Ok So Maybe I Died

I am so sick of blogging because since church people and general public people don't care about me and those I love (wah-wah-wah) I think my blog is a bloody failure and I am tired of attempting to write on it. Nonsense. It is all nonsense.

My Girl is going pee and playing her DS at the same time. Cool.

I took all the Christmas festivity garb down today and felt a twinge of sadness. What am I saying? I always feel a twinge of sadness! What is the flipping difference! I need meds! Must have meds!

Not only am I sad, I am insane. Just like I put the tree up on my own, I took it down on my own. My dearly beloved watched the Vikings game and was happy that they won. I gave him a kiss and congratulated him after closing up an ornament box. The man is from Minnesota and believe me, did we have lefse and meatballs for Christmas dinner! Thankfully I did not have to make it. My poor SIL pretty much made everything while I mixed up terrible drinks and made people drink them. I also skewered up little rolls of pb&j sandwiches and cheese with those little sword toothpicks so the kids would eat them. I also chopped up some fruit and whatnot and put that out there. 

The Professor looked at me gravely for a moment as he put away the vacuum (that I didn't use).
"Did you buy M&Ms?!"
I stared at him. I thought about how little time we had left until our guests would arrive. I dumbly looked at him straight in the face and I said, "Uh, I forgot."


No. He actually just shook his head, turned down the hall, got his coat on, and went to the store. "We need more snacks," he said flatly in that Minnesotan voice of his. 

This is what I DID do:

Learned how to make paper snowflakes
Taught children how to do it
Made paper snowflakes
Glittered them up
Suspended them from the ceiling
Created two centerpieces
Strung lights and garlands
Put out a tablecloth
made meatballs
made cookies
made deviled eggs no one ate (and threw away today)
made mulling spice packets
cleaned up
did endless dishes
set up plates and silverware
and I can't remember what else

BTW----No one at the M&Ms either.


The Sick Dysfunctional Church

I have discovered once again that not many people care about anyone else but themselves. I can tend to do this myself, so I understand. 

What I don't understand is how the Church can be so unfriendly. So I sit next to you or behind you in the building. But you just sort of nod your head when you see me or you just scowl at me. Same difference. You don't want to talk to ME, the new person. In fact, it is not even so much as intimidation, which is more admirable. It is INDIFFERENCE. NO INTEREST:

I pretty much don't care about you, I have no clue what you do, I have no clue where you have been, and I don't want to know. Sure, we worship the same God, but you know, I am just glad He cares about you because I certainly don't worry about it. To me, you don't exist. You are just a warm body that sits in the seat behind me and because you make contact with my eyes I must nod at you slightly because you are in fact, a human. I even wave at my neighbor when they drive by. That's sort of the same thing.

Now I know what some of you may think. Why the heck do I not put myself forward? I don't know. Maybe it is some sick fascination with the whole lot of it. I want to see if anyone eventually will ignore the sign on my forehead that says don't talk to me, I am not worth it. I have actually thought about putting the sign on my forehead for fun. It would be perfect. I would walk into the building and there I would be, the sign on my head shining in the glow of the multi-purpose Christian bookstore-smelling room. I wonder what people would do. I have the guts to do it but my Minnesota born husband would be too polite to allow it. 

One of the ladies at church asked me if I ever went to the Sunday School (she is actually in a small group with me, so she talks to me--she is one of the only people who does). She mentioned that the Sunday School teacher is so gifted, I would really love it. She described the man and seemed shocked that I could not place his face, or even know who he was. 
"He sits in the back," she said to further my knowledge. 
"Oh, in the back of the whole building---over by the soundboard and all that---" I said, thinking of the blur of people that sit there and how weird it always seemed to me. "Well, I can't place him really," I continued, "In fact, I have never heard of him probably because no one talks to us."

She slightly jerked back, a little surprised at what I had said, but pulled it in just quickly enough so that I questioned my own thoughts on this. Maybe she wasn't surprised. 
"Oh," she said.

