Poor Eraser-Eater Puking up Cold-Eeze

So I just got back from running a few necessary errands. Eraser-Eater was feeling a little under the weather, and I, to be honest, had a little scratch in my throat as well. We all did. We all do.

Eraser-Eater was entirely reluctant. He needed his breather earlier, as I stated, and so he was really in bad shape. I had to return a book to the library though. I had to go to the post office and pick up a package that was waiting for me (who knows what that was) and I had to go to the store and get tissues, medicine, milk, crayons, and eggs. Completely necessary things, right? Yes. I think so.

We got in the car and Eraser-Eater moaned in his usual Eraser-Eater-Sick style. His lips went white. We finally got the library and as my oldest went to the building to return the books, Eraser-Eater said, "I'm going to throw up!"

I quickly (with the car still running) guided the boy to the grass and he puked on his way there and continued to christen the grass with red gross stuff. I wiped his mouth with a tissue I found in my purse. By this time my oldest was sitting in the passenger's side seat, fingers plugged in his ears, singing a song. "Is he done?!!!"

"Yep," I say. Must have been the zinc lozenge I gave him. That was red.

We got in the car. I drove to the post office. I drove to the grocery store.

"I will stay in the car," Eraser-Eater said.
"No, you can't," I said, worried that he would throw up on my leather seats.

I had to pry him from the seat. We got to the automatic door and Eraser-Eater says, "Uh, I have to..."

So I guided him to the front of the store (where no one walks) and he tossed his cookies.
My oldest bailed. My daughter said, "Poor Eraser-Eater."

We went in the store and everything seemed quite fine. I got all I needed but felt stressed because I knew that I only had about ten minutes and the dike was going to burst again. For cleanliness' sake he would probably grab my purse and puke in it.

We finally got outside and Eraser-Eater sat in a little grass-filled median in the parking lot, about half way between the store and our car. "We are only a couple of paces up," I weakly said.

"I'll stay with him, Mom," my five year old daughter said, " you put the groceries away."

I obeyed her.

I went back and he was lying on the grass. She was maybe rubbing his back, I am not sure. He was white as a sheet. I picked him up and helped him to his seat. I grabbed two plastic grocery bags and handed them to him and he said, "Thanks."

We drove home to the sound of my son losing his lunch, my oldest saying over and over again with his fingers plugging his ears that if he hears Eraser-Eater throw up HE will throw up, and my daughter saying, "Eraser-Eater is so poor. It's okay. You'll be okay."

I kept saying, "We are almost home."

Poor kid.

No Brain on the Breather

Eraser Eater woke me up asking me for his "breather." His breather is his inhaler. I heard the urgency in his voice so I got up immediately but stood there saying, "breather? Uh..." with my hand on my head. I was a bit out of it. I think he tried to describe it to me but I could not swim to the surface of awakedom enough to think of where the heck a breather could be. I think I walked in a circle and said breather a few times. He was apparently annoyed with me. "A breather, Mom! I can't breathe! I need it! Where is my breather?"

Finally I remembered what a breather was and knew exactly where I could find one. Duh.

Since I have been in my own bed the past two nights it is hard for me to get out of it. I was up late a lot on the trip and I consumed too many alcoholic beverages (over the course of days, I did not get drunk). Alcohol does that to me. When I drink it too late in the evening I sleep well at first and then about four hours later I am up---popping from the bed like a kernel of popcorn from a hot pan. I hate that. I think the first night I was there I slept about four hours at the most. Not good for the voice either. My friends also made me sing above and beyond what I am used to---hours and hours of worship songs---so I am sure I sounded a bit "sultry" when I actually had to "perform."

So, we are all sick over here---I am not sure if I am or not---I usually don't get sick. The oldest and the youngest have a sore throat. I think Dear Sir does too. Eraser Eater is so bad off, as you know, he needs his breather. That is bad. They are all laying around in underwear under blankets watching TV.

I have no idea what to do with myself anymore.

So I am back. Everything went well, the music was great, the vocals were greater than I would have hoped, and the wedding was a success. People cried when Diane and I sang, and we got a sea of compliments. I feel a little overwhelmed by it.

I will write more later; I am tired now. I had the pleasure of meeting Bethany Wilkins and we both laughed when we found that we both know Rick and Rachel Capezza. Small world.

The kids missed me. I came home to Eraser Eater being sick with a cold, my daughter with a rash/scab on her chin, and my oldest otherwise alright. The house is immaculate, I must say. Dear Sir comes from a line of very clean Norwegians.

I better go to bed. It will be nice to sleep!

I am leaving today for Milwaukee. My best friend from third grade will meet me at the airport and then we will go to this bachelorette party for someone my friend does not know---but she has to come because I have to see her and I have not seen her in ages. She is one of the few most amazing people I have ever met. She struck my fancy, I guess.

I am supposed to sing on Saturday with my friend Diane, who is yet another friend. To make matters clear, she is the woman who sings back up for me on any song on my music site. She is so gifted. Since I am not as gifted as she is at the guitar (yet---let's pray I get better soon for my own sake!) she is playing guitar and singing back up with me (or lead, who knows how things work out) for this Wedding.

The bride is a woman I know who is the sister of another dear friend. The bride is this fabulous writer---her poetry (and I don't care for poetry) makes me weep. The bride's sister is another writer, and her stories that she has written of other people's testimonies just breaks my heart. The only person missing is L., who when she is absent, everyone notices and is sad.

God has given me many friends, am I crazy not to admit it! The only thing is that they are all far away and I have moved away from them.

Ann has taught me to be myself and not be ashamed of it. She told me I was beautiful when the school kids said I was ugly.

Jade has taught me to not have self-pity. She taught me to shut my mouth and be respectful. She told me things straight and told me in love.

Diane has taught me as always the beauty of friends and music. Some women blend together the best even when they are not biological "sisters". She also taught me that wine and pizza taste good together. She also taught me that I can get on the freeway and not panic.

L. has taught me that some friends will die for you.

Sure, I am singing for my friend's wedding, but I am really just happy to see all the people I love.

Eraser Eater is a Freak

Breakfast with Eraser Eater is a unique experience. He sits down with all of us (everyone is wearing what they wore to bed the night before) and then jolts up from the table and runs upstairs.

"He's getting a shirt for me again," my oldest says under his breath.

Eraser Eater, sure enough, comes down with a garment dangling from his hands and then throws it at my oldest.

"Here, put this on," he whimpers.

This morning it was a little different. I did not know how to deal with the situation. My oldest revolted and said, "Now [Eraser Eater], you are going to HAVE to just get used to eating breakfast while I don't have a shirt on, and that's it!!!"

Eraser Eater twitched around in agony, moaned and whined, and said, "But I CAN'T! It makes me lose my appetite! I will not eat breakfast until you are done then!"

I had to intervene at this point. I understand the whole not being able to eat while something is before me. Like coins, for example. I remember having to stick a piece of paper on top a pile of change if it were sitting on the table as a kid. ---This was not a rare occurrence; my family was a messy lot. It was often hard for me to see people just woken up with eye snot in their eyes---and then to be expected to eat! I completely understand this. Maybe it is mean, I don't know. I just dealt with it though. I put pieces of paper over the pile of change; I averted my eyes. I remember refusing to use certain spoons (especially because I hated metal, but I would only use the least decorated and worn kind)--so I understand fully Eraser Eaters aversion to using large utensils and crazy stuff like that.

I told my oldest to just make him happy and put the shirt on. He reluctantly did it and Eraser Eater sat down in peace, putting cream in his cereal, shoveling the spoon in his mouth. He is so particular.

"Now stop chewing with your mouth open!" He tells my oldest, "It grosses me out!"

People

I am so SICK of people not following through on stuff. What is it today that you call a place (like your internet provider) and they reserve the right to hang up on you because of the large call volume, or they just don't fix the problem, or they tell you that you ask "silly" questions and send you off to another department for the umpteenth time.

There was this girl who said that she would give my kids private swimming lessons for free. She was going to come to my pool and do it during regular hours. She took forever to call me back constantly, and she was unclear in anything she said to me. All I knew was that she was going to work with me at my pool with my children. She calls me three weeks or more later telling me that I have to go to a particular pool to get lessons from her for free and they are on such and such dates and I need to call the pool for info. I call the pool. I am not a "qualified" resident for the free lessons, lo and behold. I call the girl up to see what is what. The mother answers the phone and has a sweet sing-songy voice---very condescending. "That is UNFORTUNATE. Why are you calling us?"

IN OTHER WORDS:

Get out of my face. I don't care what I said I would do. We did our best. Leave us alone. I don't have to explain anything to you. You are garbage. I don't care what I told you I would do. I don't care. You are crap. Go away. Don't call me. Why would you call me about it? This is your problem.


Uh, gag me with a spoon.

Library

I have this great reading list, right?

I hate to go to the library. I mean, I love it, but I hate it too. I have the list in my mind, but I cannot remember the list directly. I remember some things, but in reality, some of the books that I want to read on the list are in my possession already. Going to the library is literal torture. I want to check out a bunch of books and read them all---but I don't have time enough. I often get one book, but sometimes (lately) I don't even have much time to read that. Library books are pressure to me. I wake up some mornings afraid that one is overdue and then oftentimes I forget to check to see if it is overdue online, or I just have to bite the bullet and take all the books back in one big pile before they are actually due because of my silly fear. I hate giving the government anymore of my money.

So, I went to the library the other day with Dear Sir and all his offspring and we returned a ton of books. We walked around the library for awhile (it was a different one from the one we were used to so it was extra fun) and I looked up some of the authors that I admire. I found a book called Cakes and Ale by Somerset Maugham and have been reading that (which is NOT on the list, which totally figures). I have not finished As I Lay Dying, which I intend to, but for some reason, I am interested in this book. Maybe it is the way the guy writes. I literally got on the treadmill to walk (the day before I was afraid I messed up my knee) and read while on it.

