Visiting the Workforce

Mr. President will be at Dear Sir's work tomorrow. I told him to tell him "hi" for me. He doubts he will see him though. Bush has been a traffic issue for our family two times now. I hope he isn't again tomorrow. First we got in a jam going past Dulles Airport (why was he not on Marine Corps One?---or whatever it is called) and then the next time we got stuck by the Pentagon on our way to the National Gallery of Art. On the way back there he was in the parking lot of the Pentagon saying some speech. He was up on a huge screen and people were everywhere. We see him a lot around here.

In that picture is Dirk Kempthorne---the Senator for Susie's neck of the woods. I don't miss that guy for some reason. Don't like his hair among other things.

I ran like a mad woman today to see if I could do it and I ran ten miles! My feet hurt, but that is it so far. I have not done that in about a year.

Among other news, Chess Club is tonight and my house is a disaster. I also painted all day yesterday. I went nuts and even painted a closet. I have lots of painting to do because people are going to come and visit me in the spring and my house has to be finished as far as paint goes. I can stand it no longer.

And I didn't watch the SuperBowl so there. I don't even know who was playing. I heard Colts but that is all I know. I made Dear Sir and the boys popcorn and then went to bed. Painting makes you tired.

I remembered just now---the Bears?

After I ran, I promised my daughter that I would play Memory with her. I lost miserably, so she gave me a few matches to make us even. I gave them back because I refused to be a bad sport.

And now I must make dinner, which I have no idea what that will be.

Have a good evening.

Kazoo Madness

The kids have been playing "band" lately. You know, Eraser Eater has the "Helmet Breakers" and the Oldest has the "Speeding Tickets". My daughter participates in this stuff too; she bangs on a pot or something in their room as they have a "jam" of sorts.

For some reason one of them has been asking me if kazoos were available because they thought it would give them the quality of sound like no other. And they are cheap, accessible. So, being the dope that I can tend to be, I took them to a party supply store (that happens to be near the grocery store I go to) and bought a pack of cheap kazoos. Big mistake. I mean, my friend, when I told her this story said, "Did you not know as you had the stupid things in hand, that you were about to make the conscious choice to get annoyed and lose your mind?!"

Yes, I did know what I was doing. I figured that they would continue the band thing upstairs, room door closed, with just a little more added pep because of the kazoos. Nothing more. I did not dream of the Oldest kazooing it out during Latin chants at school (he would just pull one from some pocket on his clothing and go to town), or the Oldest running by people and yelping a kazoo blast in someone's ear. That always puts me in such a good mood in the morning. But for the most part, I knew I was in trouble when, on the way home in the car, all three of them pulled out their kazoos and kazooed "The Imperial March" at the top of their vocal capacity. I sat at that red light, closed my eyes, and said to myself, "I deserve this."

*note for those who are Star Wars illiterate--the "Imperial March" is the song that Darth Vader always comes out to.

Periodic TV

Dear Sir, after watching a snippet of Glen Beck (who was obviously suffering from a terrible cold), climbed upstairs last night and handed me the remote. "You can watch what you want to, I think I need to go to bed."

I watched a little "Hogan Knows Best" and "What Not to Wear" and even, I might say, a little of the "Tyra Banks Show." Tyra set her show up Sally Jesse style and got the "party girls" to confess all on her stage and even allowed them to giggle and laugh about smashing in their faces or passing out because of intoxication and whatnot---- to then get a doctor to go up there and chew them out. How is that for a run-on sentence. She then got another doctor on there to show what partying does to your body's organs. And I have to say that everyone is making a big deal about how Tyra has gained some weight, but frankly, I think she looks fabulous with it. She looks perfect to me, I don't see what the big deal is.

I loved watching on "Hogan" how Brooke claims that her family has taught her morals and she poses on a male magazine so scantily clad that it makes me wince. Suddenly reminds me of Jessica Simpson.

"What Not to Wear" is always a cool show. I need Clinton and Stacey in my shopping life, but I am not bad enough with clothing choices for that madness. There are way too many people out there that look way worse than me and that show proves it. Yikes.
I could stand some hair changes, but don't know what that should look like.

Well, Dear Sir is wanting to go somewhere and I am not even out of my pjs yet so I am holding everybody up.

Have a good weekend.

Rubbish

Today I pretty much talked on the phone all day. I feel bad, in addition to grossing all my "blogger" friends out. I am base, very base.

But---on the bright side---as I was making dinner with the daughter, she told me freely that I am her "inspiration" and said, "I will only tell you where I got that from if you let me have a sip of your wine." Like mother like daughter.

I forgot to tell Susie that I don't watch movies when I iron because I can't watch two things at once. I am a sad sort of multi-tasker. I would burn a shirt or burn myself. So I talk on the phone. That works well for me. Can you tell I really lack friends? I bother all my friends in Idaho or elsewhere with my phone calls. Lately I have been bothering Americanspark, who then tells me I am crazy for ironing shirts and not getting them professionally done---she does---and she also gives the cleaners so much work apparently they give her a large tin of danish cookies for Christmas?! That's kind of a good deal. I always feel like I am putting them all out. All around here the cleaners are all Asian and they don't really speak English very well. There is always a stern man who mans the cash register and a jovial lady who just nods her head like she knows what you are talking about with a needle, thread, and a pair of pants in her hands. I try to be so thankful when I drop a pair of pants off to get hemmed (I don't do that well either).
"Oh, thank you, thank you," I will say.

Then they say something like, "Ya!!!" really loud with no smile, or they just nod a head with a grimace. I always feel like I am intruding. I think even once a hand was waved in the air as if to say, "get out already, weird lady." I can tell they don't understand what I am saying. I will tell you though, it is the best place to go because no one can hem pants like they do at my cleaners.

The potty training deal at night is not working out so well. Since I have lacked sleep it is messing with my head so therefore I decided to wait until the girl is six and then I will get her an alarm. Can you imagine sleeping so soundly with a full bladder and then some horrendous alarm sounds and scares the crud out of you in the middle of the night? I don't look forward to that. I have done a little tad of research and apparently the alarm is loud enough to wake a parent. Lovely. I hope it would take care of the whole thing in a jiffy. I don't do well with little sleep. In fact, I become an animal. Even my children would NEVER wake me in the morning because of what would happen if I were to be stirred awake unnaturally.

I used to tell Dear Sir back in the day when we were dating that I ran "well on little sleep". What a lie. Maybe then I did because I ate little to nothing because I was infatuated and nervous and survived on nerves. It is interesting what you will do and say when you are in the first stages of love.

Apologies

Sorry for grossing you all out. I just wrote and posted! Ha ha!

I promise I will write something a little less disgusting next time. Imagine how I felt all day!

Bad Breathicon

For those of you who think that Apple isn't so cool, I can take pictures of my own self sitting at the computer without a camera phone. It's pretty cool. Not that I want to all the time...I am a little bored but have lots to do. Gee whiz.

School got promplty flushed down the toilet today when the Oldest complained of a sore throat and sneezing up celery-looking mucus. I could have done without that. I have barely eaten today on account of it. Puke I can handle. Celery-looking snot? Nope. Not me. So, I had the nifty idea of taking a flashlight and looking down his sad little throat. There was a big white spot in the way back that alarmed me because it was pure white and gross looking, and then there was a cluster of little red spots on the roof of his mouth. I looked on the net at what strep looked like, and decided that I should call my nurse neighbor. The Oldest then told me simply that he "swallowed" that thing lodged in his throat (the white spot) and I felt a little queasy myself, if you ask me. I can't think about it. Why am I writing it? Ack. Anyway, I ended up taking him to the doctor and he does not have strep, but the doctor seems to think that it was probably food. Even grosser. I was glad though because I did not want to battle a sickness like strep with EVERYONE.

The Oldest is still sick. The doctor told me that food can get lodged in throats and it can stick up there for days causing bad breath. The Oldest always has bad breath. Bad Breathicon. That is what we call him sometimes, Dear Sir and I.

Which reminds me. I remember my sister would chew her cheeks and swallow the skin she bit off and it would all get stuck in her throat and the roof of her mouth. She would sit in the bathroom with tweezers, open her mouth wide, and manually pluck the skins all out. She would frequently gag and make strange noises during the process.

Writing just whatever is on the brain, don't mind me.

So, school is totally blown, I still don't know what is for dinner tonight, and clothes need to be ironed but I desperately hate ironing. I guess I will get my butt up there and do it once I stick my head in the freezer and pull out some meat.

Make sure you have a good remaining day, depending on when you scope out this page.

Alternately

Gee whiz. For some reason I have been out of it today. I had all these plans to get this errand run and that errand run, but I took one step inside my boys' room and almost had a meltdown. Well, I thought about weeping, yet again, but decided against it. I was actually too tired. I lost a few hours sleep last night for who knows what reason (maybe getting up at two each night to take the girl to the bathroom?) and now my brain hurts.

I sat in that boy madness and organized everything that I could. I threw a lot of stuff away. I tell ya, the Oldest has the purge thing down. Eraser Eater doesn't. It drives me nuts. I had to toss some papers that he could not remember drawing on while he looked "over there". I then took our old computer and table and planted it in their room. The Oldest was dying to get on the pc so he could play Empire Earth.

"Mom, can we wait to put the computer in my room until Dad gets home? I want to play the computer right now."

"Why?" I say.

"Because you won't know how to unplug it and plug it back in and I want to play before tonight!"

How shameful. My kid knows me that well? I decided to be tricky though, and succeeded. I was almost afraid for a split minute or two that I annihilated the pc (which I don't think Dear Sir would have minded---it's the Apple that matters to him) by trying to unplug the monitor from the tower, but then I just kept it all plugged in and had a train effect going to get it all up the stairs at the same time. The Oldest held the speakers and the mouse and keyboard, and I juggled the monitor and the tower alternately (I would move the monitor, set it down, move the tower, set it down, etc.) all the way up the stairs until I got to the boys' room without unplugging a thing (except the power strip)! I am a genius.

