Sea Salt for New Years

I had to stop at the local grocery store to get some sea salt for Dear Sir's popcorn. The regular stuff is just not cutting it. The Girl came with me. She always puts it upon herself to search for the thing we are about to buy, so once we hit the spice aisle, she was frantically reading labels, looking this way and that. I crouched down to take a look at all the available salts. The Girl did too.
"I can't seem to find it," I said.
I immediately sensed her frustration.
"Sea salt!!! Show yourself!" she yelled.

I almost fell on my butt laughing. We laughed all the way to the check out line.
Oh, and we did find it eventually.

Le Football American

If Dear Sir would just be convinced that football makes no sense, we wouldn't spend so much unneeded time apart. I tried last year to watch college, which doesn't seem as fake as the NFL, but then I tried watching a little bit this year and was sourly disappointed with Notre Dame. Dear Sir could not bear to watch the games so he watched the Redskins, who he hates. Hey, I hate them. I just hate football. He watches the Redskins so that he can watch them lose. It doesn't matter who they play, he roots for the opposing team instead. There was a guy at his old workplace that was such a huge Skins fan that he would buy the whole office donuts the morning after they won. Dear Sir loved the donuts but always hoped that the donuts would not come the next morning because he was sick of the guy rubbing the Skin's victories in his face.

I have a good friend who is a big Steelers fan, and one day I decided to call her while the men in my home were watching the Steelers game. She wouldn't pick up her phone. I imagined she was at the store or something, who knows. Dear Sir scoffed at me when he heard I tried to call her. "You think she is going to pick up when the Steelers are playing? What are you thinking calling her during the game?"

I didn't think about that. It was hard for me to imagine a girl watching a football game period. In fact, it sort of bothers me but I won't tell my friend that. No, it doesn't really BOTHER me, it just seems like Invasion of the Body Snatchers or something.

The next day my friend called me back. "Sorry I called during the game," I said.
She laughed at me, "Yeah, I NEVER pick up during a game, are you crazy? I don't think I can be friends with you anymore!" She laughed a good bit.

Here are My Eight New Books:

1. The Dead Secret by Wilkie Collins
2. Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell
3. Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskell
4. I Say No by Wilkie Collins
5. A Rogue's Life by Wilkie Collins
6. Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Robert Maturin
7. Through a Glass Darkly by Sheridan Le Fanu
8. Blind Love by Wilkie Collins

Mind, all of these books are classics and all of them will have me planted on a couch reading for weeks. While at Borders tonight Dear Sir consented to me purchasing the Oxford Chronology of English Literature. Gee whiz, I will have a field day with that. Endless book titles at my fingertips. Hardy had a column of his own, the scoundrel. This is good for my future in expertise of the tragic Victorian novel.

So there you have it, Shealy.

Aged

I am so sorry, if there in anyone left who bothers to visit me lately. I just have no drive to write, although I have some time. I mean, I am busy like the rest of us, but I just have nothing to say right now. I have plenty going on, but nothing to say, really.

Dear Sir got me eight books for Christmas and I am only 1/3 of a way through the first book. I mean, the book he got me for my birthday. I got books for my birthday too.

The neighbors who destroyed our mailbox invited us over to their house on Christmas day because they said they are "terrible" neighbors. I was sick, the Girl was sick, it was sort of strange, but we went. We stayed a little over an hour and left a bit disturbed. I mean, they are nice people, but it was quite strange and awkward. Their little three year old boy took my hand immediately as I walked in the door and said, "YOU will play with me!" and led me downstairs to his lair of Toys R Us. It was pretty much chaos because the kid talked incessantly, the couple talked over each other, and then she had family who were quiet, but kept interrupting too. Dear Sir and I just smiled pleasantly and let it all trickle down. Our kids were complete quiet angels. Their house was sort of dark and dank; well taken over by the ruler-child. The carpet was a nightmare, the house cluttered so badly that walking around was laughable. If I spilled my red wine it would not have made a difference. Sudafed kept me calm enough to maintain balance while descending the steps as the child clasped my hand and led me to a matchbox race track. Heaven forbid I put my car in his slot. He would scream and attack my hand. I knew my place quickly; I was to be the Venom car, he was to be Spiderman. Heaven help you if you mix it up.