The subject of the book is boring. It is about an author writing about his memories of an author (now dead) and how he is consistently bothered by his author friend about this dead author. He talks about his memories with the man, and his friend wants to write a book about him. That is pretty much all the book is about. I am not sure about cakes or ale. That does not make sense. Maybe it is some sort of saying and I don't know it. I often do not know sayings.



I have a distant memory about a library that I thought would be pertinent with this post. Back in my old homeland, I went to the library with my mother sometimes. One particular time my mother wanted me to just drop off books for her as she sat in the passenger's side seat waiting for me. She had about two huge plastic grocery bags full of books. I could not believe it. The corners of the books were even poking out of the bags, causing holes to form. Of course, there was probably about fifteen parking spots for anyone in the library (if that) so I had to park a little ways off (someone was already hogging up the drop off area). So I took the bags and started walking toward the shute. A middle aged couple were behind me and walking toward the library. Suddenly, one of the bags gave way and about a shelf of books scattered about everywhere in the parking lot. I am not sure how I got them all in my arms again, but no one helped me and the man with the woman said in a little huff as he walked by me and the scattered books, "Serves you right, checking out all those books."

I almost screamed, "I DIDN'T CHECK OUT ALL THESE BOOKS, YOU JERK!" but I didn't.

I went in the car and told my mom the story and she just giggled.

Ugh.

Boomer on the Barbie

The day we got home from the beach Eraser Eater wanted to try out his new boomerang (he got as a souvenir). I could hear my oldest in his high-pitched Mickey Mouse voice outside and the low hum of Dear Sir's in succession as the three men go outside to try the thing out. Soon Dear Sir's head pops in through the sliding-glass door and he says, "Rachel, we can't get the boomerang to work. No one knows how to throw it."

This is my signal to somehow produce, but I don't know how to throw a boomerang either.

I try it and of course, I do not throw it correctly. I sit and try to check the instructions, but they are confusing.

The neighbor comes over and tries it. She tosses it like a frisbee.

Dear Sir continues to mow the lawn and grill chicken at the same time.

My oldest takes the boomerang, backs up almost to the street and aims toward the neighbor's house. I am still looking at the instructions.

"It landed on the grill! Rachel! The boomerang is on the grill!" yells Dear Sir. He abandons the lawn mower, jumps over some shrubbery, and grabs it with the tongs. Eraser Eater at this point is in tears, thinking his boomerang is dead for good. I run over to take the boomerang and wipe off the barbecue sauce.

"You need to throw toward the STREET!" yelps Dear Sir in complete frustration.

"Uh, ok. Sorry, Dad," says my oldest.

"I think he's done," I say. "Just let [Eraser Eater] throw it."

Dear Sir, since he is holding the tongs, turns the chicken. He closes the grill and walks back to the mower. He starts it up again.

Somehow my oldest gets the boomerang again. Maybe he gets it from Eraser Eater or maybe Eraser Eater gives it to him, who knows.

I hear Mickey Mouse again in a whimpering yelp, and the boomerang flies through the air, heads toward the ground, and grazes Dear Sir's legs while going between the man and the mower. Dear Sir is quick and pulls back. The look on his face is classic.

All I can think of at this point is the look on Alice's face when the Cheshire Cat pulls up the Queen of Hearts' dress skirt, causing her to fall on her face and expose her red heart polka dotted underwear to all of the court and the whole world. She gets up with much difficulty (she is very fat) and tramps toward Alice with a red face, harried and angry look, and hair all wacky. Lets not forget the drum roll as she starts to speak and the picture shaking to better reveal really how angry she is. So she says, "Someone's head will ROLL FOR THIS!......YOU!" and she points at Alice.

The look on Dear Sir's face is almost incredulous. He can not believe that the boomerang was on the barbecue, then shortly about to knick him in the shin. His eyes pop out of his head and of course, in the true Queen of Hearts fashion, his face is beet red. Instead of "Off with your head!" he says, "Did I not say to throw toward the street? Why do you have the thing again anyway? You almost hit me! You are going to hurt people!" Etc. Etc. The neighbor is still close so I am sure he is trying to keep his cool. I look at the neighbor. She is in the garden and I catch her eye. She puts her hand over her mouth and giggles. I do too.

I immediately go to the pc and look up how to throw a boomerang. It says to throw in an open field, away from people, animals, and houses---basically anything that can get broken or hurt.

I laugh heartily though because I think it is funny. What are the odds, I say.

It's all high stress around here.

I have not been able to access the net in a few days---our broadband/DSL thing was not working. Finally I got someone to fix it and now we are all in operating order.

Last Night

Ok, so I wrote this huge cool new post about my trip, and somehow I lost it all. Good going, huh?

To sum it all up: It was a good trip.

I will be writing more frequently once I get back home (that is tomorrow---sigh).

The Beach...Again

So we are off to the beach again tonight and I am leaving my new country home (hopefully) clean and bright for our return. I have a lot to do. Last year we went to the beach in the end of September. It was very dead and enjoyable. This time it will be full of people (thousands, I have heard) and I am sure Dear Sir will teeter on a heart attack every hour. The kids will be with their cousins and I will have fun digging huge holes in the sand (if there is room---I am imagining swarms of people and no sand).

I must go though because I have to finish packing, run five miles (to reach my goal for the week), feed everyone food, clean up the house a little more, and be off by noon to meet my SIL in Fairfax and then the men will meet us there as well.

Dear Sir will be bringing the laptop, so if I am not posting, he probably will be on his blog.

See you (if not sooner) after five days.

Pelting It

I am a little depressed. I was in the middle of eating breakfast when the discipline bug bit my butt and I had to go upstairs and take care of matters with the boys. They were fighting over a pen. I got my hairbrush for those aforesaid reasons and also for perhaps brushing my daughters hair in a web of knots. I used the brush for one reason and then realized afterwards that my cereal was still sitting in the milk, getting only wetter. I took the brush, flung it on my bed in a flurry, over threw it, and of course, the only time I ever hit anything in my life dead on, I hit the body of my beautiful, black guitar and now there is a nice pretty nick in it.

Feel bad for me? I can take collections....

One final note. I have to go back to edit to do this and I thought it was worth it. Before writing this post I emailed this story to Dear Sir. This is classic HIM. This was his response:

"Sorry about that. Your guitar is ruined. That's sad."


I think I will just go and throw it in the garbage now, eh? It is virtually unplayable. It's RUINED!!!! AHHHHH!!!!!!

New Song---Check it out

I did not write the song---I sang this with my choir in high school when we sang in Carnegie Hall. The words to the "chorus" kept ringing through my mind when my band and I were getting ready for the Rwanda benefit concert. Obviously there is a lot of hurt and weariness there from the genocide, and so we put the song in front of "Bad" (a perfect U2 song that I love to sing) and kept going. You may hear the beginning of "Bad" at the end. You will hear dead silence for a bit in the beginning. You will probably hear a shattering glass in the middle. It's live.

Misc.

I forgot to mention another book by Wilkie Collins that I am dying to read. Basil.

Apparently there is a movie out there loosely based on the book that stars Christian Slater. I read a bad review of it. I think I will just read the book.

I am currently reading "Good Country People" by Flannery O'Connor.

Not sure why Anonymous calls her blog "The Life You Save May Be Your Own." It was a highly unusual story. But unusual is good. It is memorable, actually.

By the way, I think Dear Sir put yet another song on my music site. Be sure to guide your pointer down to "The Music of Rachel Wilhelm" before you ditch me. Ok, I just looked at the site. There isn't anything new. So forget it. But check it often though, because it will make me feel warm and fuzzy inside if you do.

Good night.

"Unusual Fears"

Yesterday my SIL and I took the kids to the pool. It was closed down because someone pooped in it, so we went to the lake instead, right next to the pool. The pool was supposedly to open in about an hour, so the lake was a good alternative to keep the kids busy.

Like I have told you before, my oldest is petrified of insects. Especially flying ones. He was reluctant to go to the pool but then when he found that we decided to go to the lake, all he could think about was dragonflies. He stood on the sand and cried in utter terror while I tried to calm him down by telling him to "calm down" and "sit by me on the towel". He kept saying that the towel was "too close to the water" but I paid him no heed. I did not want to move and besides, the sun was in my eyes making me absolutely weary. My SIL and the other kids played in the lake while all this malarkey was going on. Other people were at the lake too, but I think they were a little too far down to see my son absolutely freaking out. He wasn't just terrified. He was crying, shaking, and immobile. This absolutely angered me. I know, I am heartless, but it did. There is only so much one can take and I think I was at my full capacity. First of all, we never go outside much on account of him, and then when we DO go out, we are made fools of. I keep going back to the same old junk I guess because I never learn. I constantly have to learn that my child is not a "normal" child and I have to think creatively about this instead of "normal".

And please, do NOT say that it is perfectly normal to be utterly petrified of flying bugs. People that see scenes like this say that to make me feel better. I hate to be lied to.

So, my dear, dear SIL saw how I was about to lose it from the foot of the lake where she was standing. I was standing in front of my son, shouting in his ear (I know, real calm, eh?) to "calm down". She smoothly came alongside my son and rubbed on his back and said, "T--, let's pray about this. Let's pray that God will protect you from the bugs. He created the bugs and He also controls them. He made them and He also made them to do His will. He knows that you are afraid of bugs so I think that if we pray, He will control them to stay clear of you and He will also help you stay calm and give you courage."

She prayed. She also prayed that I would be calm (which I needed---I was about to whack his head off). She also made him pray as well and he did. I sighed in serenity when we were through, and she proceeded to talk him through sitting down next to her. He looked here and there a few times in terror, but somehow she got him to do what she wanted (it was very time consuming, I will admit) and then he felt that he needed her to "survive" the rest of the trip to the lake. If she left, I was an "ok" substitute but "she better come back soon!" We dug in the sand and then headed to the pool.

Now, if anyone knows anything that I can do (next to this) to better help my son (he has Asperger's Syndrome---a high functioning form of Autism), please let me know. If anyone gets me angry and mad, it is him. I love this boy so much, but I often get in the way of a better solution. I realize that I need help in this, but he needs a sort of tangible help where I can better deal with the horrors of outside with him. I have tried insect sprays like "off". Like I have said, he read the directions and indications and he sees that it does not ward off bees and dragonflies.