The sad thing is that I bet there was an easier way to do it, but I am a dim-wit. I never do things easy.

So then when I was finished I felt all weary and sick and so I had a fainting fit on the couch and watched Oprah and Judge Judy, alternately.

Dear Sir is going to have a treat when he gets home---a wife who has not changed from her pj's! Don't you love it?

Gotta serve dinner...

Oh, the kids are watching Arthur, and you know the theme song says, "believe in yourself." (which is one of my particular pet peeves) My daughter scoffed at the song when it was playing, and said, "Believe in yourself?! Believe in Jesus!"

She does have a point. I had a good spell of loving myself today too by allowing myself to watch Oprah.

Heist.

I feel like Ethel Mertz or something. You know Ethel. Lucy's best friend and neighbor? I am friends with my next door neighbor and she is a really nice woman. She has been working during the day lately and so she is gone when I am schooling the kids. She is the kind of neighbor who will call you up and say, "I am going into town, do you need anything?" She is totally thoughtful and sweet.

She is also friendly and sweet to the neighbors across the street. Apparently they are really struggling because the husband just went through surgery and he is on Social Security. They also have many other vices that have to do with substance abuse and whatnot, and therefore they are often out of moolah. So there the across-the-street-neighbor goes, to my neighbor's house, gets the key in the hidden place, and makes herself at home. ---While my neighbor is gone. She comes out with an armful of groceries and high-tails it to her house. No moolah for groceries because I just bought some weed, so I am going to go and pilfer from the nice neighbor who is single and is raising a little girl. Wonderful.

My neighbor has told me this much about the situation. She has told me that sometimes she will go and get ready to cook up the meat she just bought the other day and "waa-laa!" it is gone. Happens frequently, she says. She has actually confronted the across-the-street-neighbor, but to no avail. She gets a simple, "I thought you wouldn't mind!" or something like that. So, when she notices that her eggs and a few other things are snatched and she tells me about it, I will suggest she just give me a house key or hide it somewhere else. What is with these people? Makes me mad.

Denim

I hate buying jeans because everyone has longer legs than me and when I go shopping I am constantly reminded. I have short legs and a normal sized torso. My dear friend L. said that I must be German but I am not (that I know of). Supposedly I am British and Welsh. And I have never had a crumpet, so there. Here is a site that quizzes you on how to find the perfect pair of jeans for your body and particular style. Give it a try, you ladies who hate shopping for jeans. And umm, if you wear jeans that go to your belly button or over, please do this quiz especially and buy some new ones. For me. For the world. For your own husband.

Which reminds me---almost a year ago I was driving down a one lane highway with a kid in the car with me. He was talking to me, I was distracted, and there was some traffic. I saw a young lady on the side of the road putting up a real estate sign and I was drawn to her somehow. I couldn't place it for a second and then I realized that I was staring incredulously at her horrid jeans. They looked like they were straight from the late eighties. Acid washed, right at the belly button, and tapered. I really almost threw up in repulsion. And I almost crashed because I could not stop looking at her. To add insult to injury her shirt was mercilessly tucked in and I think she wore a belt. What was so weird was that her hair was up to date and she looked young and pretty! Now, I am not the fashion police or anything. I have a few doosies in my own wardrobe. I am constantly freaked out that I look terrible or something, so I try to buy clothes that don't go out of style.

I will admit that after I got dressed and ready for the evening after my long run today Dear Sir busted in the room and looked at what I was wearing. He said, "I thought you got rid of that thing years ago! Here I am, thinking that old, tight shirt is long gone and here you are wearing it!"

"But I have had it since the ninth grade!" I said with a smile.

He winced in horror and went on the computer. And I am still wearing the thing as I type. The photo above proves it. It is as old as the hills and it has known me longer than Dear Sir has. If some of you will rid yourselves of your ugly eighties jeans that you still wear (please throw away your tapered legged ones especially), I will rid myself of the ancient shirt that cost four bucks. Deal or no deal?

Bacon Press

I have been frying a lot of bacon the past couple of days. Last night I made a BL (with no T) for Dear Sir's dinner, and this morning I made some along with some sausage for breakfast. It got me thinking to my cleaning days with Merry Maids.

I remember cleaning this lady's house. I don't even know if I would even call this lady a "lady." She was more like a man. Well, there were two of them actually. They were rather large and Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum like. They looked like twins but they very well could have been lovers for all I know. They spoke in gruff voices and wore flannel shirts with thin denim jeans with belts. Any femininity they had was stripped from them therefore making them look "Pat" like, if you know what I mean. They were also very dirty women. I mean, their house was dirty. The bedroom was so filthy I remember we were not even allowed to go in it. I distinctly remember stuff poking out the bottom of the door, it was apparently so bad.

I had the sheer pleasure of cleaning the bathroom and I almost ralphed a few times. It was very very vile. I won't get into details. I also had the wondrous job of cleaning the kitchen and this is what brings me to the bacon part. They ate a lot of bacon. Not only did the kitchen smell like vats of bacon or bacon grease, it LOOKED like bacon was cooked in there continually. What vividly stands out in my mind is this fancy little bacon contraption they had. It was a huge iron that said "Bacon Press" on it. It was grimy, dirty, and greasy. It was just sick. I tried to think of why a person would want a bacon press. It was a big mess. Clean the thing, you know? Ack.

So when I was frying some bacon I thought about the bacon press and how one would use such a thing and it made me feel a little sick. If you guys use bacon presses, sorry, I just think there is something wrong with that.

Linkalicious

Dear Sir, who is also called Elysium, is sick of blogs. There is nothing new under the sun?

Angela gave me a heads up that Catherine Claire, a dear friend of mine, is challenging everyone.
Speaking of challenges, Emma has a good one over in her neck of the woods---something having to do with short hair on top and long hair on the bottom. Ack.

Rick thinks that no one will read his long post, but he should take a look at Susie because you know, she is the long post Queen.

Des is making art out of Virgin Marys and----continuing with art, Grant Lee is coming out with a new album and I will be sure to see him when he comes around in the spring.

Molly is officially on myspace, and I am not.

And Alicat's repairman opened a box of her Krispy Kremes and helped himself without asking.

"Author" is the Word

So Eraser Eater won second place in the bee for his grade. He was eighth over all (which he was bummed about) but I was proud of him. He lost to the word "author." The words were getting progressively harder and I had no idea that they would throw out words that were not on his grade level (I have never been a part of something like this before) so we were not totally prepared. They were making big huge deals out of "sounds" and "utterances" and it was getting annoying and high strung. "What did he say before the "g"? Did he say a k sound? Huh?" It's like they are trying to find the cure for cancer or something. Finally they decided that it was just a "sound" and his word was valid. Give me a break. He did a good job though. He was also a good sport and I am proud of him. He got the red ribbon instead of the blue one, but he is happy with that! We will definitely do it again next year!

Dear Sir came along with and took the day off from work, so pretty much since we got home he has been playing gameboy with the boys. The Hobbit and Robotech. I remember watching Robotech when I was a kid. I have no idea why I liked it; maybe there were some pretty girl cartoons on it. I can't remember it very well. Dear Sir still remembers a few things. He has a great memory about junk like that.

Girly wants me to play memory with her (ugh) so I better go. Yes, my children rule my home (just kidding). It is just that she is so cute. She just asked Dear Sir to "pause" his game so she could have a hug. All she wants to do all day long is hug.

Have a good night and get wonderful sleep.

Ramblings

I am a bit downtrodden, if that could be the proper way to explain my feelings this evening. I went to a Homeschool Mom's meeting tonight and I was hoping to find someone that would want to be my friend. I mean, the ladies there are nice and all, but no one has actually asked me for my information. I had to ask people kind of like I want to date them or something and the depressing part is, I don't know if I have it in me to pursue anyone. I want friends, gee do I want them (because you know, I just moved here half a year ago) but do I want to stick myself out there vulnerably? To me it is vulnerability. And, trust me, I don't talk like I write. I mean, I kind of do, but I always biff up something. I notice when the ladies I talk to give me that side long stare like, "get on with it---spit it out" or "what the heck is she saying?" I find that what I want to say does not always come out the way I wish to say it. Maybe I am just slow. I suffer from being slow. I guess. I don't know. I can't make small talk, I don't like talking all that much, and I just feel like I have made all my friends---I was successful at one point and now to start from scratch again? Gee whiz. I have forgotten how to do it.

And then I realize that a lot of what I tell people they could really care less about. Keep it short and simple, huh? No one wants to hear me go on about the wonders of Latin derivatives. Who gives a rip? But you know, having a Mom's meeting at night is a bad idea. I am tired by the time I drag myself in there. I may as well just sleep at the table while the other Moms are talking about various curriculum (curricula?) and when to take time off. I am talking about homeschooling on my time off and frankly, I would rather be sleeping. And now I am just rambling. If you, dear reader, have made it this far you have much patience.

Eraser Eater is participating in his first spelling bee tomorrow, wish him luck. He is set to win.

Sorry I am such a downer.

Apparently last night some kids lit the car across the street on fire after pouring gasoline all over it and the whole fire crew and the king's horses and the king's men were here and we didn't even hear it. I say last night and it was two thirty in the morning. Huh. My neck hurts though. Good night.

New Old Song

Here on my music site you can hear an old song called "So Forgiving." Give it a listen and tell me what you think. If you have not heard my stuff at all, check out the site; there are a good handful of songs to incline your ear to.