I don't know what the mature thing would be to do in this situation. Maybe ignore it or approach everyone and say, "Hello, I have been going here for four months or more now and I have never gotten to know you." You know, blame it on myself.

But that is easy for a person like me to do. Blame it on myself. I cut my teeth on horrendous emotions like that. I am sick of blaming things on myself all the time. For awhile it seems ok to do, but then again, it is unhealthy. Just as unhealthy as having no interest in people who seem like they must be nice, and hey, they are going to heaven where I am going and maybe I will get to know them there. How comforting

We went to a Christmas Party on Sunday to get to know people as a sort of last effort before we decide to do something drastic (like use signs) or perhaps just resort into our own selves. We sat at a table. No one sat next to us except the pastor and his wife who probably discovered that no one would sit next to us. 

When I went to the bathroom half-way through the thing I prayed to myself for something to happen where we would feel welcome. I am going to sound very charismatic right now but who cares at this point, I am not a looney tune, I just heard this or at least the thought, independent from myself: "Just enjoy your husband." 

I did. 

I encourage you all who feel lonely in a church full of people to enjoy your spouse especially in those things because by golly, that may be the only fellowship you ever get. Amen and amen.



I totally almost threw up. I put my treadmill on the incline of 11% and then ran that way for four minutes. That was a really bad idea and entirely awful. What was I thinking? 

Seriously, that is the first time that I have ever felt like lying on the floor and simply dying. Please promise me you all will never do that. I wouldn't wish that on Satan. 

The other night I was talking to an acquaintance about Christmas. We were talking about what we had to get done before the big day and I was telling her I had some baking to do. "Do you have any baking left to do?"

She looked at me a little blankly and shook her head like she thought I was crazy. She barely shook her head, actually. She lazily said, "No, I have no baking to do. I just...don't ever bake on Christmas...." she said it like that was a normal thing, like baking was the weirdo thing to do. I don't know, maybe it was just me. She continued, "But...I do other things like write a Christmas letter and mail it out to family..."

Oh WOW, really? I almost blurted. That is so intense. A Christmas letter. 

What the heck is wrong with ladies in my generation? They can't cook, they don't clean, they don't have any kids (although this lady does have kids). It is like bringing a batch of brownies to a cookie exchange. ---Or worse, bringing Chips Ahoy.

My mixer broke on Thanksgiving. I had forgotten about it, so yesterday when I needed it to whip up some whipped cream, I had to do it by hand. Most of these ladies would never know how to whip some cream by hand. 

I am not boasting here though. I really am not. I SHOULD know what I know. I've done my research, I have done my homework. It's my job, baby. I am just ashamed of all my fellow thirty-something year olds who don't know how to do squat in the house. AND---

I am tired of older ladies who have kids that are YOUNGER than mine thinking that I don't know what I am talking about when it comes to motherhood because I am younger. Um, hello, mine are older and in ONE PIECE so I have done SOMETHING right. Right? And um, I have them with me 24-7 so that gives me a heck of a lot more experience so the woman knows what she is talking about. 

I think 31 {gasp!} has newly given me some attitude. Stand back, I bite.


No One Will Eat My Chocolates

I just halfway finished my batch of chocolate covered cherries. I am making sixty of them. Who will eat them? I am not sure. The Professor's side of the family has an aversion to chocolate and fruit mixed together (I am probably the opposite---chocolate and chicken doesn't sound half bad, so I completely don't understand this madness), so I guess I will bring a good bit of them to the church Christmas party on Sunday, my dreaded day of all days, the day I become an old hag.

Moving on....

I have made some truffles, buckeyes, fudge, and I just don't feel in the mood for cookies. I like making candy. But no one eats it except the kids, but they would be happy with Palmer chocolate, if you catch my drift, so that doesn't count much. Chocolate with 75% wax is not chocolate, it is most likely wax, and if my children can tolerate it, they can tolerate just about anything with sugar in it. 