I imagine they must think Dear Sir and I are a fascinating couple. We never argue (at least in public like they do), we homeschool, we look sort of different, and our kids are well-behaved. I must admit, Dear Sir and I are pretty happy. Very happy. They are not. They look and sound miserable. This is what was the most disturbing. I feel very bad for them.

We had many homeschooling questions. They asked about competence but stated that I looked absolutely competent, so they weren't questioning my abilities, but questioning others. Huh.

I am glad I look competent. That sort of made me laugh---and wonder. When visiting a church recently someone asked me (and this is the second time this has happened) if I was Dear Sir's daughter or wife, they could not tell. They were totally not trying to flatter me, they were embarrassed to ask the question and were embarrassed to get the answer. I just looked at Dear Sir and thought, "well, gee, he doesn't look that old!" Then the man, for unknown reasons, goes and shaves his beard. Took care of that. Now he looks like a baby.

I must depart. The Oldest is begging me for coffee and the treadmill is calling me to it, pleading with me to finish what I have started.

I am now thirty and the grave has engulfed me, for now I only speak from the lips of a corpse. But I look competent. This is a relief.

Times for Laughter

After I posted yesterday's post, I couldn't stop crying. Is that not pathetic? I still feel bad, I just don't think that I will cry at the drop of a hat today. Good. It was getting hard to just function yesterday! Weeping while you are making Christmas Cookies is not a good combo.

I have been waking up every morning to my son playing his heart out on the piano. Which reminds me right now of my Oldest. Good grief, this is funny.

First off, I don't give a rip what any of you think about the idea of spanking. I do it and I could care less if any of you do or don't and think I am terrible on account of it. In my house it works, in my parents house it worked, and in most homes I see it done properly (without anger and strife mixed with it) it definitely works. My two cents. So, with that nice preface, here is my story: I was about to spank my Oldest (yes, I did say my Oldest---gasp, yes, he is eleven---he needed it too) because he so major back talked that the parental gods of justice screamed out when as I lifted his sweat shirt I realized that his jean-covered butt looked strange. As I actually bore down with my spoon I realized that I was spanking my own jeans.
"You are wearing my jeans," I said to the Oldest.
"What?!" I am sure that was the furthest idea from his mind at the moment.
"You are wearing my jeans!" I exclaimed in horror.
"These are yours?"
"Yes!"
They fit him perfectly.
He messed with the waist line and tugged them up a bit. "I wondered why they fit all weird."
He walked off.
"Hey---"
"What?"
"Get them off!"
"Why?"
"Because they are my jeans!"
"Yes, mom."
I burst out laughing, I couldn't help it.

Agony

I have not been able to function right lately because my guitar has taken a bad turn. It has suddenly (with the change in weather, etc) developed another crack continuing from the old one. This new crack is nearly all the way to the bridge. This is all I will say about the detail of how I feel. Things will get cleared up, I hope, but please pray for me. Since I have bought it I have not been able to enjoy it hardly at all as it was damaged after nearly a month or two. The sad thing is that this new damage is just a continuation of the old damage. My poor guitar truly got messed up. The man that fixed it (who did a superb job---I do not believe this damage is his fault) is going to investigate this further, so once the guitar is out of my hands I will feel better. I think. I am just sick about it. At this point I just want a new guitar, this one is thoroughly ruined. I can not abide that before the damage was done, it was brand new, literally a few months old, and then it was stepped on and whatnot to where now I have continual problems with it. I just need a new guitar. I can't handle this anymore.

The kids keep approaching me in my state of despair to hug me and offer their sympathy. The Oldest is playing songs on the piano to "get my mind off it" and asks me from time to time, "are you thinking of your guitar, mom?" It has been bothering me so much I feel like throwing up, I don't want to eat, I wake up in the night thinking of it. I know it is just a replaceable instrument, but this is my dream guitar, ruined in one minute while I was on the other side of the room. Even before I played guitar and I was a teen, I wanted to learn how to play and own a Martin acoustic. In a stupid way, I wish had not bought it. It has caused me a short amount of joy, but nothing but grief soon after.