Numb

So it was seventy last Saturday and now today it is freezing and there is snow everywhere. The kids are elated. And freezing their butts off out there, running around with frozen extremities. I was feeling a little motivated this morning after my coffee and one mile on the treadmill and I took a long run outside. This is of course, before it started to snow. I had no idea that it would be so stinking cold out. I battled it anyway. I kept thinking that snot was running down my nose, but it was actually the fact that the insides of my nose were numb. I kept wiping anyway though. When I got home I was a frozen wreck. One would think that I would have had enough hot blood coarsing through me to make me warm but alas, I was frozen everywhere. My stomach was frozen, if you could believe it. My hands were red with some sort of icy non-movement---and my arms were ridiculously tingly and wrong feeling. I immediately got a mug and drank some hot water from the tap and it was so difficult to grip the cup.

I cleaned the house like a mad woman yesterday because it had been some days since I had done it and therefore I had a lack of things to do today. I just slept for two and a half hours and had weird dreams about birthdays and other types of madness. When I woke up I stupidly ate an icecream cone and then regretted it once the last bite was swallowed. It was good but it felt wrong because #1 I just ran a ton and it was really difficult because of the hills and the cold. #2 I was hungry for real food. Let's just admit this now and say that I ran for nothing. Nada. All that numb nose feeling for NOTHING. I blew it. I think the scale needs to take another trip to the shed.

Whenever Led Zeppelin pops up on my ipod (I like to run to 'Rock n Roll' especially) I have a new-found appreciation for Condi Rice. I saw some show on her a few months ago and she works out to Led Zeppelin too. Who knew. Even I have an issue sometimes with listening to "Whole Lotta Love." Makes me wince, actually. Wonder how she copes with that song. She's not even married.

If You Hold Up Your Two Fingers it Forms a "V"

Disclaimer: Pretty much all I know about Richard Nixon is the word Watergate, "I am not a crook," and he RESIGNED (which means he was not impeached). Oh, and he was the President of course.

The kids and I were eating dinner last night and The Oldest was putting up his two fingers (the index and the middle) at the end of every sentence. Finally Eraser Eater asks, "Why do you keep doing that?"

"It's cool. Richard Nixon does it," says the Oldest with a smile and yet another lift of the two fingers. "What does it mean?" he turns to ask me.

I swallow my chicken and look at the Oldest. I remember all the times as a kid assembled in the auditorium at school and the Principal shushing with one hand and holding up her two fingers with the other in the air to encourage us to quiet down. "Peace," I say.

"Oh yes," says the Oldest. "'Peace and the spread of the gospel in Chechnya.'"

I almost spit out my food laughing so hard.

"What? Was that funny, Mom? You think I don't listen to the prayers at church?" And he gives me a wink.

He and I both know that this is the exact prayer that Dear Sir prays during the "prayers of the people" nearly every Sunday.

At this point Dear Sir is about to walk in the door from work and the Oldest looks at me. "Should I tell him what's so funny?"

"Nope," I say.


FAST FORWARD TO DEAR SIR AND I SITTING ON BED READING WHILE EVERYONE ELSE IS DOWN FOR THE NIGHT

I tell Dear Sir the exact same story above.

Dear Sir shakes his head at me.

"What?!" I say.

"Richard Nixon was not some hippie, Rachel. He didn't go around shooting the peace sign off at people. His fingers formed a 'V' which meant 'victory'. It's famous. Winston Churchill did it too." He continues to try to read his book.

"Well---I---" I feebly explain the auditorium story to him. He smirks a little. "I know that I know nothing about Richard Nixon."

He just widens his eyes and continues to read his book.

I felt a shove was in order and it was executed accordingly.

Miracles

I found a picture of myself with a Wonder Woman shirt on! Amazing.

Ok, so today I had a talk with someone I know about various things and somehow I got on the subject of the fact that my mother had a tubal ligation but later gave birth to me and my little brother and then had no more children. The person I was talking to immediately said, "I guess the tubal didn't take."

WHY, OH WHY, do people REFUSE to believe in miracles? Huh? My mother had a tubal, lost a child when he was two years old, and then PRAYED specifically for two more children in her grief. You know, I have told this story recently to a few people and they have all responded in that way lately. The fact of the matter is, if a very fertile woman gets a tubal and then has two more children afterwards and then has NO MORE children after that, is that not a miracle? Does that not prove that God is certainly the one who opens and closes wombs?

If miracles don't exist---if the Divine does not intervene, forget it. A world without miracles is like a world without hope. I know that people are like this everywhere and I am sort of acting like I have lived in a dark shed my whole life, but come on. I can hardly bear it. For some reason I really got irritated with that. Even the most atheist relatives of mine believed in a miracle and called the pregnancies that---and still do. Can the human heart be so enclosed in blackness that absolutely no light can shine through? Nothing? Yes, I believe this and yet I am incredulous when I see it. Would it not be a miracle to see hearts like this turned from their blackness into gleaming brightness? I believe in miracles and I believe that can happen. It is a lot harder in that case than for a woman with a tubal to conceive.

You know, you can't see your brain, but you know it's in there.

That's It

Last night I had the pleasure of recording a few songs of mine at my friend Ken's house (the wonderful guitarist for the Einsteins) and I think in a couple of months we will have them up on the site. We had fun putting the stuff together and I am sure Ken thought I was being incredibly silly about the background vocal tracks. I had a hard time singing to my own voice. I usually don't sing with myself (really, who ever does?) and the times that I have recorded I have had the best background vocalist I know right by my side. Someone told the both of us one time that our voices have the same tamber. Ken's beautiful daughter also asked me if I would sing at her wedding in June (which I thought she would never ask!) and paid me a huge compliment by asking! So, I look forward to that very much. I love weddings. It also helps that by June I will have two weddings under my belt to balance out the two funerals I have sang at. I have a real determination to get that accomplished.

Today was a difficult day at school and I almost resorted to the bottle, but alas, I stood fast and resisted the temptation. I should probably stop teaching school in my pajamas and slippers. Teaching and breathing coffee breath on their sweet little faces doesn't help much I suppose either. There are way too many things to fix, I must say. Too many. Sin corrupts my heart so much that nearly everything I feel inclined to do is wicked, wicked, wicked. Isn't that the truth. I almost tossed my cookies when my daughter could not figure out the number that comes before 30. I kept thinking, "Have I slacked off this much to where I have not taught her how to count?" Finally she got to the point where she would whisper the answer because she said, "Mom, I just don't want you to get mad at me." The beast was tamed by a sentence, and I gave her a sniff and we giggled a bit. So I have to teach her to count again. So what. Soon enough she had it again and had just forgotten. The joys of teaching children.

So, I survived my Oldest today even though I almost wept and threw in the towel. I had to give him the "education is important" speech for the billionth time and then even added a few measures of extra spiciness in the process, so maybe it penetrated. Who knows. I just feel snappy tonight. Don't walk by, got it?

Condense

I was walking on the treadmill the other day reading Surprised By Joy by C.S. Lewis. This quote is amazing about education:

"...the greatest service we can do to education today is to teach fewer subjects. No one has time to do more than a very few things well before he is twenty, and when we force a boy to be a mediocrity in a dozen subjects we destroy his standards, perhaps for life. "

This struck me because here I am teaching my own children a bit of everything and feeling spread very thin. Now, I have realized this truth in the quote above for a handful of years now, and have been focusing on some subjects more than others and I think this is good. I think at some point I have to realize that my Oldest needs to focus more on how to form himself into the profession that he would like to take part in as an adult, say, like architecture. He has voiced that he would like to do this. So, naturally, I have been focusing on math. Knowing the basics of math will make it easier to handle geometry and algebra later, so forming that foundation is crucial for him if indeed he is really going that direction.

It is still difficult to figure out what Eraser Eater will want to do as of yet so I will look at that within the next couple of years.

This quote also brings to life the fact that one can not be good at everything, which is what I always say. I sing well, but it does not mean that I can play guitar well! I have a handle on Victorian novels to some degree, but it does not mean that I have a handle on Victorian poetry. Frankly, poetry does not interest me much. I can make lots of chocolate confections, but I can not bake bread especially well. I have just come to the conclusion that even though some people appear to be good at many things, it does not mean that they really are. They are probably accomplished at a few things instead of fifteen things. They are in reality probably accomplished in one thing instead of ten. We only have time for so much and then that is it. Life is short. I can't go around stressing myself out because I want to be good at everything. I can't be jealous because this person plays guitar exceptionally well, or this person bakes tremendously good bread or can sew herself up an outfit.

Stick to the things that you are good at, people, and keep it to a minimum.

Getting Up at Night For a Star-Filled Chart

I am way too into my book (The Moonstone) to post anything. Sorry. Not that you are waiting with bated breath or anything. I have a site meter and it tells me stories if I bother to look at it! :)

I have been getting up at 2:30 each morning to get my daughter out of night diapers. It has been ok. It takes me a bit to fall asleep again, but it is sort of like having a baby and getting up to nurse it. It is not so bad. And the weird thing is that I wake up pretty much at 2:30 on the dot without any help, I just rise, look at the clock and lo, it is 2:30. I know God is on my side with this business. She does, however, wake up dry (at least for the past three mornings now) so it is worth it to me.

I remember back in the day when I had this same struggle as a little girl my mother made me a chart too. I think it was red, but I can't remember clearly. All I know is that when the thing was filled with stars, I was able to get Wonder Woman underoos. Once I got those things you could never get them off me. It all started with Linda Carter, but it kind of REALLY started with the Underoos. I think I have posted about this before, but it has always been a vivid memory for me of my playing on the monkey bars during recess and showing off my Underoos under my sweater. Plenty of "ohhs and ahhs" emitted from the lookers on. Now I stupidly wear Wonder Woman shirts because I can't stop myself and hey, it brings me back to that place. And I DON'T CARE IF I LOOK RIDICULOUS. Wearing that means more to me than the average reason of just liking it.

