Home

I am home, yes, it is so nice. In a way vacations are so great but then I miss home so much I find that I wake up in the wee hours of the morning on some foreign pillow pining away for it. Home is that special place where you leave all your stuff, sleep, and feel at ease.

I ran only one time while there. I think once was enough. I ran my usual seven plus mile route, but it was hot and grueling when I decided to take it. Well, it was morning, so it wasn't incredibly hot. I think the main blunder of the trip was that in my haste I forgot my ipod. Even over forgetting the kids' toothbrushes. Those were easily replaced, but the ipod? No way. That was rough, running all those miles with no audible help. I forget how much I depend on it. So far this week I have only run seven miles when normally I would have already had, oh, maybe 27 or so. I feel like a failure and I feel unhealthy (especially because I had a steady diet of ice cream every stinking day), but that is no matter. My reward smack in the middle of the run was the view of the ocean, and then I turned directly around and went back to the hotel. During my run I saw: huge dragonflies, a deer, a turtle, a dead snake, and some ponies, the usual.

The Professor dug the world's hugest hole and recruited me into helping him for a spell so I have a really sore back, just like an old woman. The Girl and I took our beach chairs and chilled down there for awhile. People thought we were nuts. I will post pictures perhaps if I get less lazy.

During every visit to the beach the man and I could hear our child, the Oldest, yelping and yelling (in usual Mickey Mouse fashion) over the many crashing waves and the usual din of a well-crowded beach.

I tried to read a lot but got very little accomplished because I was convinced that at least one of my children would get sucked into the abyss and never come back. I suppose that if game cube were around while they were in the waves and perhaps if they were playing it at the same time and say, fighting, I would welcome the whole idea of abyss sinking. But I was petrified every two minutes, actually, and kept putting that bookmark back into the book. So I read during the two hour traffic jam (we were at a complete stop right before the Wilson Bridge) and read more then than I did the two solid days at the beach combined.

The Oldest was just recently reading a Garfield comic. "What's impressionable?" he asked.
The Professor replied, "a person who is easily influenced by something---a person who believes anything another person says to them, something like that."

"You!" I said.
He looked at me and folded his arms in fake anger. "I am not impressionable!"
"You believed the tooth fairy," chimed the Professor.
"I never believed it!"he roared.
"Oh, come on!" we practically said in unison.
I walked over to the cupboard to get a few things to set up for dinner. I could hear the Professor telling him about how he overheard a conversation with the Girl and him about proving the tooth fairy was real or not.
"You both have lied to me. You were the culprits. You and Mom. And I never believed it."
I rolled my eyes as I pulled the potatoes out of the oven.
"What about the note?" asked the Professor.
"I knew that wasn't real!" shrieked Mickey Mouse.
"Then why did you look up the Elvish characters in the Lord of the Rings book?"
"I was trying to prove it!"
"But you believed it for a second didn't you?"
"Maybe I believed it when I was three..." he muttered, sort of defeated.

Still Here, Just Putting Up Some Pics

My neck is presently burned, I have eaten too much beach food, and the kids are all semi-whiny. I can not WAIT to get home tomorrow. I don't know how people do week long vacations. I don't think I could ever do it, seriously. I am a homebody.

See you all perhaps tomorrow!

Leaving, Will Be Back in a Few

We are leaving for the beach in the morning and I am not sure if the Professor will bring his macbook or not. We will see. Sometimes he surprises me. He will, however, bring a New Yorker and I will bring Return of the King. Blogger is sort of wigging out so I better get off here. Maybe I will have some photos to post from the trip.

Be back on Thursday.

The Girl and I were listening to "Ramble On" by Led Zep on the way home from grocery shopping and since the lyric said "Mordor" and "Gollum" she said, "You need to play this song for your literature class, Mom!"

I had a huge laugh. I told her that I didn't think the Moms would appreciate that very much. Jimmy Paige was a Satanist, you know. He may be sort of ugly but he sure can play guitar.

And I have Robert Plant hair, don't you think?

This and That (2)

The Professor told me that I was the model wife yesterday because I ironed (gasp!) and vacuumed in the same day. Those are the two chores I hate the most. I would rather clean toilets, wipe up excrement, you name it. I would even rather go down in the crawl space where there are spiders aplenty.

Which reminds me. Remember this post? On Wednesday morning when waiting for the exterminator (we have had issues with carpenter ants---I guess that is normal for living in the forest) I realized that I would have to ask the guy to go into the crawl space to see if they are emerging from there. He was a little afraid! He said crawl spaces were not his thing and asked me how it looked down there. I told him that I have gone down there several times to get things out and to turn water on and off during the season changes and it is pretty clean. Some spider eggs and whatnot, but clean. He told me spiders are what he fears. And exterminator? What?!

When entering my crawl space, you have to open up a little latched door on the side of my house by the patio. Once the wooden door is swung open it kicks on a light switch above. In order to turn off the light you have to reach over and switch the light off once out of the crawl space and you have to manually shut the door and lock it in place again. It is a nice little operation, but not so nice if you are deathly afraid of the crawl space, I would imagine.

What did I find once I was outside again cooking dinner later that evening? The crawl space door swung wide open (still) and the light on. I suppose the guy was so afraid that he just ran out of there and did not dare to reach his arm in again to flip the switch and grab at the door to lock it. What a wimp.

I am heading to the pool. I am losing my tan, so I have to get out there again. I have so much to read and so little time.

Wait

Here is a recording of a song I wrote called "Wait". Check it out and tell me what you think if you have the capability. I sort of did the vocals in one take so I got a little lazy. I guess they could be better, but when you have kids coming in and out when you are recording and making noise, you take what you can get and think, "maybe I will re-do that later, just not now."

When It Rains, It Pours

Before I get on that treadmill, I have to write about my day yesterday.

The doc gave me meds to help me sleep----actually, to help me not feel so stiff that I sleep so little at night. Believe me, it does help. Maybe a little too much. I suppose I must be a little person (it is funny to even think of myself that way because I don't feel small) because the lowest dose about runs me over. Heaven forbid if I take the normal dose. I won't be able to get out of bed. That said, yesterday, I woke up drowsy and then throughout the day I remained drowsy until about five o'clock.

My sister in law called me at eleven thirty to remind me that we were supposed to meet at a waterpark later in the afternoon. I had completely forgotten. I felt like a nimrod. I thought all morning I would take the kids to the pool and read The Two Towers. Instead I got them all ready, looked for towels, and drove back home three times once out of my subdivision to get things I had forgotten or things others in my troop forgot. We must make sure we have everything because my sister in law is at least an hour away. We live in the boonies.

"Where are your swim shorts?!" I barked at the Oldest, who went into the bathroom at home to put them on once I told him to. We were presently in the car.

"They are on," he said, face stuffed in a Superman comic.

"No, they are not," I said firmly, trying to keep my eyes on the road. I turned around.

"I went into the bathroom and everything! You are telling me I didn't put them on!!!!????"

Not only am I drowsy, I am irritiable at this point. Not only do I have to remember my own swim suit, I have to remind my Oldest child, who is as big as me, of his. It was pretty much sheer luck that I saw he did not have it on.

Once at my SIL's house, I was too drowsy to even push the departure to the waterpark, just miles down the street. I mooched chocolate off of her hoping that I would wake up a bit. I didn't. The kids played for a spell. Finally we did leave.

The waterpark was fine up until the end. I woke up eventually, as I said, so things got better. The Professor was going to meet us there after work, so I wanted to make sure I knew where the kids were every second so he wouldn't have a heart attack once he arrived. Eventually he did arrive. We went in the lazy river together for about fifteen minutes (the park was almost closing). Once we left the river, we decided to walk on a bridge to get to the lockers to gather our things before herding the kids. Suddenly I heard a yell behind me.

The Oldest was holding an ice pack on the back of his head and a lifeguard was following him with a clip-board. Apparently my boy slipped and fell on the back of his head "just like a cartoon" (as he put it). He literally had an egg popping out. It looked brutal. The lifeguard looked so concerned and apologetic that I shook my head and waved her off.

"Trust me," I said to relieve her, "if he is still mouthing off and talking incessantly like this, he is fine."

All he cared about on the drive home was how to position the ice pack in such a way so as to finish reading his Hardy Boys novel.

Like that wasn't enough, Eraser Eater started to moan in the car. I get on the highway home (thankfully I took back roads) and pretty soon my son says, "My head hurts!" We all know what this means: the boy is going to toss his cookies. The Professor was directly ahead of me in his car so I blinked my lights at him and pulled over. He just kept driving and went home, I guess. I thought, Oh, he'll come back when he sees that I am not behind him. Whatever.

I got out of the car and pulled Eraser Eater out from his side and took him to the grass on the side of the road. He wretched in a little huddle, clean and undramatic.
"I think I am done now," he said faintly.
We drove further.
"Gotta puke again!" he said from the back. At this point in my driving there was nowhere to pull over for about a mile or so. "Hold it in!" I said, worried about the leather seats.

He moaned back there for a spell---just long enough to get to the place where I could get him out of the car again. Instead of immediately tossing his cookies, he just sat there and stewed for a little bit. The Oldest slammed all the car doors shut so he would not have to hear the sound of barfing. The Girl peeped out the windows to see the sight. I was getting a little impatient as I was in my bathing suit holding a Hello Kitty towel the Girl said we could use to wipe his puke mouth.
"It's coming in just a second," he said flatly.
"Are you sure?" I said, looking around.
"Yeah, just another second----now..."
And I think he let loose all the food from yesterday and the day before.
"Man, there's even carrots in there!" he said, surprised, "and it looks like the slop you would get from a cafeteria. Straight from a cafeteria. How do people eat that stuff?!"
"Ok, man, let's go home." I had to pull him away.