A customer a couple of weeks ago approached me and asked my opinion about two sets of boots. He wanted to know which ones I thought were better. He had one pair of tall black spike-heeled boots and another pair of ugly camel brown, chunky tall boots. 

"Black," I said, "they don't shout out at you as much."

He opened his eyes wide and jerked his head back in surprise. "I would think that the black spikey heel would be a bit of an attention-getter, if you ask me."

"Really?" I said, "I just assume black is pretty tame."

"But the heel...I bet you money if you walk around in these things every guy would turn his head. Now THESE" he held up the camel brown ones, "these won't get you one bit of attention."

I thought about how I rarely dress to get attention. I thought about how the Professor always thinks that I am ignorant about men and what they notice. I responded:

"I wouldn't ask me, I am an odd person. My opinion doesn't count."

"Odd as in how?"

"As in not usual."

He bellowed out a hearty laugh and put the black boots down.


I Love Them But I Hate Them

I put the tree up myself this year. I was at the store picking up a prescription and I saw that they were selling Christmas trees for thirty bucks. I don't know about you, but around here, that is a flippin' steal. I paid for it, refused the hauling help, and carried that gargantuan thing to the trunk of my Jetta rental car. Yes, I have a rental car but that is a long story. Someone smashed into me last week. No more heated seats for me. Boo-hoo.

Anyway, yes, I took the massive tree and hauled it to the trunk of my rental car. The kids were with me. The Girl got some plastic tie stuff from the ground. I used it to tie the lid of the trunk down. 

I had to be at work in forty-five minutes. 

I called the Professor when I got home.

"I got a tree," I said.

"What the heck?! Wow. How'd you do that?"

"I paid for it and got it in the trunk somehow and took it home."

"Cool," he said. 

"So---my question is this---I have to be at work in less than an hour. I am not sure if I have enough time to get the thing in the stand AND serve dinner before it gets dark. I will work tomorrow all day long. When you are home with the kids do you think you would put the tree up?"

"Fat chance," he said.

"That's what I thought."

"Better do it now," he said, "if you want us to decorate the thing when you get home. Just get the Oldest to hold the tree up although he will complain the whole time."


I went out to the shed and got the saw. I got the stand. I sawed that stupid trunk until my muscles got horrendously sore. I prayed it would be over soon. I thought freakishly for a split second how much I hated Christmas. I put it up and I take it down every ridiculous year. For what? The delight of untangling lights and then taking them down again? So it will look all pretty in a window? I want Christmas to be every other year. I want Christmas to be over already. I hate shopping for presents and I hate how people act when they shop for presents and I hate the little drummer boy and I hate the Jackson Five seeing Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, and I hate Santa Claus. 

Meanwhile, the neighbor boy ran up. Eraser Eater bolted out of the house ready to meet him. 
"Can the Oldest and Eraser Eater play?" He looked rough. Really rough. One eye was about five times its usual size. 

"Did you get in a fight?" I asked him, looking up from my sawing work.

"No, I just came home like this, I don't know what's wrong with my eye."

I looked up at him again. Yep. Sure enough, his eye was oozing yellow crud. 

"You have conjunctivitis and you are highly contagious. You must get off my property and go on home." 

He moaned in disappointment. 

I just wanted to get this dumb tree hacked. Gee whiz.

Eraser Eater moved forward. "But Mom, we can just play a little ball outside, it won't hurt!" 

He grabbed a football from the yard and threw it at the oozing eye kid. The oozing eye kid threw it at him and pelted him straight in the nose. Eraser Eater bellowed out in pain, crying piteously and ran inside on the spot. 

"See ya later!" I said to the oozing eye kid. The kid turned and went home.

Finally the saw met the ground and declared it finished the job. For a split second I imagined my finger sawn off just for a stupid Christmas tree. I imagined rushing into an emergency room holding my severed finger in my hand begging them to put it back on. But then I halted in mid sentence and embraced my handicap. Perhaps if I lost a finger over this stupid Christmas tree the Professor would do it from now on. 