So when I made my daughter's chart I tried to convince her to get some Wonder Woman underoos if she filled it. Then I realized, what am I thinking? She doesn't care so much about Wonder Woman like I do! In fact, she likes Batgirl. She tries to convince the boys that Batman's "true" sidekick is Batgirl, not Robin. I am not a feminist by any stretch of the imagination, but I like this gender related Super hero stuff. I think Batgirl IS Batman's real sidekick. Go Batgirl!

I should post a toothbrush picture, but I will just have to wait. That would mean grabbing the camera and going UPSTAIRS. Batgirl can fly, Wonder Woman needs her invisible jet. Sorry, it's in the shop.

Odds and Ends

I got a call right when I was making the french toast this morning for breakfast from the credit card company about some late payment (which I sent out and it is totally the company's fault). I got really nasty for no reason (probably because I pride myself on being timely with finances and I felt insulted) and but I got it all ironed out an hour later. The kids had to dish out their own breakfast while I sat on the phone with the bank and a number of customer service representatives. No wonder the credit card company kept calling me and leaving a message saying, "Rachel....Rachel?...." and then hanging up. Why do they do that? Like they know me and I am listening to the message as it is being recorded biting my nails? Insane.

Someone from France just called me right now and asked for Richard. I have never had more wrong phone calls in my life since we moved here. First we were getting calls for Brett (which we still get them a lot). Then about a couple of weeks ago for a number of days we had calls for a "ford bronco for sale". Everyone was calling about that bronco, I tell ya. What, did someone print OUR number in the paper on accident? How the heck did that happen? What are the odds it would be US? We get no phone calls at all (it is rare) and the only ones we get are from wrong numbers. On our machine some receptionist will leave a message for Brett and how he didn't show up for his dental appointment. Well he's not getting the calls, that is for sure! Last night a telemarketer called here, left a message by just BREATHING in the phone, then hung up. Nice.

So, my whole school morning was blown, so I called it off. How am I going to do school when half the time has been taken already? The kids were playing nice anyway so they are all outside in their coats (it is actually freezing outside right now, which is a shocker) having a good time.

It has been a good morning despite all that junk, so I am grateful. It was pretty cool because about a half hour ago my Oldest called me to the back yard and showed me a woodpecker on the top of one of the trees. There Woody was, pecking away. It is really neat to me because my son can recognize many birds---we have a homeschooling goldmine right in our back yard. He loves Cardinals and whenever he sees one he goes crazy. So, since he loves Cardinals he thinks that the baseball team and the football team are awesome. He is a big fan (even though they stink). He claims that "someone" has to be a fan.

Well, the coffee ran out of my Wonder Woman mug and that means I should get dressed or something. Have a good day!

Risk

So I was finally able to get back to running again today without my leg having some tingly, nervy, crampy attack. So far so good. I didn't push it, so I should be fine to go again on Wednesday.

Last night I played Risk with the men. It was horrible. I thought I was going to be all slick and dominate North America and just ease my way on through to dominating everything. I had a plan in my head, I guess you would say. Then Dear Sir decided to spread his misery all over Asia and battle me through Alaska. I have to say, usually I am a good sport about this kind of stuff, but I was so angry. I had a plan, you know? So I said, "I'm sorry, I am done. I can't play this anymore. I am really pissed off."

"Really?" Dear Sir said, a bit shocked.

I sat there for a minute and thought about how ridiculous I was being. I stared at the board for a bit. I looked at Dear Sir. He had the attack dice in hand. I would not be able to handle it if he were to start attacking Canada next.

"Yep, I am done."

"Well, I guess we're all done with the game then," he said, a bit relieved. I think he wanted to read a book anyway.

Instead of reading a book he cut the Oldest's hair (he now looks like he is in the Army) because he will soon have glasses and frankly, the hair he had before would have been horrendous. I call it hair of steel. It is insane trying to cut that stuff.

The Oldest does look a lot better. The daughter (who is five) noticed it this morning.
She yelped at the breakfast table. "Your hair!"
"Yep, Dad cut it."
"How does it feel on your pillow? Nice?" she asked.

I thought that an odd question. I guess my kids don't get out much.

I played Memory with the daughter just a minute ago and first she beat the tar out of me. She was freely telling me how she is the master and would giggle and taunt me. By the second game I finished her off and slammed my huge pile of matches in front of her while telling her that I was the master this time. She laughed and then she took her own stack and flung it all over my treadmill and the floor around it. She started weeping.

I guess we are all poor sports.

Sanguine

I am frightening myself a little. Today it has been 76 degrees or something crazy like that and I am in such a chipper mood. It has been slightly breezy, and sunny, and just overall wonderful. I hate to even say it. What is wrong with me. Wonderful? The sun? I hate the sun! What is happening to me?

I feel like grilling and I have this insatiable desire to run for an hour in nature--but alas, Dear Sir has been gone all day at some meeting and I can't get myself outside with the kids. A wasp landed on the screen outside and the Oldest almost had a heart attack. There is no way I can get that kid to go out there. I walked on my street for a bit hoping the man of the house would come home and free me from my ties by holding down the fort while I get my running shoes on, but I guess it is not happening. It is steadily getting darker and I must slither back into my dank dungeon and let the feeling pass. Being spontaneous is sometimes fun. I'll just spontaneously grill our dinner to night. `Tis a pity.

I wonder if I have SADD. I wonder if I am just a hypochondriac. SADD isn't REAL. (Don't kill me you people that suffer from SAD) Well, at any rate, night is falling and I must bid farewell. Please congratulate me. I haven't done squat today!

Till tomorrow.

Discard

This is the view from the office to outside. I think it looks pretty cool. It has been raining all day today and of course, has been unusually warm. I love the rain, hate the warm. Oh well.

The stray/neighborhood cats keep pooping in our gravel driveway. It is so nasty. I stepped in it the other night when it was dark and of course it got all over the porch and there I was, hours later, cleaning the stuff up. We all try to avoid the poop when we get out of the cars, but you know, I should just go out there in a minute and scoop it up. You know, that sort of makes me mad because hey, I don't have any cats. Its like we have to keep a poop scope on our heads when taking a step outside. It gets ridiculous.

Dear Sir read my post from yesterday and had a little talk with Eraser Eater. Everyone heard it of course, and so I guess that got some curiosity up. Not too much later my Oldest (who is ten) comes up to me eating his ice cream with eyes blod-shot.
"Been crying?" I asked.
"Yeah, it was stupid. Don't worry about it. I got over it."
"What's up?"
"Mom, please, I am fine now."
Dear Sir heard this.
"What's the matter? Crying for what?"
"Well, Dad, it is just that my eraser on my new Mickey Mouse pencil almost broke off," the Oldest whimpered.
"What? Did you try to eat it?"
"Yes," he said in a little tweak.

BREAK TO COMMERCIAL

FAST FORWARD AN HOUR LATER

So the Oldest and I were playing Skip-Bo on my bed and Dear Sir came in. "Did you write your sentences yet?"

"No, I forgot," the Oldest winced.

"You will be writing 'I will not eat erasers' twenty five times when you are done with that game."

Dear Sir left the room.

"So did the eraser taste good or something?" I asked.

"No, it was terrible."

"What did it taste like?"

"Rubbery grit. I don't want to talk about it."

"So did you try to see what it tasted like because [Eraser Eater] likes them so much?"

"No."

"Yeah, right," I laughed. He started laughing too and then I pelted his butt at Skip-Bo.

Erase the Sign On My Forehead

This is Eraser-Eater for the record.

Yesterday I took the oldest to the eye doctor. It gets a little alarming when you see that the doctor is your own age or round abouts. I could have gone to medical school and graduated by now, is what that tells me.

Anyway, we found that the boy needs glasses (imagine a ten year old kid with glasses screaming at bugs in the summer---that is my future). Dear Sir said that it is imperative that the kid gets a better haircut et al so that he doesn't look so much the part---of you know, what can I say? A highly intelligent individual that lacks social skills and enjoys science? Thankfully he doesn't snort, have an annoying laugh, or drool a bit. I do all of those things and I am not considered a ___________.

To add to my dire situation here, the girl just informed me that Eraser Eater just indeed ate a whole eraser off the top of his new Mickey Mouse pencil. "Did you eat that eraser?!" I barked.
"No, uh, I erased with it."
"You can't erase with that! It is not humanly possible to erase with that eraser!" (the pencil is shaped like Mickey's head so the eraser is placed in a useless position.) "So you ATE it?!!"

"Yeah."

Lovely. Glad he can live up to his name. The punk.

Oh, back to my point about the eye doctor. So the doctor directs my oldest and I to this lady who was to "help" us find some frames. She had a desk in the way back of the room and what do you know, all the frames from my PLAN were behind it. She just placed herself between the desk and the rotating thing of frames and talked ONLY TO MY SON. It was like she refused to acknowledge that I existed. I told her what I was looking for in a frame for the Oldest and she just sort of brushed me off and said, "I have the perfect pair for you," and gave the glasses to my boy. I tried to interact a bit with the whole thing seeing as how I was paying for it and I didn't want my son to look more like the G word, but this lady would not listen to me. I guess I could have planted my behind over where she was at but since she was there already there wasn't much room. She ignored me and continued to do so.

I didn't even bother to seethe. What can I do if some lady refuses to acknowledge my existence? And why is this junk always happening to me? I get so tired of it. When I did interject about something she said something to the effect of, "Don't you have another little one around here somewhere?" as if to tell me to get lost. I am losing it here because something in my recent past happened nearly the same and I can't remember who or what it was. Oh yes, I remember. The neighbor's sister. She came into the house to see my daughter's newly painted room. I was talking to her and she would only respond to my daughter and would only answer the questions I asked or responses I made to my daughter! Like for instance I would say, "Thank you for allowing me to borrow the room decor book. I got some good ideas and the room turned out well."
She would say: "I am so glad, E--- , that your Mommy was able to make such a pretty room for you!" as if she were responding to me but refusing to acknowledge my existence. It kept happening too.

