Put Me in a Straight Jacket

I have absolutely no time to read anything. All I am doing is home improvement and preparations for friends to come and all. Yikes. Yesterday I took the kids up north to the chaotic part of this state where most of the D.C. people live, and we happened to get home around nearly 7 o'clock because we hit traffic at 4. Four o'clock and traffic starts. And I am not talking about just a lot of cars. Bumper to bumper because every lobbyist and government worker is going home to the 'burbs. We went up north to see my sister in law and the cousins who will be in the area for six months. Good for me. I love my sister in law and we get along famously. For some reason she likes me. Who knew.

Our friends who are visiting this week are coming to our house tonight to pop open a few bottles of wine and partake of my fare (I am thinking of making an apple pie for dessert). Tomorrow we are supposed to go to D.C. to visit the mall, the Smithsonian, the monuments and all that junk. I don't think I can hack all that. I am a recluse and I bet I would freak out in front of people and start talking to myself. Just picture me, without Dear Sir, in D.C. with all three kids getting on the stinking metro. No way, man. I can meet them at some museum in the middle of the day and find parking in an over-priced garage instead. I don't know how to break the news to them that I am not mentally prepared to go husbandless. I am just not capable. Seriously. My kids, on the other hand, will drive me nuts saying they are endlessly hungry, thirsty, and their legs hurt. Remember, they have issues holding a stinking trash bag. They are talking about waking up probably at five in the morning to go visit the money making building (whatever that is called) to get tickets for it at 8, perhaps visiting the Capitol Building at 10, and then so on and so forth. I am breaking down right now just thinking about it. If tomorrow can just be over I will feel better.

Am I a wuss?

Gotta go chop up some apples. Oh, but first I have to run...

See you guys in a few days. I think I will be free by the Lord's Day.


Painting the Stinking Porch

Well, Dear Sir and I almost had each other's heads, but we got it done. I had the absolute pleasure of bagging the leaves I raked up on Friday today. The boys held the bag open while I filled it up. They complained the whole time. I have to put some good work ethic into these lads. My Oldest was convinced he was going to earn a hundred bucks for standing and holding a bag open while I kept telling him that he earned himself a tv show and a bag of popcorn. He seemed to think that he would then get half of a hundred with just that. At the tail end of the drag of leaves, I told them that if they held open two more bags for me I would throw in their very own Sprite. You would have thought I said a thousand dollars. They were willing with heartiness. I wished then I would have said five bags and I would have completed the whole drag, but you take what you can get. It is done enough, I say.

I am never a sight to behold when I am working like a dog. It was a little breezy so I was short with the boys and a little crazy with the rake. Friday I wore the skin off my thumb from raking so much. I always push it too far, that is my problem. The Oldest told me that he needed to stand back because my raking was "deadly." He was convinced that he "felt thinner" when he realized that he was carrying a bag that could contain 45 gallons of something back and forth. He lifted his shirt and patted his belly and said, "see"? I told him that he indeed looked thinner. I just wanted to get the job done and debates at those moments are never something I am up to. He just gained whatever calories he burned standing there when he put the Sprite to his lips.

To tell you the truth, I am so shocked he went outside, the boy. I tried to be nicer by the tail end of the job by not telling them in a very sharp way to "just hold the bag open" and "dip down a little more". I said a lot of things like, "lift it," "back up," "open up the mouth of the bag," "I don't think this is a lot of fun either!" "Come on! You are standing there holding a bag open," "go get a new bag," "help me out, here," "move up!" and stuff like that.

I am the worst mother, you don't have to tell me. I even poked Eraser Eater when he was so overcome with ennui that he stretched his finger through the bag and said, "look! I have a grey finger!" He recoiled and whined when I poked him but stood fast, holding the bag. Who knows what would have happened if he had failed at his task.

The Oldest said to me, "I don't ever want to see a brown leaf AGAIN!"

Oh please. And now I will have my little night cap and grill dinner.

Until we meet again...