Help!!!!

Infested Material Girl

I had a weird dream about Madonna. She was trying to infect me with some virus by spitting on everything she could and hurling it at me. I would whip out my hand sanitizer after thoughtfully hurling the object back. I used it a lot. I can't remember exactly what kind of objects were hurled, I just remember that one of them was a purse.

Last night Dear Sir and I watched a little TV, so I did see Madonna in her new video last night. I do remember Courtney Love hurling objects at Madonna during an award show, but I am not sure that is what got me on the object hurling thing. I did, however, throw a lot of purses in a toy box that my daughter has in her room last night. And I HAVE been using hand sanitizer a lot lately.

Migraine

My Sister in law and I went to an Ikea with the kids yesterday. It was chaotic. We got lost several times. We dropped some of the kids off at the play land area for a spell, but the time limit there was not nearly enough for any sort of shopping. Not in that place. It was so huge it took us probably ten minutes to find an "Exit" sign. I have never seen anything like it. It had its own parking garage. We continued to try to walk the mall and shop but none of us were having fun. It was ridiculous trying to cart around five kids. I think mine were the main problems too. Mainly the oldest. He just didn't know how to handle himself.

I think he gets tons of energy and he does not know how to expel it. He was hopping on rails and darting around here and there. Half the time I couldn't find him and then he would pop up again. He would not stop running his mouth. He had a sarcastic/inappropriate remark about anything said or done, so it was highly annoying. Take any 10 year old kid and multiply it times a hundred. That was my kid. My sister in law and I kept scolding him about his behavior so soon he would stand back about twenty feet away and yell so we could hear: " I am keeping my distance so you don't shout at me anymore! I won't be in your way here!" He had been literally snapping in people's ears and clapping his hands. I think part of the problem is that he does not go outside EVER. He is petrified of the bugs. There have been many times when he has braved outside and I find him at the edge of the driveway, face streaming with tears, crying out in a loud voice that he needs a guide to get back to the house because the bugs keep attacking him. I make him run on the treadmill to burn energy, but it is not the same.

Last night Dear Sir came home and we were all sitting down to dinner. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers and lifted his eyebrows. "I have a headache," he said, "I have had a continual headache for two days now."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Maybe it is a margarine," my oldest says knowingly.

"Migraine, you mean," I breathed.

"Yeah, whatever."

In the Aftermath

There is a new song on my site---I have two versions---the nice version will be up when you go to the site, the rough version is dear to my heart and will be up shortly. Be sure to check it out.

Reading List for the Future

My to read list (off the top of my head) for the next good bit (and not in any order):

1. All of Thomas Hardy's novels (again)

2. The Frozen Deep by Wilkie Collins

3. The Short Day Dying by Peter Hobbs

4. More Flannery O'Connor

5. Sister Carrie and An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

6. The Small House at Allington by Anthony Trollope

7. Don Quixote by Cervantes (not sure if I really want to read this---sounds crazy)

8. Demons by Dostoyevsky

9. Miss or Mrs? by Wilkie Collins

10. The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins

11. Strangers and Sojourners by Michael O'Brien

12. The Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis

13. The Chronicles of Narnia (I have not read all but two, if you can believe it)

14. Romola, Adam Bede, Scenes of a Clerical Life, (and perhaps) Daniel Deronda by George Eliot

15. Haven't read any D.H. Lawrence

16. Need to read some Edgar A. Poe

17. Henry Esmond by Thackeray (Oh wretched Vanity Fair!)

18. Barnaby Rudge, Nicholas Nickelby, Hard Times, and anything else that is Dickens that I have not read

19. Main Street by Sinclair Lewis (I think?)

20. Finish Surprised by Joy by C.S. Lewis

21. Faulkner---As I Lay Dying or Sanctuary or both



Any suggestions, comments, questions, or input on any of these books if you know them, have read them, or have heard about them? Let me know. Post here.

In the Forest

There are no trees in Idaho. Well, there are trees, but not many. The place is mainly desert, believe it or not, and so the main reason why anything grows there is irrigation. I think it would all be dead if not for that. So, my niece, who lives there and is visiting me in the South right now, thinks that if she drives by three trees she is in the forest. I have been told that if she passes a few in downtown Boise, she thinks that everyone should be still so that she could hear the real sounds of nature.

I have been told that she almost had a heart attack when she got here. Where I live (in a battlefield---called "The Wilderness", mind you) there are trees galore. The only thing that bothers me about Virginia is that you can't find stores because trees are always covering up the signs or the stores themselves. So, since my SIL and I are painting (and it is going very well, by the way) the girls go out and play "in the forest." I am always telling them to watch out for snakes because they really do crawl around out there in the leaves, but they are not afraid.

My daughter told her that "Momma will come out and kill it with a shovel."

Click and Listen

Dear Sir put up a couple new songs on here. He says "My Heart is Faint" is rather boring. Tell me if I am crazy, but it is my favorite one. I just like the words, I guess (and the music), but it sounds like I didn't write it. That is always a plus for me.

Wed to a Monk

Dear Sir is so polite. I had to laugh. I can imagine a nightmare of his is taking a slew of kids to the pool with only one other male with him so the ladies can go out to shop. This is my Brother in law. He is so kind and ridiculously considerate. He came up with the idea and here Dear Sir says, "Uh, sure, sounds like a great idea!"

My Sister in law and I packed all the kids in the cars, gave the men the pool bag and took off. We giggled and laughed because we knew Dear Sir was completely not in his element.

We shopped and had fun.

We came home and everything looked fine for the most part. I said hello to Dear Sir. "Hello!" he said (about as jovial as possible).

When my sister in law and her family got in their car to leave, I said, "How was the pool?" with a dear, loving smile on my face.

"It was horrible. I hated it. It was pretty much everything I hate," he smiled and waved to them as they drove off.

"That's too bad."

"Yeah, let's put the kids to bed. I have to read before this day is through."

Bucket Kicked

When we got home last night from visiting my sister/brother in law at the airport, I looked in the tank to see about the fish. Hemingway kicked the bucket. I almost cried. He was lying on his side by the filter, limp and completely unnatural. Dear Sir would not let me tell the kids, so I ended up flushing the guy down the toilet as soon as my oldest crept his way upstairs to bed. He was really bloody. His fins were so messed up from the abuse of Sushi. Poor guy. He really tried to hang on.

So I told the kids this morning about Hemingway. Eraser-Eater burst into tears and cuddled next to me. My oldest said that we could just get one of those 13 cent fish and he would pay for it. My daughter said, "It's all Sushi's fault!" and that was the end of it. I was more upset than they were. I think probably because I tried so hard to keep the guy alive. It probably would have made more sense if he died by his own fin. True Hemingway fashion.

So, I think we will grieve for three weeks and then get another fancy-tailed fish. Any suggestions on a cool name? Fitzgerald? Hardy? Dreiser? Collins? I am going to try to get the kids to let me name it Wilkie.

Poor Hemingway, I have forgotten about him already.

Ok, My Major Issue

I have to confess that I never *graduated* from high school. I have never stepped one foot in a college for a class or any madness like that. Although I had a very high grade point average, I was one of those that really messed up socially and so therefore I did not finish. I obviously had a big reason. I did. I won't get into it. This is not important.

The fact that I did not graduate from high school has always been a source of great pain to me. Yes, I have gotten my GED, but I still did not graduate the right way. I have dreams continually that I can not open my locker to get my books, or I can't make it to class on time, or something prevents me from taking that final. I usually can't find my books. I am typically glued to a locker trying to remember the combination and the bell has already rung. Those are dreams of panic and much frustration. I hate them. You know, some people are ashamed that they have not finished COLLEGE. I have not finished less than that.

Why am I writing about this? Well, I have always been afraid to admit that I have not finished high school. That I was a drop out. I am. A statistic. I have to laugh because I have had conversations with people and they ask me if I have my masters in literature. Give me a break. I really have them fooled, eh? The fact is, yes, I have educated myself well in those areas, but I am in fact, a high school drop out.


So I am recently getting back to getting the home school stuff squared away with the government schools. The lady that is over the home education department for the school district tells me that I have to meet this criteria and that. She encourages me to take a different route from the one I had previously taken to get approval from the board of education so I look into it. The very first and simplest criteria is to show that you have a diploma from high school. Dear Sir thinks that a GED is the same. I knew it wasn't, but Dear Sir was convinced. So I call the lady and ask. She leaves a message to tell me that no, a GED is not good enough, and that does not qualify me under that case. I am not qualified to teach my own children. I have been teaching them for five years now, and for the first time I have a woman from the government telling me that I am not qualified. And---if I want to school them, I have to PROVE that I am qualified. Now, there are other ways around this whole mess, so I am not worried, but it just really sucks to have someone tell you that you are a zero. I have absolutely nothing on paper to show that I am semi-intelligent.

So the lady had sent me a packet stating the home school laws and such and I read her own written memo. Here is what it says:

"Parents must provide evidence that your child has attained a composite score in or above the fourth stanine on a battery of achievement tests which have been approved by the Board of Education or an evaluation or assessment which, in the judgement of the division superintendent, indicates that your child is achieving an adequate level of educational growth and progress. ......Parents shall file evidence of their ability to provide an adequate education for your child and a remediation plan for the probationary year. ....and parents shall make other arrangements for the education of your child. ....parents shall make other arrangements for the education of your child..."

I love it. Now I don't feel so bad.

Flannery O'Connor

I just discovered Flannery O'Connor. Well, I didn't JUST discover her, I knew of her before and even checked out a book once, but that was when I was diving into Wilkie Collins and didn't have the real time to invest. Not that I have much time to invest now, anyway.

I have to say that I am a bit unsettled by her harshness. I would expect as much from a man. And I don't mean harsh as in foul in language. She is just a little violent, and very to the point. I have read four short stories so far and three of them show the main characters meeting their demise or at least getting close to meeting it. I have a Credenda/Agenda issue of recent date that is all about her, so it sort of got me interested. I have to say that I am not a big fan of Doug Wilson. I think that he is a bit arrogant and his church is a bit of a cult, but sometimes he and his pompous crew come up with some good stuff to read. So the articles proved challenging that they wrote. So I challenged myself and got a book by Flannery at the library.