I wonder if I have some sign on my head much like Cain did on his forehead that says: "Please treat me like crap and refuse to acknowledge me."

I don't get it.

Various Pieces of Rubbish

We just encountered Eraser Eater's birthday. He got a gameboy and a few games and so I suppose that I won't see him or the Oldest all day today.

By a slip of the tongue I called my husband "Dear Sir" when beckoning him to the dinner table and he said, "Please, don't ever call me that." When reading the Moonstone (the GobholeBookBanters book choice this month) I have read "dear sir" a great many times and I think it is a fine thing to call someone---if you are a sir, I guess. I have been known to turn into "victorian woman" in dire situations (mainly an argument) and so anything that sounds slightly like the 1800's doesn't work well for my dear sir.

I actually burned the midnight oil with none other than Dear Sir and watched the BSU/Oklahoma game (Fiesta Bowl). I *think* I am getting the hang of football and I *think* I am liking it about fifty percent. Even though Dear Sir was pulling for OK, we were both secretly wishing that BSU would win just because, I don't know, we hate their orange pants so much. We did scope the clips of the crowd to maybe see if we could find our family out there, but no one looked crazy enough with wild hats and painted faces that I could see. `Tis a pity.

Yesterday we took Eraser Eater to IHOP for his birthday. It was his choice. He wanted to order pancakes and bacon. The place was packed. I mean really packed. I am actually shocked that Dear Sir did not have a nervous breakdown (he is a changed man, I tell you) it was so crowded. There is always this little evil lady that laughs inside me when Dear Sir is placed in situations that he can't stand. Not because I want him to suffer, but because I don't know how he will handle it. He always handles things in the most perfect manner though. I just know the guy so well it is scary. He thoroughly shocked me yesterday though because he said, "Man, this place is so crowded it is like a cafeteria. My Dad would go nuts!" That is all he had to say to sweep me off my feet.

During our pleasantly loud time at IHOP it got even louder. The whole crew of the restaurant approached the table behind us and clapped their hands red to a loud, silly song wishing some poor person a happy birthday. Eraser Eater looked at us scared out of his wits. When they all disassembled and scattered about, Eraser Eater whispered to us, "I was ABOUT to say that I wanted to go to Borders for my shhhh---birthday----but I didn't want THEM to hear that." I think he was convinced that if it slipped out that it was indeed his birthday too, he would be prevailed upon with a clamorous birthday song. We laughed with him and then continued to masticate our fare.

Masticate. I dreamt about that word the night of New Years Eve. Last night I dreamt of collecting all of my children's jackets barefoot in the snow after walking from England on my way to the other side of the pond. An old church building full of cobwebs blocked my way from my destination and a spider with a rat's face loomed above me. I think that means that my feet were cold.

Resolutions

I went to the grocery store today and got a different bag boy who asked me if I was ready for the New Year. He was sort of philosophical with his comments by saying that he has a theory that there is a difference between "resolution" and "resolve". One would be something you say for the heck of it, and the other would mean actually carrying it out and doing it. I told him that I don't make resolutions. I have never understood why people do. Not because they never stick with the resolutions, but because who cares that in a new year you do this or do that. It is just time to me. I can make a resolution tomorrow to do something different and I will.

Like when I went shopping with my mother to buy clothes a good handful of years back. I had just had my girl a year prior and I was putting it on a bit. My mother was too, except her excuse was menopause or something. I hate shopping. Really, I do. I just don't ever want anything. So I observed how my mother shopped for clothes. She REFUSED to go up a size even if she was bulging out of the size she "thought" she should be. It really bugged me. I mean, it had such an impact on me that I thought, "I can't be like that. I am going to have to buy size tens here because I am getting a little hefty myself and if I don't want to wear them I will just lose the weight starting TODAY." And that is what I did. I started exercising the very next day on a regular basis and have not stopped since. It took me four long years but I got down a good many sizes. Which reminds me---

I was watching TV the other night with Dear Sir and someone asked Paris Hilton what her New Years resolution would be. She said that she will exercise more (because she is so slack) and she will eat less fast food because she eats so much of it. Yeah, we can tell, eh?

I just never realized that people took New Years day so seriously. What is your stinking resolution? I don't have one.

Vegan Hobbit

I have had no appetite for much---food is included. Just thought I would put that out there. I think I have been sick. I was telling the worship leader at my church last night at practice that I think I have had a virus. I think I still have one, I mean. When I start each day the thought of eating food is one of the highlights of my morning. I adore food. Lots of times I don't care if it is good food or not. I adore cold cereal and energy bars and stupid junk that really isn't real food. Right after breakfast I think again about food---what I will have for lunch, snack, you name it. Then I think about what I will make for dinner (and trust me, I have been really slack in this area of late---let's say the past couple of years now) but I still get excited over a side of peas and some brown rice.

I think I am a hobbit. First breakfast, second breakfast. I am even starting to like beer a little bit. So, with that in mind, I have no appetite, I think something is wrong with me, and I should take my temperature.

My Oldest said one day when we were going to have a roast that I would probably not enjoy that dinner very much. I asked him why. He said, "Well, because you are a vegetarian!"

I almost fell over. What in the heck would make him think I am a vegetarian?

I tried to tell him that I am not one and he would not believe me. I think it is because I refuse to eat my own fried chicken. I make it too much, Dear Sir adores it, and I am just plumb sick of it. Everyone else has a heyday while I feast on the veggies and other side I make. Not long from the time of the roast comment I made fried chicken. My Oldest noticed that I did not partake of the bird-flesh and he said, "See, I told you that you were a vegetarian!"

Dear Sir almost spit out his food. "Wha?!!!"
"He thinks I am a vegetarian, honey."
"She is NOT a vegetarian!" Dear Sir rebuked. "You have to never eat meat for that, got it?"
"But--"

To this day my Oldest still thinks I am a vegetarian. He just believes it.

This is not the first person who has accused me of being a vegan. I remember back when I was a coolian right out of high school I went to a restaurant with a boyfriend and my good friend was the waitress. She leaned over as I was ordering and told me what she thought was good there. I told her that what she suggested sounded vile and I wanted some meat concoction. She almost toppled over the table and she grabbed her heart. "Why, Rachel! I thought you were all 'new agey'! I didn't know you ate meat! Don't you listen to Enya?"

I never knew that listening to Enya equalled eating only vegetables. I can't even eat them raw, how can I be a vegetarian? I have to eat SOMETHING, don't I? Good grief...

Zilch

Absolutely nothing much is going on, which is a good thing. I have survived not gaining a pound while being unable to run because of my tingly weird leg that I promised Dear Sir I would not run on for two weeks (it is killing me not to run) while eating junk and cereal for meals because I have been too lazy to cook. Tonight I will attempt to roast a chicken once my stupid blonde brownies finish baking (I put them in too small of a pan and now they are taking an eternity to bake).

I am actually not in a bad mood; contrary to what I am typing. I am just a little annoyed that I can not find squat about my leg on the internet so I can help it along the recovery process. The inside of my calf tingles and has cramping and some pain when I sit still and then when I run on it or use it excessively (I did that the other night getting fancy while dueling light sabers with my daughter). It is a nerve problem, I am pretty sure, but there really is not much to be done with it except just not using my leg for a spell, which is rotten and hard to deal with for me. I live on running and then I live on it more, feel the need of it more keenly when I am not doing it. The blight of a woman addicted.

Christmas went well and was as low key as possible (which is always good). We sat around and watched Star Wars and ate popcorn. I baked a little yesterday and the day before with the girl on her new Easy Bake oven, and Dear Sir and the boys played Risk. Of course he pummeled them and taught them many lessons in world domination.

Dear Sir got me a new biography of Thomas Hardy (my favorite author who wrote Tess of The D'Ubervilles for those who have no real clue) and I have been reading snippets here and there while finishing up a few books that I have had bookmarks in. I won't elaborate at length my thorough enjoyment of Hardy because I know it will bore you to tears, but I have plenty of reading ahead of me pertaining to that particular subject and I know I will never grow weary of it!

I also got a really cool Shakespeare book from my sister in law and I think it will be a great read because it basically sets all the plays in narrative format. Thank you, Mindi.

I hope you all had a great Christmas!

I will break from writing since I am just not in the mood.

Can't run (my leg is all messed up), can't write, and can't make anymore cookies. I have made too many already.

Have a Merry Christmas and see you next week unless I change my mind.

Lost Ewe

Last night Dear Sir and I dropped the kids off at the local Baptist Church to their AWANA meeting. The Oldest bolted to his class and the younger ones lined up to sign themselves in, and I walked to the car and Dear Sir and I went to get something to eat and catch up.

When I walked in the building an hour later things were eerily quiet. I did find the Eraser Eater and the Daughter, but strangely my oldest son's class was not in session and every room was dark. I went to the other end of the building to the gym because perhaps he could be there, and lo, he was not. I went to the AWANA leader and asked him where the Oldest son's class was.
"There is no class. They did not meet today."
I immediately got this sinking feeling in my stomach. I almost freaked out, but Dear Sir was behind me and he said, "We will find him, don't worry."
I ridiculously started to search for my son in a frantic fashion. I climbed a million stairways and found classrooms upon classrooms but I could not get to the sanctuary, where I thought he could possibly be since there was a sermon going on there. I think there are four or five stairwells, and I met about four of them and plastered my face against windows in nearly every lit room I could. No son. Finally a man said to me: "You have lost a child."

I think he could tell by the look on my face. I was about to slay anyone who got in the way of me and my child. I felt so ridiculous. I tried to suppress my feelings but said sheepishly, "yes."

This man helped Dear Sir look and I looked everywhere else. Finally the man brought an usher from the service who guided me to the sanctuary and told me to search through the pews (it was very full) for my son. I scoped the place but could not see the other side, so I went to the next set of double doors.
Finally, I saw him. He was sitting down next to a teacher reading his Bible. He was reading Ecclesiastes.