Femina est Laborat

Yesterday I worked my butt off. I literally should have lost a few pounds, but when you are me you don't do that. It took me four years to lose all the weight I gained after children.

I switched all the clothes for each kid, organized a few closets (actually, more than a few), replaced the headlight bulbs in the VW, filled some black bags with leaves (I live in a forest), took out hoards of trash, organized my daughter's horrendously sickening room, swept the patio and put out the patio furniture, ran a few miles, and other things I can't remember because I am fried.

When Dear Sir got home last night he showed me a site he was lurking around on displaying a unique way in shelving your books: by color. I went upstairs and took a shower and played guitar for a spell while the kids put themselves to bed. I then went downstairs and found Dear Sir fiddling with his books. "I have a project," he beamed. Boy, do I like sorting things. I sat down and helped him sort the books by color in the office. I kind of got roped into it because once Dear Sir had all the green books on a shelf I was fascinated (you all know how I like green). It does look sort of cool:


The Soap Method

I had this vivid dream about buying some vehicle headlight bulbs and someone who shall not be named almost broke them and I picked them up. I remember in the dream looking at the bulb as it enlarged and I smoothed out a small crack with my thumb. It exploded in my hand and some sort of lava/plasma dripped and burned all over it and the only thing that would cure it was my running to the sink to use my very own soap. I had scars, but the plasma evaporated and I didn't even have the pain of burns.

The dream came from the fact that I washed Eraser Eater's mouth out with soap yesterday. I had had it. I swear. The whining was unbelievable. The boys would not stop arguing and fighting. Nothing was working. So I told them the next time I heard a whine or a vile word from their mouths I was going to wash them out----"and believe me, my soap doesn't taste good!" I warned them fair and square. I was almost jumpy, my ears were so thrashed with whining and antagonizing. It gets bad when you almost wish to say, "Don't call me 'mom' anymore!" because the sound of the word in a whining tone is much worse than using some assumed name instead. At least the association would not be there. Whining to me is like how coinage and cheese mingling together sounds. Ugh. I can't believe I just wrote that.

The boys were calm finally once I had my rant with them and the Oldest sat down to study math and Eraser Eater sat down to read. The girl grabbed one of Eraser Eater's books that was on the coffee table (that had nothing to do with school) and he freaked. He lifted his voice to all the whining gods within range to hear his supplication. My body tweaked in response and I calmly took his hand and led him to the bathroom. He at once knew his doom. I won't go into details, but I made him sit there for three minutes with a bar of my soap in his mouth. Afterwards, I told him to rinse and brush his teeth to take care of it. You would have thought the world ended. I tell you what though, he did not whine once the rest of the day!

Whenever I would detect a bit of whining, he would say, "But I wasn't whining, I was just explaining something....let me say it a bit better this time...." Ah, yes, that's the ticket (as Jennifer would say).

The second Dear Sir got home he got a full report. He almost spilled it out to his teacher in AWANA last night but then he said, "It is embarrassing for me, and besides, I wouldn't want to get Mom in trouble."

Everyone is so calm and full of brotherly love here lately. I don't get it.



This song is about the harlotry of Israel in Ezekiel. It is also about my own harlotry by putting other things in front of God. This will do for a little light reading! :)

Placed in your heart
the stone and the carved image
I gave all you want
then you turn, a soul imprisoned
I drew you from the open field
where you were cast and abhorred
my garment from the cold, a shield
your body, full, adorned

I will stretch out My Hand
I will give to the fire
I will lay all bare
As you climb in the mire

How lovesick your heart
you built yourself a vaulted chamber
your beauty mirrored death
to run to another savior
twisted love, oh how you've strayed
affections turned, a lofty space
crooked bride, this price the grave
oh how will it be paid

I will stretch out My Hand
I will feed the fire
I will lay all bare
As you climb in the mire

I'll bring you back to Me
My vow sure, love still true
and all will see your shame
but I'll be atonement for you

Losing My Mind

Yesterday I got more done that I can remember in a long time. I will not bore you with the silly details, but part of my errands to be run had to do with taking a rod-iron chair and getting it welded. It cost only a shocking six dollars. I was totally floored. If you are wondering, I am used to milk costing oh, around four bucks a gallon. Well, maybe a little less, but if you rounded it---you get it. Anyway, I dropped the chair off at 10, and the lady (who was gruff, somewhat dirty, major hick-like, and very rude) told me that I could pick it up at 2. I hate going back home when I am "in town", so I took the opportunity to take the kids to lunch, go walk around the mall in search of new New Balance running shoes, and that is about it.

