On the Rocks

Now is the time for my life to get ruined. Look at this. I can barely type. I am having to backspace and type about five words a minute because I am so freaking cold. Apparently I have circulation issues although my heart is so stinking efficient that my resting rate is only 48. Did you read that? Forty-flipping-eight. I am practically dead. Which leads me to the juice of my post.

I went to get blood work done on Friday because of my various issues (I really hope they find something so I can take a pill for my iceberg limbs and be done with it), and my daughter went back with me. The guy pulls out the massive needle and my daughter's eyes light up (she is six). She says that she will stand by me and hold my hand.

"That's a great vein," the blood-taker says "you should donate."
"Yeah."
"Here hold this," he hands me a million tubes. He takes the needle and pierces my skin. I sit there watching.
My daughter, wide-eyed, says, "HOLY COW! You're that brave?"
She watches as my blood pours into the little tubes. "Looks like grape juice. That's so much! How are you going to walk out of here?"

In other news, did I mention that I ran like a duck yesterday? Yeah, about half-way through my eight mile, I noticed that I was jutting my feet out like a moron. All day then, my knee-leg area felt like a sore wind-up toy. I know that does not make sense, but that's how it felt. That's what happens when you get into a trance. You don't pay attention to how your feet fall. Oh yes, winter is full of blog fodder. Today my arms were frozen solid. When I finished my run I put my right arm behind my hot, sweaty back. I nearly shot straight up, my arm was so cold. Of course I did not mention that it is abnormally cold in the room where the treadmill is---but that is what happens to me. Toes go numb, fingers refuse to work, I am in the middle of Costco buying six gallons of milk and suddenly I can't feel my foot.

8 Things

(This is a Meme Avery tagged me for, do it if you want on your own blog)

8 things I’m passionate about (besides the usuals like homeschooling, my children, etc):
1) God
2) Dear Sir's beard and I guess Dear Sir
3) Ridding myself of worms
4) Anti-polygamy
5) My hatred of coinage
6) Cadbury Eggs
7) Whether or not Eustacia fell in the weir or as my kids would say about a video game, "suicided"
8) Running that extra mile

8 things I want to do before I die (besides the usual, like, see my kids graduate college, make a real album of my songs and whatnot):
1) Write a novel (but this will be my Dead Souls, I am afraid. It will probably end up in the fire)
2) Write a song about the Matrix
3) Go to England, perhaps live there
4) Be a Brit Lit professor and just make people write essays while they hear me rattle on about the weir
5) Rid myself of stretch marks
6) Pull out that Mentos at the perfect time---when I am especially embarrassed that I fell---and gee whiz, would someone know what the heck that means?
7) Wear high heels (don't have any)
8) Become a 'sensational novel' expert

8 things I say often:
1) Gee whiz
2) Crap!
3) Good grief
4)Craziness
5) That's just crazy
6) I'm gonna...(fill in the blank)
7) That Game Cube is gone
8) I'm going to lose my mind

8 books I’ve read recently:
1) North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell
2) Tintin and the Broken Ear by Herge
3) Tintin and the Black Island by Herge
4) The Magician's Nephew by C.S. Lewis
5) A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
6) Summer by Edith Wharton
7) Husbands and Wives (short story collection) by W. Somerset Maugham
8) All the Pretty Horses by McCarthy

8 songs that I could listen to over and over:
1) "Part of the Queue" by Oasis
2)"Rock and Roll" by Led Zep
3) "Fear" by Sarah McLachlan
4) "Must I Wait" by Phil Wickham
5) "Don't Dream It's Over" by Crowded House
6) "Warning Sign" by Coldplay
7) "Honey Don't Think" by Grant Lee Buffalo
8) "Moonlight Sonata" by Beethoven

8 things that attract me to my best friend:
1) He’s a genius.
2) He’s impossible.
3) He likes me even after I wig out; he is so mature.
4) He teaches me freedom.
5) He’s incredible with the children (much better than I could ever be).
6) He's a freaking enigma.
7) He is firm, decisive (about most things), and uncompromising about the things that matter.
8) He is achingly handsome.