It'll put hair on your chest.

In the Valley

So Hemingway is not belly-up and he is healing. He looks horrid. He has bruises and is a little bloodied. He is hanging around more than one place in the tank lately though, so that is improvement. He used to be such a lively thing.

Nearly every morning I go out on my patio and read my Bible and enjoy the peace and quiet sounds of nature. My daughter, who is five, usually comes out with me and practices riding her bike or just sits quietly with me. Then we go and water the plants. Just last week she was eager to come outside with me. She was hurriedly putting on her sandals. She said, "Mom, I just want some peace and quiet!"

I said, "Well, when you come out here to sit on the chair, you will have some!"

She puts the last strap on her sandal and looks up at me in a little wince of annoyance. "I just wish the birds would stop chirping! It's annoying!" And she lets out a breath like a teenager and shakes her head.

I tried to explain to her that birds are free to chirp and that is part of the peace and quiet.

Dear Sir and I always kid with her about teenage stuff. She knows how teenagers act, so I joke with her and act like a valley girl (I am from California so I can do it quite well) to get her going. She always rolls her eyes and throws up her hands in defeat. Dear Sir even asked her last night if she was a drunk teenager "or something". Of course she does not know what this means, but he had me rolling. It is hilarious watching Dear Sir try to act like a valley girl.

I am the Fish Finisher

I feel really horrible. I feel how an executor must feel when giving a lethal injection.

You know, we got a fish with the house. Hemingway. He is a beautiful long finned goldfish---fat, cute, and happy. After two weeks of living with Hemingway, we liked having a fish so much we decided to get yet another fish. We got a white goldfish and the kids named him Sushi. I thought Hemingway would be happy to have a fellow swimmer in the tank. He wasn't.

Just over the past few days Hemingway has looked rugged and haggard. I didn't get it. I cleaned out the tank, I cleaned out the water, but I was afraid of what was wrong with him. I mean, when I would get him out with the green net, he would barely move, and did not care at all if my hand was near him. His fins were all messed up. They looked ripped and torn. I think he had a nice long fin on top of his head and now it is completely gone. Tonight I was on the phone with a friend and I noticed that Sushi was chasing Hemingway around the tank and nipping at him on his fins. Hemingway was darting here and there to get away.

I realized that Sushi was hurting Hemingway. I had to make a decision. I knew that Hemingway would not make it unless I got rid of Sushi. So I took Sushi and flushed him down the toilet. I immediately felt horrible though because I knew I would have to tell the kids.

I told my oldest first. This is what he said:

"Well, that's ok. He was a murderer anyway, right?"

I told my youngest (the daughter). She almost cried but when I told her what Sushi was doing to Hemingway, she recovered.

I told Eraser-eater. He started bawling. I explained the whole thing to him and he totally understood, but he still wanted Sushi to be in a good place. I had to pray with him that Sushi would find the ocean (he was still alive when I flushed him down the toilet---no shovel this time!) or the lake, and also that Hemingway would make it through the night (which I am not sure will happen).

I felt so bad I had Dear Sir hug me. He told me that we eat fish and it is ok to kill them. Then he called me a fish murderess---a lethal woman.

What would you have done? I know that Hemingway may die, but it is better to have a sick fish than a fish that murders other fish.

Wait a minute. Why do I care about fish? AHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Kingdom of Television

In deep contemplation while sitting on the couch, the thoughts that were running through my mind made me wonder what kind of person I am. Not that I sit and think about myself ALL the time (I think if we really admit it, we find that we DO), but at this moment I was supposed to be watching TV with Dear Sir. He is a channel flipper and so I have to take my Friday night and watch a mad dash to avoid commercials while we are watching three (sometimes four) different shows. Here is what I watched (if I even remember some of it):

Snippets of:

EWTN (the Catholic Channel)

24 (with Mr. Sutherland)

Some Spanish Channel where the lady has permanent tears streaming down her face and the guy is completely overacting (the lady is too).

And something else, I can't remember. Oh yeah, The Office.

Let me tell you, the second we got satellite TV I did not watch a single show until maybe last week. I think we have had satellite TV now for three weeks or more. A month. I told Dear Sir this and he stuck out his bottom lip in true sympathy and then said, "You should watch something you want tomorrow." (which means, "when I am not home") Then he proceeded to click away.

What frustrated me most is that I had to sit through a Spanish channel. I really don't like watching a bunch of people over acting---and to add more to it, speaking a different language altogether. I don't know how to speak Spanish. Dear Sir doesn't either but for some ridiculous reason, he likes to watch it and then says, "I can watch something other than English-speaking television, unlike you." or "I am not as narrow-minded in television watching as you are."

Why, dear friend, do I sit while he clicks at the channel changer? Why do I torture myself to watch TV with this guy? When I was young (before there were channel changers or else my family just could not afford one) my Dad used to make me permanently sit next to the television while he sat on the couch and watched it. I remember that he would stick his pointer finger out and twirl it around and around if he wanted me to change a channel. Up or down, I was his Vanna White. He changed channels too when the commercials came on. No, wait. I changed his channels when the commercials came on. That meant that I had to change the channels a lot. Duh.

So Dear Sir has gotten me into soccer. Wait. Let me fix that. Football. I thought it was ridiculous that in France they would separate them and "real" football was called, "le football american". I just wanted to take all the French lips and tie them into a knot. I hated French once I got in there. Maybe it was because my teacher told me that a monkey would make more progress than me? Maybe. So I wince to call soccer football, but the rest of the world does it, and it is too American to sit and call it soccer (and I am not all that proud to be an American) so I will call it football. Makes sense anyway. So what do we do when we watch football? We skip from the English channel to the Spanish channel. Like we would get anything out of the Spanish channel that we couldn't get out of the English channel. The only thing I could understand that the Spanish broadcaster said was, "GOAL, GOAL, GOAL, GOAL, GOAL, GOAL..." He said it a hundred times during the Germany/Argentina game. They had to do the penalty kicks and Germany kept getting goals. Hence his saying all the goals. Ugh.

I am long-suffering though, and I remain as quiet as possible and let Dear Sir rule his kingdom of television. Whenever I watch TV and he comes in on it he says to me, "You watch the commercials! AHHHH!" He tries to respect the fact that I have the channel changer but of course you can feel his frustration in the air; you can cut it with a knife. It's like the lady at the library continually grasping at that library card when I don't produce in time. It is almost like if he had it his way and a channel changer did not exist, he would ask me to go and change the channel for him with his little pointer finger. But I am his wife, and so of course, what do I do? I hand him the thing and torture myself.

Yes, I love torture, I love suffering, and I even just voluntarily let it happen. Someone take me out of my misery.

The Hard Way

I have been literally glued home this week because the car that I use is in the shop. It was broken down for a few days and then we got it in the shop yesterday. They are still working on it. That scares me.

Anyone that talks to me about this wonders if I am ok with not having a car. My dear neighbor even has offered her extra car for me to borrow in case I need it or want to go out for awhile without the kids while she watches them! Is this the American mindset? If you can't "get out" then you must feel horribly stranded and frustrated. I feel completely fine. In fact, I feel so fine that it has forced me to get the house in order, fold the laundry, read the Bible more, spend time with the kids. Maybe cars are really America's hidden evil. Now, I have had seven plus years to lament not having a car of my own to drive whenever I pleased. ---With three kids, two broken arms (my son's), two horrible pregnancies, and various other ridiculous things I endured without a vehicle. I had issues with it, believe me, but then it was also something that comforted me because I could always say no, and I did not have to go to this or that if I did not want to because you know, I didn't have a car. It was my excuse. I felt very safe in my excuse. Pretty soon friends would not bother with me because they knew that I did not have a car. True friends eventually got in my face, came over, and said, "We're going somewhere! I have a HUGE van! I can take you with me and two other families if I wanted! You're toast!"
I did receive a lot of help and am totally grateful for it.

I guess that helps me appreciate the times I do not have a car. I have no choice. I just accept the circumstances. I would rather walk to the pool anyway, or walk to the store if one was close enough (which one isn't). I literally wish at times I could churn my own butter. I have always been known to do things the hard way. I have noticed this about myself. I remember Dear Sir had put a huge hedge into our front yard at our old house. For years he kept it up but eventually he got so run down at work he got to the hedge once every two weeks. I remember getting a letter from the HOA, and from one of their random drives through the subdivision they saw our hedge slightly over-grown. "Cut the Hedge," it said. More like, (and I still remember this because it made me mad) "Cut the heage." I figured if the guy could tell me to cut the hedge he could spell it correctly too.

I resolved that I had time, I had no car, I had the resources, so I could cut the thing. Dear Sir was reluctant at first but he let me. He only let me cut the hedge if I cut it with the manual trimmers instead of the electric. He was convinced that I would cut my hand off or something considering how clumsy I am. And I was a little fearful too. We had a huge yard and the hedge covered a ton of space. It would take me forever, but I went out there faithfully every week and cut that thing down. I got sunburn, allergic reactions, rashes, and bugs in my face, but I cut the thing and actually enjoyed it. I figured that I burned calories doing this since I wanted to lose my baby fat anyway. I remember never running on a day I cut the hedge. I would never make it.

I remember distinctly one day a man stopped his car and got out with a hedge trimmer. "Umm, I live down the street and I saw you MANUALLY cutting your hedge, and I wondered if you wanted to borrow this? It would make it much easier!"

I just smiled at him. I felt really stupid. I just said, "Well, I actually have one of those in the garage, but I like doing it this way."

He looked at me bug-eyed. "Are you sure?"

"Yep."

"Well, I thought I would just offer..."

"Oh, well thank you so much, that is so nice."

"You must like doing things the hard way..." And he walked off.

Frankly, I'm probably just an idiot.