I certainly discovered what young mothers with small children do during the day. They don't stay home. They take the kids to the mall and let them play in the play land inside. My kids were ok for some of the time and terrible for most of it. I mean, they argued all stinking day long. I think yelling is wrong, and I have already done some major repenting, but once I got in the car with them I let them have it. The girl broke down when we got some frozen yogurt and cried like a baby over nothing, the boys kept pelting each other on the heads or knocking each other down, therefore knocking stacks of shoes down at the shoe store. I warned them to stay near me when we first got there and I described to them what happened to the America's Most Wanted guy's kid. I didn't even leave out the detail that his head was severed. The result: they fearfully stuck to me like glue and antagonized one another right within arms reach of me. At least I was not constantly trying to herd them in, which has been a problem in the past.

Now don't get me wrong. They were not being terrors. It was just that no one else had kids because everyone else's kids my age were in school. On my way out of the mall I held the door open for a lady and she looked at my kids and said, "School's out today?" (Why, oh why, do people do that?!) I said that I homeschool and she gave me that look of "yeah, that's nice. I bet you do." Then she said something like, "It's nice they have a day off" or something like that---like it is any of her business. Makes me feel like a criminal.

Yeah, they took the day off yesterday. Yep. I took the stinking day off yesterday and I bought some running shoes and I bought a dress. When I tried the dress on, my daughter was in the dressing room with me. She smacked my exposed belly before I pulled the dress on and said, "I love your fat belly. It wiggles when I smack it! All moms have fat bellys don't they?"

Well, not all mothers, I thought. I remember when I was five to seven pounds more than I am now a lady in a dressing room told me that I should do what she did and cut out the carbs and I would lose ten pounds. I thought that was a little bold. Kind of like the boldness of the lady who exclaimed how nice it is that my kids could have the day off.

For the record, my belly is not fat, it just wiggles when smacked. Ha ha.



I had something to blog about and I just now forgot. I remember sitting on our bed last night with Dear Sir, reading books, and saying, "I'm going to blog about that." But I am still getting a complete blank. I forget everything. I was telling Ann that yesterday.

I will be setting the table, everyone will be eating, and I stop in the middle of the kitchen and think hard. "Now what was I going to get?" I think. I even say it out loud while rubbing my chin. I look around desperately. I see the table and find that nothing "appears to be missing." I look to the cupboard for clues, I look in the fridge and I see the milk. "Ah, yes, the drinks." I say. Eventually though, I have done this enough times for Dear Sir to just get the drinks automatically because he knows that I will indeed forget them or the napkins. I do this continually in my small, cramped, little life. Dear Sir says it is because I can not multi-task and I try to do too many things at once, but come on, I have to at least TRY to multi-task. He often says to the kids (I hear it in the corner of my subconscious) "Don't try to talk to her while she is playing guitar. She won't hear you."

The man knows my faults. I know his too, but mine are more in your face, so to speak. "My toes are numb!" I would say to him. "Wear socks!" he would say.
Last night he said, "Heads up!" and threw the Neutrogena Norwegian formula in my hands. "Put that on your hands. You have to get in the habit of taking care of them."
"I don't feel too well," I would say. "Here is a drink," he would counter.
Here is the famous one---"You're chewing." And he would bump my offending hand in a swift whip.

