Interpretation of Dreams

Eraser Eater is driving me nuts. I love the kid, but he is a strange one.

He recently got a new notebook which he calls his dream notebook. When waking, he jumps from bed and writes directly in his notebook so as to not miss one detail of his dreams. I think he sleeps with his notebook too.

I checked on the Girl last night while she was in bed and found her curled over her new notebook, looking completely uncomfortable. He has influence.

This is the discourse with Eraser Eater lately:

"Mom, where's the darkest room in the house?"

"My room."

I know where this is leading.

"Good. Then I will take a nap there right after lunch. Make sure I eat something that is true napping fuel."

"Well, we have some errands to run this afternoon, so I don't think a nap is going to happen."

He throws his body against the counter, moans, and yells, "But I want to take a nap!!!!" Have you heard such a silly demand before? I swear, that kid can make anything preposterous.

So our days are pretty much engulfed with Eraser Eater whining for a nap, constantly lying down to sleep anywhere and everywhere, and consistently asking for secret tricks to get to sleep during the day.

This morning:

"Dad said that his secret trick to sleeping is turning on the fan. I'm going to try that today."

"Great," I say.



Well, our big iMac is up and running again. We lost EVERYTHING. Including pictures and songs from itunes. Lovely, huh?

It is nice typing on this great big thing (compared to the little laptop I was using before), I feel like I am an old lady who needs to see bigger type.

Speaking of old ladies---I have been having back and neck pain lately. Does that go away without treatment? I literally had the Professor put Bengay on me last night. I smelled like a wintergreen mint all night. And I hurt. Is it because I have bad posture? I do put this ridiculously heavy bag on my shoulder on Mondays, which I decided to stop because maybe that is the culprit (this is the Oldest's favorite word).

"Who made that terrible pounding upstairs?!" I scream from below.

Soon enough, the Oldest has the Girl by the scruff of the neck, leading her downstairs saying, "Here is the culprit!"

I have issues coming up with definitions even though I may know what they mean. "Mom, what does culprit mean, anyway? I mean, what is the definition?"

"Look it up, you know I can't use my brain in the morning." And truly I can't. Don't make me confess to anything, speak about anything important, or make any plans in the morning. I will not remember nor will I make any sense whatsoever. My brain is in such a fog that I can't think of simple words like "the" or "is". I know what I want to say, sort of, but the fog is so heavy that getting into the archives is like battling a swarm of soldiers, and I am Conan, all alone. He does kill them all eventually.

I have not thought of Conan in a long time. Conan the Barbarian. I love that soundtrack. Of course, now if I get it on itunes I would probably lose it the way things are going right now.


Flab, Cooling Burns, Losing Teeth

I haven't run in a week. That is unheard of. I feel like a flabby mass of flesh. But I don't feel flabby enough to get on the treadmill. I am way too tired. And I committed to not running for a week. Tomorrow is supposed to be the day I get back on. I hope I can.

The oven issue got fixed. The electrician came over for about five minutes and messed with the plug on the wall (some things were loose) and thankfully, we turned off the power in time for the whole thing to be prevented from melting completely. That was an expensive five minutes. Gee whiz.

I am on edge this morning because I got about three hours of sleep last night. The Professor has a cough that won't quit, so being as light a sleeper as I am, I had to take a trip to the couch early this morning to see if I could sleep an hour before I heard the usual whining of the day. When I opened my eyes I felt nauseous.

Why is life so wondrously beautiful when the Professor is home? I mean, on the weekends life blossoms and shines no matter how dreary a circumstance may be. I think it is because I hate making decisions. I would much rather the man pull the sheets from the bed with me in it saying, "up and at 'em!" than me trying to decide if I truly want to get up or not. It took me till three thirty in the morning to decide to leave the bed last night with the man's constant coughing. If he would have said, "Go downstairs and get some sleep," I would have obeyed.

I will make decisions today. Life will be merrier.

Holy cow, my Oldest lost a tooth last night (a big molar) and I forgot to put money in the blasted cup (we use a cup). Now he is halfway convinced I am the Tooth Fairy. I should just make the decision to make my confession.