I stood the thing up. It was fairly tall. My Oldest tapped on his window to say hello from upstairs. I was freezing my ever-living butt off. With a cold nose and a hoarse voice I hollered,
"Get down here!"

He scrambled down and stood on the porch with no shoes on, only socks. This proved to me that he is as much of a twit as me.

"I need you to hold this thing up."

He stepped down from the porch and grabbed the tree trunk. 

"How long do I have to do this?!" He had one hand on his hip. 

"Until I am done."

"But my feet are cold! You have to hurry! How many screws do you have to twist in?"


"Four? How am I going to do this! I will have to endure frost bite! I am getting colder by the second, I just don't know how this will work, Mom. How straight do you want this? Are you sure you know what you are doing? It is not twisting fast enough for me...I just, I have no coat on, I have no shoes on, my feet are blocks of ice..."

"Shut up."

He gasped. I am sure he clutched his chest in horror. 

Soon the tree was up and I moved it into the house. I put dinner on the table, got dressed and ran out the door. 


Out of Words (The Ancient Song)

This way I don't have to post any text if I don't want to. This song only takes a little above a minute. Well, almost two, but it is fun---if you can call anything I write fun.

I hope you all have a splendid weekend!!!!



How many clogged toilets can you unclog during one week? I mean, I unclog one at least once a day. I greatly encourage the roughage, but gee whiz, I don't think it helps at all. I think my kids all hold it in until it turns into a baseball thus ending in the result of a clogged toilet. I did indeed use my specialized unclogging skills by using a plastic knife to slice the offending plugger in the past, but alas, I have run out of knives, and thankfully, the excreted matter has shrunk to a manageable size of just getting stuck in the pipes and I can not see it to wield my knife anyway if I had one. I need some serious plastic knives for future use.

This morning I had to unclog a toilet. It was 6:30. I knew it was clogged because I had been jolted awake by my daughter who declared that her bed was wet and I needed to change her sheets at 4:30. In my half-asleep state, I made her a new bed and went to her bathroom to empty my bladder. Upon turning around, I noticed that a gift was left there, possibly ignored for a good handful of hours. It was lurking and quite murky. In my unbalanced state of wretched sleepiness, I vowed that I would take care of it first thing in the morning and didn't flush. 

Six-thirty did indeed roll around quickly and I did not anticipate it. It seems that everyone woke up before me, using the bathroom. I jumped up with a start to prevent overflows, but someone went in the bathroom and flushed. Crap. I mean, no pun, uh, holy cow. I hurriedly put on my pajama bottoms and got the plunger. The turbo one that is blue. Thankfully the overflow did not occur and I just needed to fix it. 

First thing in the morning is not my forte. I almost threw up. 

Because I was half asleep I left the offending comet-doused plunger in the bucket I allotted for it next to the shower. I had to get out of the room otherwise I would be christening my just clean toilet (I clean it after I pump it) with whatever I did not finish digesting from dinner. 

And so once the morning really got rolling and I ordered all the crazies about, the Oldest declared from the bowels of the bathroom, "The plunger! It is in my way! What should I do with this thing!" He wandered around with it, holding the bucket handle, walking around in circles and ranting at the top of his lungs. He almost put the offensive thing on my bed. " I can't even get into the shower!" he hollered in great distress.

"You can't even get in the shower, " I repeated.

"Yes!!!!" he flamed, holding the bucket aloft, the blue plunger tilting slightly.

"Put that thing down!" I pointed, "In the hall!"

He circled around the little rug in the hall and decided to lean it against the door frame. He went back into the bathroom to start his shower. "And WHO is the one that keeps putting the inner curtain OUT of the shower because I have to remove it EVERYDAY and it is getting really annoying! I mean, what is this madness?"

"Someone took a bath, DUH!" shouted Eraser-Eater from the room down the hall.

"Well people should be taking SHOWERS!" he blasted. 

"You are not a parent!" I called through the closed bathroom door.

"Yes, Mom," he murmured. 


Project Spectrum

This is from a local boy.