I have never even owned my own car before. It is stupid, but it was the one thing I prized and it is ruined. The story is worse than this, but I can not talk about it here. Sorry to be a downer, you should have skimmed, I guess.

Break

I am going to continue to take a blogging break this week because I have so much to do. I am going to also take my dear friend, Shealy's advice and not school very much this week so I can get things done and maybe read for once in my life!

See you all next week.

I am getting prepared for this weekend already since I am going with Dear Sir to Chicago and we are meeting friends. Saturday is going to be busy for recluses like us, walking the Magnificent Mile for TEN freaking hours. I am not complaining, as shocking as that sounds. I am so thankful to walk for ten hours with my dear friends. That part is great. It is just shopping for that long? I am not a shopper. I avoid it consistently. Most women would be thrilled to go out and buy a new coat, etc, and Dear Sir encourages me to do stuff like that, but I just find no happiness in it. At least I will be with Dear Sir, and he is my right hand man when it comes to shopping (if we indeed partake in that activity). The man has great taste.

Here is the Oldest's Christmas List, which I thought was funny:

Games
(he then lists a few he wants)
A game controller for {the Girl}
TOYS!!!!
football cards
weapons (like guns and swords and stuff)
gum
Star Wars figures (get some clone troopers for Eraser Eater)
A giant candy cane that I can eat
flower seeds for the Girl
Newsboys CD for Eraser Eater
Hotwheels for me and Eraser Eater
(now here is the bomb he is slipping in at the end):
electric piano (a good one)
Garfield comics

Sneaky, huh?

I can't find Eraser Eater's, but his was pretty funny too. At least to me.

No Talking, No Singing

I put up one stupid set of Christmas lights yesterday. I tried to put others up but it was difficult. I am a woman of little brain at times. The kids fought a lot yesterday over decorating and whatnot, so I was a little frazzled. I made some soap for Christmas and truffles last night. I was so spent that when Dear Sir wanted to start talking to me I just said, "I am sorry, no offense, but I can not possibly speak right now. Can we talk later?" Earlier on the phone I told him that I was going to quit motherhood shortly---and then a child yelped in the background and I said, "gotta go. I'll talk to you when you get home." Guess I didn't do much of that.

I think he took it well. He didn't talk to me the rest of the night. But he is so darned polite I think he must have been waiting for me to say something. What a guy.

I did get paid the highest compliment of my life (to my memory---I have a very bad one) yesterday, so there is something to put into the archival drawer. I put on some Christmas music and I played "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings" by Barenaked Ladies and Sarah McLachlan. When Sarah started her verse my Oldest said, "Is that you?!"
"What do you mean, is that me?"
"Singing---is that you singing. That has to be you."
"It does? No, that's not me."
"You're joking."
"Nope, it's Sarah McLachlan."
"What?! I hate Sarah McLachlan!"
"But you said that I sound like her or she sounds like me!"
"I know! She does! But I would like the song if you sang it, not her!"
"Well that doesn't make much sense," chimed in Eraser Eater.
"It makes perfect sense," said the Oldest, "I don't like Sarah McLachlan's singing, but I like Mom's."
"But they sound the same!" Eraser Eater said.
"Oh forget it."

Hey, if someone can mistake my voice with the most gorgeous voice on earth, I am happy until I die. Forget turning 30, I just achieved a lifetime of work.

Christmas Lights

I opened up the Christmas box that sits in the shed with all the decor in it. I don't have tons. The movers broke most of my stuff that I really liked (well, it was the one thing I liked a lot---I must be exaggerating). So---I went to get the Christmas lights from the box (we have about four sets) and two of them were not working. I started to get depressed thinking how I had to go to the store and get new lights, buy wrapping paper, emerge from my tunnel. Not good. Then, by a miracle, I remembered going into the crawl space last year and seeing a tupperware box that said, "Christmas Lights". It was etched in my mind. I put my coat on and went down there. Sure enough, I found this big box and pulled it out and brought it into the house. Looky what I found:

Score, big time. I mean, it doesn't look so grand in the picture, but there are so many lights I can't even express to you the utter wealth. That box is nearly full too, as it is lying there. I wonder what other things are down in that crawl space. Huh. I found a sink. And some blinds, some hardwood, sleds. Lots of cool stuff.

