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.

Insomniac Desperation

I am sorry I have not blogged much! I have been working part time, so it has been a little hectic around here. 

I do have some current news I did not have before and I will save it for later. 

I think I left some clothes in the washer from two or three days ago. Yikes. I remembered that as I stayed up all night, hit with an attack of extreme insomnia. I think I got three hours of sleep once I wrote a few emails, read the instruction manual to my new dishwasher that was delivered yesterday morning, and played a few games of solitaire. I know. 

I dreamed about scabies and ticks. For some reason because it is spring I have been very itchy lately, so I feel like bugs are crawling all over me. When I could not fall asleep after three hours of trying, I went downstairs and did the aforementioned things for a spell. Finally I took the Professor's advice that he gives me whenever he hears of an attack of insomnia and downed the last glass of wine in my wine bottle. I didn't even bother to put it in a glass. I was a full-fledged wine-o. I confess. I just uncorked the sucker and drank away. 

I immediately got that Ny-Quil feeling. ---The burning in the stomach, the immediate wooziness in my head from eating no food. Straight to the blood, baby. I went up to bed after that. My mind dithered around for another hour, thinking, "I will wake after three hours with a jolt because alcohol always does that to me," but I just dreamed about ticks and the beach and other weirdness. Just before I drifted off though I remembered that I have a load of white laundry in the washer still from days ago. My heart pounded thinking about it but slowly my mind wandered to other things---ticks, most likely---and soon enough I drifted off. I remember thinking, "I need to make a list...."

Now I am off to washing that load again because I am sure it stinks.

The phone was not for me. 

It was for my daughter. 

She is six.

She said, "Anna wanted to know what I wanted to play on when we meet at the park tomorrow."

Oh brother. 

She even put the phone to her wet ear (she was still in the tub).

She gets called per day now about as much as a Muslim prays toward Mecca.

I didn't realize that it had been this long since I had written anything. I don't want to get into how I feel lately (healthwise---just bad), so I will just say that I have been busy with schooling the kids and trying to get some energy despite the fact that I exercise and eat well. 

I took the kids to the park just a bit ago and actually drove there. I had no energy to walk like usual. They played, I slept with the window rolled down. 

Now I am here with a pile of laundry, a girl who got dirty in the lake water who is taking a quick bath, and the phone is ringing. 

The end.

Staples

I am always forgetting my stapler when I teach at Co-op. I finally just stole the Professor's because I am too cheap to buy one for myself. The man doesn't use it. But on a separate note, this story is my worst nightmare!

Does Des not write amazing? Check her out.

Walkersville, MD

Hey chick from Walkersville, Md:

Quit using my blog to stalk people I know. That also includes the times you get on my blog from Frederick, Md. as well. I know who you are----you have no business harassing people. The fact that you use my blog name in a google search every single day so you can stalk someone is an insult and a violation. Quit NOW. I'm pretty much hardly a hop, skip and a jump from where you live too.

Thank you very much ahead of time for your willingness to cooperate. Oh, and in case you didn't know---I read my site meter.

Sincerely,
R

The Peasant Revolt

Ok, so I still have pink eye. The weird meds that my doc prescribed me settle in my sinuses. My skull is hollow in some areas? I mean, if I put some meds in my eye socket the meds trickle down and suddenly I have some weird, nasty tasting post-nasal drip. Bet you wanted to hear about that. 

Not only that, but the drops she prescribed have cortisone in them---so I have white gooey stuff coming out of my eye in addition to the yellow gooey stuff already coming out. That'll look nice when I go to work. I do have some pride. 

I took the kids to the grocery store yesterday and they were terrible. It has been a long time since I have had to say over and over again, "get over here!" At one point the produce guy was in between the Oldest and I during one of our staring matches. I could see faintly through my oozing eye that the guy was slightly curious to know what I was going to do. 

You know, all I can think of to make this situation seem understandable is this: it is like shopping with a bag of marbles. The marbles keep spilling out all over the place while you are grabbing lettuce or cheese, and you have to stop and gather them all up again. 

"You are ALL OVER THE AGE OF SEVEN!" I shouted in the car. Apparently shouting is not beyond me. I think they can not hear. Well, they can't because when I say "get over here" it doesn't work. As I drove, I went through each child, one by one, and labeled and stated their transgressions. 

I pointed to the Girl----"you poke and annoy the boys so they will get in trouble by how they react to you, and then I turn around and think it is just them but really it is you, isn't it?" I said.

