Longing

I remember as a kid, once in a great while my parents, particularly my Dad, would reward us by taking us to Toys R Us to spend thirty dollars each on anything we wanted. I think it was when my Dad had his own business for a few years and he had some extra money. I was on the treadmill today (when I do my major thinking) trying to remember what I ever got. I can not for the life of me remember one single thing. Not one. This is what I do remember though: walking from the car to the store. I remember the parking lot. I remember the yellow lines on the asphalt, I remember skipping there and saying, "Thirty whole dollars on anything I want?" I remember being blissfully happy. And that is it. I don't remember going in the store, I don't remember getting that Cabbage Patch Kid or Strawberry Shortcake or Barbie. Heck, I have no clue what I got. None at all. It's a mystery to me, honey.

People that say "Lord willing" this or that or who say "unless Jesus comes first!" with a look of glee on their faces always bothered me. Somehow it made me annoyed, like they must think they have it altogether or maybe they are more spiritual than the rest of us sinners. I don't know. The feelings are a bit muddled and make no sense, really. I think maybe it is a sort of jealousy, wanting that anticipation they have but have no feeling to back it because I am emotionally bankrupt myself, wrapped up in a full, damp, sheet of numbness. Then I think about wanting something so badly and then finally getting it and not caring anymore whether I got it or not; yes, it has been had and conquered.

But the coming of Christ is not like that. Getting a Cabbage Patch Kid that will later sit in some toy box, or actually, some dump in fifteen years does not come close to the reward of truly anticipating Jesus arriving and all the wonders of what that entails. There will not be a disappointment after our excitement before the arrival, this time things will be different. There will actually be a reward, a new sort of euphoria after the receiving that will never wane. Our sinful hearts will not get in the way, our temptation to forget and cast this "new thing" aside will never be there, and we will finally be where we were always meant to be: truly with God.

So how could I think that those who anticipate the Lord's coming are looking down on me or have something I don't? They don't have something I lack, they just remind themselves, are vocal about it, and remember. They care to remember, and I think God honors that.

I guess my whole point, or rather, what my thought process led me to while I was pounding my joints on that stupid treadmill was this: the anticipation is what we remember when we look back at our memories. That longing is what sticks with us. We long for things, but if you look at the man after God's own heart, he longed for God. He did not displace his longing, he knew that God was the only one who could save him, preserve him, fight for him. He used music as a reminder to long after Him. He was pretty smart, I think.

To me, being the pessimist I always am, this kind of longing, the longing for Christ's return, is the only longing that has an untainted end, complete fulfillment, and never-ending pleasure. Call me a heretic.

The Most Extreme

Eraser Eater's favorite show is an Animal Planet program called "The Most Extreme". We rarely watch it, but last night since Eraser Eater had completed a full day without whining, I decided to reward him. He was elated. The Girl went to watch too, but the Oldest had to stay upstairs and write sentences because he back talked me in a major way.

I will not back talk. I will not back talk
I will not back talk
I will not back talk
I will not back talk
My sister in law was around to hear him spew out horrors in words ----complete disrespect---and her face went pale and she shook her head, like he just built himself a coffin.

Well, he missed the show. Good. I sat there with Eraser Eater and the Girl and watched the episode of "Extreme Collectors". During one segment of the show there was a greying long haired old man pulling out specimens from some Smithsonian archive. He pulled out some wooden shelf and grabbed a jar full of some white tape like substance. He then poured it all out in some shallow tray and started to poke at it with some instrument. Tape worms.

The Girl could not get the image out of her mind. "Are they rare?" She asked. I explained to her that people can get tape worms and they sit in your intestines and eat the food you consume. She was very frightened by this. "I hate worms," she said. I thought of telling her the story of some man I had heard of as a kid (everyone has heard this tape worm story, I am certain) that wanted to be rid of the tape worm so he starved himself for a week and then put a huge plate of food out in front of him at a table. He proceeded to open his mouth as wide as he could, and since the worm had been receiving no food itself, it would crawl out up the man's esophagus to the plate of food. Now, I know this has to be totally not right. For one thing, Some tape worms can be like fifteen feet long or longer. Can you imagine how the man would choke like crazy to get that sucker out? How did they get those things out?
"So do I."
"I can't stop thinking about paper worms. I mean, worms with tape, what are they called?"
"Tape worms."
She stared bugging Dear Sir about them.
"How do you get them, Rach?" he asked. "I think you get them from going around barefoot."
The Girl's eyes bogged out.
I looked at Dear Sir with unease. Through your feet? No...pin worms go up the anus, I think. Feet? How does that happen? We have a thing called skin.
I went downstairs to my friend Wikipedia and looked up tape worms. Raw meat. Eat some raw meat with the eggs of the worms in it and you can get tape worm. I knew this. I had researched this back when I heard the open mouthed plate of food story. I just forgot. Huh.