On Saturday we had to go to the Apple Store in Richmond and on the way my son wiggled out a tooth (he has lost three in the last three days). The Professor hates the mention of teeth and blood and looseness, so we are all very quiet about it, but the Oldest accidentally dropped the blasted thing somewhere on the seat. The man lost it and demanded that I go and help the boy find the tooth. We finally found it, the boy was sitting on it, and I ordered him to just chuck it in a parking lot. He did.
"What about the Tooth Fairy?" he asked.
"These are dire circumstances," I said, digging through my purse, "here's a buck."


Break Down

I think I mentioned that everything in the house is breaking down. If you have kept up with me at all, I have a few that have broken down in the last month: my guitar (the crack finally burst open with a vengeance), my ghetto oven (started getting an electrical smell), the laundry door (just broke off), the car (completely broke down and died), the iMac (biffed it and crashed), and various other little things here and there that keep just dying or breaking or just plain stop working.

Well, last night I was going to use my brand new oven for the second time ever and in addition to this, I was going to use the range. The oven would not heat, and the range would not heat. The power was on, but nothing worked. Great. I can believe this, I have pretty much prepared myself for anything lately because everything is breaking down, you know. I start to get afraid to press on buttons or plug things in. The other day we had the vacuum in and the outlet started smoking. No kidding. Now the house is going to burn down.

So I called the Professor right away----called him from the far depths of his book and lured him down with the words, "the oven's not working."

He marched down, slightly annoyed (I understand the pain, really I do), and turned off the circuit breaker. Turned it on. Nothing. He flipped some switches. Nothing. Nothing was working now. Not even power. He took the oven drawer out and messed with the plug. Power flickered here and there, but would turn off as quickly as it would turn on. Finally he moved some box back there or the plug in such a way that all was working like normal.

"Something seems to be wrong with the outlet," he said, "and now why is smoke coming out from under the oven?"

Sure enough, smoke was pouring out from under the oven. The outlet was burning, melting, smelling. We did the circuit breaker thing again and unplugged the oven. I got down there with an oven mitt. The outlet box was still smoking. Pretty soon it stopped.

I immediately put my head in my hands while leaning on the counter, and then grabbed a bottle of wine and opened it up.

The Professor scheduled for an electrician to come on Monday.

Did I mention that the Girl came down with chicken pox too? Yes, she has been vaccinated. She barely has it though, and because she has it she can't go anywhere---she missed her best friend's birthday party yesterday. To make her feel better, we went and got a movie and bought all the stuff to make deluxe sundaes. We even had whipped cream and cherries on top.

When I think that I can't handle anymore, I am reminded that I can take on just one more thing and then it all accumulates into more than I thought I could take----and pretty soon everything will break down but life will be fine, nothing really matters that much, and God is with us.


Red Food

Yesterday I was driving the Oldest home from piano lesson and he was talking smack. Apparently he thinks that I am "picky" because I pick the pepperoni off my pizza----or soak the grease up with a napkin before consuming.

So then I went through a complete and full "tape recording session" of the Oldest and all the things picky he has ever said about his food. Of course, this recount was blessed with much acting and facial expression:

"This pizza has too much sauce on it!"
"Do these red peppers taste like green ones?"

"You're putting ketchup in the taco meat!!!"
me: "I always put ketchup in the taco meat."
him: "Oh. Well don't let me see it!"

So I said, "Did you know that BBQ sauce has ketchup in it?"

"I can't drink that juice. It looks too red---like ketchup."

My son tried to hold in his laughter because it really was quite a sight to see me acting out all of these true phrases and lines. I said a billion more than this, but I don't wish to bore you. In fact, I said so many, I was pleased with myself for remembering them all. It was like I held long grudges and let them all free in this one long soliloquy of silliness.

"I have a tape recorder in my throat," I said with wide eyes.
"You do not!" said my son, who is almost twelve and because of his autism believes anything.
"Yes! And my button to press 'play' is under my arm."
"So is it just playing word for word everything that I have ever said?"

"I see a pattern," I looked at him concerned.
"What pattern?"
"You are afraid of things---food that is red."
"Not true!"
"Why, yes it is true."
I named them.
I said, "You even like green apples instead of red ones."
He said, "Well I love apples, I just don't like to eat them."
"I'm blogging that."
"But I will be shamed for life!"