8 things I’ve learned this past year:
1) There are many uses for plastic cutlery
2) My Oldest remembers more about the Bible than I do
3) Getting up early, running for an hour, and eating less sugar helps me sleep at night
4) Don't poke me, I bite
5) Homeschooling Moms (at least many of them) are not as scary as I thought
6) I am a bad driver
7) I subconsciously avoid ironing
8) That I am an adult

Words I Hate

My knee just jolted in a sharp sort of pain (it wasn't really painful, just like a small electric shock) so I took that as maybe a sign to stop running this morning. So I only made it two miles today. On a ten and a half minute mile. On the treadmill, running a ten and a half with no incline is like walking. It does so little for me I could probably give a speech or something. So I guess if my knee sends out a little shock I need to quit for the day.

But before the pain came, I was thinking about words I hate. I was just reading Avery Gray's blog and she somehow inspired me into thinking about this. She was going on about words at one point. There are a few words or phrases I can't stand. For starters, I took a potty break between miles and saw one of my Cooking Light magazines in a basket by the pot and saw the word "healthful". I hate that word. I don't know why people use it, I think "healthy" just about covers it, healthful is just plain dumb sounding.

Then that got me thinking about the word "tender". If I ever have to use that word (I even wince when I have to use it to describe meat) I always slap a "or whatever" at the end of it because of sheer embarrassment. Soft doesn't cut it, so I guess I should take the time to grab a thesaurus and see if there is an alternative I can study for times I have to use that stupid word. I knew a girl in high school that used that word every other sentence to express her sentimentalism. All I could think about whenever she entered a room were posters of dogs or cats licking each other and hearts surrounding them. Or else I think of a long, pointy skewer prodding a big piece of raw, red meat.

After that, I thought of the word "special". Special is so overused, so ridiculous and trite sounding that it makes me barf. I would rather use the word "unique" but unique can mean good and bad. Special means both. Again, I need to search for alternatives. Just so you know, I am not really so dumb, I just have issues with words coming into my head quickly enough for them to exit my mouth with precision. I'm probably autistic.

I hate the word "precious". I HATE it. I will never use it. It makes me think about Precious Moments and fluffy animals bouncing around with high-pitched voices on fluffy clouds. Oh gee whiz, I just described a Care Bear. But that is what I mean. Some colorful, chipper bears blasting happiness on someone melancholy with their rainbow colored bellies. How vile. I knew a woman once who carried around a chihuahua. I really think those things are annoying. Anyway, she put a shirt on it that said, "precious possession." I know, exactly.

I hate the phrase rat race. I can't stand the word "huckleberry." I do, however, like Twain's book, shockingly enough.

And I've noticed that I hate words that are sort of happy and gleeful. I have issues with the word gleeful, but it describes these words pretty well, I guess. I think I am a happy person, I just have issues with people that can never be serious. To me, there's nothing worse than a person who is bouncy and happy all the time and then pulls out the "negativity go away" sign when anyone sounds a bit dirge-y. When I see that I think brainwashed. A little too much Joel Osteen and maybe what's her name---Joyce Meyer---penetrating the brain. Not that I watch either of them---when flipping channels I would catch snippets but would have to turn the channel because it made me so sick. But that all could be a different post entirely.

I hope your day is full of tender, precious moments. Here is an alternative version: I hope your day is full of delicate, high-priced moments. No. Delicate, invaluable moments. Delicate, priceless moments. How about dainty (oh wait, I have to puke) exquisite moments.

Just have a day full of garbage and malarkey.

What the Heck

Heaven help me, I went to a freaking pumpkin patch with the kids and a slew of others yesterday.

The kids were running and playing tag on bales of hay, and my daughter (who is six), who was tagging a three year old who weighs about two pounds, accidentally knocked him off and guess what? He broke his arm badly.

The mother was so smooth about it. She was checking his arm out, unsure of what had happened. I stooped down and looked at his arm too. Good grief, I ought to know about broken arms. Eraser Eater broke both in a span of nine months and I about had a heart attack. He ran at me with this lightning bolt shaped, limp limb, and I screamed. I almost pooped my pants, actually. I had no clue what to do. I danced around in a circle, completely undecided. I saw a safety pin that I had no idea where it came from (it was the phantom safety pin) and I made a sling, since my son was trying to hold his arm up. He was white as a sheet and just had a wince on his face. He sat in the middle of the floor while I called Dear Sir and screamed and wept.