The Girl asked me about them again this morning, but hopefully with time she will cut it out. It's like me being frightened of E.T.

When Eraser Eater was brushing his teeth and I was overseeing, he said, "I hope you liked 'The Most Extreme'."

"Yep, it was great," I said.
"You are the most extreme Mom," he said (or something to that effect).
"You are the most extreme whiner," I said.
He whined.
The end.

Hand Me a Primer

I did not blog yesterday because things that are in me usually are not witty or silly or funny, I am really a serious person and too deep for the peons of this earth.

Ha. Ha. In all honesty, the above statement is only half true and I am feeling somewhat empty of laughable incidents. Quite frankly, I read Emma's blog, thought I would get a 100% on her little spelling test, and was crushed when I got an 87%, therefore resulting in a recurring dream of trying to get to class in high school and lo, they shut the doors on me. I never realized that I spelled some words incorrectly, my only hope is maybe I really don't and it was an "off" day. Gee whiz, I am in for it now. I just sit here now waiting ever so humbly for my year of forty to approach because good grief, I won't CARE if I spell things wrong or not, look fat in my jeans, wear slippers to the library, you get me. Every one of my friends who are forty and above have this I am woman, hear me roar sort of state and I would like to tap into it.
Can you absolutely tell that nothing is going on? I sort of just let school out without totally finishing books (gasp---yes, that is HUGE for me). The kids have been doing the summer reading program and I figured if they do that (it is hours of reading a day) they are doing pretty darn well. I must sneak in some math from time to time though. Not that any of you give a rip about that anyway though. The Girl took the picture above and I was cracking up at her face. She said that she just "widered" up her eyes and it looked funny. I look like a woman that can't spell "necessary."

Eraser Eater is back to his old trick of whining again. Result: a mind that is lost.

The Girl is back to her old "wreck her room" ways. Result: a mind that is lost.

The Oldest is doing pretty well but mowed the lawn on Sunday all by himself! Result: a mind that is lost. I woke up from a nap on Sunday to hear the lawn mower going and looked out the window. The boy was pushing that thing like he knew all about it all and I almost cried. He has now mowed the lawn more than I ever have in my life. I have slaughtered small animals, but I have not mowed a lawn. I suppose that I will never have to as long as I have the boys around and Dear Sir. When the boys are gone and Dear Sir is old and unable to move and I am hand feeding him, I hope that I can hire the lawn boy down the street to do the honors. I imagine that Dear Sir will moan and groan through the window for the boy to make it look like a golf course.

"Mom, I'm really craving bread this morning. Do you have any of that chocolate bread left?" The Oldest pleads.

"No, I don't. I didn't like it anyway."

"I am really craving some bread," he sighs.

"Too bad. Make yourself some toast. When I was your age I was always making my own breakfast. Not that you have to, but I did."

"I make my own lunch ALL the time," he hollers, "somehow you always get busy then and I am so starving I have to make my own peanut butter crackers!"

"That is because I hate making lunch," I say.

"You do? Huh. Well, I can make my own lunch if that is what you want, but I ain't making lunch for anybody else. Their lives are up to you."

He is now making his own toast, complaining that we perhaps need to purchase a new toaster because it does not pop up toast quick enough. And don't you love his use of "ain't"? I should not have allowed him to read Huck Finn. Changed his life. In our kinda homeschool, we ain't got no fake learnin'. Just real kind and it shows.

Weekend Update.