I remember when we were first dating I had a terrible cold. I worked at a department store and did not even THINK to bring tissues with me. In fact, I would go to the bathroom (I have a small, cramped, little bladder that prevents me from living a normal life) and grab some rough, coarse paper towels and use them. The man came in to take me out to lunch and we sat in a restaurant and he saw the paper towel I grasped with my hand, all wet and harmful-looking.
"What is that?" he said. "Your poor nose! You can't wipe your nose with sandpaper!" Later that day I am almost sure he had gone out and bought me some tissues infused with aloe and lotion and brought them to my door.

This is a man who, when finding rough spots and rashes on me, will put cortisone cream there. This is a man who, when seeing that I am tired, will usher me to bed, tuck me in, and provide white noise so I will not hear the kids. This is a man who has adapted himself to making my life easier because I am indeed not a multi-tasker and in constant need, it appears, of someone who will care for me because I FORGET EVERYTHING, including myself.

Huh. I forgot to eat breakfast. Can't miss a meal. Gotta go.


Good Morning

I better write a little something before it all goes away or before the Oldest stomps downstairs to breathe wild energy into Eraser Eater and the girl. So far they are pretty tame.

I find regretfully that I sneak downstairs whenever they are supposedly still asleep in the morning and I am up. I want to have maybe just a few minutes of peace with my Wonder Woman mug and perhaps the computer. I laugh at myself inside my head when I find that I am slowly descending the stairs and wincing when I hear a little creak. What I am trying to avoid, or rather, delay, are the badgering questions like, "Are we going to eat Cookie Crisp for breakfast?!" "Are we going to eat?! I am hungry!" Sometimes they are not even questions. Sometimes the outbursts are something like, "He took my notebook and scribbled on it!" "He made fun of my song!" "He breathed his beaver breath in my face!" "She keeps following me!"
I have stressed many times that I am not a morning person. Nothing is worse than asking a morning person sundry questions.

I hate to even tell you that I have another minor running injury and I am forced to walk on my treadmill because I have nothing else that I can do that is low impact, like swimming, or cycling. I don't think I would do those anyway even if they were available. I keep living and learning and this time I think part of my problem is my stupid running shoes. I went to Costco a good handful of months ago and found some Adidas running shoes on sale and just bought them. Bad choice. Of course, I, being the semi-cheapskate that I am, decided once I put the suckers on, that I would ride them through. Bad choice. I should have returned them. But, being stupid, I just kept them because I wanted to run more than I wanted to go to Costco, return the shoes, and find another pair. I would like to publicly apologize to New Balance for my unfaithfulness to them. I don't think I have had one injury wearing New Balance shoes. What a twirp I am. New Balance shoes are like running on a trampoline. Adidas shoes are like running barefoot on jagged rocks. Big difference.

I just realized that I quoted a child asking about Cookie Crisp. Let me explain. I don't usually let them eat Cookie Crisp or Lucky Charms or any of that sort of stuff, usually they eat Koala Krisp, Gorilla Munch, and Panda Puffs (all organic and nutritious cereals). But I found a Barbie Fairytopia cereal down the cereal aisle the other day and saw there was a coupon for the next Barbie movie. I could foresee having to buy it at some point, so I bought the cereal. And to be fair (because everything is fair in life, eh?) I bought the boys a box of Cookie Crisp, each. They were buy one, get one free. The discovery in this is that I am in love with Double Chocolate Cookie Crisp, much like I am in love with Fruity Pebbles or Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch. This is a very dangerous position for me. I can't run, I crave sugary Double Chocolate Cookie Crisp, and on top of it all, I made chocolate covered peanuts that are incredibly good. Thankfully the cereal is Eraser-Eaters, so he would whine exceedingly if he found out I was chomping on his cereal, so that is a good thing to ward me off. To me, whining is like hell's demon screeching in the night---straight in my ear.



Time to Rob the Bank

Here is my oven in all it's glory. I am not posting the inside because the outside is much more interesting and has a more interesting story with it.

If you look at the second knob, it has tape on it to keep it together. Unfortunately, it is the knob that tells what temperature the oven is at when you turn the dial. When I broke it, the thing spun around and snapped and I could not tell what temp I was at anymore. I twisted it around, but thankfully, I remembered what I set it to, and now I just sort of go by that. It's all a guessing game around here. It reminds me of that Mr. Bean episode where he goes to the dentist.