"Don't cry, Mommy," Eraser Eater said softly, "Am I gonna die?"
I was twisting myself around like I had to pee, I was so antsy. I had no car.
"We can set it ourselves," the Oldest said, "I read it in the medical manual. We can handle it, Mom."

This all flashed before my eyes. This lady was top notch though. She could handle stuff. She calmly asked her child if he could grab her finger, etc. I took a few looks at his arm and I said, "I really think he broke it. I would take him to the hospital." When she would touch his elbow he would flip out.

My Girl went to the very middle of the pumpkin patch, sat down, put her head on a pumpkin, and wept.

This isn't the first time she has seen an action of hers start up a result like this. I realize that it is not her fault, any of the kids could have tagged the boy. I see that. She just probably has a complex by now, gee whiz. You see, when Eraser Eater broke his arm the second time, she is the one who gave him the shove off the piano bench. Yes, I did say a piano bench. She was probably, I don't know, three? And she remembers it well.

So I went to bed last night dreaming of broken arms, in-shock-pale faces, and x-rays.

Plastic

I think I have no common sense. At least, I think that my brain takes a bit longer on average for a sensible thing to come to it. Not sure if the reason is because I ran too many miles, ate too much sugar, or didn't sleep enough. Who the heck knows.

The last time I had to deal with a big ol' bad boy coming from my daughter was this time. Bear with me please:

"Anyone who thinks that once your children get to a certain age you don't have to deal with secretions anymore, you are kidding yourself. It was only last night that I had the Girl go #2 and she called me up to wipe her rear like she always does. Since her bowel problems have been real true problems over the years, I feel chained to the sound of her voice when it says, "Mom! I went!" The size of that bad boy was unbelievable. How she produced such a mammoth piece of waste and did not split in half, I have no idea. She did not even cry, which is a miracle. She gave me a sour face instead.
"That pupper is not going to go down," I said in low tones. I imagined pumping that stupid porcelain bowl for at least a half hour. Maybe it would take all night. Even with the power plunger. That sucker would need the snake.

"It will clog?! What can you do?!"

I went downstairs and grabbed a spatula that I knew I would never use again. It was nice and firm and did the trick. I dipped the spatula in the toilet and sawed that thing in half.

"You had hamburgers!" I laughed.

Actually, that is scary, because does beef really break down? Let's just not talk about it...."

Dear reader, why, oh why, did I use a spatula? I have a wealth of plastic cutlery in a drawer. I mean, I have run out of spoons and the only thing I can find is a knife (contrary to that stupid "Ironic" song by Alanis---ha ha). I have a billion plastic knives clogging up my drawer. And the other day I opened it up and thought, "Huh." In fact, it took a friend to turn me on to the idea when recalling the story once to her. When I saw the plastic knives I thought, "that's a great idea. Gee whiz, what's wrong with me?"

So last night I tried it out. I only tried it out because I remembered. And I even brought a plastic baggy up with me too in order to seal up the fecal slicer. No more laboring over the toilet in endless frustration, sweating like a pig. I have a wealth of plastic knives!

I don't know how I have managed to live this life.

Spectacles.

Last night I about lost my mind.

I took the kids to AWANA (it's like Sunday School for kids on Wednesday nights at the local Baptist church) last night because Dear Sir came home from work sicker than a dog with the neighbor girl's cold that she so sweetly infected us with. Remember? She lied and told me she was not sick (she has allergies) and then told my daughter later that she was "tricking" me and she really was sick. Well, now Dear Sir has the plague and last night I had to take the kids to AWANA on my own. I tell ya, Dear Sir is my other brain. I mean, he has a full brain to operate on and I have only half of one, I am beginning to believe. I forget stuff all the time. You know, I wake up at night frightened to death wondering if I have left the grill on or not.