Grocery Carts

Last night when I went to pick up a pizza for dinner ( at this great new brick oven place down the road), I saw that they had not even put my order in and I called two hours ahead of time. My ticket was still on the counter, waiting to be placed in the kitchen.

So I went to the grocery store to kill time.

I had forgotten all about Valentine's Day, not that I put much stock into it. But I at least get my kids a pack of sweethearts or something. If the Professor is lucky I get him a card. We're not entirely cheesy romantic.

When entering a store, I never take myself seriously enough. I never grab a cart, I hardly ever grab a basket (tote). By the end of my visit my arms are (literally) ridiculously full and people are looking at me strange.

"You got a lot there," some guy would say.

"Yeah, I am an idiot."

Every time I do it I tell myself I will not do it again, but I always do. I see patterns. I do things the hard way all the time. If there is an easier way to do it, I never choose that route.

So last night I had a large bottle of beer (I had forgotten to put the Prof.'s beer in the fridge), six packs of sweethearts, a pack of candy for the Girl, a Valentine card, two protein bars, a bottle of Caesar dressing, a box of tea, and something else. I just remembered that I had thirteen items and I went into the 12 items or fewer lane and felt guilty for it. My arms were overflowing and I must say I did look quite idiotic.

That reminds me of when I ever do those big grocery shops and I actually do use a cart. When I get home, I try my best to get every single bag in both of my hands. And I mean about ten bags in each hand. I consider it some stupid challenge to get the trunk closed despite this. I also find it a further challenge to get up the porch steps. Often I have to turn sideways to get to the door. Then, not one of the fruits of my womb ever hold the door open. I think they get the idea that I want to be tortured, not helped. In addition, as I am holding twenty bags at one time, I have already made sure that The Oldest (who is nearly 12) is holding the gallon of milk. When he dares whine about that (which is certain to happen) I turn slightly in the cramped porch and say in all my furious glory, "LOOK! I am carrying twenty bags!!!!!!! Deal with it!"

My anger then fuels me just enough to get me to somehow open the door with my foot or nose, or whatever means I have to provide for myself and I put all the groceries in one heap on the floor of the kitchen.

If The Professor is around, he would say, "Make trips! make trips!"

But when he is indeed around, I don't quite go as nuts because he would never allow me to be so moronic. And he helps. And he doesn't cry out that the gallon of milk is draining all of his strength.


Memories of the Wheel

For some reason I think this coffee is the bomb. It is way better than bitter and nasty Starbucks. I realize that I have almost just about thrashed my good name to many others, but I guess I just can't resist. Besides, it is much easier to just put the pre-ground coffee particles in the filter just after opening the can than getting the beans out of a bag, grinding them up, etc, etc.

The sad thing is that I bought this coffee originally a handful of years ago because I remembered the advertisement on Wheel of Fortune as a kid. Chock Full O' Nuts was always played (there was a song) before Mentholatum Deep Heating Rub. And the can is just plain attractive, don't you think? I must admit it tastes a tad strange next to some of the coffees I have been drinking lately, but I like it. I like it.

And once in awhile, life for a homeschooling house wife is very much like the job of Vanna White. The poor lass goes from one side of the puzzle board to the next endlessly---tapping on letter tiles. She used to manually flip them over. When I go from table to counter to table to counter endlessly for meals and school and whatnot, I always think of Vanna White. And from time to time I think of how she once said at the end of the show that she loves chocolate chips without the chocolate chips. And she uses a pea-sized amount of toothpaste on her toothbrush. Every time I make chocolate chip cookies I look at the sad blob on the cookie sheet that has a lack of chips and think, Vanna would like that one. Every time I put a pea-sized amount of toothpaste on my toothbrush (which is always the case) I think of Vanna and all her tile flipping drudgery.

Remember when people could pick prizes? I want the his and hers ski set!
Those were the days.


I Certainly Don't Deserve It

What? I have an Excellent Blog? Thanks, Groovy, you rock.


The Calm One in the Funk

As much as my husband's tendencies lean toward this sort of atrocity, he is still one of the best men and fathers that I have encountered in this wide world.