After Gig

The gig went really well. I was a little less nervous with my hefty glass of red wine and a bottle of water in case my mouth went dry. It always helps to sing a mellow Van Morrison song (Crazy Love) to get you warmed up. I think about the next set I was a little more nervous---I think because I messed up a bit on Blackbird but my dear guitarist buffered it up and smoothed it out, so that is what it means to have a real team up there.

We were essentially background noise. I liked it, really. I felt like a true lounge singer. The cool thing about it is that we did not stand out too much, we did not ask much of anyone, we just did our thing and people actually thought we knew what we were doing and did not look at us like we were crazy to think that we could pass as a band. I thought the atmosphere and the music itself that was chosen made the people very comfortable. I think we did a good job for the purpose.

It always makes you feel good when you sing the Australian anthem and the New Zealand anthem (probably not THEE anthems, but for some reason the two songs are very dear to these people)---it makes them cry, or evokes a sweet memory from them. An older Australian gentleman told me that I sang very well and he told me where he was from. I told him I had never been to Australia. He said, "Well you sing Waltzing Matilda like you have!"

I think that was the best compliment I have received in a long time. The people were very gracious, very generous with compliments, and I think they want us back next year.

Pretty cool, huh?

Ken, the guitarist, is already talking about doing another Jammin' Java concert. What to benefit this time?

Anyone know anyone who will listen to some of my songs on cd and give me a contract? I could use one.

Tonight's Gig

Doing the New Zealand Embassy gig tonight. I have to leave soon because we have to be there early and I live an hour away. I am a little nervous. I think I have nearly thirty songs to sing. Thankfully most of them are unchallenging so I won't wear my voice out much. I was fortunate to talk my band into playing a lot of Oasis songs. I am *supposed* to play guitar on one song (will try to get out of it if I can) just for kicks so if you read this before tonight pray for me! I like to put my full voice into a song and multi-tasking is not my thing. But I will get used to it eventually.

I will let you know if the Kiwi's liked it.

On Crack Library Woman

Before I met the "widow" yesterday, I took the kids to the library for the first time by myself. The one time Dear Sir went with us every single woman that worked there was so kind, I just had such a down home feeling. (We live in a fairly small town) So we get to the library and Eraser-Eater is eager because he has a book on hold he has been waiting a whole week for. I tell the kids to pick out a few books and the lady will give us the hold when we check out.

Finally, we get to check out. This lady who is in her forties stands there and I am trying to get my library card. I am telling her that I think the "hold" is on Eraser-Eater's card, so I have to fish to find it. She, in the meantime, silently but impatiently tries to grasp a card that is not presented to her yet, like a five year old. She reaches out for the card like three or four times, wringing her hands. Finally, she drops her hands in a huff when I don't produce in time, and at this moment I finally have the card in my hands (mind, this whole process took about fifteen seconds!) and hand it to her while she swipes it as fast as she can. I thought, "Maybe she has to pee." It gets worse.

She scans the card, gets the hold, scans it, and says, "You can just check out the other materials on this card, yes." She did not wait for me to even answer. I sort of said, "uh, ok."

The kids were all holding their own books to check out, and she raises her voice, saying, "Other materials, please! Other materials, please! Other materials, please!" as we are all scrambling around to stack the books and present them to her in time. While stacking one of the last books (and this was all in a matter of a few seconds and there were only about eight books to check out!), I look up at the woman, wondering if she is for real. She has her hands on her hips, clenched fists, set jaw, clenched teeth, and the nastiest look on her face. I could not believe it. She looks like she will explode with impatience. I hand the books to her. She takes them, slams them down, and starts her scanning frenzy.

"I'm sorry!" I say.

She completely ignores me.

She gives me my receipt and says, "There you go."

I would almost understand a fraction of this behavior in a person if say, the line was heavy and there were some tough patrons checking out books. There was not a soul there in line, I had to wait for HER to come to the desk, and there was probably one person on the computer. Just a bunch of nothing and NOBODY.

I definitely did not experience a "down home" feeling at that point.

I talked to Dear Sir about it and he said that she was probably on drugs.

I think I will call the library today to tell them that I am unhappy with the way I was treated yesterday.

I guess when I picked up how she was trying to grasp the card, I should have pretended like I was going to hand it to her and then pulled it back to frustrate her. That would have been funny. She probably would have slapped me.

LESSON: Don't act impatient. It is really noticeable.

Faux

So I took the kids to the "beach" today (we have lake access in our subdivision). There was a lady there with two girls playing in the lake. I got to talking to her and she told me that she lives with her parents in their new home on a certain street. She was telling me that she couldn't get to the pool yet because her license address is different from the one she is living in. So for the time being they spent their time at the beach. She then proceeded to tell me that her husband died two years ago and she has five kids. She told me how they met, how he died (in a car crash---she was particularly glad that he did not have to suffer) and how her life has been living with her parents. I felt so terrible for her. She stated all these things so matter-of-factly that I thought she had gotten over the grief well and became so strong.

As my kids and her kids were swimming in the lake, she got in with her girls and they started talking to her about their Daddy. The youngest said, "I remember Dadddy. I remember he had brown skin and one time he shaved his eyebrows!" Hearing this, I felt so horrible for her and her kids, so terrible that a woman and her five children had to endure this kind of struggle.

I went home with the kids because it was so hot and I gave my boys a shower together. I had to help them get the sand out of their hair. "Did you know that those girls' dad is in jail, Mom? In jail for dealing drugs!" my youngest boy shouted out.

I almost said, "but he is dead," but then my oldest son said, "And they told us that they get to see him this Christmas when he gets out, they are so excited. They said that it would be the best Christmas present ever."

I understand that her husband being in jail is humiliating. Why lie about it? Why even tell me about her life anyway if she does not wish to tell me the truth? It is not like I pressed her to tell me anything.

No wonder she took the death so well!

It Never Fails

I am not sure why but usually when things are still in the car and no one is speaking either the Eraser-Eater or my Oldest says,

"When I was looking at the trees over there, I thought for a second that I wasn't alive."

I remember the Eraser-Eater walking through the hall, giggling, and saying to his older brother, "Hey T, when I was walking through the hall for a second and I turned around that corner, I felt for a second that I wasn't alive!"

My oldest will say, "Wow! Cool! I love that!"

This happens all the time. Almost every day. It has been happening for months. What the heck does it mean?

Mole Murder

The kids were voicing to me about how "bored" they are. Seeing as how we just got back from the pool, this made me ill. So what did I do? I got out a bucket, Murphy's oil soap, and a rag and said, "mop the floor." I made them get on their hands and knees and everything. I must say my floor is nicely clean now. They actually enjoyed themselves too.

I didn't know that living out in the country was such a crazy thing. The first day we got here the kids were playing outside and found a mole. They wanted me to look at it because they were not sure what it was but I was certain that some killing had to be done. I went outside and sure enough there was a mole, just up from the surface, playing dead but twitching a little. I told the kids to wait for a minute and I went inside. I asked Dear Sir, "So, aren't moles harmful to the yard and the irrigation? Should I kill it?"

"Yes, kill it," he said.

I went to the shed and got a shovel with a point on it and went to where the mole was and where the kids were standing all around it. "It dug its way back inside the ground!" the eraser-eater yelped.

"I'll find him," I said. I dug my way a little and sure enough found him just below the surface of the soft earth. I had him on the shovel. He continued to play dead. I set him down on the ground and hacked at his middle. Blood went all over the shovel and gushed out of his mouth. More like shot out. The kids jumped back in disgust. The eraser-eater (my middle boy) whimpered a little and wailed how he thought I was being mean by killing the poor mole.

"Bad for the yard," I said, "I just bought this house too."

"Who cares about the house!"

I dug the mole a little shallow grave and put the earth back on him.

"That poor mole!" The two youngest ones exclaimed.

I felt bad but knew that it was right and meet to kill the mole. Amen.

I went inside. "Did you kill it?" Dear Sir asked.

"Yep."

"Good, don't tell me about it," he said.


The next day I caught the kids outside. They were all huddled around the old grave of the mole. The eraser-eater was placing what it looked like a number of rocks on the ground.

"What are you doing?" I asked, a little mad.

"We dug the mole back up and re-buried him," the boy whined.

"What?!"

"Yes, and we put these stones here to mark his grave so that we know where he rests," he said.

"He needed a proper burial," my oldest blurted out.

"Did you touch it?" I could barely contain my anger.

"She did--" they pointed to my girl, "but we didn't really."

I marched them all inside and told them how horrible it was to dig up some dirty animal and touch it. I made them all wash their hands thoroughly.

Then the two youngest (Eraser Eater and the girl) proceeded to take the rest of the evening to play "mole." They closed their eyes and crawled on the ground saying, "We're moles! We can't see!"

And Mommy hacks at us with shovels.

Lyrics I Will Not Sing (or I will if you twist my arm)

For my next "gig" my band and I are playing (among many other songs) a Martina McBride song. I am not a country fan, but I would like to believe that I am capable of singing a few country tunes if I have to. The song is called "I Love You" and I am sure any of you may be familiar with it. It is poppy, hip, bouncy, and hardly country. Maybe if it were more country I would like it more. I don't know. All I do know is that the past few times of singing it I can hardly get it out right. I am almost certain that Simon Cowell would say, "This song is just not the song for you. You stink. Get better taste." One would think that with my voice (not that it is some spectacular one or anything) could carry this song. I just don't think it can. The band members say it sounds fine. I think the band members sound fine. I don't.

I think I feel like I can't catch up. Yeah, it is something like that. I like sultry mellow songs---oh well.

Here are the lyrics that I can not stand: "I've known you just a week or two but baby I'm so into you I can hardly breathe..."

Look at this: a woman would KNOW how long she has known a man she can "hardly breathe" about. I determined that a man wrote that section.

Here is another lyric that I can not stand (and this is just BAD lyrics): "I never knew I could feel like this, can't hardly wait till our next kiss, you're so cool."

Oh please!!!! I thought for a little while without thinking that "cool" must have to rhyme with something because it is such a horrid line. But no, there is no real reason to put "you're so cool" in the lyric. None whatsoever. I think four people wrote this song (two men and two women) and they all had to agree that that stupid line sounded good. Come on! Wake up!