He talked about it in the car. The Oldest had had enough. "Please!!!!" he shouted.

Then Eraser Eater continued to talk about what happens when you take in food, and the whole chemical process of digestion. "Now what is that stuff called that is all sticky and sour that helps break the food down?"

"Uh, bile?"

"Yes, bile. It tastes gross."

"Ok! OK!!!!" yelled the Oldest, "I have a pounding head here!"

"Oh Mom, gotta stop again!!!" Eraser Eater yelled from the back. I took him to the battlefield exhibit a mile from our house. I hate being that close yet not being there.

He sat and stewed once again. Finally I informed him that we were a minute from home. An ant crawled on him and he jumped up, wagging his arm. "Something just crawled on me!!!!!" He danced around. He gave an irritated look. "Let's go home then, Mom, I would rather puke in the toilet anyway."

I May Have Killed the Game System

I went to a friend's house today mainly for my sake, but the kids did get a little play time with her kids. The Oldest hung out with her two oldest and played legos while my friend, Eraser Eater, the Girl and I played croquet outside. Everything goes back to Alice with me. At one point I did really say, "off with your head!" so that was worth the trouble of standing out in the sun and getting mosquito bites.

After croquet was over we went to the common area to pick wild blackberries. My friend got caught in the brambles so I ran over to rescue her. She was sort of twisted up, her shirt about to rip. While I did this a piercing scream rang in my ear. I turned around sharply and saw my daughter freaking out. Apparently something stung her. I had to carry her to the house and nurse her back to health. After she calmed down she said, "thankfully that bee will die now for revenge."

To my shame, this morning I actually kicked the Game Cube. I wasn't throwing a fit really, but I was pretty miffed. Apparently I allowed the kids to play the thing for a few hours and when I told them to turn it off Eraser Eater yelped, "but I didn't get a turn yet!"

That, brothers and sisters, means war. I practically spontaneously combusted at that point. #1 thing to NOT say when I allow you to play for THREE hours. I told them of my utter hatred for the game system. I told them that I think games rot your brain and this is waste. And waste is like poop.

"Do you remember if you beat level 127 of Zelda or some Luigi/Mario thing?" I may as well have said intendo. They almost opened up their mouths to correct me but I shushed them and pointed my finger in the air.

"No," someone said.

"Exactly! And you cry about this! You moan about turns and who whipped you or who beat all your guys. You cry about not having as much time as anyone else and you cry out that it is not fair. Life is not fair! And this is not worth it! I hate game cube! No one cries and whines about books! No one cries that they can't read the fifth Lemony Snickett book because someone else has it!" And this was my cue to kick it, which is what I did.

They all stared.

I put the game cube in the coat closet and walked back to them. "Next time it's a hammer and a smile on my face. Don't think I won't do it either because you know I will."

I think we need to start school tomorrow. It was easier then. The grass is always greener, eh?

Mass Chaos

I have not died or anything rash like that, so be still. My mouth has made it---it is slowly getting better. Granted, you can not notice a thing on the outside. My mouth is also so small that even when I talk you can not see my "appliances". So it is all not so bad and the pain is minimizing tremendously.

I almost had a hemorrhage the other day when getting rid of our old couch to welcome the new. My brand new wood floors got a gigantic scrape (thanks to my Oldest who pulled instead of "lifted") when I said the word. I took my dining room rug and covered it so I wouldn't throw up at the loss of perfection. We live in houses, don't we? I am still trying to figure out a way to fix a deep scratch about the size of my foot (size seven, mind you). Oh, the sound when it did its thing (the couch). I woke up in the night with blaring sirens in my head. And only in my head. I have gone crazy. I put a pillow over my ear to stifle the high-pitched squeal but it did not help. It was in my head. The floor is making me lose my mind. Any suggestions on what to do with the floor? Any hard wood experts out there? The agony.

I have since done other things to further prove that I have lost my mind, but I won't mention it here because I am too prideful. I am, however, not too prideful to admit that I have burned pancakes a plenty and completely charred chicken wings to where they are ashen. I shed a few tears when the Professor came home (directly after my blunder), completely at a loss since I have lost my brain, and he put his junk down immediately and started the wings over again after throwing the old ones away. The only thing I had to do in return was get him a beer. When this was done I nursed my singed arm hairs. Yes, I did singe them. Seriously. I hate the smell of burning hair.

And that's all for now. How are you guys doing?

The Orthodontist Killed my Jaw

I am in much pain. No, not much, ALL pain. I feel like a saw went to my gum. I just had an implant in---yes, I am complaining (eat my shorts whoever it is that thinks I complain too much)---a screw that is going in my gum beneath my teeth so some special thing can get done for alignment and braces. Not only do I have a metal screw in my gum, I have heavier wiring, and I feel like death. DEATH I tell you. I am no wimp either. I can fight pain. I am about to puke.

No, I am alive. And this living human feels lots of PAIN.

The Girl was in the room when the doctor screwed the screw in with her tool. I felt it the whole time. Not a pleasant experience, but with my daughter there I decided I would do my best to keep my face and body still.

"Are you using a screwdriver?" she asked the doc.

"Sort of," she said.

"Are you just screwing it in?"

"You could say that," the doc answered.

"Looks like you are about done," the Girl said as I laughed at the oddness of the whole situation. The doctor was trying to make it less traumatic for the Girl while I was trying to keep a good face for the Girl and the doctor. Uh, yeah, it hurts, but uh, lets just get this thing over with, k?

"Can I see the screw?" the Girl asked.

Right then the doc was finished with the job and she allowed the Girl to see my gum.

"That's vile!" Her face went sour and she backed up.

"That's a big word for a little girl," the doc said, "you get that from your brothers?"

"No," I said, "from her mother."

Is the pain supposed to hit my ear? I am so not good. I will so not sleep tonight and I will so not eat food for a long long time.

Excuse me now (seriously) while I go upstairs to die. Heaven help me if I ever get a bullet wound.

It's the Coolest Being a Fan of Phil Wickham

I am on this album cover!!! All of the biggest Phil Wickham fans are, I guess. I watched his concert on May 9 in Portland (which was awesome) and so he asked all of his devoted fans to send pictures of themselves since they watched from home. See if you can spot me.

And, most important, go download Phil's singalong album for FREE like it says on this banner on the date specified.

Is There Anything the Man Can't Do?

The Professor is a little happy with himself because he gets more hits than I do, when in the past that was not so. I had to take him through some stuff to prove it to him so then he typed "John Lennon Led Zeppelin" or the other way around on Google and there you go, he is the first hit. He seemed very happy about that.

But he----

*can't clean up puke
*can't mop a floor on his hands and knees
*can't sing
*can't play an instrument (wait---he plays the tambourine---just kidding)
*can't cross his eyes
* can't cook (he can grill though!)
*can't spell the name "Diane" correctly
* can't eat a great number of foods because he would puke and then he *can't clean it up
*can't run
*can't run a mile
*can't kill a mole with a shovel
*can't drink Coors Light
*can't not buy a book
*can't not use his brain
*can't be dumb for once
*can't mow the lawn without dying of allergies
*can't stop thinking everything Oasis does is cool
*can't put things together
*can't kill a plant
*can't be still when flying insects are near
*can't stop the stacks
*can't explain his complicated books to me because it would take too many explanations of different words in order for his wife to understand them.
*can't stop veering to the right when he drives
*can't take the car for an oil change


So I gotta go get that oil change now. See ya.

To Hide

So go here to listen to a recent addition to my podcast. The crazies did the stomping and clapping on the song. We had a lot of fun with it. If you don't listen to it the chain will be broken and demons will emerge from the depths of the earth and make you eat rotten apples forever. Amen and amen.

Scarlett is only Pretty

I got an update from itunes and noticed Scarlett Johanssen has an album out. I decided to give it a listen.

It is a kindness for me to say that it was horrid. The girl can not sing. Period. Is this what America has come to? Not only do we have mediocre people singing on American Idol (save Kelly Clarkson or any of the earlier people---Carrie Underwood is good as well), we have actors singing and they completely, totally, utterly stink. Don't get me going on Britney Spears. But Britney is in luck compared to Scarlett. Britney sounds like an angel if we were to do this. It is an insult to music period to give people record deals that lack musical ability. It insults ME to think that the music industry thinks I want to listen to a beautiful actor sing terribly.

Personally, I don't care what musicians look like. I listen to them, I don't look at them.

Broken Glasses

It seems like I am impatient with this strep. My daughter seems to be getting a little better, I mean, she is not crying all the time, but I thought that she would feel tons better being on antibiotics for two days. Someone tell me that it takes a few and that will be enough for me. I have never dealt with this before.

I started Prince Caspian last night with her. I told her to go down and get "the next book" and she came up with it, reluctant. So, we are not committing a Narnian crime, we are doing the right thing. I feel much better.

The Oldest is addicted to a lotion from Bath and Body Works that I got as a gift years ago (Sandalwood Rose). I put it in the downstairs bathroom to get it used up. Now I smell it everywhere. He keeps rubbing his hands together and telling me that his scent is so nice for stress relief. Give me a break.

Yesterday I heard some booming going on upstairs and pretty soon the Oldest came down with his BRAND NEW pair of glasses, completely bent and the lens popped out. I almost took his hand and bit it. "{Eraser Eater} sat on them!" he yelped in high tones.