I grabbed his arm and guided him out. I was sure to thank the teacher who sat next to him.

I thanked everyone who helped me including the usher, the man who knew I lost a child, and the AWANA superintendent (even though he did not tell me much).

I have been emotional the past few days. This topped the cake. I did not full out cry my eyes out or anything, but I pushed back a few tear drops and got in the car. I handed the Oldest the rest of my Diet Coke.
"Why are you giving this to me?" he said thankfully.

"Because I lost you and I feel bad for it," I said.
What made it even worse to me is that my son proceeded to tell me how when he found that his class was not in session he ran back to the parking lot to look for our car and we were gone. He said he hung his head and was disappointed that he had to go back inside and roam the halls.

Dear Sir grabbed my leg. "He is a big boy now, Rachel, he knows what to do."

I thought of the parable of the lost sheep during the whole thing. I didn't think about how God must feel when one of His own are lost until I was in the parking lot, three kids safe and sound, but I did think about how God loses sheep when I was looking through endless classrooms. Not until I got in the car, handing my kid the diet coke, did it occur to me that God feels like I felt when a sheep is lost. I felt frantic. I felt horrible. The weird thing is that I knew he was safe, it was the fact that he was not where I knew he should have been. The fact that he was lost.

Back in the Day

Back in the day before Eraser Eater ate erasers and only drank formula and the Oldest only said gibberish and the daughter did not exist yet (even a hint), I worked in a house filled with mentally disabled adults. I worked two days a week and believe me, not to be mean, but the house was mad. It was rather frightening. I don't even know why I worked there or allowed myself to. It was just sheer craziness.

At the interview I was hired on the spot and told to take a course in human restraint. Well, some sort of politically correct/non hurtful human restraint. I was taught to restrain someone from behind, knock them on the ground, and hold them down (many little ladies my size could do it just fine without a thought to it). In fact, I did it just fine but I have gotten a little rusty. Dear Sir is never up for a little practice session. I have never tried it on him before (well, I almost did but feared for my life if I went one step further---ha ha.) Men don't like it when their women can take them down. Gotta respect that.

Anyway, once in awhile I remember I can do this little maneuver and use it on my Oldest. You know, a mentally retarded person is not going to expect it, but a ten year old boy will if you are messing around with him anyway. They are all struggles. And they sweat so much. Tonight I put the smack down on the boy and he was saying to me, "How do you DO that?!"

I remember one day while in the handicap van (we were taking a drive with the clients) one of the unfortunate fellows sat next to me. In fact, I had to sit between two of them because lots of times they would pull each other's hair or bite each other---the idea is for them to bite me instead. Great, huh. Why the heck did I work there, I don't know. Anyway, This one client in particular would snuggle up against me and I would rub his head (he was a sixty something year old man and he was the most horrific looking person imaginable. I would not have liked to see him in an alley way. He looked scary.) and he seemed to like that. He would rub my arm as well and smile and drool all over me. I thought the drive was going well for the most part and then about half way through it he jolted up on a sudden and punched me as hard as he could on my forearm. His face was set in complete anger and his teeth looked menacing. He kept blowing me but the punches lessened in force and eventually he stopped. While that was going on my particular unfavorite client who had the habit and utter love of pulling hair at all times was trying to get his sneaky little hand at mine. I had the luxury of coming in in the mornings and having to dress him from time to time. All he wanted to do was bite and pull. Finally one day this snotty lady I worked with told me to deal with him for some reason and he was not cooperating with me and I just called her to me and told her I was done with him, she can do it. He gets dressed somehow every morning.

I had to deal with the ladies a lot too. There were a few in wheelchairs and they were interesting. I worked with one in particular quite often and she was not abusive at all. She was just a lot of work. Changing clothes, wiping butts, flushing toilets, giving showers, wiping mouths, feeding, EVERYTHING. She was really sweet natured and I felt so bad for her having to live with some of these harmful ones.

Another lady talked incessantly about nothing. Well, she said stuff but she would repeat it over and over again. I remember one time I was brushing her hair and getting her dressed and she looked at me in the mirror and said, "Who cares about you! Who cares about you! Who cares about you! Who cares about you!......." over and over again. She would get in these moods where she would call you names over and over and pretty soon you would be like, "yeah, who the heck cares about me, anyway?" Dear Sir and I often quote this when we are in a jolly good mood.

I eventually had to quit because one of the clients who had the mentality of maybe a six year old but the body and drive of a twenty year old man (he was around my age at the time) seemed to take a liking to me and started to harass me. I mean, grab me and pretty much would have gone further if I had not watched myself and gotten out of his way. He was a big guy and the most frightening of all of them. I had heard that he had about seven or so full grown strong men on him when he went through a tantrum of sorts and he put most of them in the emergency room. I knew that if I were to tell him no with the grabbings and things and didn't put it as lightly as possible, he would literally snap me in half. It was rather frightening. The last straw was when he got a little too liberal when I was changing his bed (he followed me everywhere) and I had to bow out and he was getting angry and someone had to calm him down. I just called them and told them that I could not return to work. Insane.

It is so sad that people live like this. There is a whole world of them living in little independent homes like this because their parents can not care for them and it is just utterly depressing. It is literally like a whole different world from ours---we are all obsessed with ourselves and looking beautiful and young. These people hardly talk, walk around aimlessly, hurt others because they don't know any better, and do the most vile things. I have seen a lot of body parts I wish I hadn't, that is for sure!

Attack of the Killer Rock

Yesterday I took the kids to the park since it was in the 70's. Where do I live? Florida? California? Nope. An hour from D.C. Give me a break huh? So we went out and had a mini spring day. My daughter took the binoculars and ran around looking like Dora and the Oldest and Eraser Eater went their separate ways-- one to the see-saw and the other to find lizards. I think they literally thought it was summer again.

I went through a mini (I will use the word again) flashback of how horrendous last summer was because of my Oldest son and flying insects. He refused to go by the water (there is a lake by the park) because of possible dragonflies. There was not a bug to be seen for miles and he was wigging out again. "I'm staying right here!" he would yell. I gave up and went on the see saw with him for a bit and taught him my trick on how to make someone freak out and bounce. He didn't like the lesson because I did it to him a million times.

I got tired of the see-saw and moved on to see what the other two were doing by the water and they were taking sticks and pretending that they were fishing. I thought this was a good idea and got a massive branch and said to my oldest: "Look at this thing! You can be Huck Finn and fish with this thing!"

"Not by that water I'm not! That is where dragonflies go!"

I had to convince him that there weren't any dragonflies. To be honest, he was really enthralled with the massive stick. It was taller than me. He took it greedily and announced to the whole park that he was going to go fishing and begged where he could find a worm. I dallied around by the stream and found a worm but I did not touch it. I hate worms. Looking at them makes me sick. Kind of like metal. "I found a worm!" I yelled.

The voice of Mickey Mouse made its way toward me filled with glee and he GRABBED THE WORM from the ground. I almost screamed, but I realized that he was touching a bug like regular boys and this is good.

"So, uh, how do I put it on the end of my stick?"

"I guess you have to pierce it's flesh and stick it on that way," I said, a little unsure of myself.

"Ok." He tried. "It's slippy." It didn't work. "Oh well. I guess I could just take him and dangle him in the water and a fish would come to me." He cupped the worm in his hand. "He feels wiggly in my hand! I kind of like it!"

The thought of that made me feel a little green and pale, but I ignored it and went on.
Finally he decided that dangling the worm would not work so he just threw it in the water. A lot of good that did. All I could think about was hand sanitizer.

I got distracted after a spell and started looking in the binoculars. I saw the Oldest on a rock by the little stream-creek thing and then I saw him WALK THROUGH THE WATER. I about had a cow. That is when I took them home. They were all soaked from being ridiculous and walking through water rather than walking around. The lake water is filthy. Remember the dead duck? Yeah, you get my point. I had to wash everything when I got home. Sick.

Except when I got home the Oldest did not want to go inside. He approached the front porch and then ran screaming from it to the car again. Flash back of the past summer. He stood there, fingers on lip (worm infested fingers, mind you), trembling and crying his ten year old rear end off. "A big black bee! I saw it!"

"There is no bee."

"Yes! I saw it! It was by the rail! It was flying toward me! I will not go in until you kill it!" He was inconsolable, irrational, and petrified. Of nothing. There was nothing.

"No. There is nothing here. I will guide you. Let me take your hand."

"No! I saw it!"

"Look! THERE IS NOTHING! THERE ARE NEIGHBORS! THEY CAN HEAR YOU!" I said this in a loud whisper. Even shame does not shape him up.

"Is there...is there anything black around the porch?" He cried out in a whimper.

"Yes. A rock. A black rock."

"That must be it then."

"Yes. That is probably it. Now come on, and get inside."

He ran in like the devil was on his tail and took the sopping wet shoes off as fast as he could. He refused to go outside the rest of the day.

I can already foresee next summer...again. Ugh.

Christmas Malarkey

Its been ridiculously warm here. I think it did this last year too. The kids are somewhat depressed, wishing for snow, and frankly, I am not sure it will come being this warm in DECEMBER. Dear Sir says that it feels like spring.

James Blunt is still staring me in the face (here, I will turn the card over---hold on a sec--done), and I forgot to mention what else Dear Sir got me for my birthday: a guitar stand (I really needed one!), a shirt that has the British flag on it, the Complete stories of Flannery O'Connor, and a pair of sunglasses that cover more than half of my face. I wish the smaller ones were in style right now. Sheesh. I told him to get me NOTHING because I don't really want anything (I know, aren't I weird? It has taken me this long to figure out how to use the stinking James Blunt gift card). And I still have not done it.