When I picked the kids up, they were all chipper and happy and sweaty. It was the usual. I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary like the common moron that I am. I got 3/4 of the way home and looked at my Oldest who was straining in the dark of the car to read the Superman comic he brought.
"Where are your glasses?!" I barked.
"Wha---huh?"
"Your glasses. Where are they?!"
"Oh no! I forgot them!" yelped Mickey Mouse.
"CRAP!"
I turned the car around. I completely lost my mind too. I pretty much turned into an animal and growled all the way back to the church. The church. I went 80. I thought about the convo with the Man of the House if I went home without the glasses. Remember (you really ought to click there) when the boy lost them at his friends house because he took them off in the grass? They scanned that grass for days and I scanned that grass until dusk looking for those things. Dear Sir was a mad ball of wrath for an entire weekend because they were lost. And a girl found them somewhere, I don't know, by a volleyball net or some madness like that.
"I will never take them off again," mumbled the Oldest in his high pitched way.
I was out for blood.
"Even in the shower?!"
"Even in the shower," he sighed. He believes anything.
He actually found the glasses. He went in, found them in the gym nearly where he left them, and ran back triumphantly. I demanded silence the whole way home. All three of the crazies were solemn.

Fast forward to bed time:
"Take a shower. Do I have to tell you every stinking time?" Dear Sir winced. Mind, the man was doped up on Sudafed. You ain't nice when you're on that stuff.
"No." The Oldest looked at me. "Do I keep them on or off?" he asked.
"What do you think?" Dear Sir said impatiently.
The Oldest looked at me blankly, confused.
"Use common sense."
I could tell he was about to get in the shower with those things on.
"Take them off," Dear Sir said. "Don't get smart."
"He's not getting smart," I said, "he---never mind."
The Oldest went into the bathroom mechanically and closed the door.

I repented this morning during prayer time if that is any consolation.

My Experience with Racism

Boy, am I glad I homeschool my kids. Looks like Conan the Barbarian isn't doing too much for California.

Which reminds me. I was in public school in California. I was there from Kindergarten all the way to the eighth grade. I remember first grade though, especially. I was warned about my new teacher, Ms. Santoyo, from my older brother. I had heard all sorts of nasty things, but I can't recall one thing said. I was pleasantly surprised though, on the first day of school, to see that she was nice. At least I thought so. She was nice to everyone as a whole, I guess.

One day I remember specifically a boy at the desk next to me took my eraser. He wouldn't give it back and I needed it. I demanded it back and he kept hiding it, putting it in the air, and pretending it was a plane or something. Finally I said, "Give me the eraser, stupid!"

The kid went running to the teacher. He, in broken English, told the teacher that I called him stupid. I told the teacher that he took my eraser and would not give it back. She, the teacher said to me, "You are the one who is stupid. He can speak two languages and you cannot." She had a look on her face of triumph, now that I remember it. I did not understand why she would act like that then, but now I do. And it makes me mad. The boy was obviously an immigrant and he barely spoke English. In fact, a good bit of the class was dedicated to teaching these immigrant children how to speak the language, and we English speaking kids were ordered to color or sit still. It is all a blur, but I remember that somewhat.

I also remember after that incident I was suddenly put into a "speech/language" class with mentally retarded kids a few times a week. I remember sitting at the table wondering what the heck I was there for. The kids, who were slow in speech and actually mentally disabled (the kid next to me was in a wheelchair and wore neck braces and stuff), were prompted to read cards from a series of flash cards---or to identify pictures or something. I had to do it too and wondered why I was with these kids. The work was pretty easy, I thought.

Come to find out years later, I was pulled out early from the whole duration of that class because my parents found out about it. The teacher actually put me in there without notifying my parents. My mother had to argue with the teacher about whether I was retarded or not! Now, as an adult, I see why she did it. She was angry I called the Hispanic boy "stupid". If you read the beginning of this post well, you would also see that the teacher was Hispanic. Talk about a racist, huh?

Ten

Here are ten literary characters of the male species who I have a slight crush on. Emma made me do it:

10. Clym Yeobright from Hardy's Return of the Native. Any man who says these lines I will quote has won me: "Well, whatever I may have thought, one thing is certain--I do love you--past all compass and description. I love you to oppressiveness--I, who have never before felt more than a pleasant passing fancy for any woman I have ever seen. Let me look right into your moonlit face and dwell on every line and curve in it! Only a few hairbreadths make the difference between this face and faces I have seen many times before I knew you; yet what a difference---the difference between everything and nothing at all..."

9. Atticus from To Kill a Mockingbird. I love smart men.

8. Jude from Hardy's Jude the Obscure. He's depressing and he's smart. Great combo. He's the only thing I liked about the book.