Dear Sir had me up till like, one in the morning. I mean, I guess I could have gone to bed, but whenever I do that he always gives me this look and his lip turns down. I think he believes I enjoy how he watches five shows at once. I, being the one without the remote control, can have no emotional attachment to any show he chooses to watch little snippets of. We watched the United 93 movie before he went crazy on the television. It was very good. I don't like how every person gets angry at the government for not being efficient enough to handle the 9-11 attacks and make better decisions, etc. To me, it was an attack that no one expected, and to be very honest, it was a genius attack. Muslims don't care whether they live or die and that is a great advantage they have over us. I think the government has done well preventing further attacks. Of course, there is always more that can be done. I found that a lot of the victims' families (in the documentary part) were not angry at Islam or Bin Laden or the men that did this. I don't know about you, but I would be pretty mad at Islam. I actually felt angry at Islam just watching the film. I think there is nothing wrong with that. I tire of people who say "that is what they want, they want to get at you so don't react the way they want you to." That is different if someone tells you that you are ugly just to make you mad. It is a totally different story when they kill mass amounts of people in the name of Allah just because to them Americans stand for Christianity.

But I probably don't know what I am talking about anyway, so don't mind me.

Today we are going to have a picnic in Great Falls up north. It is just beautiful up there. Last time we went there were helicopters scanning the park and it was a bit frightening. They were all getting rather close and so we wondered whether someone had been on a chase or something. In our area it can get scary because we are so close to the nation's capitol. Hopefully this time we will not have to leave early because of some manhunt. They were looking at Dear Sir for a bit. The helicopter was hovered right over him.

Have a good weekend.

So You Know...

Dear Sir laughs so hard that he cries whenever he sees this.

Excerpt

The Violent Bear it Away is about a fourteen year old homeschooled, country boy who has been raised by his great uncle who is a total hick self-proclaimed looney "prophet". In the beginning of the story "Tarwater", the boy, is digging his uncle's grave because he has just died at the breakfast table. In this excerpt, which had me roaring, Tarwater is recalling what his uncle said for him to do when he dies:

"The pine box he had been sitting on was his uncle's coffin but he didn't intend to use it. The old man was too heavy for a thin boy to hoist over the side of a box and though old Tarwater had built it himself a few years before, he had said that if it wasn't feasible to get him into it when the time came, then just to put him in the hole as he was, only to be sure the hole was deep. He wanted it ten foot, he said, not just eight. He had worked on the box a long time and when he finished it, he had scratched on the lid, MASON TARWATER, WITH GOD, and had climbed into it where it stood on the back porch, and had lain there for some time, nothing showing but his stomach which rose over the top like over-leavened bread. The boy had stood at the side of the box, studying him. "This is the end of us all," the old man said with satisfaction, his gravel voice hearty in the coffin.
"It's too much of you for the box," Tarwater said. "I'll have to sit on the lid to press you down or wait until you rot a little."
"Don't wait," old Tarwater had said. "Listen. If it ain't feasible to use the box when the time comes, if you can't lift it or whatever, just get me in the hole but I want it deep. I want it ten foot, not just eight, ten. You can roll me to it if nothing else. I'll roll. Get two boards and set them down the steps and start me rolling and dig where I stop and don't let me roll over into it until it's deep enough. Prop me with some bricks so I won't roll into it and don't let the dogs nudge me over the edge before it's finished. You better pen up the dogs, " he said.
What if you are in bed?" the boy asked. "How'm I going to get you down the stairs?"
"I ain't going to die in bed," the old man said. "As soon as I hear the summons, I'm going to run downstairs. I'll get as close to the door as I can. If I should get stuck up there, you'll have to roll me down the stairs, that's all."
"My Lord," the child said.

The old man sat up in the box and brought his fist down on the edge of it. "Listen," he said. "I never asked much of you. I taken you and raised you and saved you from that ass in town and now all I'm asking in return is when I die to get me in the ground where the dead belong and set up a cross over me to show I'm there. That's all in the world I'm asking you to do. I ain't even asking you to go for the niggers and try to get me in the plot with my daddy. I could ask you that but I ain't. I'm doing everything to make it easy for you. All I'm asking you is to get me in the ground and set up a cross."
"I'll be doing good if I get you in the ground," Tarwater said. "I'll be too wore out to set up any cross. I ain't bothering with trifles."
"Trifles!" his uncle hissed. "You'll learn what a trifle is on the day those crosses are gathered! Burying the dead right may be the only honor you ever do yourself. I brought you out here to raise you a Christian, and more than a Christian, a prophet!" he hollered, "and the burden of it will be on you!"

"If I don't have the strength to do it," the child said, watching him with a careful detachment, "I'll notify my uncle in town and he can come out and take care of you. The school teacher," he drawled, observing that the pockmarks in his uncle's face had already turned pale against the purple. "He'll tend to you."