The boys made me Christmas lists this year, which was fun and on BOTH of their lists they wrote that they wanted their sister to have a "purple light saber", which I thought was very sweet. So I found one and wrapped it up and said it was from the Oldest and Eraser Eater. She will be delighted to be able to duel them. I find that she often conforms to their kind of play because there is not another girl her age often around. She goes between being Kim Possible to batgirl to some jedi girl warrior. She will put on her black sweater and dart around with a lady bug utility belt on. It is kind of hilarious. It brings me back to my Wonder Woman days. You couldn't get those underroos off me.

I got Eraser Eater a metal detector (I hate metal, but he will have fun finding some Civil War shells in the backyard perhaps), The Oldest a rubix cube, and the girl this stupid Little Mermaid chariot thing with all the trimmings. I got them more things (obviously), but I am trying to focus on not buying them so much junk. I kept the presents at about ten each (I usually do only seven each) but since family is not around we have to compensate a bit. Plus, they have stockings full of stuff. I remember watching a show once about how poor families try to make up for being poor by blowing up balloons all around the tree for Christmas so when the kids wake up they think it is a big deal and are happy with the little they get. I am not "poor" but I am not with that sort of concept. I understand that I said that I gave them ten presents instead of seven to "compensate" but that is only because the things my kids asked for were so ridiculously simple, like notebooks, pens and erasers, that I wanted to get them things other than just those things! I remember when I was a kid and there were some rough years for Christmas and we had a big family. I was a little more aware I think than some in my family because for some reason I was just built that way. More sensitive, I guess. Believe me, it had its pros and cons. Yeah, we sometimes would not get the usual 20 presents or so for Christmas and would get only ten or seven. I remember one year we had moved and my parents spent a lot of their money on new furniture and things like that (which they needed) and I just figured in my mind that we almost had our Christmas with all that new stuff already. When Christmas that year rolled around and we got less than other years, I did not think what a bummer. I felt bad that my parents had to put up with complaints about it because you know, we were lucky we got anything.

My point is, I don't want my kids to be like that---thinking they deserve more. You get what you get. Thankfulness needs to be encompassing all of it, no matter what it is.

Bulk Buying and Screaming Spouses

So last week Dear Sir didn't even have to pull out the almost -empty carton of milk to send me off to the store. I had it planned in my mind already (believe it or not) and I even planned to go to Costco so I could buy tons of it. I had just been at church with the kids (Dear Sir was home with the Oldest who was sick) and I came home, plan on the brain. Drop the kids off, leave them with Dear Sir, and then high tail it to Costco.

When I got to church the only place where there was room for me to sit was in the back with the people who have the unruly children. They talk incessantly, make noise, and always knock the pile of toys down and make a disturbing crash while the pastor is reading off the liturgy. It is highly annoying. The thing that made me feel more terrible is that my kids (Daughter and Eraser Eater) were perfectly still and behaved while their kids were just out of control and then trying to get my kids out of control too! Mine would not partake, but I felt bad---like the parents would think I am snooty. Well, I felt kind of snooty. The parents were even loud. I was actually "shushing" their kids so they would not influence mine. Before Communion the Dad would say, "Come on, Buddy, let's go get a SNACK!" Yeah, let's just call the body and blood of Christ a stinking SNACK. That is really reverent.

Anyway, after church the mother wanted to make chit chat with me. She said we hadn't been properly introduced, and so I answered some of her questions and tried to keep an open mind. The sanctuary was pretty much cleared out by this time and I could see her husband and at least two of the kids hanging off of him in the foyer. He was maybe three yards away. He sort of called her name out or something and she turned around and told him that she wanted to go downstairs to buy something at the youth bake sale before they left. The man's eyes fired up like I have never seen eyes fire up before and and he BARKED at her:"We are either RIGHT HERE OR OUT THE DOOR!" meaning, I take it, "no." The look on his face and the anger in his whole constitution was alarming. I would not have been shocked if he came up and whapped her one over the head. The horrible thing is that he did this right in front of me. I looked right at him as he said it all and he could care less.

She turned to me and rolled her eyes and said, "Gotta go."

So I went home and then went on my way to Costco. I reached the four-way stop near the end of my cross street and a car was first, I was second, and then a big truck directly to my right was third. I waited for the first car to cross me, then I started to move forward since it was my turn. I was moving and turning the dial on my radio at the same time. I quickly looked up, almost about to crash into the truck (the person who was supposed to WAIT to go next). I stopped shortly and the truck stayed put, blocking me on purpose from going forward. The woman driving the truck was screaming at the top of her lungs, "IT WAS MY TURN!!!!!!!!!!!!" I heard it through her window and through my windshield. She stayed there a good few seconds to notify me of this. She was looking into my eyes and she was PISSED.

I just honked my horn at her in one big honk because I was not about to scream back at her like a nimrod. It was my turn anyway. It is not my fault that she didn't know how to count.

I am surprised at how ridiculous people are. They get mad over anything. Yesterday I went to the post office to mail a little package and the guy that pulled into the parking lot next to me bolted out of his car like he was racing me to get ahead of me in the line. Give me a BREAK!

At Costco I ran into the lady at church with the screaming husband. She was quick to call my name and say hello. I couldn't remember her name but I was sort of rude I think because I was just getting paper products and hoping she would go away. I could tell she was in a hurry anyway----but I felt bad. Lots of times I don't know what to say to someone, I am so tired of being fake, that I just smile and say, "hey" and hope they depart because I really could not move forward with that person anyway.

Dear Sir is almost positive the the screaming husband works in his building (an hour away from where we live!). He is quick to ignore Dear Sir and pretend he does not notice him. Weird, I know.

Yep.

Yesterday I turned the year that I would be in my twenties for the last time. My father in law said, "I suppose this is the year you will remain forever, huh?"

I told him no, I don't mind getting older.

Then Dear Sir and I talked about death over dinner last night and then I got a sick feeling in my stomach. He said something about these years being our prime, etc, etc. I don't fear death at all---I just hate the oblivion people get lost in because no one cares for them anymore because they are not young and budding. That is sad to me.

One of my favorite gifts was an itunes gift card (among other things from Dear Sir) with James Blunt on it. I hate James Blunt and Dear Sir knew this. I almost screamed when I saw it because I can't stand his face (it reminds me of his annoying voice---talk about mean on my part, huh?) and then Dear Sir had the nerve to quote one of his songs on my card for me just to make things a little funny. I laughed really hard and gave him a shove. He said, "Hey, it's our song!" (We don't have a song and he can't stand James Blunt too). And then we both laughed.

I can't think of any music I want to buy on itunes. Is that not crazy? I thought finally that I would get the Nickel Creek album I wanted but then there is room for some more. Yikes. Can't think. Brain freeze. I really am getting old.

Eh.

I don't feel like writing at all. Things are way too busy. I am turning 29 in two days and that is kind of crazy. I am sick of cookies and chocolate and I want Christmas to hurry up and come.

My daughter was just looking at some of my "paintings" that I shoved in a corner in the office. (I don't really paint, in fact I am not really good at it---I just used to amateurly pastel icons---and did it badly, at that)

"Why don't you put these in a museum, Mommy?"

"Because they are horrible; they have to be extra special good," I say.

"But they are NOT horrible and they ARE extra special good!" She glares at me. "They are masterful!"

"Well, I am totally content with the fact that I am not a painter," I say dryly.

"You're a musician," She says matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, kind of."

I remember thinking that anything my parents did was totally the greatest when I was little. I am of the mind to completely knock that silly idea directly out of their heads. Many of us take ourselves so seriously. No, I am not some amazing musician. I am a musician but not a paid one. I am a musician only because I was born knowing how to sing. It took absolutely no effort at all on my part. I was not, however, born knowing how to paint, and I was not even good when I did do it, so I would never consider myself a painter. In fact, the thought is just absolutely offensive.

What I really am is a mother, which reminds me that I need to go so I can knock some heads together....

Decorating the Tree

Last night we decorated the tree so here we are taking a silly little family photo with the mac. We had so much fun with the kids. They were so excited they were jumping up and down. I think I put up two ornaments and arranged the rest. Kids put stupid ones in horrible places; some on the same branch and some barely hanging on the bottom. That's going to last.

We topped off our ornament placing with hot cocoa and some truffles and cookies (we all felt gross when we were done) and then Dear Sir caved in and let them watch another installment of The Return of the King. Mind you, our daughter had to "hug" me most of the time and was not allowed to see a lot of it. I still get tense and freak out every time Shelob is around. I hate spiders and I hate big fat ones. That one is the Mack Daddy. Dear Sir continually reminds me that it is "just a movie" which I know and can handle, but it is still hard to look at a spider that size chasing someone. It does look REAL, you know.

Tagged

THE RULES: Each player of this game starts with the '6 weird things about you.' People who get tagged need to write a blog post of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave a comment that says 'you are tagged' in their comments and tell them to read your blog."

I have a lot of weird things about myself that surpass all weirdness and I do talk about them on here like they are not all too weird, so I will finally admit they are what makes me weird, so here goes (six is not enough by the way):

1. When I am doing something (pretty much anything) I can't talk to you. When I am on the phone, I am stupid enough to pick it up and *try* to talk. Dear Sir experiences this all the time. I completely stutter, leave huge spaces between words, and pretty much can not think of anything except the task at hand. This also goes for computer stuff, guitar playing, raking leaves, and any other manual or brain consuming task (at least for me). The kids don't dare to talk to me while I run on the treadmill. They pretty much stay clear. I would spin off that thing and break my jaw. Dear Sir calls this "one track minded" and "not a multi- tasker".

2. When I drink any drink (especially wine or coffee), I am sure to have a napkin so I can wipe the little dribble of fluid on the rim of the drinking apparatus. It literally makes me sick to see it.

3. I don't like coins, I don't like cheese that is warm and finger-printed, I don't like hair balls, I don't like any of the aforementioned things in the same sentence like I just did. It literally makes my stomach do that sharp lurching. I just don't like finger prints. I think of coins and how dirty they are and how they would put dirt on fingerprints and then without washing hands people would touch other things like cheese or something else porous and sick.