"Yes," she admitted in a small voice. 

I pointed to the Oldest----"Are you three?"

"No."

"I felt like I needed to put you in a grocery cart, boy. Only three year olds run around when put on the ground. You are nearly TWELVE years old! Grocery carts are for three year olds. They contain them. Do you need to be contained?"

"No."

I pointed at Eraser Eater---"You will quit begging for stuff----TODAY! Do you think I had an enjoyable shopping experience with a NINE YEAR OLD who kept begging for something at my side constantly? Do you think I want to give you any more money for allowance if that very money is dying to be spent and you want to give in every time we go outside? How about I don't give you money anymore when you do your chores and that temptation is eliminated?!!!!" 

"Yes, Mom."

I hope my oozing eye made me look more scary.

Charlton Heston in Youth

Yesterday the kids and I were playing car games on the way to co-op. 

"I'm thinking of something that keeps people out!" the Oldest hollered so all in the back could hear.

"a dog!" the Girl said.

"a closed door!" Eraser Eater said.

"a slammed door!" Eraser Eater said.

"a gun!" (we all laughed) Eraser Eater said.

"a sign!" I said.

"Yep!" the Oldest nodded, "it's a sign. You know, like 'keep out!', 'beware of dog.' I am surprised you didn't get it sooner. Why would it be a closed door?"

"Well, I mean, sometimes a sign doesn't keep people out," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you could have a wide open door with a sign on it that says 'keep out' but people would still come in because it was open."

"Oh great!" yelled the oldest with a laugh.

"I bet if a signed door were opened and a guy were sitting there with a gun they'd keep out!" Shouted Eraser Eater.

I laughed for about two minutes straight. I think he gets it from me. 

One Eye Bigger Than the Other

Yesterday I was reading a friend's blog and she was saying how she has pink eye. Or had it last week. 

I just woke up this morning and what do you know, I have pink eye. No joke. 

As I was trying to get out of bed my mind was wandering. I was thinking of a past time I had pink eye in high school. Of course, I never went to the doctor because my parents did not have insurance, so if I ever came down with something I had to be dying. 

I remember being in the lunch court with my brother (we did hang out in school, weirdly enough) and some guy was mad at me for something, I don't remember. He came right up to me and threatened me. I remember it was some misunderstanding; he was mad about something I did but it was not intentional. He was so angry he yelled in a dumb and weak sort of way, "Shut the h--- up, you---you----you one eye bigger than the other!!!!"

When I woke up this morning one eye did indeed look bigger than the other. 

I am angry. I hate pink eye. I had it once when I got back from a plane trip to my Grandmother's funeral when the kids were little. I spread it all through the house and it took us a couple of months to stop it. I am not joking. I was so depressed by the second month of pink eye I started to think I was going crazy. Finally I got this crazy idea of infecting everyone at the same time and then cleaning the linens all in one pop on the same day. That is the only thing that worked. I haven't had it since----until now. 

Whenever pink eye or the look of it comes my way I panic. 

DC

Well, we thought the Girl had the chicken pox, but they are not scabbing over. The pox now look like little warts and she has developed a rash on her face that is your typical viral bumpy, red rash. Who knows what is going on. I am going to try to take her to the doctor for it (again!). What a nightmare. Apparently she gave it to me because I have been getting pox in various places. Not bad though. Just sort of weird.

The Professor is sick AGAIN with something else---possibly the flu. Not flu as in throwing up (which is not the flu) but the one where you ache and have a sort of cold. He literally just got over a sickness and now he has this. I feel bad for him. He is stoic though, compared to when we were first married. Now I am the one that whines whenever I am sick. I complain the whole time, look miserable, and don't even try to get the best of it. I think when you are a mother taking care of others all the time you take full advantage of any sort of downtime. I was sort of hoping I would get sick so I could have this, but he does look miserable, so I am hoping I don't get it, even though he has kissed me.

Last night it took us two hours to get home from our church in DC because the road that leads to our on ramp for the freeway was closed off by light flashing cops. They prompted us to drive the opposite direction with mean faces. If I were driving I would have stopped right there and told the cop I needed to get to the freeway----could he direct me a different route, but no, the man was driving and he just did what he was told without question and said, "I think there is another way by the memorial."