"Who took them off to be sat on? Were you rough-housing?"

"Yes...." he winced.

A few weeks ago this happened to Eraser Eater's glasses. You go through it enough (last year the Oldest lost his in some kid's yard) to where you imagine yourself at that moment holding up the damaged frames and screaming into the turning of the day, but then you come to your senses quickly remembering that it only gives you a hoarse voice and a headache. Parents with kids that are as old as mine are tired, people. And if they are older than me, they are more tired. If only you could just give them an Indian burn or something for your trouble of having to get them fixed, but then you realize that is juvenile. You have already taken away game cube. It doesn't work either with Eraser Eater because he could care less about anything but drawing plans and Architectural Record. I can't take that away. That would be plain abuse.

I should have made him write sentences. I made him do it last week. Boy, was that a chore. It was more punishment for me than for him. He just cried a lot and wrote. I had to listen to it and talk him down. Not only was this happening at all, it was happening in public, at the pool. Yes, I made him take his notebook to the pool before he could go in it and write, "I will not hit my brother" fifty times. When half-way through, I found that he did not write "in his best cursive" (he wrote in print) as indicated on the top of the page, so I made him start over. Oh, if hell could rise up and gobble the earth! He immediately wept and lamented, right in the car on the way to the pool.

Sorry pal, you do it right the first time.

And as I read over what I just wrote, I think how ridiculously easy that punishment is. I get so sick of hearing, "my hand hurts!" and all that rot.

So---on the list for today---get the glasses fixed.

This and That

The Girl has strep throat. When we went to the Smithsonian, I suppose she got it because the boy we were with was carrying it at that time. He woke up with strep the next morning. My Girl was so sore yesterday before church that I decided to take her to the emergency care down the road instead. This weekend is her cousin's birthday too and I am sure that she infected her cousin who was here a few days ago. I feel so bad! How about getting strep on your birthday!

The Professor and I keep clearing our throats. So far so good.

I feel guilty waking up at nine in the morning, but hey, that's the way it goes when you sleep so little the night before. I kept having dreams of Elves and webs. I would pull out sting and cut the webs with it's glowing blade. Orcs are near. Or that big fat spider. I am delving deeply into the Lord of the Rings.

An exterminator is coming today to eliminate the carpenter ants I keep seeing everywhere. I kill about ten a day and ten is just too much.

Last night the Girl and I finished The Horse and His Boy (finally), and found that the next book would be Prince Caspian. "I don't want to read that one," said the Girl sharply, "I just want to move on with The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I have seen the movie!" I almost had a hernia. I looked at the Professor for assistance but he looked at her endearingly with compassion and said, "Of course you can move on to Dawn Treader. You did already see the movie Prince Caspian. Makes sense."

Did legion suddenly take over my husband's brain? What is he thinking?

And now Eraser Eater wants me to get off the computer so he can go on Architecturalrecord.com. That's a hoppin' site for nine year olds.

Nonsense (don't waste your time)

Last night I was told that I always look "nonplussed."

On another very uncomfortable and negative occasion I was told that I was mean.

I think I need to quit my job. I am smiling as I say this.

At least when I am home people cry and whine when I leave because apparently I am not so mean there. But then I am rather nonplussed at all times because I tend to forget what it is that I truly need to do so I get all confused and walk around in circles.

I have been running a lot this week too. Maybe that adds to my perplexed state. I burn so many calories it burns a hole in my brain or some nonsense like that. The crazy doctor said that I should run every day instead of five times a week, so I am trying that to see if I get less tired the days I don't run. This is causing me to run 36-42 miles a week, which sounds exhausting, but I suppose if you get it done in the morning you are ok. I was more worried about whether or not my knees or legs could do it, but the doctor seemed to think it would be just fine; I only need to have a regular dose of squats and leg lifts, which I started this past week.

I should probably try to run a marathon some day, but I am afraid I would be so confused the whole time that I would run in circles instead of running straight ahead. I would most likely have to use the port-a-potties as well every half hour, so I would be the last to cross the finish line.

It's useless. I am just too mean and nonplussed to exist.

Liquid Cow

Last night the Prof. and I took the kids to dinner for pizza.

Afterward we went to the grocery store to buy two gallons of milk because we were obviously running out.

I have no idea what happened, but I woke up this morning and the two gallons of milk were still on the floor next to the door. There goes eight bucks.

I just dumped it all down the sink, I can't remember bringing it all in. Maybe I did. You know, at some point, you do something so many times you can't remember if you did it ten years ago, or if it was last night.

The sad thing is that the milk probably has so many gross hormones and whatnot in it that it would have been safe to drink. If it were up to me I would buy the organic stuff, but the Professor refuses to buy anything health nutty to a certain extent. I just barely drink the stuff anyway. If it makes your kids prematurely develop, then I hope it works for the Oldest. His high-pitched Mickey Mouse voice gets to me during the long days of existing.

Wayward Bride

Go here to listen to Wayward Bride. I did a video recording of this on YouTube a good handful of months ago, but now you get to hear it recorded. Make sure to read the lyrics as well. Thanks for listening.

Smithsonian

Yesterday was a crazy day. My friend, who has four kids under the age of seven, went with us to the Renwick Gallery at the Smithsonian. So we parked across the street from it. They had an amazing room full of Catlin portraits. I mean, it was jam-packed. I could have done without the ugly breast trophy in the other gallery, but you can't always get what you want.

Eraser Eater was unusually cold the whole time (he has always boasted of being "cold proof" and until yesterday it was true). He was also unusually tired. Granted, walking for an HOUR to get to the Natural History museum from the Renwick Gallery was a bit much. My friend's kids were stumbling around listless, mine were moving slowly, hot-cheeked. The Oldest would not stop complaining. At one point he was saying he was delirious. If that were so it would have served us all well, but it was an exaggeration and we had to bear with a non-delirious complainer. I asked my friend if duct tape was considered abuse and she laughed and said, "yes." Shucks. However, we could always say that he is standing for the pro-life movement and write "life" on the duct tape. That way he would be saying something, yet not saying something. He IS pro-life. It would work.

Anyway, eventually it got better. Except for Eraser Eater. He was just not doing well. He looked somewhat pale and very tired, asking me (with all courtesy) for a place to sit for a spell and then he could move on. I really felt for him. He just looked so entirely weak that I offered to pick him up, but he refused and said that he could manage it, he just needed a bit of rest. He looked like Frodo, at the foot of Mount Doom, the Ring heavy upon him. I was Sam saying, "I will carry you, Mr. Frodo!"

He fell asleep in the car on the way home, poor kid. Then we ate dinner. I made them all snow cones for such good attitudes (although I did wish to put duct tape on the Oldest, he did shape up eventually and he did well considering he enjoys putting all of us through vocal misery whenever there is a silent spell or not a silent spell. At one point he chose not to seize those opportunities and I was grateful.). Eraser Eater, upon finishing his snow cone, suddenly got extremely chilled. "I am so cold!" he said a little loudly, grabbing a blanket to read his book.

I finally went over to check his head. He had a fever!!!! It was almost 102!!!!! I bet he had a fever all day!

I felt like a complete wretch. I tell you, that kid is amazing. He never complains, just states his need if he absolutely has to. Of the many times I offered to carry him he refused and kept going. Thankfully I wasn't mean to him at all and tried to help him all I could. Whenever he has to throw up he politely asks for a bucket or goes to the toilet himself and cleanly does the job. I have always boasted that he could puke in a thimble. He could.

And I don't know how the Prof. puts up with me. I used up all his gas in the car yesterday (we switched cars for our trip) and didn't fill up. The Oldest said, "Uh, Mom, aren't you going to get gas?" once we hit near home.

"Nope," I said, "I hate getting gas and last time it splattered all over my foot. I wasted about five bucks doing that. It's a man's job."

But this morning, when it got down to telling him he was on low, I winced as I confessed.

He rolled his eyes, shook his head and got in the car.

I am a wretch.

Even My Children Torture Me

In the sunroom where I run on my treadmill, every wall is a sliding glass door. To cut down on the darkness when I run, I open up the blinds next to the treadmill and the blinds in front of it. It is nice to at least see the squirrels running around in the woods. It is a pleasant view besides the occasional guy urinating on a tree or cops pulling up and knocking on doors to serve papers most likely.

Just this morning I was walking off my long run when I saw my daughter out the window. She turned and looked at me, hair all knotted up, with a smile on her face. She ran up to the window and stuck out her fist. Then she upturned it and opened her fingers to reveal an old rusty penny. When she saw my reaction she ran off laughing her sides off.

Tooth Fairy Unmasked

Yesterday I told the crazies the truth. Actually, what got me to do it was the fact that my Oldest, who is twelve, still believes in the tooth fairy. Now, my Girl has had her doubts and has even accused me of the various gifting of change in large amounts into a cup that she'd find in the morning, but I have always sort of lied and acted dumb. It has disturbed me greatly of late to see that my son would leave notes pleading with the tooth fairy to spare an extra buck or two. It is equally disturbing to see his eyes shine at the thought of something fluttery, pink, and prissy, armed with a wand. I think. I have had to tell mountains of lies about what this thing looks like, what she or it does with the teeth, you know.

So the Professor had this grand idea to put a note next to my son's cup of change with Lord of the Rings script on it. The Oldest would enter the bathroom and find the note, unable to decipher it. Grand idea. He meticulously copied the characters and I scanned them as well to make sure it did not look like his small, cramped print that only the Professor could write himself. This was to lightly inform the boy that the tooth fairy is not real. Not my idea. I just wanted to out right tell them.