To be honest, I have been in a sort of spiritual/mental/cerebral slump as of late. I feel spiritually like I do in the middle of the day around three o'clock---I need that serious pick-me-up (like a good half of a dark chocolate bar) to keep me alive until I can hit the hay around nine as I read my book. This will serve as a good preface to this instance in my life I will relate at once:

I think I was brushing the Girl's hair. A lot of mornings this same Girl is a complete grump (just like her mother), and she often regrets it half-way through grumptown and then kills herself with a massive amount of tears and self-deprecation until she sees fit punishment. I, being just like her, sometimes have a blind spot when it comes to her ways. She was a pill the whole morning, and I won't get into it. I just felt spent already and it was only ten o'clock. Mind you, it was one of those mornings where your kid has not spoken in a 'normal' voice from the time they got up. One continual whine.

When I put the brush to her hair she just got tense and I don't know, thoroughly irked me. I will have no gyrating and screaming or anything negative when I do hair. I hate doing hair already---so one is lucky if I do it for them. I stopped brushing. I thought.

"I am DONE!" I yelped. My Girl just whimpered and pouted, slightly afraid. Who knows what I will come up with---I have been a bit testy lately, as I have said.

I went to the phone and picked it up. I dialed The Professor's number at work.
"Hello," I heard him say.
"Hey. Can you talk to the Girl? I am finished with her." I explained the scenario to him in the full, with much frustration.
"Put her on," he said.
The Girl got on the phone reluctantly. "YEEEEEESSSSSS," she sobbed.
silence for a good bit.
"Yes, Dad. Yes. Here's Mom," she said in her usual voice. This pissed me off. Oh, so the man gets the 'usual' voice and I just get a whine the whole morning. Interesting.

"So what did you say to her?" I said, irritated.

"I told her to go in her room, sit there for a minute, and come out and start her day all over again. Start fresh."

I got off the phone. The Girl went in her room for about two minutes. Soon enough, she burst out of the door with a smile on her face. She looked like Julie Andrews on top of the hills which were alive with the sound of music.

"Good morning!" She hollered.

A true actress at heart, I played along. "Good morning! How wonderful! You are dressed already! I bet your teeth are even magically brushed! It is so nice to see you!"

"YES!" she beamed.

I called The Professor a couple of hours later.

"Your plan worked," I muttered.

"It did?! Wow! I didn't think it would work. I can't believe it! That's awesome! I figured she felt like she dug herself a hole already for the day, felt bad for it, and just needed a second chance."

"Well, thanks."

"Not a problem."

And she was great the rest of the day.

What I don't get is how now that The Professor has a girl, he is all of a sudden in tune to feminine behavior and even sympathizes with it. I would have never thought of that scheme in a million years. There is hope for MANkind, sisters.


Humor Me By Listening

This is a new song I have been working on---I know I need new hair, I just got out of the shower, give me a break.

Here are the words:

Come By Hasting

I call Your name
How long to hear me
You've tried my heart
And found it lacking

Heal me O Lord
Anguish to my bones
Rescue my soul
And leave me not alone

O surround me
Alone I am wasting
O engulf me
Come by hasting

Arise O Lord
Save my soul from death
All my iniquity
Let not one jot be left


Return O Lord
Receive my prayer on high
To You alone
To You alone I cry



I Am a Funeral

I am writing on The Professor's laptop (Dear Sir's) because the iMac I usually write on crashed last night. Every stinking thing is breaking down lately. Ever since the guitar incident it has pervaded everything. I was literally afraid to turn my treadmill on this morning, thinking that it too was going to break. I didn't mention that my famous ghetto oven is biting it right now. Every time I turn it on it lets out this nasty electric stink. Not good. So, hopefully we will get to buying a new oven soon. I was sure to buy some bread and cold cuts for dinner.

If we lost every song on itunes we have ever bought I am going to snap Steve Jobs in half. Or whoever it was that made apple---or started it---or whatever. And all our pictures----what a total bummer.

I am sure it is a dreadful thing to click on Green Cathedral lately. Nothing good is happening. Things are bad right now.

On a positive note, I have some slight news about my guitar---I will post about it once it happens though. We will see.