The day I broke the thing is the day I was to leave for the wedding I sang at last August. I was hopping on the plane in D.C. in a few hours. I was marking baking times ( with a sharpie pen) on pizzas and other things and tossing them in the freezer and I snapped the stupid thing somehow as I was baking something at the time; probably a pizza. For a moment I felt very alarmed. I thought, "How is Dear Sir going to feed anyone if the dial is broken?" (Remember, I was to be gone for a few days) I thought that we lacked the money to get a new oven and what terrible timing. Yeah, try finding a new dial for a discontinued (obviously) Montgomery Ward oven. Trust me, with my new house (new to me) I have many many things that are lovely in it. I think this is just about the only thing that is an eye sore.

My only solution monetarily and momentarily was to put some packing tape on it. Hey, I just moved in not too long ago---packing tape was everywhere. I was pleased as punch to see that it worked and hey, it still works to this very day. Thick folds of tape cover the 400 degree spot, but that is ok, I can read it a little still.

When I was uploading the picture of my ghetto oven, I stumbled upon this silly little picture one of my kids obviously made on the computer. In the caption the spindly, little, black, scary guy says, "Time to rob the bank."


The Calm After the Storm

They are all in the sunroom humming the tune to "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy" on their kazoos.
Believe me, it sounds interesting. I have been waking up near nine o clock every morning the past few days because I got two solid nights with hardly a wink of sleep because of that stupid allergic reaction. Thankfully, I am fine now. I just take an allergy pill at night and in the morning to keep it under control.

I actually took the kids to the park yesterday and read a book on a park bench. Of course, the Oldest refused to go because of the bugs, so I left him home (he is really old enough now---gee whiz, he is getting old) to save myself a little grief. We have a whole summer ahead to deal with this fear----again. But, it was nice to see that I could go to the warm, windy park and not sneeze once. Now that's progress.

You guys should check out Elysium's site and see the greatest band in the world. I was going to blog about it, but he did it first. I was too slow to act on my ideas. At least we are of the same mind.

Well, I am being slack and I really need to school the kids. It does not take but a couple hours anymore if we are really diligent, but I still feel slack. What is up with that?

I almost forgot. When the Oldest goes to AWANA he always comments on how he tries so hard to be "best boy" at the end of the class (they win a prize) and he never gets it. Mind, there are TONS of kids in his class to where half of the kids are sitting on the floor because the lack of desks. I always figured he would get his sometime. Last night when we picked him up he was holding his folder close to his body and telling us that he had a huge surprise for us when we got in the car. He waited until he got in his seatbelt to tell us that he "got best boy" as he held up a Snicker's bar. He was beaming. He opened up the candy bar immediately and ate it. When he was finished he folded his arms behind his head and basked in the mere pleasure of being best boy. He had this amazingly content smile on his face. It was hilarious. He didn't talk the rest of the way home, reliving his moment.


As We Forgive Those

This is a documentary trailer about reconciliation in Rwanda by my friend Laura Waters. It is amazing. I got a good heads up from Angela. Go check it out.---Then get some Land of a Thousand Hills Coffee (drink a cup and do good).


Pocketful of Hayfever

Yesterday I really made a mistake. I had decided on Sunday (since it was the Lord's Day) to take a rest from my long streak of running and run the next day (which would be yesterday). The weather was fine, the run kicked my butt, but all was well. About an hour later I started to sneeze and sniffle and the rest of the day was pretty much down the tubes health wise. Imagine the worst cold in the world, that was my allergic reaction. Now, I take Claritin daily, but this sudden intake of spring weather (near 70) was a bit much for my nose. It spazed out and died upon arrival of my front steps and of course I am a raving lunatic whenever this happens.

Dear Sir decided that we would go to the store to get him some clothes that he needs, and so I took another allergy pill and some DayQuil. That stuff does not work. I constantly had a wet napkin or tissue in my pocket and I was miserable. I did promise Dear Sir that I would attempt to maintain as good an attitude as possible and he kissed me on the cheek. The man knows how I get.