I got up the next morning forgetting all about it. Finally as I was making coffee the note was shoved in my face and my son said, "This is Lord of the Rings code!" He was angry.

I ignored him, feigning fatigue and disorientation.

He proceeded to get one of the books from our library and yelled out, "This is from the back of the book! Did you write this?! This looks sort of like Dad's writing!"

I continued to make coffee. Just keep the money and be happy dude. Not my idea.

It was a constant subject of the day. Why would a fairy write in Lord of the Rings language? Gee, I don't know, maybe all the fairies come from Middle-Earth! Maybe Gimli and Legolas, whenever they would lose baby teeth, would anxiously await some sort of mithril or something to cascade into their goblets while they were asleep.

I got sick of hearing about it. This note---this thing that was not my doing anyway. "Dad doesn't write that good, Mom must have done it." (I realize that was poor grammar)

This sealed it. They could not pin the note on me.

So later on in the day I was having issues with keeping my cool because I was being back talked all day long. I decided then and there to drop the bomb. I called all the kids from upstairs where I had banished them.

"Who is the tooth fairy?" I asked. I had my hand on my hip, mouth puckered in slight anger.

They all stood there silent and confused. The Oldest clutched his book tighter. Eraser Eater looked at the wall but had a slight smile. The Girl looked a bit bewildered.

"Santa Claus?" I asked----to sort of taunt them.

Eraser Eater's smile got bigger. "Daddy!?" he squealed.

"No," I said sharply. "And it is nothing imaginary. Do you think that I would allow some weird fairy to come into my house? Do you think I would allow something unnatural to take my children's teeth? Don't you think that is a little frightening and odd?"

They all had crestfallen faces. The Girl lifted her arm and pointed, face shrewd. "You!" she yelled.

The Oldest's mouth dropped open in shock. "How could you?!"

I don't know what I expected. I didn't expect anything, really.

"I did think that it could have been an angel at one point," said Eraser Eater, "but I wasn't sure."

"I did think it was you for a long time," said the Girl, "but then I thought of all the money you would have had to touch and I can not imagine you holding coins. Did you have to hold them all that time? I'm sorry."

"Yes, I did hold the money, but I just washed my hands, you know, once I dropped the coins in the cup," I said with a nod to the Girl.

"Does this mean we don't get money if we lose a tooth anymore?!" the Oldest yelped hoarsely.

The Great Pool Story

I am an observant person for the most part, so the pool is always a delightful way to spend a silent afternoon. At least, of course, I would be silent and spectating. I don't think I stand out much, except for the red sunglasses, and I don't have a figure to be scorned for. I just sit there and either watch people and my children or read a book and take notes.

Yesterday a mother who lives down the street from me brought her three daughters in. They seemed harmless enough to me, but she kept yelling at them over sitting on a towel, or not standing in the right place. And when she would yell something the second time, she would put her gut in it and growl. Being about four chairs down, it wasn't a pleasant experience. It started to get really annoying because she was yelling constantly in the pool and out of it. And not only that, I noticed that she had a certain tone quality that matched the Oldest's voice (imagine that) and a semi-growling Mickey Mouse was on the loose. I thought my ears would burst.

Near the end of our stay I sat by the pool and watched the Girl do tricks. While this was happening a few good-for-nothing girls approached me and asked me what my daughter's name was (who was close to their age). I told them. Five minutes later they came up and asked me what my Oldest son's name was (I knew this was coming). I told them. Five minutes from then they came to me and told me that he called one of the girls a "brat".

I said, "Well, were you being a brat?"
She could barely look at me. "Uh, no."
I half smiled and said, "Sure, I can talk to him. But would you like me to spank him for you?"
Their eyes went wide and they laughed. One said yes, the others said no. I was being totally sarcastic because I knew the girls were up to no good.

When leaving I said to the Oldest, "so are you name calling or are those girls just being trouble?"

"I did not call them brats mom."

"They told me you called that one girl a brat. If you did, name calling is never appropriate. Some day some guy is going to give you a good sock in the face. People have hard lives and they get mad over little stuff easily. It's good to keep your mouth shut."

"Oh, I know what you said about the spanking thing, I am NOT happy about it," flamed the Oldest.

I had to have a little giggle behind my hand, "What did they say to you?"

"They said you wanted to spank me."

"I was being sarcastic. Their fault for not taking my message. I don't believe a word they say."

"Good. They just don't like me...."

And he went on about how they torture him for no reason and how now that he has made a friend they are trying to plot the friend against him. I really don't get kids. I know my son can be annoying and rude because of his Asperger's, but do I REALLY have to shout it to the world to make them understand this?

The drive home was full of words.

"I am very glad that you guys obey immediately when I tell you that we have to go home. Thank you."

"Are you saying that because those girls with that yelling mother didn't obey her?" asked the Oldest.

"Yeah, a little."

"Does that make you feel better than her?"

I tell you, with this dude you get it straight. "No, man. I don't feel better than her. I feel like you guys are well-behaved kids and I am happy about that. Thank you."

"So does that mean you ARE better than her?"

"No."

"She yells all the time."

"Yes, she does."

"You don't."

"No..."

"Some moms think that their kids are the kids that do nothing wrong, like, 'not my angel! He wouldn't do that!'" said Eraser-Eater from the back, "Even if they are bad they never think their kids are bad!"

"Our Mom is so not like that!" yelled the Girl.

"Yeah! She knows we're not angels!" yelled Eraser Eater.

I almost laughed but I couldn't get the image of the big fat booger hanging out of the teenager's nose as he swam around in the pool. It was huge. And when he turned around again, it had gone---gone into the abyss of chlorine and kid sweat, swirling probably on to one of my angel's swim suits, infecting it. That is when I pointed my finger as I stood alongside the pool and waved it back and forth, which always means, "you, you, you, we leave the premises, now."

Apples to Apples

My Oldest thinks the game Apples to Apples is the greatest thing. He begged me to play it with him the other night alongside the Girl. As smart as the Girl is, she never really quite gets the whole idea---well, she totally does, but she always picks the off the wall answer instead of the right on target one. And if the player happens to be me and she is the judge, she always picks my answer no matter how bad. I am mom, mom rules, you know?

I have never seen a girl quite so obsessed. She reaches across the table for me at dinner time, excuses herself for five seconds and runs to my side to give me a hug. While we are running an errand she calls me and I look in the rear view. She is stretching her arms out as if she is drowning saying, "I need a hug!" She goes outside and comes back in every ten minutes or so to bestow upon me yet another hug. When I run on the treadmill she stands on the side of it and watches me sweat but smiles sweetly. "When you are done I want a hug. I don't care if you are sweaty and you have braces. You are the best mom ever!" When at the pool she pulls herself out of it from time to time to smile and rest her head on my leg. "I hope you are done reading that book! I want a hug!"

So the word was "dangerous".

I had "bullfighting" and the Oldest had "zipper."

The Girl was the judge. She looked keenly at the card that said "dangerous" and then looked swiftly at "bullfighting" and "zipper."

"Bullfighting is pretty dangerous," she said.

"Yes, but zippers are more dangerous!" piped the Oldest with a smile. "Feel bad for me," he said, knowing she was leaning my way, "once, a long time ago, I was zipping up my pants and I accidentally zipped up my peter. It was horrible----it hurt so bad. It hurt so bad that I have never forgotten it, even now when I zip up my pants! I have to move back a little just to avoid it."

The Girl gave a truly deep from her heart sort of moan. Her eyes squinted in pure sympathy. She looked like she had a tummy ache. He got her. She fingered the bullfighting card, aimed it at me like she was in turmoil---she for once did not know who to pick. She gave a cramped look and handed the card to the Oldest. He yelped in triumph, happy he got a second card.

More

I have a new song up on my podcast. Go give it a listen. And listen to the other ones if you have not done that already! I will be pleased as punch.

Braces and Working

I am finally getting used to the braces. By next week I will be going back to the ortho and they will put in heavier wiring in addition to pulling things tighter. So, once you get used to it all, you are back to the pain game. The freaky thing is that my teeth are all loose, so it feels sort of strange that I can jolt my molars and whatnot around with my tongue.

I have been chewing gum like a mad woman (the acceptable sugarless kind) so I do not experience severe halitosis like Shealy warned. So far it has been going well. Except you find all manner of people who enjoy the lingering smell of watermelon or blueberry so much that they ask you if you have a spare stick. Last night one of my co-workers (she is a teenager) asked me for a piece of my fabulous smelling gum. For some reason I have no issues saying no or ordering her around since she at times has no idea what she is doing. I did give her a piece eventually though.

Another associate approached us as we were labeling merchandise and started speaking German to the teenager. They both started off in their language, waving their arms about.

"Hey," I said, "To speak another language that you know another associate does not speak is forbidden."

They looked at me with wide eyes. "Diversity training," I said, "remember?"

The intruding associate walked off.

"She was just telling me that I had dirt all over my {rear end}," the teenager said.

Parent's Day

I forgot to post about Father's Day.

Everyone seems to be posting about it and I completely ignored it. We went to the Professor's sister's house for the festivities and then went home and called the Prof's Dad.

I got the Prof. an Adidas jacket (that is green, mind you---I couldn't help myself), a tie, and a silicon barbecue baster. He made these incredible ribs (with some help from his wife) and now he is Bobby Flay.

He needed a utensil since he got me a knife set for Mother's Day. Yes, a knife set. Doozie would be proud.