Congratulate me, I won the Christmas Light Lottery.

Also, my boys keep trying to make up a lethal dude named "X-Mas" that goes around and murders people on Christmas. Like, the polar opposite of Santa Claus. I hate the term "X-Mas" anyway. I try my best to never use it.

Let's bring back Boxing Day.

My Boy

The Oldest had a piano recital on Saturday and he was quite nervous about it, seeing as how it was his first time playing IN FRONT OF PEOPLE. He is a great pianist, actually, very good for his age, 11.

On the way there he kept talking about how he felt strange in his stomach and maybe perhaps he would throw up and what was wrong, he was perplexed.

"You are nervous," Dear Sir called back, "It is called 'butterflies in your stomach.'"

"Oh," said the Oldest, "I don't feel so good."

"Pray about it."

I looked back at him and he was bowing his head, folding his hands and praying earnestly.

Once we got there I sat next to him in the front with the other participants, a number under 30. As we got closer to his performance, the Oldest got more comfortable and I got more nervous. I was so nervous I was feeling sick, a total pit in my stomach. Once he actually ran up on the stage and bowed at the piano instead of the audience, I clutched the pew (we were at a church) and clenched my teeth. Why the heck was I so nervous?

He played a ragtime song from his performance book, and then when he finished he put his hand on his chin in contemplation, scratched his head, and half got up and sat down again. Closed his performance book, knit his brow, and then began to play his original piece written in the program as The Great Song in E minor. I was so utterly nervous the whole time, he played so fast and furious, but it was fabulous. It sounded like a song straight from the eighties. It was rockin. And I noticed how he played at the piano. He played like a crazy lunatic, loose, shaking a bit, rocking to his own music, bouncing slightly on the pedals. He played like flipping Chris Martin. When he finished everyone burst into applause and my child's eyes went wide in surprise.

I later asked him why he paused so dramatically between songs. Dear Sir thought that he was about to bolt off the stage (which I think that was part of it), but made himself start his next piece. He said, "I thought for a second, 'I am not sure that The Great Song in E Minor is such a great song---what if no one likes it?'"
I laughed and said to him, "Well, it was good you played it because everyone said how 'great' it really was."

Now he can't wait to play his next recital. I am so proud that he played in front of people. I would be just as proud if he played terribly. The first step in performing what you love is actually doing it. And it always helps when your kid composes his own stuff. Coolness.

It is December First. I know, I am going to whine. As most of you who are familiar with me know, I am afraid to turn thirty. I am not afraid of the number, as silly as that sounds. I am not afraid of entering true womanhood or any of those benefits of being thirty. Youth is not what I lament in a general sense. I lament the youth that was lost in failure to selfishly become what I always thought I would be (I confess): a singer with a recording contract. To me, turning thirty means I bury it forever. The good thing is that I look ahead to still being youthful enough to have quite a future before me, but not young enough to have the future I had in mind from the time I could open my mouth and sing the very songs I wrote in my brain. So there is some good to it all. Just because my music will most likely never be produced for the masses (how vain of me to think that I ought to be chosen by God to do such a thing?), does not mean that I don't have other things that I can do. There's always the bright side, right? I am a great cook (and I mean this as fact, not as a praise to myself) but I don't use my talent in that area much. I suppose my talent is wasted.

I very much feel that my musical talent is wasted on me. I made a mistake somewhere down the road and took the wrong turn or just didn't take a turn at all and went straight ahead. I do not regret being who I am; don't get me wrong. I just do think there is such a thing as squandering a gift God has given and realizing that is depressing. I don't know what I could have done. I wish I could literally take it from my body and pass it on to someone else younger than me who can make use of it. And I don't mean to say that I am all that and a bag of chips either. I really can't take ownership of what God has given. I see myself as His vessel, and it is like having a beautiful guitar given to you but your fingers are cut off and you haven't the faintest idea how to play the thing even if you had fingers.

I realize that what I fight against is God's will. He alone has reasons for the path that He has led me to. And what right have I to question it? There is no one to blame. Who am I to say to the Potter, "Why did you make me?" He just did.