Once we got home I had really had it. The pulls of the evening such as putting kids to bed and looking on horrendous bedroom floors had me in an uproar. When someone would ask me a question I would have to stand there, hold up my forefinger with my left hand, and clutch my tissue with the other to catch my sneeze. I was bad off. I could see Dear Sir about to weep for me. But the vacuum was not working properly because Eraser Eater happened so suck up gobs of paper a week ago without my knowledge, and I was the only one who knew how to fix the thing if it could be fixed. I got down on my knees and worked on it with tissue in hand. I fixed things in the tubing and whatnot, and decided that I just needed to change the bag because it was full of paper. Upon handling the bag my hand slipped and I squeezed it. Dust and micro mites and lovelies poofed in my face and I sneezed. At the same moment Dear Sir asked me about diapers not being in the cupboard and I screamed "I FORGOT!!!!!!" And then I blew my nose. My own voice shocked me. I immediately thought, "now that was immature."

The man is a dream, I tell you. He bought me flowers yesterday, he was exceedingly patient with my moodiness, and he was so sympathetic. He jumped at any chance to serve me. And I screamed at him. I did tell him I was sorry and there was no excuse for me, but he said, "That was dumb of me, I should not have asked you about diapers."

I finally went to the pharmacy once things were under some control and I got some Sudafed at the pharmacy desk. Of course I slept poorly last night---I probably got about an hour of sleep, and the garbage man (dustman) woke me up. Six o'clock sharp. I tried to go back to sleep but then Dear Sir's alarm went off.

Now I am here, fueled by coffee and it's deceptive effects of alertness. Time to start good ol' school.



Dear Sir home.STOP.Busy bagging leaves in yard.STOP.Dear Sir taking all my time.STOP.He keeps making me go to Civil War sites.STOP.And when he is home I have to make real meals.STOP. So I am busy.STOP.I will be blogging as usual by Tuesday.STOP.When Dear Sir exits the premises.STOP.

(I caught a spare moment as he is blowing the leaves outside....)


I Eat Meat

I'm trying to be good to my cheeks and refrain from my present destruction of them in the form of cannibalism (by chewing them up) but it is hard. I am trying to quit cold turkey and I am afraid I am so far gone that it has turned into some sort of disease. Like alcoholism is a disease. Like starving yourself by anorexia is a disease. Like anything that is really not a disease, is a disease.

I am cutting myself some slack though. For me, it is a minute by minute process. I chew, realize after five seconds my blunder, then I say to myself, "I am starting to stop NOW!" Believe me, my mouth is less chewed off and is healing sort of nicely (I have tons of scar tissue in there) rather than it being a bloody massacre, which it usually is. I know, it is sick. THAT is how I can fill my whole entire mouth full of blood, run at innocent people, and freak them all out when I part my lips. No, I am not a vampire. And I haven't done that in years.

On another note, school is looking less grim because there are only forty and maybe two days left---I can not wait for summer. Well, just some warmer weather. I want to grill, get up in the morning and sit at my patio table and feel the cool breeze rustle through my now brownish red hair, and drink a glass of wine out there in the evenings. I don't look forward to, however, sweating on my black leather interior and dealing with the Oldest and his flying insect fear. I am bracing myself for that malarkey. There are pros and cons to everything, I guess.

I think I might try to iron at some point today before the pile gets any larger. Last time I procrastinated the pile got so huge that it took Dear Sir and I a full week of ironing several hours a day (in shifts) to get it all done. My man would make me iron the sheets but I bar my teeth at him whenever the idea crosses his mind and he keeps his distance. He even says weakly, "...I suppose maybe when the kids are out of the house and we have time...." Nice save. I say, if the kids are out of the house and we have less mouths to feed---if ironing the sheets is a priority, it can be done by the cleaners. But you know what? I am being a total nimrod. What a luxury it is to have someone iron things for you when the rest of the country lives on a little square of land and children sort through garbage in Africa to get food? This is totally not funny, and I guess I better iron my own sheets if Dear Sir so wishes it. As you can see, my whole life is ridden by guilt.