The fact is, I really can't stand Mother's or Father's Day. I think that it is silly to have a day where you are celebrated for being a parent and then you don't have to be a parent for the day. But I am sure everyone says that. I remember when Mother's Day hit people behind counters and at various stores and what not kept saying, "Have a happy Mother's Day!"
Not a kid was in sight. "How do you know I am a mother?" I would ask.
"I didn't. I just hope you have a happy Mother's Day," they would say.
"Do I look like a mother?"
"No, actually, you don't, but it is a holiday so I thought I would say happy Mother's Day anyway."

Is it like "Merry Christmas?"
I don't get it. Really, I don't.

Appendix

Yesterday was not a good day. I can, however, look at it now and laugh at it.

Right when I was doing a little recording Eraser Eater was moaning about on the couch saying that his "thigh" hurt. It is not uncommon for the boy to whine about nothing just for the sake of attention and his apparent love of crying. {he has actually admitted that he loves to cry} I had no tolerance for it. Finally, after more and more whining, I went to him to see what was the matter. Apparently he was experiencing pain in his abdomen/groin area, not his thigh. He was refusing to walk or stand up straight; he would crawl around if he was not on the love seat drawing his designs. He also cried out a little when I pressed on the area with my hand.

At some point during the day the Professor called. "Oh yeah," I said, "{Eraser Eater} says that his abdomen hurts."
The Professor was very concerned. He wondered why I wasn't. "I don't know why you are so non-challant about this, Rach," he said. To be honest, I had not hydrated myself properly and my back hurt, so I was not in the mood to deal with Eraser Eater's issues. I figured if it were his appendix, the pain would be on the other side and he would be screaming. I had the Oldest pour him a glass of water. The Professor insisted that I call the doctor before I had to go to work later that night.

So I did.

And I got him in.

And they thought maybe it was a hernia and he needed an ultrasound the next day.

So they scheduled one and I went home and made dinner before work.

As we were eating, Eraser Eater put down his second sandwich (we had croissant sandwiches) and said, "I have to poop."

I rolled my eyes.

After he bombed the house with his stench, I called him to me. "Do you feel any more pain?"

"Nope!" He smiled.

"Let me press your area," I said.

I pressed it.

He laughed.

I canceled the ultrasound.

I called the Professor. "He had to go to the bathroom," I said, pretty angrily.

"Yeah, I thought that was it at first," he said.

I wondered at that moment if gnawing on the wooden chair next to me would be appropriate.

Yet Another Song Up

I am really sorry but I have another song that I finished or just sort of finished. At least I am done with it for now.

Go give it a listen. And um, really do it this time, k? I bet you all are so sick of this!!! Ha ha.

New Song Alert

I just semi-finished a crazy song called You Watch Me on my podcast. Go give it a listen, pronto.

Learning

What I learned outside in the real world this week:

1. I don't look like I would like the Disney movie, Alice in Wonderland. (The funny thing is, I have been talking about it this week on here and I didn't mention it. Someone at work asked me what my favorite Disney film was and I answered and she replied. Hers was Cinderella.)

2. I have been married too long because I didn't know the meaning of metrosexual. A fellow employee was talking about how he needed to get his eyebrows plucked and I gave him a pat on the shoulder to notify him that he is indeed a guy and should not worry about such trivial things.

3. I look like a Charlotte if my name were not my own name. Make sense? Huh.

4. I look like other people I work with because one lady said that I looked identical to another associate and she thought I was helping her, which I wasn't. For the record, I looked nothing like my fellow associate. Nothing. That lady is on crack.

5. I am good at finding things, but of course, I knew this.

6. If you don't eat food you forget to give people their receipts.

7. When water touches leather excessively without getting wiped, it ruins it.

8. I am "proper." I think it is because I don't let the kids watch Shrek because they burp and fart on there.

And I am out of stuff.

Deaf Child

"Don't tell her, Mom, she can't keep secrets!" roared Eraser-Eater this morning.

She was asking about the neighbor and all this stuff going on that I can't explain because it is "adulty".

"But I won't say anything!" she yelped.

"Yeah, she will!" said Eraser Eater. "She almost told Dad about a birthday present you got him last week, and then last father's day when you got him a popcorn maker she blabbed that out, so I wouldn't say anything to her.
That's the day when {the Oldest} said, 'what? a pasta maker?' Like, we would ever get Dad a pasta maker. He doesn't even like pasta! And he can't even hear! Popcorn maker?! Pasta Maker?! We need to get a deaf child sign for the front of our street with him around!" He was waving one arm up in the air and skipping from one foot to the other.

"Hey! I can hear cars!" barked the Oldest from behind a book.

I was laughing so hard I could hardly stand and make breakfast. Life with the Oldest IS like this.
"I will be there in a minute," I would say.
"You will be here in a limit? What's that supposed to mean?" he would respond, completely offended.

"I'm losing interest," I would say.
"You're making cookies for breakfast?" he would respond, very eager to eat this special breakfast.

He comes up with weird stuff and he is totally not messing with me. He even gets angry if the statement does not make sense like I am the one trying to fool him. Either he has a hearing problem or he is so focused on whatever it is he is doing that he only hears the tail end then guesses. I think it is the first and the Prof. thinks it is the latter. I guess he could get his ears checked but last time he was normal. Still funny though. Poor kid.

Another Song

Be sure to stop by my music site for another song recently added.

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

When I was a little girl I read Lewis Carroll's Alice and enjoyed it much. I think though that I had more of an interest in the Disney movie than the book itself because I remember not really getting the humor or understanding what was going on as well as say, one of my homeschooled children. My seven year old daughter could hear excerpts and be rolling around on the floor laughing.

About a month ago I was reading the book to my daughter and found myself enjoying it so much that last night I sneaked it up into bed and read until I feel asleep. The Professor sat next to me Brady style and read his Calvin's Institutes. He has been reading this book for about eight years, no joke. I was laughing so hard when reading the poem "Old Father William" that he stared at me and shook his head.

"Please don't read it to me," he said.

I had already read him a small excerpt of when Alice was swimming in her own tears and talking to a small mouse who was also swimming for its life. She kept talking about her cat Dinah and forgetting that mice don't like cats and the mouse was getting hotly offended. It was just funny. I was giggling as I read it to him but he cut me off in the middle and said, "is it almost over?" like Calvin is so much more interesting. He in turn read his book to me for a spell and I hardly understood what was going on. I consider myself a fairly smart individual.

So here is my two favorite stanzas of William because it made me laugh so hard:

"'You are old', said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak---
Pray, how did you manage to do it?'

'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.'"

I have no idea really why it struck me so funny. The Professor later said to me in a voice of warning, "You know, that Victorians book I have says that Carroll was a weirdo."

I rolled my eyes at him. "Um, I know."

Weirdos are just ridiculously funny people.

A Little Coaxing

When schooling the kids the other day I gave Eraser Eater a list of words to look up in the dictionary since I have to occupy him with supplemental work:

1. vile

2. baleful

3. irate

4. insolent

5. morbid

6. sanguine

Don't you love the last word? So nice. I thought it stood out so well among the others.

I took the Girl and the crew to a water park about an hour away on Friday for her birthday celebration. We had a good time. The Prof remained at work and my sister in law and her kids came along. We also brought the neighbor girl. They all had a blast.

My Oldest was too afraid for the first half of the time to go down the big water slide with an inner tube. He openly wept at one point of sheer frustration that he could not muster up the courage to do it. He would climb all the flights of stairs to get to the top, only to cower down in the corner and watch the line of people meet their doom.

"I can't do it," he would say like Mickey Mouse.
"Look dude. All you have to do is sit in the tube thing and I will push you. Nothing will hurt you," then I proceeded to tell him for the tenth time what you encounter during the long slide down.

He still refused to do it. He would stare at me immobile, like he usually does when he is irrationally, yet neutrally frightened. I don't know how to explain that one---it must be an Aspergian trait he has.

While this was going on, Eraser Eater had already visibly gone down the slide umpteen times. The Oldest was watching him pass by every time out of the corner of his eye.

Finally, once the Girl made the plunge he could stand it no longer. He marched up the steps and made his presence known. I met him up and I was ready. He sat down on the tube and shuddered. "I don't want to go on this anymore..." he squealed.

"Bye!" I said as I pushed him down. At each flight you can see your child round a curve and look at their faces. At first he looked straight up at me and waved his fist in the air exclaiming, "You will pay for this!" Next, he was furrowing his brow and staring at me with a slight smile on his lips. And finally, he was laughing and screeching with his arms up in pure delight. "I love this ride!" he shouted from the bottom.

The Pitiful Personage

I took the Oldest to piano lesson and fell asleep in the car. I keep thinking that youth has escaped me. 

My sister in law left nearly a whole cheesecake in my fridge from Memorial Day and it says on the box that each slice is five HUNDRED calories. I am still steadily eating a piece a day and feeling slightly guilty although I have been eating less since I can't eat with these blasted braces on. But the fat intake is a tad alarming. Let's not talk about it. 

I get excited every time my favorite time of day hits: around four o'clock. I think that this is the time when I start to make dinner, pour myself a glass of wine and enjoy the sun while I grill. But I realized what was missing, why it never meets my expectations. I feel the excitement but then it slowly streams into a dull ache that ends in a headache from the wine--- I miss all my friends from Idaho that I used to chat with before and during the making of meals. That is the sort of emptiness I feel when I see a wine bottle and no one to share it with. Or a comfortable patio set with no one to sit in it with me. The Professor does what he can----he will help me out and drink a beer (or even a glass of wine) to give me the same sensation as in years gone by, but again, it is not the same. He is a part of me, and WE are missing THEM. 