The threads that restrained the old man's eyes thickened. He gripped both sides of the coffin and pushed forward as if he were going to drive it off the porch. "He'd burn me," he said hoarsely. "He'd have me cremated in an oven and scatter my ashes. 'Uncle,' he said to me, 'you're a type that's almost extinct!' He'd be willing to pay the undertaker's to burn me to be able to scatter my ashes," he said. "He don't believe in the Resurrection. He don't believe in the Last Day. He don't believe in the bread of life...."
"The dead don't bother with particulars," the boy interrupted.
The old man grabbed the front of his overalls and pulled him up against the side of the box and glared into his pale face. "The world was made for the dead. Think of all the dead there are," he said, and then as if he had conceived the answer for all the insolence in the world, he said, "There's a million times more dead than living and the dead are dead a million times longer than the living are alive," and he released him with a laugh.
The boy had shown only by a slight quiver that he was shaken by this, and after a minute he had said, "The school teacher is my uncle. The only blood connection with good sense I'll have and a living man and if I wanted to go to him, I'd go; now."
The old man looked at him silently for what seemed a full minute. Then he slammed his hands flat on the sides of the box and roared, "Whom the plague beckons, to the plague! Whom the sword to the sword! Whom fire to fire!" And the child trembled visibly.
"I saved you to be free, your own self!" he had shouted, "and not a piece of information inside his head! If you were living with him, you'd be information right now, you'd be inside his head, and what's furthermore," he said, "you'd be going to school."
The boy grimaced. The old man had always impressed on him his good fortune in not being sent to school. The Lord had seen fit to guarantee the purity of his up-bringing, to preserve him from contamination, to preserve him as His elect servant, trained by a prophet for prophesy. While other children his age were herded together in a room to cut out paper pumpkins under the direction of a woman, he was left free for the pursuit of wisdom, the companions of his spirit Abel and Enoch and Noah and Job, Abraham and Moses, King David and Solomon, and all the prophets, from Elijah who escaped death, to John whose severed head struck terror from a dish. The boy knew that escaping school was the surest sign of his election....."

***Note that some derogatory terms are used and some insults to women are there too. Please be mindful that this is the way dear Flannery writes to unveil the realness of humanity. She focuses on truth and I mean truth no matter what it is, but in this case it is trueness to character. The old prophet uncle is a complete bigot and hypocrite. And, of course, I have not read the whole thing yet, but I think the story is somewhat about Tarwater realizing that his uncle was crazy and as well, a hypocrite.

Let Your Yes Be Yes

My girl is always at a loss at what to do with herself. When she asks me, I tell her "organize your room." She openly weeps at the thought.

She just now asked Eraser Eater what she should do with herself, she could not think of what to do. She is bored. Eraser Eater said, "anything?"

"Anything, except organizing my room," she whined.

"Alright," Eraser Eater perked up, "Go running through the streets naked and pee your pants."

She wept. "That is not what I want to do!"

"You said anything except organizing your room! There! Even the Bible says not to go back on your word! Better get naked!"

She cried.

Good grief, they take anything I say and magnify it to ridiculousness. Yesterday I caught the Oldest going back on his word with Eraser Eater. We were on our way to the pool and he had promised the eraser eating freak the use of his snorkel. I told my fine feathered oldest boy that it is not right to go back on your word, you need to let your "yes be yes and your no be no."

A lot of good that did me, huh? That is just another way of saying get yourself into a trap.

So, I had to promptly tell Eraser Eater that things need to be reasonable for that to apply.

Last night I was reading a book by Flannery O'Connor called The Violent Bear It Away and it literally had me laughing so hard I was wiping tears from my eyes with a tissue. I could not stop. I had a belly ache after a spell and found it hard to read on, it was so humorous. If you don't mind getting depressed, shocked but humored all at the same time, give it a whirl. Maybe I will type out an excerpt tomorrow if I feel so inclined.