4. I hate being rubbed on the chin. I had it done to me in highschool after I told a football player I hated it and I slapped him so hard his head fell back.

5. I hate it when people say "I dunno". It sounds "du-dumb". Someone dear and close to me is sure to email that response to me once in awhile to keep me under his thumb.

6. I am so ridiculous that I have a kitchen cabinet smack between the kitchen and the dining (school) area and I dedicate it both as a food cupboard AND homeschool supply. I told my friend this once (not thinking anything of it) and she said, "interesting."

So, I tag these people:

Allrighthere
Graybandit
AmericanSpark
Elysium
FunkyRed
Anne

The Kids These Days 4

Yesterday morning my daughter woke up with bile coming out of her stomach projectile style. I thought I had heard some voice calling in the middle of the night but I fell asleep again.

I battled this all the morning and rubbed her back and pulled her hair back while she cried and said "help!" when she was "barfing." It was entirely sad to see. I also washed just about everything, cleaned the house, disinfected, and doled out acicophilus pills. So far no one else has gotten this. I really hope no one does. I used to say, "hold on to your hats, we are going to have a rough week!" But since acidophilus, I haven't worried as much.

Monday night I took the boys to Chess Club. The daughter had to go with, so we went grocery shopping since the club meets at a grocery store. Weird, I know, but it works. The same bag boy from a prior post loaded up my trunk with groceries again.

"You're the guy with the pink polo shirt," I said.

"Oh yeah. You should have seen me on Sunday for a reception I had to go to. I wore a crazy grey suit with a yellow tie. I was looking sharp," he sucked in his breath like he was the cat's meow. "I lived life the easy way too. Everyone else was in the car busy with stuff and I just took a nap all the way to Maryland."

"Oh sure, gotta do that," I said, not knowing what the heck he was talking about.

He loaded up my groceries. Since I had to go back in to get the boys from the club he kept talking to me as I walked back.

"My kids are at Chess club," I said, "I have to go back inside."

"Chess club. I was never a chess club sort of guy. I was on the Varsity Football team."

I didn't believe this for one second. This guy is a total pipsqueak.

"Yeah---I would sneak out of the locker room and look at the cheerleaders. They were making this banner for me---I told the other guys that I was busy outside for a second and they believed me. I went out there and they were all over me."
He sucked in his breath again like he thought he was hot stuff. He rumpled up his hair and messed with his collar. He jerked his head around as I nodded at him with obvious polite uninterest. He did not heed this.

"Yeah--they were like, all over me. And I had to tell them that I had to go back to the locker room to be with the guys and they came to me weeping, tears rolling down their cheeks---" he was sure to use his index fingers to make a little stream-line down his own cheeks for effect, " and they showed me the banner they made. I was like, 'I am sorry ladies, I have to go--' and they both gave me a gift of one kiss on each of my cheeks---" he pointed to each cheek, "and then it was really crazy but they finished by kissing me right here--" and he pointed to his lips, "and it was sort of gross, but they kept doing it and I was like, 'ladies! I have to GO HERE!' and I..."

At this point we were totally inside the building and I couldn't handle it anymore. I said, "hand sanitizer is good to use in that situation. Lots of germs. Just wipe it all over your face..." I proceeded to use my hands in a circular motion around my face for effect since he was so fond of using hand gestures.

He looked at me and did not skip a beat.
"Yeah."
And he walked off.

Love Your Monk

Dear Sir says that this is "the life." That is a monk, above, walking around in his sandals in his modern and simple monastery. As a monk, one can wake up at four in the morning to pray, write on vellum with a quill pen, and read books when not gardening and helping the poor---um, and going to many different prayer times like vespers and compline and all that. We were looking around some site with this picture on it when Dear Sir could not stop exclaiming, "Just Look at that! That is AWESOME!" I told him to save this pic so that I could complain about his love for the single life. Ha ha.

Actually, monks are pretty cool. When I read The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco I could not stop drawing them. I soon discovered that I pretty much stink at drawing; I will never go anywhere with it so I guess I will just stick to singing. But, I just wanted to express my love for the mysteriousness of monkhood.

So, when we went to the National Gallery of Art a few weekends ago Dear Sir and the crew and I were walking out of the building to cross the street to get to the parking garage. Dear Sir was suddenly distracted by a monk walking the streets opposite and forgot where he was. He politely jerked his head in the monk's direction so that I could view him (how could I not? He looked so odd compared to all the other stuff around him). Suddenly a scream pealed behind us just as the monk was to come into full view and we had to turn to console our crying daughter who tripped and fell on the ground.

"I am very sorry to have not had a closer look at the monk," mumbled Dear Sir.

I Actually Watched TV Last Night

Last night I stayed up because I was #1 Not tired and #2 I wanted to finally see Sarah McLachlan perform something. I missed the Oprah show, I missed the parades and stuff, so I thought I could stay up and watch Conan O'Brien. Dear Sir asked me this morning if it was worth it. Well, not really, but it took me forever to fall asleep anyway, so it is not like I missed sleep I could have had.

She looked sort of weird. She sang just fine, I thought though, contrary to what others have said of her past performances for this Christmas album. My friend L. said that when she saw her something was "off" and her daughter even noticed it. Someone else---Funky Red or someone told me that she saw her perform for the Macy parade and she was nervous and it showed. I was a little curious last night, to be honest. I wanted to see what was up. She looked a little like she gained some pounds---but you know, the camera adds some weight and plus, it was focusing at a bad angle, so I am sure no one would look too pretty in her situation. I don't know.

I watched a bunch of other garbage. I watched Manheim Steamroller perform some of their silly trash. I swear, I thought what I was watching was back in the late 80's. The camera work was not 80's looking, but every person in that "band" or "group" or whatever you call it looked like a person permanently glued to that era. Not the more retro hip way the kids do it now days, more like early 90's hair that is full of hair spray, old fogey guys playing violins with long curly hair. More Yanni and Michael Bolton type looks. Cheesy Baby Boomer Embarrassing kind of look. And they were into it. I mean, INTO it. They were swaying with the music and closing their eyes like they were blasting out Jimmy Page guitar riffs and waltzing around waving their arms between bell chimings and stuff like they were the world's greatest musical group. I had a huge laugh over it. I don't know how anyone could take them seriously. The music itself was not even updated sounding. I am sure there are keyboards and stuff that play things better than what Flock of Seagulls had to offer way back when MTV just got started? The electronics sounded like a ten cent keyboard. So, I was CONVINCED that the performance was old. It was on PBS. You know, it could be old. I clicked the info button. It was from LAST YEAR! I have one thing to say to Manheim Steamroller: "QUIT."

And that was for Emma, who hates them, and for me, who had a really good belly laugh watching it.

Foul I To the Fountain Fly

I am wrapping soap and having a decent time with it. I am supposed to get on that treadmill and run but I am running away from it right now. I am a bit tired. I took the kids to the mall today to get Dear Sir a replacement sweater for the favorite sweater I ruined last night by one push in the dryer. He tried the thing on and it was considerably smaller and just "not right". I immediately called the Polo Outlet store and asked if they had a replacement. They did. I had them put the thing on hold and so I high tailed my behind over there this morning. Walking around the mall and telling kids to "stand here" for ever and a day is not my idea of amusement. I stood in line at the Polo store waiting for the lady to return a billion hot pink polo shirts. Then the cashier got on the phone and ticked away at his computer and I stood there waiting while a kid wandered a little over here and another wandered over there and pretty soon I would be calling this kid's name or that kids name (or every kid the wrong name) and giving the evil stare. The evil stare never works even though I tell myself when I am doing it that I look intimidating.

I can jerk my hand in a quick motion pointing to the empty space beside me but it is not heeded. I can purse my lips and clench my jaw and even my fist but that does not help. I am stuck. In line. The dope behind me will think I left my place and say, "Sorry chick."

So, I stand in my little plot and pray for the child to make eye contact so I can lure them over with SOMETHING. I just get tired of speaking. You know what I mean, moms? Speaking is just something I wish I never had to do. I repeat the same thing over and over and it is never heard. "Stop talking. I said, stop talking. Please be quiet. Be Quiet. SHUT YOUR MOUTHS FOR THE LOVE OF PETE!"

I understand how Jesus felt when he would say to the people, "Listen to me!" or "I am telling you the truth!" Try to count how many times He said that stuff. Tons. This is our human condition. We do not listen. We do not hear. We do not care. It is very interesting to me that we are told in these times to be attentive because no one knows when Jesus will be coming again. Being attentive is just not something we NATURALLY do. Look at my kids. I don't teach them to be UNattentive. Nope.

So, I got the sweater, all was well and we went to the bookstore. I thought of getting some coffee but decided against it because I did not want to stand in another line and bear the torture of THAT again.


Last night I was sort of in a foul mood (this was BEFORE I realized my major blunder in shrinking the sweater) because I let the kids get to me when I should have just been cool about stuff. I was in a hurry or something, I can't quite remember, and I opened the door to go to the bathroom and slammed the door and my index finger with it. Believe me, other words came to my mind as I yelped in pain but a thunderous "CRAP!!!" was all that came out. Dear Sir was right outside the door on the computer and as I sat there in the bathroom nursing my wound I thought how he must think I died. I walked out and acted like nothing happened and he didn't even turn his head. He must be used to this animal house sort of feel we have, I guess.

Well, I have truffles and whatnot to make and maybe when some are finished I will take a weak little picture. I can't take pictures very well. I don't know what the deal is. Some people say don't flash and get where there is natural light, but I just have no clue what that even means. So, I will continue to take dopey pictures and you will have to like it. No one can be good at everything, right? I don't need to be good at taking pictures if I can make soap and melt chocolate. That is good enough, eh?