To help things out a little, the band sounds great playing this song. I think that is the only reason I am willing to continue. I have been tempted to just say gibberish instead of "you're so cool" but I realized that no one is going to notice my saying it anyway so who cares.

I think I must have a problem with particular words. Singing them and saying them. We are going to play "Moon River," which I love, but I hate how the lyric at the end says, "Huckleberry Friend." It is so cheesy and corny. I can't stand it. Morrissey (who made a recording of the song) knew well and just repeated the "just around the bend" line instead. He knew it was corny but maybe that is just because he is a depressing sort of fellow and I am probably a depressing sort of gal.

My guitarist, Ken, laughed and laughed when he heard I would not sing "Huckleberry Friend." He said my logic made no sense. I would easily sing "vegamite sandwich" in "Land Down Under" but would not sing that. My logic is correct I think. One is corny and hokey and one is funny. "You're so cool" is just stupid.

Good Riddance

So we are in the car this evening picking up a pizza from a local joint. We drive back into the Battlefield where we live and I start talking about it with the kids.

"Lots of people have died in this battlefield where we live," I say to the kids.

"Like how many?" the one who eats erasers asks.

"Oh, probably thousands, hundreds, probably," I say, not really knowing how many.

"Are there skeletons in the battlefield?" the one who eats erasers asks again.

"Oh, maybe if you dig," I say.

"Wow! I love Virginia!" he says.

"Why?" I ask.

"Because I have never seen a skeleton and I so want to see one," he shouts out, "Have you ever seen a real skeleton, Mom?"

"Actually, I have," I say.

"Wow! Where did you see it?"

"In school. Some people, when they die, donate their bones to schools and stuff so people can learn from them."

"When I die, I want you to throw my bones in the forest," he says. "Actually, I want you to bury me."

"I don't want to bury you," I say, "I want you to bury me."

"Why, Mom?"

"Because I want you to live much longer than me," I say.

"Will I probably have to bury you?" he asks.

"Oh yeah, but not in a long time," I reassure him.

"Mom, I can't stand to think of you dying ever. I swear that if you ever die, I will cry so hard I will fill the whole house with tears! You can't die! I will be so sad! I will NEVER get over it!" he wails.

"I'll probably get over it," my oldest son, who has been quiet all this time, says.

Friends and Nick Nolte

My daughter found a friend next door. She is called "Kiwi" by her family. She is a sweet, calm little girl. She is over right now because her mom is so sick with a sinus infection that she is fatigued enough to allow the Code Yellow Lady to watch over her daughter. Some people just have no idea! Ha ha.

I just never realized that my daughter was so ridiculously bossy. I have never seen her play any role except the role of the "follower" but I am amazed at this new bossy nature. She is not mean, she just has this independence and makes the decisions if she sees that they are not going to get made. I guess she gets tired of the fact that her mom has decision phobia.

Apparently Kiwi thinks that my daughter is the cat's meow though. When she knew that my daughter had begged at the door for her, her mother noted that Kiwi got dressed faster than she has ever seen her get dressed. The sad thing is that Kiwi has had no friends for a long time (all four of her years?) and she would just play with imaginary friends outside. That sounds like my daughter.

Now they have found each other.

I ran on my new treadmill last night. It about killed me. I was somewhat dehydrated, fatigued already, and I hadn't ran in over a week. I pushed myself to run a number of miles and then I couldn't keep up anymore.

Have you ever seen the pictures of Nick Nolte when he got arrested for drug possession or something of that nature? Whenever Dear Sir and I see someone with hair sticking straight out like a maniac (like one of our kids) we say, "Hey, you look like Nick Nolte!"

Dear Sir did it. He called me Nick Nolte.

Moved II

Ok. I have been feeling really guilty lately. I realized last night that I feel bad for having such a nice house! I mean, it is not a mansion, but it is totally what I would have wanted in a house. If any of you know me at all, you must know that I do not like big houses; I am a pretty simple person. I have always said that my dream house would be a small, low-ceiling English cottage with a stone floor. This house is not that, but very satisfactory, I must say. God has truly blessed us. I have a reminder to thank Him every day that I have been showered with such blessing (not that I did not before---but it is always good to have reminders because of our tendency to forget---at least my tendency!).

I feel bad for my kids a little too. I have been on the phone with utilities, constantly in need of their quiet, and busy, busy, busy. I realized yesterday when I was gone from home that I had not hugged one of them all day! I had hoped and hoped on my way home that I would not crash and die and they would have no memory of me loving them. I know, I am morbid.

I don't think my youngest son has had a bath in about over a week. He still smells ok though. I guess I need to get that done today. I am going to take them to the pool today.

The guy came over yesterday to hook up the broadband, so we are back in email mode again. The pc was down with no internet before, so that is why I have not written in a little bit. The guy that hooked us up acted like a doctor. You know how they act---they will not commit to any definite thing, they sort of say, "yeah, yeah," and flutter on the surface of a conversation rather than directly in it. I know I must sound insane. For a split second I was going to tell him to look into the medical field and then I realized that he would think I was nuts. He looked like an overweight Paul McCartney, it was weird. He would say he wanted a cable hook up and I would say, "Uh, I think on is over here."
"Yes, there sure is!"

"Well, I can pull this bookshelf out so you can get to it."

"Sure, while you are busy doing that I will go ahead and get things going outside," he sort of mumbled this like he was about to look at an X-ray or something.

He came inside to tell me everything was "as it should be" and then he started sentences off with, "What typically happens," and said "yes, yes" and "sure" in between stuff. He gave the kind of answers that did not really help. He is sort of with you and sort of not. Like a doctor. When he left you wondered what he really wanted you to do and left you a bit puzzled. You also felt like you paid him for nothing---like he didn't tell you anything you didn't already know.

I did what the guy told me to do---called the cable place to get offcially hooked up. The cable place said to me, "You mean he didn't get you going enough to get on the internet?!"

It reminded me of when the doctor would give me a prescription but no refills.

Moved

I have not written in a bit because I just moved. The people that we bought the house from left a fish for us (a fat gold one) and we named him Hemingway ("Scooby" is a detestable name). My daughter keeps calling him "Swimmingway" on accident.

I have a slew of boxes and a birthday to celebrate (my daughter's).

It is all a Hello Kitty and Barbie explosion.

I love my house.

I had a talk with Dear Sir. He told me to never blog about blogging and not blogging. He said that this is a rule he has. I never knew this rule, so I will blog about how I should never blog about blogging and not blogging.

All is absolved.

Now that we got that little thing out of the way, I am moving in three days. Dear Sir is home for the week (yes!) and he even says that this week should be fun.

I woke up this morning before seven and ran six miles. I read somewhere that if you drink right before you run, your body is working so much that the fluid never reaches the kidneys, but turns directly into sweat. I tried it because I half way did not believe it. Well what do ya know, I was a sweating machine. It even got in my eyes. I ran for an hour and didn't even have to use the bathroom when I got home. Weird, huh? It's like magic or something.

Well, since I have most things packed I think I will read for a bit.

Cherri-o.

Mayhem II

There is not much to report, really. I have been a frantic, short-fused mess lately. We have been schooling so we won't be bored, you know? I ironed yesterday, for crying out loud. Why are we so bored? I packed everything. Yep, I did, just about.

We have been trying to empty out the fridge, like I have said before, and so the kids are eating a mixture of cereal and pop tarts for breakfast (oh great, sugar high. I forgot about that) and I am eating oatmeal because I don't want them to cry and cry all morning because I gave THEM "horrid" oatmeal. That is changing when I have more patience and things are a little settled. I know you laugh.

I have pretty much no patience these days. I feel bad. I keep praying that the Spirit will just take over my body and my brain, but I see more and more that I have to make some sort of effort. It is just plain sad. I woke up this morning to snapping again--a snap here, a snap there and I didn't even address it. That is some progress, eh? No, usually I just tune the stuff out and if they are in my FACE, I don't take it. Ok, I am analyzing things way too much right now. All I really see when I open my eyes is cardboard and packing tape. Black permanent marker. "Kitchen Items" "J's Books" "National Geographics" "Glasses" "Kids books"

AHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It looks like all we do is drink, eat and read.

You know, I was talking to a friend runner and he told me that he runs as well (as he is tempted) to pay a sort of penance--to bring his body in submission. I torture myself with it. I love it. The sad thing is that I should run double the time that I do to pay for the amount of patience I lose! Ha ha. I know I am turning Scarlet Letter on you, but I do feel bad.

Yesterday my daughter approached me while I was on the phone talking to the real estate agent. She was covered in orange marker and she said, "Mom, look at me!"

That is how bored they are. Did I mention that if I suggest taking a walk my oldest is back to that old trick of saying that he is too frightened of the bugs to go out. It is getting too ridiculous if I make him. On Monday I just made him stay home while I took the little ones out. I am too physically fit, so I push the kids to walk two miles in order to get to the park, and they are weary and whinning and wimpering, dying for water by the time we get there and I realize that the whole thing is not worth it. "My legs!" "I am going to faint" "I need a drink so bad!"

Thankfully I brought water, eh?

Dear Sir approached me at the dinner table last night and said, "You don't tell me certain things about your day ever. The kids told me the other night when you were out that when you get mad you swerve the car."

"Uh. No, I don't."

"Yeah, that is what they said. You're crazy."

"Well, actually, when I have had enough from them, I slam on the breaks to get their attention."

"That's not good, Rach."

"Works for me."

Yeah, it is perfectly healthy for a mother to slam on the breaks to get her kids' attention. "Do you want to crash and die?" I say. They shake their heads no. They are really quiet and they stop screaming at each other then.


Yesterday afternoon an agent came with some guys that looked like they just came shipped straight off the Microsoft boat to look at the house. I know, I thought I was done with this. The last people that were to contract pulled out. Whatever. So, here I am at every agent's disposal again for the weekend. I was supposed to be out by the time they came, but of course I was not. We were on our way to the library and we were looking for the optical illusions book. My oldest was yelling through the house in a weird way saying that he couldn't find his shoes. It sounded insane. These people were looking through the house at the time.