I know I always sound depressing, but I am of the miserable lot that enjoys a little bit of dreariness at various times of the day just for effect. The Professor calls me "dramatic". 

This past weekend the man took the crew to the pool while I was at work and they enjoyed a little sun while there. Well, the Prof. got a good deal of sun. He was so burned that he could not walk down the stairs, or move too quickly. He was so burned he had to have his food brought up to him for two days. To lessen his misery and loneliness he had to sit on the bed with his laptop to communicate with people. He would yell down the stairs if he heard any ruckus from the children and say something like, "Be nice to your mom!" And I am finding that I am heavily influenced by Lemony Snickett at the moment. We are currently listening to the Hostile Hospital. Oh, those poor orphans. 

Nevermind.

How are you all doing? Fill up my comments area. I am missing all my friends. Take pity.

And don't forget to listen to my sad, bleak and dreary songs here. 

My New Stuff is Up

Thanks to the Oldest I was able to figure out how to record some songs without it sounding completely fuzzy (they are not perfect, but please listen) and dreadful. I am going to change some things most likely at one point, but I thought I would at least put some up for your listening enjoyment.

And get this---the song called "A Sign" is not a Christian song! So there. I can do it.

I'm so wicked.

Look here for all the silliness.

Morbid Song

This is my cover of "There is a Light that Never Goes Out" by the Smiths. Yes, Morrissey really does sing, "...to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die..." I always loved it since I was a kid.

I played with my thumb instead of a pick because I wanted to help you out with hearing the lyrics. I think it is pretty funny. Morrissey must have been deliciously depressed when he wrote this song.



Now that I hear the song I think I will type out the lyrics for you:

Take me out tonight where there's music and there's people who are young and alive
Driving in your car I never never want to go home because I haven't got one anymore
Take me out tonight because I want to see people and I want to see lights
Driving in your car oh please don't drop me home because it's not my home it's their home and I'm welcome no more

And if a double decker bus crashes into us
to die by your side, such a heavenly way to die
and if a ten ton truck kills the both of us
to die by your side, well the pleasure the privilege is mine

Take me out tonight, take me anywhere I don't care I don't care I don't care
and in the darkened underpass I thought oh my chance has come at last
And then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn't ask
take me out tonight take me anywhere I don't care I don't care I don't care
driving in your car I never never want to go home because I haven't got one anymore

and if a double decker bus crashes into us
to die by your side such a heavenly way to die
and if a ten ton truck kills the both of us
to die by your side well the pleasure the privilege is mine

There is a light that never goes out....

Cheers

Happy Birthday, Americanspark!!!!!

You have now reached the morbid age of thirty. Let's have a moment of silence in your honor.

Metal

Today I officially get braces. I mean, I just get them on the bottom half of my mouth. I am not looking forward to it and I don't want to explain it to all of you, but I have some straightening issues way in the back that need attending to. As the dentist and the orthodontist say, it is imperative. I just don't look forward to it at all because I hate metal. Metal in my mouth is worse. Not only do I have to close registers lately and touch coinage, I have to have metallic cords and whatnot in my mouth. This is going to sound ignorant, but will I be able to sing or eat?

I dread this. And I imagine it will not feel good either, contrary to what the ortho says. They are going to drill a screw or two in my gums today. Actually, in about an hour and a half they are going to do this. I can handle root canals and tooth extractions, but I am not sure I can handle a little Home Depot in my mouth. I just hope they don't think of some way to put gauze in there. That is worse than metal or blood everywhere, which is sort of better than all of it put together. But of course if there is blood everywhere they will insist on using gauze and then all of my nightmares, metal, gauze, drilling in my gums, will come true.

Yesterday I missed my chance at kissing Dear Sir (I mean, the Professor) for the last time without this metallic rampart in my mouth. I think he told me that he will have to refrain from kissing me for a year (please, I hope it is just a year I need this grossness in my mouth!). And I hope he was just kidding (I am still not sure if he was or not). And if so, I am going to kick his butt. A thirty year old woman with braces never happens. Relish the moment, enjoy it, my friend.

Can you tell I am not looking forward to this? Ugh!

Must I Wait

I am experiencing a lot of bad news lately. I am not going to talk about it here though, but good grief, I am sure you guys don't want to hear it all. In fact, I should not write at all, I am very upset. I find this song appropriate because I feel like dying and want God to just split the heavens open so I don't have to think about this utter silliness.

Anyway, this is my version of Phil Wickham's song called "Must I Wait" that I have heard a billion times over and over because it is one of my favorite running songs. Eventually you wonder if there is another way to sing it. And if you don't know Phil Wickham, you need to. He is in my links under "Mr. Wickham."

Breakdown II

Not much is going on. I have been schooling the kids like normal---we just do a series of "intervals" now and that seems to be doing the trick. Maybe. I don't know. I still lose my cool far too often. Maybe it is because I am a racist and am mean like that. Sorry, Leesburg Reader, I just had to say it. Ha ha. Maybe if I knew who you were I would not joke around like that.

In other news, I am working on more music. At some point when the Prof. gets something up I can put my finished music files up for you to download. That is, if you want them.

In other news today I
*ran six miles
*lost feeling in three of my right toes and then later the pad of my foot
*ate ice cream for lunch (I am on the "ice cream diet", Professor)
*lost my mind breaking up a fight between Eraser Eater and the Oldest, later telling the Professor that I was tempted to gnaw on their necks with my bare teeth (chilling, I know)
*bought a plethora of books at a curriculum sale
*experienced such extreme cold upon getting myself in the shower that I yelled at the faucet to hurry up and get me some warm water
*solved many algebraic equations that the Oldest had gotten wrong
*forgot to use a decimal point at one instance leaving the Oldest in doubt of my abilities. He said, "Do you need food mom? Perhaps some exercise? Your mind is not clear today."
*told the Oldest to put the dishes away four times now---wait---five times now and he still has not done it---excuse me while I put the smack down...
*realized that I am inconsistent, irrational, annoying, out of it, and perhaps a racist (I just couldn't help myself)

Doozie style, I will say, "over and out."

Fat Intake is Always Good For You

I accidentally poured in a little too much heavy cream in my coffee just now. It made my eyes go a little wide when I saw it. Oh well. I only made enough coffee for one cup and that's all I got, baby. Tastes nice.

I am officially addicted to Nutella. Do you know what that stuff is? Let's see if I can get a picture up here. No, I can't or just something won't work and I don't have time to use my brain and figure it out. Good grief, I love Nutella. Why has no one told me of this insanely delightful slop of chocolate goo? To all of you who have left me in my ignorance, I am angry at you.

"I LOVE Nutella!" I shouted to my daughter while we were grilling chicken outside.

"I know mom! It is wicked!"

"No, it is beyond wicked. I'd eat it on bread. I'd eat it on beef. Heck, I'd eat it on chicken."

"Yes, it is beyond wicked---it is so vile and evil!" she shouted.

"Absolutely," I said, "I think Nutella is going to make me Nufatta."

She laughed and shook her head. "You're crazy, Mom."

My greatest friend told me last night that I could buy Nutella at Costco. Can you imagine? Two mega jars in one shrink-wrapped pack? When I learned this I gasped because I just had returned from Costco and must have skipped that aisle.

Lack of Dinner

After making dinner for the kids, I headed out the door yesterday to get to work. I was sort of in a hurry because I even went without eating or drinking so much as a protein shake. The vitamin water I threw in my bag leaked all over and once in the car I had to grab the reserve of napkins in the glove compartment and wipe up the seat and the bottom of my bag. Even my name tag got wet.

Then when I went to make my right turn I hit someone from behind. Barely, actually. He was going about two miles an hour and since it was raining (I think) my foot slipped on the break and then I bumped him. We got out of our cars and he stared at me---just approached me as I got out. He was a gnarly old man. "What were you trying to do?" he asked.
"What? What do you mean?" I asked, squinting.
"What were you trying to do?" I almost told him that my foot slipped but he would not have cared. I got out of the car.
"Are you ok?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Your car looks fine."
"Yeah, it's fine."
"So does mine."
"Yeah." He got in his car and took off.

Once at work I was relating the story to someone: "When I bumped him, I said 'crap!'" I realized that I was talking to a person that cusses. A lot. I forgot about that. I was thinking of how the bad stuff comes out of me when bad things happen. I was tipped a little and here I was, not thanking God that everything was fine and I was ok, I was shouting crap at the top of my lungs and putting my car into park.

"You mean you didn't say something with an 'sh' before it?"
"Uh, no," I said, realizing now I was pinned. Lack of dinner will do that to me.
"You don't cuss, do you?"
"No, I don't," I said.
"I say cuss words in front of you all the time! I have such a terrible mouth!"
"I don't expect you to be like me," I said.

The pastor at our church just preached a sermon about we as Christians being incognito all the time. I feel I am that way at work sometimes. I am usually pretty bold about some things, but this work setting is a little different. I am working with homosexuals, Muslims, and many people that do not care for children. And even though I do not agree with these people, I like them, and I think they are very pleasant. It is funny how God uses the loss of dinner for me to slip up. If I were to be tortured by my enemies because of a want of information, all they would have to do is starve me.

It's either lack of dinner or lack of brains. Most likely both.

Dresser Worship

Read here to see what it was that I did last week. We sat two seats away from each other. Somehow we still shared food a little bit, but often our way of talking was looking at each other from that distance and smiling. That's what ten years does for you.