7. Pierre from War and Peace by Tolstoy. For some reason when I think of him I think of C.S. Lewis.

6. George Emerson from A Room With a View by E.M. Forster. Cecil, eat your heart out.

5. Gee whiz, I am having a hard time with this. I think Armadale from Collins' Armadale.

4. Roger from Wives and Daughters by Gaskell. Scientist. That's all I have to say.

3. Eugene Wrayburn from Our Mutual Friend by Dickens. He's a barrister, he's lonely, he's bleak. Perfect.

2. Mr. Thornton from North and South by Gaskell. He's dark, he's vain, he's smart, he's decisive.

1. Dr. Fane from The Painted Veil by W. Somerset Maugham. Kitty Fane is an idiot. He gets the more attractive the madder he gets.

That was really difficult, partly because I have a terrible memory and have read too many books. I am sure there are tons I left out but I just can't think. Maybe it is the Sudafed anyway.

Purge-a-tory

Sometimes I crave a cigarette. Don't you guys? I never truly used to smoke; I only did as a teenager very little---just for fun, like trying sushi, not out of "peer pressure" or any madness like that. I didn't care that much about what friends thought of me in that regard. Heck, I think I was allergic to the stuff anyway. At least my nose and eyes went nuts when around it. I just sort of liked the burn in the lungs and the nicotine high, much like eating roast beef, getting it stuck in the teeth, and flossing those bad boys out and making the gums bleed. Sometimes pain feels sort of good, like running until you are sore, or getting a colon cleanse, I don't know. As long as something bad is getting purged, like rotting roast beef, unused energy, you get the idea.

But all that is not a good point. Smoking is not like that, really. I can see smoking a pipe in moderation would be sort of relaxing. Maybe I am having these thoughts because my nasal passages are clogged and the sound of something to "burn" them clear is appealing. Perhaps I need to go eat some hot peppers. And maybe C.S. Lewis thought like me. Or I think like C.S. Lewis. He was open to a sort of purgatory because he refers to it a little in The Great Divorce and has a quote somewhere about how there will be some sort of painful change from the old man to the new man physically once we are to enter into heaven. I don't think the Catholic view is correct, like a suffering for the sins of this life. Jesus paid for that already. I mean from our sinful bodies to the eternal ones. Don't know if that makes much sense, but I can buy that. Like a literal molting. Hey, we do it all the time, sin corrupts things like our showers and we have to clean them continually, and our gardens, the weeds never stop cropping up. I suppose as long as sin is present, life is one big fat purge. Maybe I am a heretic.

And how did smoking get me started on this. I have no clue. Maybe it is the Sudafed in my system. That stuff is possibly like the red-pilled peyote. No wonder they make you sign for it. It makes you a condensed version of yourself perhaps. Which means I am a total freak. I think my point was that sometimes something burning or painful feels good---getting clean is nice.

I knew a guy once that showered very little. After a weekly trip to the shower once, he told me:
"Don't tell anyone, but this kind of feels good."

I got sick from the neighbor girl who lied when I asked her if she was sick when she was playing here.

So I wasn't really sick this morning, and now I am. I ran six miles this morning (again) thinking that I would beat this sucker in the butt. I feel good, I am not tired, but my nose is on a continual race. It is already red and disgusting, my face is all splotchy, and what the heck, I just feel like dying because I hate being sick.

I think I am going to go see Molly tomorrow night up in D.C.

The Oldest, this afternoon: "Mom! You look horrible!"

I just broke one of my china saucers.

I shouldn't be allowed to do the dishes. Ever. I am the worst dropper of things. I am always dropping stuff. Do you guys drop stuff? I broke a bowl last week. I had to buy new dishes.

Have a good night.

I Hate Wal-Mart

Dear Sir, my ever-negative companion, cracks me up. He is so chipper and smiley when he is not rolling his eyes. He is one of those guys that smiles after everything he says, forcing you to believe that he does not have too much negativity (or as he would say, reality) in his mind.

For example, we were in Wal-mart, the only place to buy thermal underwear for me since I dread winter now because I get so cold. New breeds of humans only crop up at Wal-mart, the regular earth's sort of Ura-Kai, blasting from the floors of the place donning dirty stretch pants, floppy shirts, and snotty kids. Let's not forget the fact that they have a habit of yelling through the whole store and making scenes.
"I wish we were at Target," I said as we stood last in a massive line.