Grey, Gray

I always knew that these two spellings were interchangeable, but I never knew why. Huh. This from Bernie Zimmerman:

"In the third grade I was entered in a spelling bee. During one of the earlier rounds, I was asked to give the spelling of the word "gray." Having a photographic memory, the image of a gray coloring crayon quickly came to mind. On its side, as is customary of most crayons, the crayon's color was written. The spelling I saw on that imagined crayon (which most certainly came from an actual experience in my past) was g-r-e-y. So, that is how I answered the question.

When I was told my spelling was incorrect, I returned to my chair and tried to fight back tears (I really wanted to win, and didn't feel I deserved to be leaving the event so quickly). Not minutes after I had sat down, one of the teachers in the room spoke up and said that she believed my spelling of the word gray was not incorrect. After some research (I believe we were in the school library, so it didn't take long), it was decided that my spelling of the word was acceptable, and I was allowed to continue participating. I eventually ended up winning the spelling bee — something I was very proud of at the time — but that is neither here nor there.

The point of this story is, there are two acceptable spellings of the word gray. Prior to today I was under the assumption that "gray" was the more popular of the pair, but after two quick Google searches for "gray" and "grey," I realized the difference seems to be very slight (on the Web, at least).

So what, then, is the difference between the two spellings? According to Google Answers, the two words have almost the same meaning in all cases, and g-r-a-y is simply an American derivation of the original spelling g-r-e-y. According to Flak Magazine, the difference can be chalked up to the same happenstances that led to organize/organise and judgement/judgment. Apparently e.e. cummings and Prince are partly to blame as well. However, among the several hypotheses for why gray and grey exist, I believe the following to be the best:

Gray is a color.

Grey is a *colour*.

So next time you're faced with the choice of spelling the word "gray," feel free to go with whatever spelling best suits you at the time. I think I'll continue to use g-r-e-y, just because it's been so lucky for me in the past."

Eraser Eater spelled the word "grey." That's my boy. I prefer that spelling too. I am so English, I suppose.

My Latest Project

I love icons and I love religious art. I had a window in my shed (that came with the house) and nothing to do with it. It took me a year to think this up, or at least, to have it dawn on me. All the "white" paper you see in the window panes are vellum (like what the monks of old wrote on), and the pictures of saints and whatnot are from a calendar Dear Sir bought at the National Cathedral in 2006. We had nothing to do with the beautiful pictures, so I decided to use them up! I painted the window black and stressed the wood. I also painted the inside of the panes black to get a "stained glass" feel.

I think the saints in the window panes appropriate because icons are often called "windows to heaven."

Now I have revealed my true freakishness.

I Am Now Officially Fish Free

I rid myself of the worthless but cute parasite named Tolstoy. I even gave the cleaning bucket away too. Yes, yes, yes. No more gelatinous masses of whatnots clogging up my drain. No more sweating over the dank and murky tank. No more putting on those sick gloves. No more filters, encrusted rocks, dark green filth, dispensing salmon pebbles, seeing long strings of secretion when I am eating. No more feeling guilty when the fish is barely viewable because I have gone a month without cleaning the dang tank. No more wet shirts and floors. I hate wet shirts.

The kids were a little concerned though because the lady that took Tolstoy was named Darla. Apparently the freak fish killer dentist daughter girl on Finding Nemo was named Darla? Huh. At least I don't have to kill him.

Today I Will Be Fish Free

Of course I have hurt my knee, it is all acting crazy right now, so I am not sure I can keep up my thirty miles a week deal for much longer this week, at least. Makes me mad. I go out and grill some dogs, chase my kids, and over-extend my knee. And here I was thinking I did a good job at saving my other knee. Well, I think I hurt my hamstring and then it has been pressuring my knee, but I don't know right well what my body is doing. Good grief. Not like you guys care much about that anyway. It just bites is all. So instead of running, I am sitting here in my running clothes complaining about it.

And I am getting rid of Tolstoy, our fish. He is just too gargantuan. Every time a person comes over they approach the tiny 2.5 gallon tank and say, "That fish is a shark! Why is he in such a small tank?" Gee, I don't know, because we haven't bought one and gee whiz, I didn't know there were steroids in his food or water or something he is consuming. Look at his pathetic state:


So I put him on my homeschool list and begged someone to take him. Here is the post, it ran:

"Hello all,

I have a fairly large fancy gold fish in too small of a tank (he has
gotten so big) and frankly, I have realized I am not a fish person.
Before I ax the guy, I wanted to find out if any of you have room in
your aquariums for yet another fish.