Last night I spent my whole night organizing Eraser Eater and the Oldest's room. It was pretty horrible. I got so overwhelmed at one point I almost fainted, but then I realized that I should quit and make dinner. That was a good thing to do.

Eraser Eater kept saying that he wanted his "Aneboda" over by the window so when people walked in they could see its beauty. We had to rearrange some things as well. It was a sort of nightmare. So---the Oldest was organizing his shelf and putting things on the bottom. He was in such a position that when I went over to clean off the surfaces, I had locked him in down there, stuck, without my knowing it. I was just cleaning the shelves. And the boys are always afraid that if they make one complaint while I help them that I will leave, so the Oldest just patiently waited, crouched down, until I was finished.

Eraser Eater yelped, "I haven't seen this in ages! {Oldest}! Come look at it!"

I was still cleaning the surface of the Oldest's shelf, so he was glued to his dungeon beneath me.

"I very well can't," mumbled the Oldest, "I am bowing down to this thing," he said, meaning the shelf.

I looked down, realized that I had pinned him in in a bowing position and laughed my sides off.

"What?" he asked, "was that funny? How was that funny? Mom, wait. How was that funny. Please tell me how that was funny."

"Stop asking her that!!!!" belted out the Professor from our bedroom. I imagine he was playing my hand held Tetris game. The scoundrel.

I kept laughing. The Oldest, in his frustration, was a little miffed.

Eraser Eater kept going on about his "Aneboda"at that moment. "Look at its beauty! I could put all my things on it. People could see it when they come in!"

"I could care less about your anaconda," the Oldest said.

"It's an "Aneboda", not a snake."

"Whatever," he mumbled, aware that he biffs up every word known to man.

Racism Has Many Forms

I am pretty irritated. I guess not eating lunch and going to the post office never mixes well. I would blame myself but there was a real piece of work behind the desk who barely glanced at me when I asked for a flat rate box.

"We don't have a flat rate box," she looked down at some papers and tape and refused to look at me.

"Ok," I looked at her. She would not look at me. Some people in line looked at me shaking their heads.

"We have flat rate boxes!" another postal worker cried out, overhearing my exchange. "They are over here," she said, pointing, "in the back. We walk by it."

"As far as I was concerned, we didn't have them," she said lazily, not bothering to look at me, treating me like crap.

"Well, can I have one?" I asked.

She looked unwilling to move. In fact, she sort of winced down into her papers and tape.

"I'll get it," the other lady hollered.

"No, I will," my mean lady said.

I almost blurted out that I would rather the other lady get it since she seemed helpful, but I didn't, I just waited.

"We have these ones. The ones without the tape," she said, handing me one.

My mean lady barely looked at me. Well, she didn't.

"Can you give me some tape?" I asked, since the one I wanted (with the tape provided was not available).

The mean lady shook her head. "We don't provide tape to the customer." She gave a snotty look.

I almost reached over and smacked her.

It was all body language too. She acted like I was scum. She would barely look at me, roll her eyes, not even move to help at all. I guess she is racist. That is the only thing that makes sense. A bad day does not cut it at all. It looked to me that she did not like the look of me and she had no intention of getting me a box even though she knew there were some. Her answer was a little too quick for my taste.

New Song II

Excuse my cold; my vocals are not the greatest. But my Martin sounds nice! :)

Falling Down

I realize that I always talk about being old. I know that I am not that old, but yes, I suppose I am getting up there. Yesterday was no exception for me; I realize that no matter how in shape I am, I will feel youth slipping through my fingers for the rest of my life. We went to an amusement park for the Oldest's belated birthday celebration. We had a great time except for the fact that my daughter who is sick cut her teeth on a hugely savage roller coaster and we had to calm her down for a good spell afterward. She did not literally cut her teeth, but if I were using the idiom correctly I mean that she started out with the hard stuff. Not good. She was petrified.

Eraser Eater and the Oldest had gone on the cart before us and the Girl and I were next. When the boys got off the cart, Eraser Eater looked white as a sheet and the Oldest looked splotchy, much like he was crying or even say, weeping. He stumbled around trying to find the exit while Eraser Eater pleaded with me not to allow the Girl to go on it, the ride was too fierce. He almost broke down on the spot when I insisted that we remain where we were and he turned to let us face our doom. I saw his little form in the distance, downcast and horribly worried, slowly going to meet the Professor at the bottom of the hill.

At the first jerk of the coaster the Girl moaned. It all happened so fast. Instead of a pleasant ride (which it would have been for me because I love ridiculously thrilling rides), I felt like it was me, the mother bear, against this horrifying roller coaster, trying to eat my child. She slid down a little and I held her tight with one arm while holding on with my other arm. I used one strong runner leg to hold her legs in place while at the same time using the other to hold me still by pushing on the bottom of the cart. I spoke to her the whole time to get her through it. She was terrified. She cried a little when we went through a short tunnel, but soon enough the ride was over and she was carried out of the cart by her mother and safely put to land once at the bottom of the hill where the Professor stood, backpack over one shoulder.

Eraser Eater almost wept and lamented at the sight of us. He thought surely the Girl would not have made it. "I almost barfed!" he yelled in despair.

And why was the Professor at the bottom of the hill? That's a good question. He hates rides. He hates heights. He hates thrill anything. He can't even watch The Turn of the Screw (by Henry James) on PBS. I scare him continually when I come out in the lawn when he is mowing it. He always clutches his heart and shakes his head. This happens so regularly I would have thought by now, after ten years, he would come to get used to it. I have to think of creative ways to make my presence known without scaring the daylights out of the man. This is hard to do. Really, really hard. Actually, I am running out of ideas.

So---the man patiently waited while we went on rides all day long. Well, he went on the bumper cars, these old fashioned cars that drove very slow, and the carousel. And he ate cotton candy and popcorn. He did become obsessed with watching people, their feet dangling from some "torture device" (as he called it). Well, he could barely watch it. Finally I could stand it no more because he was obsessed with this drop tower ride that you can see from all areas of the park. He kept talking about it, kept watching the helpless people in lapbars and seats getting elevated up this huge pole to the very top to then be dropped and then caught again right before the ground met them head on. "That is CRAZY!" He kept yelling. "Why would anyone do that?! It gives me sweaty palms just thinking about it! That's it----I am sitting down on this bench to watch these sad people get dropped this time. I'm going to sit here and watch for a minute. Wait--come over here and sit down and watch this madness close up...."

I handed him the backpack. "I'm going on it," I said.

"What?! You are crazy!"

There was no line. I got right on. I sat there and stared at him, sitting on the bench. The kids got close to the gate and yelled at me things like, "Mom, if we never see you again, know that we love you!"

"I hope you don't die!"

"Are you sure this thing is safe?!"

The guy next to me who was to meet his doom said, "Are those your kids?"

"Yep. They think I'm going to die."

"Are you scared?" he said.

"No," I said, "just cold. It's really cold today."

"Yeah. I was really scared when I went on the ride before last. I had to prove to myself that I could do it. I dared myself. I just want you to know that when you drop, you can't breathe."

"Ok."

The coolest thing about the ride was that I saw trees as far as I could see. Then when I dropped it was the most elating experience. Instead of not breathing, I breathed a huge breath and laughed. This is what Alice must feel like when she is falling down the rabbit hole.

The Little Kids These Days

Last night I came home from work entirely disturbed.

While I was going in and out of the stock room grabbing various shoes for people a little boy, about nine, was standing outside the stock room doors peering in. When I looked at him from time to time he had his mouth hanging open. Now, I could tell there was nothing mentally wrong with him, I just thought that he was incredibly curious to know what was going on back there. I used to wonder that myself as a kid. At one point he was standing in my way as I was going out. I pointed my finger at him in a scolding way (lightly joking) and said, "You can't come back here, I'll have to call the police."

He stared at me and said nothing, just let me walk by.

After a few more minutes I was walking out of the stockroom yet again and he said something lightly to me. I walked closer. "What?" I said.

"Can I have your phone number?"

"What?! Why?" I asked, not understanding.

"Because you are hot," he said.

I immediately imagined my nine year old son, Eraser Eater, saying this to a thirty year old woman. I didn't think it was funny or cute.
"I am an OLD LADY!" I said to the boy, pointing my finger once again, eyes wide. I walked off.

"...no you're not..." he tried arguing with me as I walked away.

Now, I am not saying this to generate comments on what the boy was talking about. I am not interested in that. I just think it terrible that a nine year old boy would even know what "hot" means, or be interested in something like that! I am SO glad I homeschool! I would understand, with some disgust, a grown man doing that (well, not peering into the stock room----I'd call security if that were the case), but not a little boy. Nope. How sad this world is.

I Feel Numb

Yesterday my left finger just went numb. It was not cold, it just has lost a lot of feeling. A little tingly. I think I have been playing my new Martin so much my nerve got damaged. Is that not insane? It is still numb today.

And I wrote a song the other day----I woke up to it playing in my head, from a dream, and I got up, half asleep, to plunk it out on the piano. I don't play piano, I just know the notes. I don't know theory either. My son caught me (my Oldest) and said, "Mom, it would be a lot easier to score it."

"Yeah," I said, "That would be useful if I could read music and I knew theory."

"Oh yeah, I forgot."

I had a friend ask me once if I wrote anything other than Christian music. "Sure," I said. But I could hardly think of anything that I had written. I started to play a song for her called "In the Aftermath" that I wrote, and when I sang "Jesus" she laughed out loud and said, "You really don't sing about anything else!" Sadly enough, I had forgotten that Jesus was in the lyric.