Rubbish

I am sorry I have not blogged in a bit. It is so not typical of me. I have had some sad things (and busy things) happen like my father dying, homeschooling chaos, doll houses to fix up (during blog time), weddings to sing at, and to top it off, this weekend, my brand new Martin guitar bit it. I mean, someone tripped on it and it got a nice sizy crack in the body. To say the least, I have not cried, have not shed a single tear, although I was worried I would. Thankfully, the guy that tripped over it offered to have it fixed, so it is in the guitar repair shop right now, getting plastic surgery. For up to five weeks. Ouch. Thankfully I have another guitar. And you know, that one has an imperfection because I over threw a hairbrush and nicked it on the body. Thankfully, it did not dent the wood, just the finish. Since the guitar itself is black, I just filled in the spot with a sharpie pen. It is not so noticeable now. All my guitars are messed up. All two of them.

My Martin cost in the thousands. Let me not think about it.

Well, now I need to bow down to the treadmill god (why oh why did I say it like that?) and then perhaps take the crazies to the pool. I really could use some sort of vacation. The pool sounds alright, I guess. Not the beach. For now, you guys need to visit this guy's myspace. He is incredible.

Mayhem 3

It has been a day already and I haven't even run yet. My plan was to get the Girl and I to the dentist and then go to Costco to get the tires changed on our car.

First off, I went to the wrong dentist. Yesterday I was so upset by the dentist that the boys went to that I had to find one right away and I guess in my haste I forgot which place I called and underlined too many dentist's names. I guess I was confused. So I went to the first dental office and they looked at me weird. "You must be scheduled across the street," the receptionist said. Of course, I look all harried and stressed out because I have a pile of kids with me.

So I go across the street thinking that the receptionist is totally wrong and I am right. Um, no. I go across the street and they are expecting me and smile and say, "the receptionist at the dental office you were just at warned us you were coming. We have nothing to do. We will call around and help you find which dentist you have an appointment with."

They made one phone call to other dental office by the stinking Panera Bread and whalah! there was my appointment. Twenty minutes late too. I breezed into that place with my hot and sweaty complaining kids and filled out paperwork.

I am very upset by the ideas this dentist has put into my head about how badly my teeth need repair. Well, I won't get into it, but lets just say ten grand. Those babies look great on the outside. Oh, every stinking dentist comments on how straight my teeth are, how I must have had braces, etc. Then they look at my opened mouth. Ouch. I am, to say the least, depressed. All that echoes through my mind is how the dentist was saying that I am "so young". Yeah, so young to have dentures in a small gob of years!

So, like I said, I took the boys to the "ghetto" dentist yesterday. I had no clue what we were stepping into, I swear. The office was in a strip mall and the decorating in the waiting room was disgusting. Every wall was grimy with chipped paint or ripped wall paper. The fifty year old original carpet was filled with lovely nuts, berries, hair balls, flecks of various pieces of rubbish. The waiting room ALONE should have told me.

Then the receptionist had apparently brought her BABY to work. Daycare just wasn't working out that day, I guess. And not only that, there was a dog in a dog bed sleeping underneath the desk. I was about fit to be tied. I only noticed this though, once they called the boys back and I went with them. Let me tell you that this was supposed to be a pediatric dental office. They had a rough cardboard box full of rinky dink gross toys from I don't know, a sick dollar store from a hundred years ago, for the kids when they are done. They had bubble gum flavored flouride. They had some tvs up for the kids to watch while the assistants cleaned away. I made sure to think of these things because I could not figure out what made them "pediatric."

Did I mention that the floors were disgusting? I mean, they were RANK. Even the tile floors. Then the dentist came on the scene. The man was of Middle Eastern descent, I am sure, but he looked more like he was from the ghetto itself because he had this big golden medallion hanging from his neck and he had on JEANS. He looked like he was going to take me to the back and cook me a couple of meatballs. He had no accent either. Granted, he was a nice guy, but not thorough at all. He looked at the boys' teeth and said. "Looks good."

That's it?!

"I floss their teeth about once a week," I said, wincing.

"Wow. That's great!"

Huh?

"See you in six months, guys!"

Uh, I don't think so.

I felt sick, seriously. I mean, I don't mean to be a clean freak, or anything like that. I don't mean to sound like I am a snooty person by any means. I think anyone would think that what I just walked out of looked like a run down welfare office. With a baby and a dog in it.

So I made the phone calls that afternoon (yesterday) and asked many receptionists whether they had clean facilities or not. I did explain that the place I took my very own precious boys to was a complete DIVE.

So I had to get those tires changed, you know? Good grief, we had tons of work on the car done and they told us that we needed our tires changed on top of it. We told the car place we were going to get it done at Costco.