"Keep it down, Rach," Dear Sir said, "man, we are such snobs." He took a good rub of his forehead out of sheer weariness.

"Look at this!" I said under my breath. "All I can think about is throwing up."

"This is bad, I know. This is like purgatory." He shook his head.

"I'm blogging that," I laughed.

Star Wars Liturgy

I have been running around like a maniac lately. I literally have no time. I hate this. Mondays are good but from the devil, Tuesdays get sucked up in chores and errands that have to be run, and lately I have been enveloped in Narnia with the Girl and Tintin with Eraser Eater, so I have been reading very little of my own stuff that is sitting neglected on my shelves. To say the least, today, I have four huge HEAPS of unfolded laundry at the foot of my bed just waiting for me to fold it all and put it away. I am not going to get into the massive pile of ironing that needs to be done.

Yesterday I had to make a run to the grocery store to get shavers for both Dear Sir and I because I have been using that poor man's shaver for the past month and therefore have dulled it terribly. Of course, the usually bearded man decides that he wants a clean-shaven face when I start using his shaver. Go figure, huh? So, I was making a dash with the kids to get the stupid things. On our way out, I saw an ATM for my bank so I got some cash. The Oldest and the Girl were standing next to me, but Eraser Eater, it appeared, went to the doors, but I couldn't see him.

Once we all got to the doors, I saw him standing beside the automatic sliding doors with his arms up in the air. He had a smile on his face. He scissor chopped his arms in front of him to get the doors to open as we approached.
"May the Force be with you!" he hollered and laughed, "And ALSO WITH YOU!"

I know that what he did would make no absolute sense to the usual protestant. The priest in an Anglican church would say, "The peace of the Lord be always with you," and the congregation would respond, "And also with you.." (usually with their arms outstretched). So to me, I had a good belly laugh over it---that boy is pretty clever.

Watching Kids

I am watching a friend's kids today. Boy are they funny. There are a total of three boys here and three girls here. The boys are on the Game Cube and hollering and freaking out. The girls are in the Girl's room and listening to music. My friend's oldest girl is obsessed with some Disney punk band (who really sucks but I won't tell her that). I thought I would expose her to a little Eisley and she listened for 2.2 seconds and shrugged her shoulders. This girl is ten and a half. Is this what I get to look forward to? I tried to talk to her some but then she started going on and on about a game and I had no idea what she was talking about. I am sure she is a nice girl, but it was pretty funny how she kept going about something and using words and names for things and I had NO FLIPPING CLUE. I just nodded my head and then made an excuse to exit the premises. Her nails are an inch long and she kept utilizing them to make points in her soliloquy. All the while she was smacking her pink bubble gum and never pausing at all to take a breath. I keep trying to imagine what I was like when I was ten.

So, I am here you know, chillin'.

Crap, I'm the Toothfairy

The Girl is suffering from her very first loose tooth. She is six and rather late with it, but that can't be a totally bad thing. It is just that I want so desperately to pull the thing. I have had a couple of stabs at it but I guess the Girl thought it was too painful to complete.

Last night she sat in her bed, the room dark, and bid me to pray with her before she dropped off.
"I know something," she said.
"What is that?"
She pointed at me and gave me a wide-eyed look. "You, are the toothfairy."
"What?" I could barely cover my smile in the dark. But she could see me.
"I see you smirking," she said, "You and Dad are totally the toothfairy."
"What makes you think that?" I said, trying not to look at her full in the eye.
"Because fairies aren't real and I know you sneak in the bathroom, take the tooth from the cup, and put money in instead."
"Huh?!"
"Yes, I know it." She looked triumphant. "What would a toothfairy do with teeth anyway?" she said.
"I don't know, maybe build a tooth sculpture?" I was thinking of this Arthur I saw when the Oldest was little.
"You saw that on an Arthur," she said.
Crap.
"Well----{The Oldest} believes it," I shrugged.
"That's because he is a boy and boys are dumb. I am a girl."
Now that I think of it, it did take a girl to convince a friend's son that Santa was dead. He wept all day on account of it.