"I'm sorry it sounds like an asylum in here," I say.

"Oh, that's ok. We like the house. Lots of space."

"What, you have one MORE kid?" the overweight agent woman asks me. She looks around like they are corraling her.

"Oh yeah. I have three. You get REAL thin after awhile," I said. Ouch. I forgot she was overweight.

"Well, maybe I should have a kid!" she said.

Ouch, ouch, ouch.

Blew that one.

No one reads. No one writes.



All of you, if you are out there---I am tired of looking at your blogs with the same old entries on top.



And I shout this from the rooftops of blogdom.


I've had it.

The Last Few Books

Here are the stories, novellas, novels, that I have read of late:

1. The Haunted Hotel by Wilkie Collins

2. The Guilty River by Wilkie Collins

3. The Awakening by Kate Chopin


and I am currently reading The Magician by W. Somerset Maugham.


I am a bit frazzled lately because we are moving in eight days. It is not even eight days anymore. More like seven and a half. I am a little freaked. I have tons of packing done so we are eating odd things to clear out the frige and of course we are eating on plastic plates and drinking out of plastic cups. I am also teaching school while this is going on because there is absolutely NOTHING to do. I am a planner, actually, so I have packed everything except a few games and some toys. The kids are just having complete cabin fever. The house actually echoes.

Dear Sir has a lot of workload at his company so it looks like he is going to be gone a lot this week, which is fine. There is not much to do around here anyway!

My youngest son is currently wandering around the house wailing. I think he can't find a precious notebook or magazine. I don't think I packed it. No, I didn't.

I didn't think I packed the clippers either though when Dear Sir was looking for them. I could go insane hearing this kid wail on and on. It is tweaking my nerves, seriously. We will all suffer the wailing and long fingernails on account of the move. Ok, I better go. It just keeps getting worse. Can't go on...I'm...break..ing....up....

The Evil of Mispronunciation

My oldest always pronounces words wrong. Lots of times when he is reading a particular word out loud he just pronounces the beginning sound and slurs all the other letters together until he gets to the end sound. It is like he ignores the whole middle of the word.

He looked at a Nestle product. He said, "NESS-TULL." (I can almost understand that)

He is studying Rome. "Merk Anondy," he would say (Marc Antony).

He would pronounce "oasis" as "o-ASS-iss."

He does all this so much and it is so common that I just can't even think about it, I am so used to it. Finally, in the car the other day, my youngest son (who is seven) confessed to me that he could not stand it anymore.

"Mom," he said, "I am getting all messed up because T-- keeps saying words wrong. Like when he says 'LAY-TIN' instead of 'Latin', he makes me think of Satan!"

Writer Epidemic---Badness and Weirdness

Miriam, a friend of mine, recommended a book to me called The Painted Veil by W. Somerset Maugham. I thoroughly enjoyed it. So, naturally, on library day I went to get another of his books (one that was short and interesting). I chose The Magician. Apparently this magician is set to be the type that is into some sort of evil, black magic (or magick). I read in the forward by Maugham himself that the book is slightly based on Aleister Crowley, whom he met while in France. He did not like him and did not maintain much of a relationship with him at all. But, this information got me interested. I looked up Mr. Crowley (I knew little of him, but I knew that he was a Satanist or Occultist). What a freak. Apparently he wrote many books, could write identical to Robert Browning and was a sort of a minor poet.

Then I looked up Mr. Maugham. I noticed that in his small biographies that they never state if he was married or not. He was not. He was gay. Let's add him to the list with Oscar Wilde (The Importance of Being Earnest, The Picture of Dorian Gray), Willa Cather (O Pioneers!, My Antonnia), and others.

Here are some unhonorable home-breakers and live-in lovers, among them: George Eliot (Middlemarch, Silas Marner), Wilkie Collins (The Woman in White, The Moonstone), Charles Dickens (David Copperfield, Tale of Two Cities), D. H. Lawrence (Lady Chatterly's Lover, Sons and Lovers), Alexandre Dumas (The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo), F. Scott Fitzgerald (This Side of Paradise, The Great Gatsby), Dostoyevsky (who I regret to even record--), and the list goes on and on.

Let's see---Henry James was weird, did not socialize and never married. Jane Austen, The Brontes and their seclusions---Hemmingway.

What is wrong here?

At least Thomas Hardy was supposedly faithful to his wives (the first one died). Elizabeth Gaskell was ok--so was Harriet Beecher Stowe. Can you see this bothers me?

What is up with writers? Are they so creative and ridiculous that they have to do ridiculous things?

I realize that I have blogged about this. More proof that his bugs me.

Story by T

My two sons have been writing stories lately about Neopets. I thought I would share with you part of my oldest son's story. I thought it was a riot. Of course, I will edit it some as I go so that all the spelling mistakes will not show:

'A Triple Helping of Clues

Chapter One

Gee had called me again. Just me, Meewa. When I went inside, he came over and said, "A Neopian is robbing so much banks, he's just too famous to be ignored!" When I walked out for the case, I saw two eyes peeking at me and then they disappeared. I ran after him. He gave me the slip and ran off but I found a clue: a torn cloth, a letter, and a hair. First, I looked at the envelope. It ran:

"Phantom,

Get to the base immediately. The base is not the ordinary base. This base is at Nooble Mark Restaurant.

Love,

Unknown"

Before I read the note, the letter was open. He must have read it---or was it a trap? I went to business. I looked at the cloth. Maybe if I saw the cloth I could find out if it was him. Finally I looked at the hair. A kacheek one. No help, but I know what Neopet it was!

Now! For the Restaurant! '


I like especially how Meewa "got the slip" and I love how when he found the note "it ran:"
It is especially funny that an unknown person who wrote the note ended his note with "Love". When he was reading it to me last night with great animation, he had me laughing. For some reason my son thinks that if I put it on here he will be famous.

Did I ever tell you guys that he loves to read Sherlock Holmes? He is finishing off Doyle's Complete Works right now. It shows!

Mac and Cheese Thump

Awhile back ago I was at Target with the kids. My oldest was looking around in the electronics department and my two younger (the boy and the girl) were with me looking for various things. I remember I had promised my daugter something if it was there---I think Neopet cards or something. I told her I would buy her the cards if they had them in stock. They didn't. So, naturally, my daughter was lamenting the cards behind me as we were walking along, aisle by aisle and pretty soon she could not contain herself anymore and she started just bawling. I remember standing there, looking at her, and being quite embarrassed. I thought for a minute. Finally I stooped down and said to her in a calm, gentle voice, "Now, E---, you have a bad attitude. You need to have self-control. I know you wanted that thing, but you can not have it now because it is not here," etc. etc. Finally she calmed down after a few more promptings of the same effect and she could control herself. As I was walking off with them to another aisle, a lady stopped me out of the blue. I think she almost touched me.
"Excuse me. I just wanted to tell you that you are a great mother---"

"Thank you," I said. For some reason that was the best compliment I could ever receive. Not because she told me I was a great mother, but because she was a complete stranger and I was not especially trying to behave myself. I think about that when days like today come along...

I was just at my favorite store, Trader Joe's, and I could about cry. My oldest was so set on being on his best behaviour, I let him take charge of the grocery list. We were going down the aisle where the mac and cheese was and I prompted him to get a pack or two. I turned around to grab something else while he went and by the time I turned my head again, there was my oldest dropping two boxes into the cart. "Done!" he said.

Then I heard this woman's voice. "Ma'am! Ma'am!" I turned around thinking perhaps she was talking to me (there were other people in the aisle too) and thinking that I must have dropped something. Then I saw her face. She looked like she was going to kill me. She was pushing a cart with a little girl in it. Now, when people do this sort of thing and I am the recipient, usually I am pretty even keel inside. "Excuse me, but your boy there hit my daughter on the head!" She was shouting at me.

I knew immediately what happened. Let me tell you what I thought at that moment before I looked at my son. Her little girl was cute, I noticed that. ---And that is what sent my oldest son over the edge. Whenever he sees a cute little baby (2 and younger) he just can't control himself very well. He tickles them, pets them, and rubs them either on the top of the head, the belly, or the arm or leg. I thought, this lady just thought it odd that he pat her daughter on the head---she interpreted it as vicious or something.

So I said, "Hit?"

The lady said, "Yes, hit. He bopped her on the top of the head with that box!" She pointed to the box of mac and cheese in my cart.

I looked at my son. He said, "I did not hit her." I kept looking at him. I felt really embarrassed.

"Oh, yes he did!" She yelled.
This lady just stood there looking at me like she wanted me to pay her money for her trouble. Her lips were all screwed up and her eyes were about to pop out of her head. She had her hands on her hips. I could picture steam coming out of her ears, she was that angry.

"What are you thinking?" I said to my son.

"I'm gonna die," my son said.

I did not think this woman would listen to me if I tried to explain that my son is autistic, that he does not know how to socialize properly and show manners. He does not know what is appropriate all the time. I did not think that it would be appropriate for me to tell her that he is autistic and that his affection for her daughter was shown by his "bopping" her on the head. The girl was not hurt. When it happened I did not hear her cry, I did not hear one sound. I don't know, maybe I am being ridiculous. I felt that this woman was over reacting.

I did not know what to do. Being indecisive already, I saw that my oldest did not think he was doing anything wrong (since he was showing affection) and plus, I would have to stand in the store for half an hour just explaining to him that people don't like that. I did not know how to get him to apologize---I felt like I would have been taking the lady's time and plus, I had three kids to deal with while this was going on---I just wanted to spontaneously combust into thin air. I stared at my son to show him I was embarrassed and angry at him.

I turned to the lady, who was waiting for me to respond, hands on hips. I owed her something. I felt bad, but the only thing I could offer her was "I'm sorry", and that is exactly what I said.

She sort of shifted a little bit, took her hands off her hips, put them on her cart, and said, "Well, okay." She sort of sleepily turned her eyes to the direction of her now-turning-around-cart and walked off.