Costco tire guy: "Tires look fine. I mean, I can take your money if you want, but to be honest, they are good for a good bit."

Oh really?

I am so sorry, dear friends who read this, that I am in such a foul mood. I think it is the medicine, I am not sure. It is probably my black, murky heart, but I am ok enough in my own dark sinful pride to blame it on the medicine. I confess this to you.

At least though, even when I am highly stressed and I have terribly bad teeth, there are some people I can fool. This is a customer at the tire place today (he was a total yuppie):

"Hey, what are you in here for?" He had his sunglasses on and we were among piles of tires.

"I was going to get some tires changed," I said.

"Oh yeah? Are you having to wait?" He seemed too interested.

"Uh, no," I looked about me in a disheveled way for the three crazies were scattered about thinking the piles upon piles of tires were a corn maze. They were playing hide and go seek.
"I, uh, don't need to get my tires changed apparently."

"Are these your kids?" He looks around at them.

"Yep, they are QUITE mine."

"They are fun. They say funny things."

"Huh. I think they have a lot of energy," I commented.

"Yes, they make for a fun time, don't they?"

"Not really," I smiled.

"I was trying to be positive." He walked off.

"Oh well, thanks."

The end.

Costco Showdown

As an update I talked to the neighbor yesterday. The first thing she said to me was, "I wasn't being condescending, I was being 'snide'." OK. Pretty close to the same thing. Man, this woman always has to correct me to make herself feel better, I tell ya.

It went well though. I just told her that instead of assuming things that are evil from now on, she needs to just ask me what is going on instead so she can in future make better judgment. I also told her that whenever her daughter is told "no" she always runs off and cries. No real surprise there. She did not put up any defense for herself at all and acted very mature about it. Maybe she just had no defense, so that is where I have the upper hand. Who knows. She said that maybe with a little time things will calm down. I even think she said in a "snide" way that she was sorry this happened or sorry she did that, I am not sure. A million kids were milling around at that point and it was a very distracting time to talk. But at least I got the good meat of what I needed to say to her in the message I left, and then I was able to instruct her for the future, because gee whiz, I can't abide a person assuming things and then acting on that assumption. I told her it was not fair to immediately believe that I am being mean or rude. I am not a mean or rude person and she knows it. So there.

On a side note: I am always borrowing money from my kids when I need change or cash (I always pay them back immediately or pay them interest if I am especially lazy at going to the ATM later). The reason is, they are always taking my money. Whenever I have cash the first thing I think of is paying them their allowance and then I have nothing left. I need to get a job or something.

The Oldest mowed the lawn this weekend and so I doled out an extra two bucks. He also lost a tooth this week (a molar) and left a note to the Tooth Fairy (I know, the kid is eleven. Don't badger me) kindly asking for no less than two bucks.

You see, he is saving for a game cube. And it is driving me bonkers. I mean, at least he saves his money instead of endlessly begging to spend it, but good grief, he is so stingy at times. He always searches for money on the street and stuff and it kind of gets old. I swear, last week we were about to enter Costco and I always forget that I have to pull out my stupid Costco card before we get in there so I was digging through my purse, trying to ply out my wallet. I had two loose dollar bills floating around the various receipts and coupons in my purse just so you know, and lo, once I pull out my wallet, the Oldest yelps into the air, "I whole dollar! On the ground! You never find that!!!!" He was so happy to have found it I almost hated to tell him that one of my loose dollars must have fallen out of my purse.
"It's probably mine," I say. See, even the money that I don't intend to give them ends up in their hands.

"I found it though. Are you sure it is yours?"

"I am pretty sure, but I don't feel like digging through my purse to see if I have a dollar missing. I am not even sure how many loose dollars I had in it. Just keep it, I guess." I suddenly get depressed.

"That's ok. You keep it. It is probably yours," the Oldest mumbles.

"Nah." I wave the dollar from me.

This is Eraser Eater's cue. "I never find dollars on the ground! Ahhhhh!" and he proceeds to whine for an eternity about it in the threshold of Costco.

The Oldest was pushing the cart and I was turning to the whiner and threatening him. "You think that life is fair?" I challenge him.

"Noooooooo, I just NEVER find a whole DOLLAR." He flops around on foot like a fish out of it's tank. (which reminds me, I have to clean that rectangle of sickness.)

My famous line finally comes: "I am done with you!" It really has no consequences to it, I just say it and everyone sort of rolls their eyes like, yeah, yeah, you always say that, mom.