Dear Sir says I thrive on feeling guilty. I will probably die from feeling guilty that I live.

So do any of you guys (besides Martha Stewart, who ALWAYS reads this blog) iron your sheets? And Martha, you don't have to pipe up with your answer, I already KNOW you iron yours. Or your little peon does for you.


Irish Spring

Most of my readers will find this beginning part boring, but oh well. Skim away. I wrote it for nothing then.

I was switching out some batteries in the girl's little barn toy (that plays hokey farm music) and found a battery that had busted. I did not realize it busted until I had taken the old batteries out, put in new batteries, and scratched my lip when I had an itch. I felt a familiar zap and immediately thought of lye---sodium hydroxide, the chemical you use to make soap (NaOH). I did not realize that an alkali (duh---it says "alkali" on batteries!)---a caustic substance--- was inside a battery. I did not realize that an alkali could do this---power small toys and electronics.

I immediately washed my face and looked up batteries on Wikipedia. I know, I like that site. It is helpful. I had forgotten that potassium hydroxide is also used in soapmaking---but in making soft soap. And it is in batteries. Very interesting.

Potassium hydroxide is a natural product of burned wood ash (called potash). During animal sacrifices the fat would be exposed and burned, and what would trickle down would be sudsy bubbles. Or so I have read somewhere (not Wikipedia). It would make sense---the "potash" would saponify with the rendered animal fat, making soap. And an animal sacrifice would result in sins cleansed away. Makes complete sense. Soap is Biblical and necessary.

So---imagine my shock when after spraying some Febreeze Anti Microbial, I smell Irish Spring, therefore resulting in Dear Sir saying, "I really wish you would buy me some Irish Spring. I haven't had real soap in so long, Rachel. It's been years!"

Listen to me. I LOVE Dear Sir. I absolutely go bonkers over the guy and he knows it, otherwise he would not feel so comfortable as to say something so ridiculous.

"I am NOT buying Irish Spring!" I cried. "Do you realize that your skin is the most sensitive organ on your body and you want to put terrible itchy, unnatural, detergent soap on it?"

"Oh, come on." Was all he said as he shook his head.

"I tell you what," I said, "I will go online tomorrow and see if I can find Irish Spring fragrance oil and I will make you my version of Irish Spring."

And that is what I did.

And it is stinking up the whole house and making my head spin. Hey, it's kind of perfect for Saint Patrick's Day, and I didn't even time it. Cool.



Ok, so um, my hair soaked up all that color big time, eh? It's pretty dark but I think I like it. I got the red in it like I said I was tempted to do. I am looking brunette although the hair stylist said I am now a "medium blonde"! Give me a break!

Gotta turn over some chicken.

Have a great weekend.


Last night we took the kids out to dinner at a local place. I remember telling Dear Sir how much I hate going to a restaurant because when you walk in as the hostess is guiding you to your table,everyone stares at you. I think it is because I hate being the center of attention---I love taking Communion, but when we walk up to take it I feel like I am the only one standing in the room.

So, last night over dinner we found out that Eraser Eater not only eats erasers, he eats wooden furniture. Dear Sir called it "bizarre" and asked him, once we got home, to demonstrate what he does. It was ridiculous. I had to go to the other room because it was sort of funny (I have a strange sense of humor) to see him biting down on my wooden stool. He was scolded and sent soundly to bed.

I told Dear Sir that I used to pick gum off the street and eat it. Kids do weird things. I finally convinced him that I turned out ok---right? After admitting that I turned out alright I think he felt better.

The really funny thing is that when we were getting into the car Dear Sir called the boy "Eraser Eater". Eraser Eater said, "Hey!" like he was going to be mad. "Well, you eat erasers!" Dear Sir said, "And furniture!"

When the man got cozy in his seat I said, "Tryin' to rip me off?"

"Yep. And he's not going to like it when he finds out that's what you call him."