Look. I already think that people must think I am crazy with all the kids with me. I am constantly telling them to stand still, be quiet, get off the cart, etc. But after this lady treated me like that, I felt such incredible shame, I can't describe it. I was mad at my oldest for doing that in the first place. But I just felt like I could not even let my son do one little task for me without something going wrong. I wanted to disappear. I felt like the whole store heard it. It was like she was purposely trying to embarrass me in front of everyone around. She was making a scene. She could have done it quietly, is what I think now.

I then resolved that I did not want anymore things to happen so I told my oldest to wait in the car. That is what he did. When we got to the car to put the groceries in I sat at the wheel and cried for a second. Maybe that sounds stupid. Yeah, maybe. But that is what I did.

"Let's face it Mom, you can't take me anywhere," my oldest said.

"You're poor," my daughter said. ("poor" means"sad and worthy of sympathy" to her at all times.)

I thought about the situation for a second. Did she think my son was degrading her and her daughter because she was black? I didn't even think about her being black. Maybe that does not matter in her estimation of the situation or maybe she thought I was some stupid white lady who taught her children to hit black girls on the head with macaroni and cheese boxes.

I asked my son what he hit the girl on the head for. He said she was cute and he was just "petting" her with the box. Of course, I told him what to do, what not to do, and everything else if that situation arises again where he sees a cute little girl or boy. I told him what was appropriate and not. I told him that people see things like what he did as a threat.

I had one more store to go to right down the road from our house so I just dropped my son off at home because he asked me to. I thought it was a good idea for both of us.

Now, what should I have said to that lady? Once my oldest went to the car, should I have tracked her down and explained to her what really happened, or do you think it was useless---that she would not even take that as an explanation and here I would be exposing myself to more turmoil by her anger? When I got in the line to pay I looked over and she was in another line. Her face was upturned slightly in indignation, like she wasn't going to take crap from anyone. Her mouth was set and her manner seemed very defensive. I was sort of glad I did not approach her again. She looked ready to bite.

Give me advice. I will take it. I am really really (still) despondent about this.

"Acidophilus---I believe in it."

There you have a quote from Dear Sir. I say this whole thing because last night my youngest son (he is seven) came into our room and said, "I think I have to barf!" It was 2 a.m. I got up and took him into our bathroom and he proceeded to hug the toilet, whimpering and the like. I had never seen him suffer so much with throwing up. He usually is a real trooper about it. He is the one who could puke in a thimble. I left him for a bit, got the sleeping bag, pillow, barf bucket, acidophilus, pepto, bottle of water, and a cup. By the time I got to him again he had not puked yet. I gave him a pill and then he threw that up. He threw up a lot of yucky stuff. Ok, let's not talk about that.

Once he was finished I gave him another acidophilus pill and a pepto pill. He then slept soundly in the sleeping bag at the foot of the bed. It took me forever to fall back asleep again. I prayed that God would work a miracle and prevent anyone from getting sick and also to heal my poor little boy.

He did not wake up again until morning! Of course, the rest is history and God's miracle in a pill worked again. Dear Sir asked me in an email today if the boy has been eating erasers again. For some reason he thinks that that would make him puke. Ok, maybe he knows more than me, but I just don't think that is possible. This is a constant argument with us--this subject--much like stressing the need to stretch before and after a run.

I don't know. I just give him the pill and it works. You should try it. Let me know how it goes.

Another List of Books

I remembered a few books that I love.

1. The Idiot by Dostoyevsky (This book is rich with symbolism--think Holy Saturday--and worth your read if you like figuring things out)

2. The Blue Castle by L.M. Montgomery (a good friend recommended this book and I really enjoyed it.)

3. Peace Like a River by Leif Engler (if I have to go modern on you---this is so great, I was literally breathless at the last page. I think that is a good description because the book is about an asthmatic boy.)

4. The Samauri's Garden by Gail Tsukyama (I can't really remember how to spell the author's last name and I am not looking it up. It is a great book--a young man is sick and goes to the beach house to get well and gets involved with the life of the house sitter. This book is very poetic.)

5. Anything by Dostoyevsky (mainly The Brothers Karamazov and Crime and Punishment)

6. Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell (I know, Rhett. I just loved this book. It made me love the South.)

7. The Good Earth by Pearl Buck (Pavillion of Women is good too)

8. Life of Pi by Yann Martel (I figured this whole thing out. It makes you feel sick at the end but I have your remedy. Just talk to me when you finish it and you will be right as rain.)

9. Lilith by George Mac Donald (I again, have my own thoughts on this book---I should read it again to refresh my memory. I remember thinking it was great and then my bookclubbers hated it because I fear they thought it made no sense.)

10. Dracula by Bram Stoker (I loved The Historian, too by Elizabeth Kostova)

11. A Daughter of the Land by Gene Stratton-Porter

12. Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset

13. The Lord of the Rings by Tolkein

14. Villette by Charlotte Bronte

15. East of Eden by Steinbeck (I also loved Cannery Row---it was hilarious)

16. Les Miserables by Hugo

17. Jacob Have I Loved by Katherine Patterson (This book is more adult than youth)

18. I love Francine Rivers. Don't judge me. She is a really good writer (in a romance novelist way---she used to be one, actually) and she writes Christian fiction. She is actually the very first Christian writer that I have found worthwhile and is she ever. You have to read her Mark of the Lion trilogy about Rome. It is amazing. She did a lot of research and her story is really incredible. I was pretty much glued to the couch for days. I would say the first two are the best---the third is a stretch.

Happy Reading!

Good Ol' Grant Lee

If you consider yourselves friends of mine and you can access this, please watch and listen. This is one of my favorite singer/songwriters. He is awesome. "Killing a Dead Man".

Snapping Shame

So I went to Starbucks with my son this morning for a coffee. In fact, before that we were at the grocery store to get some water because last night the faucets were spraying out amber liquid. It makes my stomach hurt to think about it, so let's just not talk too much concerning that. All I know is that I was lying down on the bed and Dear Sir was brushing his teeth. He always leaves the water running. The Californian in me always comes out but I supress it. He even teaches the kids to do this. They are very confused because I usually tell them that they should turn off the water when they brush. My reasons make more sense, but oh well. I have confused kids now. I tell you, you must get everything squared away before you have kids. Even when it comes to drinking in water fountains or not. I have learned the hard way.

Ok, so I was at Starbucks with my oldest. We were in line, a monstrous line, and my son was snapping to the jazzy music. Just ahead of us my band's guitarist was buying coffee with his son Charles who is about my son's age. My son and Charles have played a couple of times, but I am not sure what Charles thinks of him. He is a funny kid. He is quiet and has quite a dry sense of humor. I actually love it and find it refreshing. My son says (when Charles passes by), "Hey!" snapping away. Charles looks at him: "Hey," he says. He walks off and gets his fluffy strawberry blended creme from the coffee bar.

Later in the car I talk to my son. "Do you and Charles get along much?" I ask him.

He sips his vanilla drink for a minute. "He's okay. He probably thinks I am crazy."

"Why is that?" I ask.

"He saw me snapping to the music."

"Oh," I say.

Your Favorite Books, Please! Keep Them Coming..

I am really enjoying the book recommendations. I can not wait to get to reading. I need to cut back on running anyway. I am literally getting way too much exercise. Dear Sir keeps saying, "You're going to go running AGAIN!?" I think he is sick of it. He keeps saying that I will end up with a muscular face like Madonna. I really, really don't want that. That is my fear.

I thought that I would post a few of my favorites here:

1. Anything by Thomas Hardy. Namely, The Return of the Native. I highly recommend A Group of Noble Dames if you want a sort of semi-tragic but also kick in the pants comedic read. I loved every page of it.

2. Anything by Wilkie Collins. Namely, The Woman in White and Armadale. I still have yet to read The Moonstone (one of his most famous) because I saw a Wishbone (a pbs kids show with a stupid white dog) that totally gave the whole plot away. I had no idea at the time and now when I think of The Moonstone I think Wishbone. What folly. Collins was one of the very first sensationalists--and if you like mystery it is all there.

3. Till We Have Faces by Lewis

4. Wives and Daughters by Gaskell (this book is so awesome)

5. The Count of Monte Cristo by Dumas

6. Our Mutual Friend by Dickens (the Masterpiece Theatre movie on this is superb!)

7. I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith

8. War and Peace by Tolstoy (I know the size is a little scary, but it is really a good book)

9. The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco (I just love monks)

10. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

I will finish this later!

Your Input Here

Hey. I wanted you guys to add to my "must read" list. It is not like I don't have enough books to read already, but I really really love to have a list of books to start from (besides my own). And you have to do it because I will be shamed by the number of "no comments" and I will really know how many people really read my blog---NONE.

But that is ok. It's not like my life is that interesting. It is pretty much the same stuff: poop, kids, the fact that I am getting old, plungers, Dear Sir, and you know the rest if you don't skim this thing.

So---

I have a lot of Wilkie Collins on my list. To name a few: 1. Basil 2. The Haunted Hotel
I also have a date to actually read the Chronicles of Narnia. I am one of the very few people that has only read The Silver Chair and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I know, I am pathetic. I was too busy reading Judy Blume or something. Freckles, Superfudge, Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. What was I thinking?

Keep in mind that I love classics but I am open. And I am mostly talking fiction unless you think something else would really benefit me. I know, I keep getting pickier. My comments are already slimming down before this thing is posted. Oh well.

Phillips or Dulcolax?

My daughter (who is almost five) has to take Milk of Magnesia (4tsp) every night. She hates it. It really does not matter what flavor it is, she hates them all. She is so used to taking it that she just chugs it down like a cowboy would chug a shot of whiskey. Dear Sir feels bad for her, but in a way, I don't. She is the one who retains her excrement so it is pretty much her fault. We wouldn't have to have her take the stuff to soften her up if she would just get used to the fact that sometimes it doesn't feel too great coming out. That's life. Besides, it's doctor's orders.

So we are at the store a little bit ago, trying to choose which milk of magnesia flavor to buy. I say, "Hey, E---, which flavor: cherry, or mint?"
She looks at them and says, "None."

So we chose mint.