The Oldest is holding his head by leaning on the cart at this point and he keeps saying to Eraser Eater, "Please be quiet. Please stop whining." In the correction department, he is the vice president.

The Oldest has a point where he completely boils and he either does one of two things: He starts yelling like a mad man and Mickey Mouse is angrily slamming doors and stomping around, or he does something stupid:

The boy was overcome with annoyance at this point and his eyes were all bulging out of his head. He looks into the distance at maybe an over-sized pizza, or a grand-sized pack of grapes, and tosses the dollar in the general direction of Eraser Eater without looking at him. The dollar floats around a bit in the cool Costco air, and Eraser Eater snatches it, puzzled.

"Just take it!" he yells, "Just stop whining! Give me some peace!"

I can not handle the situation anymore. It is my stinking dollar anyway. "What?!" I say to the Oldest, "You found that sucker, it is yours. If Eraser Eater wants to whine about it, that is HIS problem!"

"But I want him to have it!" The Oldest firmly says. I don't believe him. That dollar there is one dollar behind getting a stinking game cube to him. No fun, no laughter, no Super Smash Brothers, or whatever it is called that he keeps saying he wants.

Eraser Eater throws the dollar on the seat of the cart at the Oldest's hands.

"What?!" says the oldest, annoyed.

"I don't want your dollar," Eraser Eater says in a crabby voice, "I want to find my own dollar on the ground. Why can't I find my own dollar on the ground?!" He starts up.

I turned to the kid in my very own motherly fashion and ask him in a muffled rage whether he would prefer me to take another of my own dollars and throw it on the ground for him to "find".

"No."

I realize that this story goes nowhere. Ah, and you read to the end, didn't you? Or maybe you skimmed to the end. My solution though, after recounting this incident, is a mother should never go anywhere without a little duct tape.

Give Me a Break

I was just over reading EmmaSometimes' blog and she reminded me that I need to do my laundry. I better get up there and do it soon. Gee whiz.

I slept terribly last night. Maybe it is because my neighbor is causing me some problems. I don't know. Apparently when Dear Sir and I were taking a nap and the kids were watching a movie yesterday, the neighbor girl came over to play and the Oldest told her that we were taking a nap and she needed to go home for now. The girl apparently did not like the idea so she ran home and cried to her mother. I woke up from my nap with a message on my phone from my neighbor (and I actually checked it two hours or so from waking) saying that her daughter was "devastated" by something and she knows that they are "different" people, but they don't need to be treated this way, etc. She even went so far as to say that she knows that we have new friends, and family visiting, like we dumped them to the side of the road. It was extremely condescending and dare I say, jealous. It was really bizarre. I admit, I flared with sudden anger. I am not an angry person, but I have no idea why someone would think that they could talk to me like that on my machine. Or even on the phone or in person.

I called her right back. She was not home, apparently, but I said that I would like to speak to her in person about this matter, and I have no idea what she is talking about as far as her daughter being devastated (I had no idea what happened when I got the message, I had just seen it at that time on the phone). I told her as well that she had no right to speak to me that way, she was very condescending, and completely out of line.

The funny thing is, her girl came over almost directly after she left that ridiculous message and played for a few hours with my girl. I did not even know about this vile message until her daughter later went home, after my treating her to an ice cream from the ice cream man.

At least I am calm enough now to know what to say to her. It was complete manipulation. Why do people think that they can manipulate me? There have been a great number of people in my life that have taken advantage of me over and over and have gotten nasty with me with all sorts of weird jealousies. I don't even know what kind of jealousies, to be honest. It is the whole tone of the instances.

She is not a Christian, and I can't expect her by any means, to act like one, so that is fine. I do, however, expect her to act like a human being and then in turn treat me like one. All I can do is tell her my standards basically and let her know that I owe her nothing, she owes me nothing, and we are just neighbors. That is IT. Get off my back.

Eat This

Ok, so I complained a bit. Sorry about that. I feel guilty. But I still have rant in me, believe it or not.

It is just sort of like pulling out that same piece of gum though, day by day and chewing on it---being expected to enjoy it. I had had it once I pulled out those same chicken breasts I always buy. I thought that I would be daring and put teriyaki sauce on them. Then I made some pasta (only three people in my fam will eat that happily) and went all Italian all in the same meal, and put some basil, romano cheese, garlic salt, and tomatoes in it. You can probably guess how many people ate that. I have left overs.