He is well-mannered, eats a lot, and can withstand tank cloudiness,
human stupidity, over feeding, under feeding, and pretty much anything
negative that can befall a fish. His name is Tolstoy.

His only request is that he have a tank big enough for his huge body,
and a mother considerate and mindful enough to clean his tank and the
usual. He sits in his tank by the table and so every time I eat food I
see his sad condition: his lack of freedom, his burdensome body
(because it is so incredibly huge), his pure neglect and lack of a
rightful fishhood.

If you find it in your heart to relieve me of this happy, adaptable
fish, I would be most grateful.

R."

This is weird:

A lady wants him but probably does not want to drive to the sticks to get him, so I am meeting her at my friends house (who will be teaching my son piano at the time) to dole out Tolstoy. I am going to attempt to put him in a freezer bag. I called my friend about it because I needed her address (I didn't know it off the top of my head) and I had to leave a message. She said that she listened to my message five times because when I got to the part where I said that I needed her address because a lady is going to come and pick up my fish at her house, she could not stop laughing and never heard the rest of the message.

It is a little strange, I suppose. What's with the fish lately? Hairy fish, big fish. Something like that.

Busy

Man, I haven't posted anything. I am too busy for you people. Not that anyone comes to my blog with bated breath by any stretch of the imagination.

Yesterday I taught classes again. I had about a billion bags to carry. Afterward the kids and I went to Target and other places to find Advent Calendars (you know, the Santa calendars with the chocolate behind the doors?). We actually did find them eventually, but it was exhausting. The whole way home I had to threaten Eraser Eater because he was humming and playing his kazoo. I was completely fried, so it was not going over well at all. I hate kazoos. Once home, I opened the car door and then as I went to get my purse, I swung my leg over and the car door slammed shut on it. I yelped in pain and sat there for a minute. Then I dropped my keys when going to the broken down mailbox that the neighbors still have not fixed.

When making dinner, I dropped two fish fillets on the floor and (I am not proud of this) cussed under my breath. I was shocked at myself. I am spiraling downward fast. I took the fillets (they were still raw) and ran them under the tap to clean them up again (just in case).

Good grief, I was so hungry once we sat down to eat, but mid-meal I noticed one of my long hairs in my fish. Yep, it had to be MY fish. Well, I suppose that is best, but I lost my appetite. I imagine I got one of the floor fillets and I did not rinse well enough.

I go back and forth so much during the day from table to counter, from counter to table, couch, anywhere where I am doling out food, I feel like Vanna White. Back and forth, back and forth. This morning I was doing that quite a bit and I said to Dear Sir, "Honey, I think I will become a maid when the kids are out of the house. I would make a good one."

In the Morning Drinking Coffee with Nothing to Do

Every time I roast a turkey I have to remember it is like roasting a big chicken. That helps.

I am going to run in a few and thought I would wish every one a happy holiday.

Yesterday was a rough day just getting things done and dealing with the kids who did not have school to entertain them. There was much weeping and gnashing of teeth. I mean, I wept and gnashed my teeth. Truly, I did. It has to do with cable, many wires and cords, a muffled Indian voice over the phone, a Girl interrupting and asking if she can eat a sucker, a boy crawling around under the coffee table making noises and tossing his hands about near me, a bigger boy yelping so loud I could not hear, and one big fat attitude. Something had to get bit.

By God's never-ending grace, blood-shed did not occur, but peace eventually abounded. Dear Sir came home to a semi-calm house (he came home late) and I sat, exhausted, on the couch. And I didn't even run yesterday. How worthless I am. I haven't taken a shower in two days, the night before last I got eleven hours of sleep (that is how I skipped running), and now this morning I have been up for an hour and a half already while everyone sleeps. This is nice.

I also learned from Dear Sir that he was plotting a huge surprise birthday party for me since I am turning 30 on my day of doom. More on that later.