I get to the point in songwriting where I hit a brick wall. It is when I want to write a love song, or when I want to write about something other than God. I can flip open a Psalm and write a decent adaptation of it in two minutes, but when I want to write about how much, say, I love the Professor, I slam right up against the bricks. I am much too serious, I guess, to sing "silly love songs" (BTW I HATE that song by McCartney).

And the thing is, I wanted to say to my friend, "You know, it is not like I am a great Christian anyway, it is just the only thing good that I can do." My best "secular" song yet I think, is "Enough is Enough". And I don't even know if I could qualify it as secular. In a way, that is silly.

It is a joy to write music. But to me, it is also a sort of thorn in my side. Where will it go?

At any rate, the song got semi-finished yesterday, and perhaps I will put it on YouTube for you all to listen to. It is not amazing, just a worship song---the words could be more unique, but hey, I wrote it in a matter of minutes, so consider it a work in progress.

Gotta literally run.

Today

Today I got woken up by the Professor because the Girl has been ill and needed medicine. He could not find it. It was just as well because I was sniffling myself, barely able to fall back asleep. When doling out meds the man found a tick on the Girl's neck, completely latched on. Great.

I got my "ticked off" device and removed the nasty thing. The man hopped around a bit, watching, because he had to pull the Girl's hair taut. Ticks make him very jumpy and nervous. Yesterday I caught a bumble bee that made its way into the house by scooping it up in a glass and covering the top with my ten year anniversary card. Nice and stiff. Then I took the buzzing glass and released the bee by lifting the card once outside.

Remember my Oldest is afraid of flying things. He shrieked the whole time. It was a big bee though. For one of the first times in his life, he hid in the sunroom (where the bees tend to fly into) to seek shelter. He crouched down into a corner and yelped for a good spell until I got the flying insect out of the house.

So, since I am all pumped full of Sudafed, I am feeling a bit out of it. I ran six miles and then the delivery truck came from Ikea. I ordered myself a bed and the boys a new dresser. I put them all together in a few hours and cut myself multiple times on nails, sharp metal pieces, wooden corners, and anything else potentially hazardous. I also knocked my knees against many things in addition to a few things falling on my toes and bed slats smacking against my ankles. I have been continually saying loudly, "That felt great!"

Well, my hair was in literal knots by the time I got to the shower.

Now I am here and I have to pick up a pizza.

Bye.

I do have some good news, even though I have been very busy. Seriously. April is about the worst month to try to contact me....ever. Every year it is this way. For one thing, it is the Oldest's birthday. The other thing is that it is the anniversary of the Prof. and I. Since I started homeschooling, I have purposefully had us take "vacation" in the month of April to avoid more chaos. Seriously, we do have chaos going on around here.

My house, which was clean last week, is now grimy and dirty. Laundry had to be folded at ten o'clock last night because I was busy buying the Oldest birthday presents earlier. And I have no clue what to get him. I mean, I got him some stuff, but I am going to give him some money to cut the stress. He is getting old.

I did get a new Martin guitar to replace my cracked one. I had a pick-up put into it and had it all adjusted to my taste, so it is completely stellar. I am pleased as punch, as my friend Jade would say. I just keep looking for an imaginary crack, I have been so....what's the word...traumatized.

I have discovered that I never go to the same hair stylist. Yesterday I went to get a trim and wanted to try the new place down the road. I think I view hair stylists like I view a new item on a menu, so I need to quit that. I don't know how to stop it either, I do it without even thinking.

I have such an enormous amount of things to do on my plate today and tomorrow that my white board is completely full and I can not fit another thing on it. I find it sad that I have to put a sign in my house stating all the things I have to get done because I am so forgetful. I find that I make room for spontaneity because I typically find that if I do not seize the moment when the notion strikes me (like getting a trim) I will forget for a few months. And I WILL.

Eraser Lloyd Wright

Eraser Eater is driving me nuts. Who else would, really? He is a very lovely boy, but at times he can truly get under my skin only because he knows exactly what to do to make my blood boil. Maybe we are similar or something.

He has been on Architectural Digest kicks lately. Yes, you heard that right. The boy is NINE (mind you) and he is obsessed with Architectural Record, Architectural Digest, anything that has plans and buildings and "modern designs".

The other day he was looking through his one and only copy of Architectural Record that I picked up at a newsstand at the Ronald Reagan Airport a couple years ago and he stopped turning pages when he reached his favorite house, some modern, wall-less structure that looks semi-uninhabitable. He threw the issue across the room along with his pencil, sketches of plans, and sketchbook full of various houses he designed (including the Silo House).

He yelped into the air, "Forget this! I can't be an architect! This architect (I think he stated his name but I don't give a rip what his name is so I don't remember it) already thought of the coolest house design and I can't beat it! Forget this! Throw my sketch book away! I give up!!!!"

"Wait a minute," I said, "Are you telling me you are giving up because some grown man has already come up with a design you covet and you are mad because you didn't think it up?"

"Yes," he moaned. He slunk himself against the hall wall where I was standing. He looked to the floor in defeat.

I went into the bathroom to wipe the toilet down (those are always my most bright and shiny moments, by the way) and said, "Do you think this architect, who apparently designed this house when he was an adult, designed houses when he was NINE?"I was about ready to blow, actually, because he had been moaning about this for a few hours already.

"No."

"Don't you think that this architect as well was inspired by other designs he saw and created his own?" I looked up from the toilet. His face was still a bit downcast.

"Yes."

"I bet you," I said fiercely, "that this architect had no idea what he wanted to be when he was nine years old. I bet you that he barely knew what an architect was. All you need to worry about now is math, geometry, and practice. You get those down, you will be better than that guy. You have an eye for it."

His eyes brightened slightly in a morbid, mad professor sort of way. (Gee, I wonder where he gets that from)
"You will see, Mom. I will be in Architectural Record. I will be the greatest architect. I don't really care if I am in Architectural Digest, I just really want to be in Record. That is the magazine that has the best designs. More modern. I like modern. So, what do you think? When I make your house on Chesapeake Bay, would you like it to be made mainly of steel or glass? Dad says that he likes the glass, but he also likes steel. That material suits him. I thought that I would put the house a little under ground and then from the top there will be a sort of loft where you can see the ocean from and let me go get the plans...." he ran to get his plans.

Here we go again...

Just on Sunday we passed a sign from the freeway that boasted of a Frank Lloyd Wright building just off the next exit. The boy practically screamed with delight. "We must go there!"

Just yesterday as the boys were all doing math, Eraser Eater yelled from the sun-room, "Mom? Can I just skip this math and start Algebra? I mean, I just want to get to it faster. I'll do fine."

I had to explain to him that he needs to take it slowly, he is already books ahead in math and soon enough he will be taking algebra. Gee whiz. I told him that the math he is learning now will help him to understand algebra, so he is on the road to being an architect already.

"I know," he said.

They All Like to Torture Me

Yesterday I took my Oldest to his piano lesson. Since the previous day was his teacher's birthday, we went and bought a little cake and the numbers 3 and 0 to put on top. Yes, she is the dreaded age, the one to nail the coffin shut. 

I laughed as I bought the numbers. As you know, I am already thirty and I didn't even get a cake with the number thirty on it, so it was sort of fun to do. It felt good, in a bad way. She didn't want to be reminded that she is now thirty. 

"Wow! She is turning thirty?!" yelped Eraser Eater, "You look younger than thirty and you are thirty-four!"

My head almost spun off. 

"WHAT?!"

"Oh yeah, that's right. Dad is thirty-four. Sorry, Mom."

Heaven help me when I turn thirty-four.

No, heaven help you when I turn thirty-four. That's more like it.

Or heaven help the Professor. Gee whiz.

Last night upon getting under the covers he felt my arm. "Goose flesh," he said.

"Don't say that."

"What? Why?" he chuckled.

"It is one of my words I can't stand."

"It's British, it's cool, so be prepared to hear that the rest of your life."

I shoved him.

"Goose flesh!"

"Be quiet."

Hey

It is now my job to always go in the crawl space every spring and turn on the water. Then, in the fall, I get the lovely privilege of turning it off. It is not a terrible crawl space, just a little cramped and uh, spidery. This time I just saw a bunch of spider eggs. Gross. I guess I will have to go back down there this week with some spray. Yack.

I got a new dish washing machine, like I said. I can't believe it washes dishes. I mean, you can leave food on dishes and it will leave them sparkling when finished. It really is incredible. The Professor still refuses to "not rinse" despite my argument that this is a brand new washer that says on the instruction manual, "it is not necessary to rinse the dishes."

Last night when at work (I work in shoes at a famous dept. store) a lady asked me if we had a certain style of shoe in different colors.
"No," I said, "we only have what is out."
She looked at me like she was going to hurl the shoe at me. "Now I don't believe that!" She snarled.

To appease her I looked in the system to see if we had other colors besides the few we had. We didn't, like I knew. I told her. She went to the other guy I was working with and to appease her he looked in the back. He came back empty handed.
"Thanks for bothering to look in the BACK," she said to him, meaning I was too lazy to do that great service for her.

The guy I was working with glanced at me like, "what the heck is her problem?"

I would have helped her find something else but apparently she didn't like the look of me before I spoke, so I just avoided the whole mess and let the other guy deal with her. It was slow.

I don't get people that just think being a raunch to other people is acceptable. I don't care if I am an employee somewhere having to cater to someone's needs. She didn't have to pretty much say to my face that I am a liar.

You can never make everyone happy though. That's just life.