I guess some day I will just tire of the whole thing and make enchiladas. The Oldest would eat it, and of course, I would eat it, but no one else would. Dear Sir would shove it to the side or not even sit down and say, "Guess I'm having a bowl of popcorn!"

I hardly ever get angry for too long, but I am still a bit peeved by this. I think it is because I am still expected to make meals when I just realize I am only warming things up, putting the crap on plates, and getting people drinks. I am the kitchen version of Vanna White. Back and forth, getting napkins, grabbing condiments, placing forks on the table. I know, I know, the kids do help. But what do I have to do? Cook, you say? No, I don't cook. I get things hot or warm. I make wonderful green beans, straight from the freezer. I make delightful pasta, straight from the box. I even get all generous and sprinkle a bit of salt and drizzle a little olive oil on it. I cut potatoes in half, put them on a cookie sheet spread with olive oil and salt and then bake them. I put chicken wings or breasts on the grill and put KC Masterpiece on them.

I am a great cook, I say, but I don't do it. Ever.

Ok, that felt better. I am not going to say that my kids are the problem either. They are not. I know that I must be part of it. I mean, I can make kids eat anything. I can. I am pretty good at that. I just won't SAY who I can't make eat anything. Process of elimination. And it is not me.

My friend L. told me the other day that she has been eating so well lately. She said to me, "Rachel, Um, please excuse my description, I know this might hurt your feelings but, I eat an avocado and tomato sandwich nearly every day."

Good grief, the picture in my mind of the food she was describing was too much for me to bear. I was so jealous. An avocado about now would kill me, I have no resistance to it.

So I have a picky man who eats the plainest of things and then I have me, who can only eat a few raw things and that is it.

I admit that this past weekend I was a bit upset because Dear Sir ate eggs at a breakfast we went to for the wedding. "You will eat her eggs, and you won't eat mine!" I said when we were walking to the car.

"The thing is, Rachel, I don't have to eat your eggs."

I could have slugged him.

I make really good eggs.

I really wanted to bite him, I was a little mad, but then again, he is raw and I would have probably had an allergic reaction.

Fodder

You know, I am not a bad cook. I have never been a bad cook, actually, ever. I used to love to do it, actually. Now I just hate it. I think I hate it because I know that no one really relishes the food I ever make even when it is good.

I have sat here for years making stuff I don't like to eat because the kids and Dear Sir simply like simple food. No sauces, no weird stuff. Salt and pepper, plain Jane.

I worry about fat so I try to make things that are less fat.

I try to leave out raw stuff because I can't eat it.

That leaves hamburgers, hot dogs, grilled chicken breasts, chicken, pork chops, and sausage. I almost try to grill year round. Even the basic things that are BASIC like a beef roast Dear Sir rolls his eyes and picks at it.

I love cooking shows because it is like food porn to me. The stuff I dare not see because I can not have it.

I am pathetic.

Now, back to cooking the grub.

Laughing

Not much going on here. Well, I have been a bit busy---too busy for blogging, that is.

I did tell my kids yesterday that I have an old friend who, when we grew up, had a pool in her backyard. The Girl was curious to know what she was like, what she said when she first saw me, etc., etc. The Oldest, upon hearing that she had a pool, said, "I would have told her, 'be my friend or I will punch you!'" so then I had a good laugh at that. Of course in his true fashion he finished the whole scene by saying, "What? Was that funny?"

Speaking of laughing, I have many friends that I am so thankful that I can laugh with. Usually these days it is over the phone, but when I went back to ID recently for a somber occasion I was in much need of some relief. My dear friend L. and I went to another friend's house, had a glass of red wine, and talked about stuff. I tell you, L. had me laughing, and I mean, laughing my sides off. She made this comment (I will not bore you with the details, but it was just so true and no one else would get it anyway---one of those things) that just had me roaring. She reminded me during our phone conversation today that she apparently had me laughing so hard I said in my torturous glee, "I am giving birth!"

That was sort of like being tickled until it hurts. Complete torture from one comment. One of the most perceptive comments I have ever encountered, by the way, for the subject at hand. I am not sure how I peeled myself off the floor because I was literally on it.

I better go bake my pizza. I lack good cooking planning lately due to, I don't know, carelessness or something.

Have a good night and tally-o.