Bye.

Shed Slamming

I am teaching the art class again today. Now that I know what I am in for, I feel a bit nervous about it. Why, I have no clue. I just dread getting that paint out with all those first graders and making a sorry painting with them. The paintings have been rather sorry looking, if you ask me. Couldn't we have better projects? I would try to spice them up, but the concepts being taught are so limited.

And I am a bit nervous about being in the local paper today for a homeschooling special report. When I was interviewed I had a fever, and who knows what the heck I said.

Last night as I grilled some Hebrew National Fat Free Hot Dogs (they taste funky, don't waste your moolah), I ran around in the dark with Eraser Eater and the Girl, playing tag. I always feel sorry for Eraser Eater because he has asthma. I was trying to let him win a little, but it pretty much blew up in my face. As I tried to chase him before he touched the "base" (which happened to be the shed), I almost had him. He was shrieking and giggling as I about neared him. The mere g-force of my stupid sprint to nail the eraser-eating-freak was too much for my body. I was going too fast, and all I remember is Eraser Eater, his back against the shed, and myself, slamming against where he had just previously been, and falling on my knee to the slate steps below. I immediately began to laugh with embarrassment, thanking God Dear Sir was not around. Gee whiz, that must not have been a lovely sight, and I wouldn't want Dear Sir knowing how much of a total ditz I am. (There are some things, even in marriage, that must remain a secret)

Upon getting up, I saw blood all over my knee and my head snapped to attention when Dear Sir yelled from the patio, "Are you alright?!"
Crap.
"Yeah, I am alright."
"So did you ruin your knee now? You can't run on it?" He is always trying to find ways for me to not be able to run. He thinks I am obsessed.
"No, I didn't ruin it. I just scraped it, see?" I showed him the cut, blood running down. The kids were in awe. "I think it is fine, anyway. I'll run around the yard in a minute to see if anything is damaged."
He shook his head. "You are the biggest dork I have ever met. Did you see yourself?" He then proceeded to mock me, arms flailing about like a wussy girl, slamming against some wall, and then cascading down in a wimpy heap to the ground with a wail.
I stared at him seriously.
He laughed heartily until I chuckled. "I know, I am a dork," I admitted.

The kids stood by me as I bandaged my knee up and wiped up the blood. Eraser Eater said, "Gee mom, you are so strong. I would be crying my guts out by now with blood coming down like that."

The cool thing is that even swift mom could not catch the asthma child, and I am sure he felt good about himself.

I suck, ok? I can face that.

Kid Kollage

After expressing to me in a sanguine manner that he "hates green beans" as I pulled them out of the freezer, my Oldest grabbed a frozen one and ate it. "Tastes like a really cold green bean. You should try it."
"No thanks."

When dinner was finally served and the Oldest had eaten nearly everything except the green beans, I pointed to them and said, "Eat those."
He looked at me and smiled while forking them up to shovel in his mouth. He made that holding his breath sort of face.
"So when you move out I take it you will never eat green beans again."
"Maybe. ----Unless my wife makes me eat them."
Gee whiz, I don't know where he gets that idea, I don't have that kind of power over Dear Sir.

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My daughter keeps telling me I look like an old woman. She continues this statement with a question of, "Are you going to die?"

This is seriously depressing since I am turning 30, have no recording contract, and realize that chewing my cheeks perhaps gives me wrinkles. She's messing with my mind.
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I went and picked up a friend's kid today (who is a total sweetheart) to play with my boys. He sat in the car for a spell with Eraser Eater, marinating while I talked with his mom. When I opened the car door, boy stink met my nose.
"For crying in a bucket, this car smells like solid boy!"
"I'm in here!" yelped the Girl.
"Yes, I smell a slight sugar and spice. But the rest---I don't know, stinky manhood..."
"I like to think we smell like sweaty salsa," the friend chimed.
I laughed so hard, I couldn't take it. Thankfully my bladder wasn't full.
"I think I am going to use that."
"It was cool, it sort of rhymed," the boy said.
"Well, it is actually called 'alliteration'," I said, "like super slurpy, or something like that."
"Huh."
"Sweaty salsa. That's too funny." I shook my head, imagining I would write it on this blog.