothing happened and he didn't even turn his head. He must be used to this animal house sort of feel we have, I guess.

Well, I have truffles and whatnot to make and maybe when some are finished I will take a weak little picture. I can't take pictures very well. I don't know what the deal is. Some people say don't flash and get where there is natural light, but I just have no clue what that even means. So, I will continue to take dopey pictures and you will have to like it. No one can be good at everything, right? I don't need to be good at taking pictures if I can make soap and melt chocolate. That is good enough, eh?