If Manageable

Yes, if manageable, I will start calling Dear Sir 'The Professor.' I will try to remember to type that in when relating to him. He hates the name I have given him, so I will call him something less insulting. He is not a professor, but he should be, and by golly he certainly has earned it in my estimation. That is what Dear Sir meant to me anyway. A sort of Professorish authority in the home. But names mean different things to different people.

Now, don't think Professor like the professor on Gilligan's Island. Think pipes and tweed suits. Scratchy wool and a hint of leather. A man who, when opening a book for the first time, places his nose gently in the opened crease and inhales. A man who can smoke you and your really smart brother at Trivial Pursuit. A man who can say one sentence in an argument and end it right there. A man whose brain is at full capacity so he has to use his hollow femur for back-up. A man who is cordial, polite, witty, and just dang smashing. I swoon at intelligence.

On another note, I got The Parent Trap (the one with Lindsay) for Family Fun Night. The boys weren't sure what it was about and the Girl said, "It is about girls."
The Oldest said, "Do they trap people?" For some reason that struck me funny.

Yesterday my daughter said that she wants Queen Elizabeth to be her mommy. Can't top that. I ain't no Queen Elizabeth. She read a book for school about her and how she told her soldiers on the beach that she would "stay with them." After reading the book she drew a picture of the Queen and wrote, "Stay with me, Queen Elizabeth!" Except she wrote, "stay with me qeen Alisudith!" That's enough to make any mom mad.

This is Scary

You Are a Lemon

You have a very distinct personality. And if you're not being sweet, you're a little hard to take.
You're a bit overpowering, especially in one on one situations.

And while you are very dominant, sometimes your power is needed and appreciated.
You can liven up a dull situation, and you definitely bring a fresh outlook.

You are a bit of an acquired taste, and you tend to grow on people over time.
People feel refreshed and rejuvenated after spending time with you.

The only reason why I put this on my blog was because I went on Groovy Mom's blog and saw this, thought I would answer a few questions and see if it was really that accurate. For years I have told people that I am "an acquired taste." I almost fell off my chair when I just read that. This thing is psychic.

Help Me to Love My Neighbor

Two days ago I took the kids out for the afternoon for their play date with a friend. I came home at six, with a message on my machine. It was my neighbor. She had called me at 2, wanting to see if I could pick her daughter up at the bus stop at 3:45, and then watch her for an hour or two. She was apparently not at home, cleaning someone's house for money, calling me on her cell phone.

Oops, I thought. Wasn't home. Gee, sorry.

I called her right away at home, where I knew she was because I could see her car. I wondered if she got to her daughter on time, if she was depending on me getting the message, etc.

She picks up the phone.
"Hey," I said.
"You're late," she said. She sort of half laughed, but I could sense frustration in her voice. Give me a flipping break.
"I was out all afternoon."
"Do you still not have a cell phone?" she asked.
"Nope, and don't plan on getting one."
"Well thanks for calling me back," she said.
"No problem, gotta go."

What the heck was that? I know that she wants to get a second job and she wants me to watch her daughter after school until she gets home, but I really don't want to do it at all. I won't. The reason why: that right there. Imagine if she paid me----in fact, I don't want to imagine it. I would just turn into a slave that allows constant sickness in the house, infecting my children. No way.

Let's Pray

I got tagged, so here you go, Nat:

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages.)
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

Here is mine:

"Most holy God, the source of all good desires, all right judgments, and all just works: Give to us, your servants, that peace which the world can not give, so that our minds may be fixed on the doing of your will, and that we, being delivered from the fear of all enemies, may live in peace and quietness; through the mercies of Christ Jesus our Savior. Amen."

I realize that is not five sentences, but rather, one big one. I am not typing out five prayers. Sorry. I am sure you wanted to hear them anyway, right? In fact, I picked the prayer in the middle of the page because I would have had to skip to the next page to get to the fifth sentence. Good grief. Those Episcopalians. If this excites you (seriously, like it does me) just get yourself a Book of Common Prayer. But apparently not this version that I picked up next to me, because it is the 1979, which is inferior to the 1928 (according to Dear Sir).

Anyone who wants to play along (I am certain most of you have done this) go ahead.