Well, we ended up at the flipping zoo---right near the National Cathedral. The roads are so dumb in DC. They make no sense. There is no way to turn. You can only turn from 3-5 pm or park during light hours or some madness. I am just making stuff up. Well, I am not, but I can't remember what the signs do indeed say. All I know is that it is confusing. You read the sign, and by the time you comprehend what time of day it is in order to obey the law and make your turn in the right time allotted on the sign---it turns red on you and you have wasted a light, or the taxis behind you are blaring in anger, or people start to walk right in front of your car because that is what they do in DC. People just walk. They don't care if the traffic is oncoming, they just keep going. And they take their time, believe me. Cars stop in the middle of the road constantly, trucks unload right in front of you, it is common to get your tire trapped in an enormous pot hole. People walk around with the strangest things too. Just use your imagination. Yes, it has happened.

So---we drove the opposite direction from our home for a good spell, trying to get home. Really, trying to TURN in DC, which is not authorized. And heaven help you if you go one mile over the speed limit. Yes, cameras are everywhere taking your car's photo. And YES, you will get a bill in the mail with your car's picture on it. And YES, it has happened to us.

I would think that the most important area of our nation, where the president lives and all that, would have the safest, cleanest, and most pot-hole less roads.

We did eventually get home. Well, obviously. And all because I can't parallel park. I am sure since the Prof is sick he would have stayed home, but I sort of begged him to take me since I can't parallel park. I had to sing last night and it would have been too last minute to bow out.
Can you imagine if I had to find my way home because the road was blocked?

You saved my life, Prof.

Fonts

I think my adorable husband, the Professor, has a sickness. I caught him on the internet the other day indulging in his number one temptation: fonts.

Yes, FONTS. He was on some site, palms sweaty, sort of stressed, because he could not find the "buy" button.

"Where do I buy these fonts?!"

"There's a million of them!"

"Look at that!!!"

"These are bad...but look at these---these are gorgeous! Oh man..."

"I don't know if I would pay that much for a collection of fonts....." (they were a few grand?)

What is this world coming to? I mean, is my husband the only one? Please tell me yes. I want to know for sure that he is truly the writer freak that he is and that there is truly no one else out there like him because frankly enough, it is sort of strange. It is sort of easy to deal with, but how do I understand this malady?

We can basically go anywhere and he can tell me some crazy name of a font this or that company uses in their sign. "Crate and Barrel uses (such and such) font. Look at it."

What?

I don't even know what font I am using right NOW. I mean, it says "font." I am too lazy to scroll down.

He makes these manuals and brings them home to show me. Truly, they are beautiful, he is amazing at his job. He is a superb writer, a fabulous designer, and boy does he have an eye for the beautiful. But----I don't get it. "Look at this font, it makes this look so sleek!"

Huh? Sure, honey.

Sometimes You Don't Have to Look

I was reminded by EmmaSometimes about a little incident that happened at Target a handful of months ago.

You know, turning thirty sort of makes you bolder. I mean, I don't care so much if I make a fool of myself, correct people that are younger than me, or say something when it needs to be said. Which brings me to what should have been an embarrassing moment for me.

The Girl and I were in the ladies restroom. Typically we share a stall and I have her go first and then I go next. I know, we fit together in a little one, yes it is tight, but I like to know that my daughter is not caressing the filth of the bathrooms, even though she will be directly washing her hands when she is through.

There were two employees at a sink talking. They were both young---maybe eighteen----one an employee in training and another the trainer. I could tell somehow. They were messing with their hair and talking sort of loud. The Girl and I went into our stall and did our routine---except when I was doing my business the Girl accidentally opened the stall door---it having a severe malfunction like they all seem to---and there it flung wide open for the world to see me. I called the Girl's name to prompt her to get the door back to close. In typical Girl fashion, she felt terrible for the situation and sort of froze by my disapproval. I realized in a quick second I had to grab the door myself before it flung to the furthest of its capacity.

I could not believe what happened next. As I went to get the door, the employees watched me. They full on looked at me, even when they had vocal warning and knew what was going on. They looked at me while I was half clothed. Their heads turned to look at me with absolutely no shame whatsoever. I glanced at them and shut the door.

"You don't HAVE to LOOK!" I said.

Of course, the temptation to be embarrassed throughout the rest of my stay at Target while those young ladies were on the loose tried to get hold of me. Instead, I held my head high and acted like normal. They both had the nerve to keep looking at me, making it obvious they saw me in my glory in the bathroom stall. I saw more about them than they saw of me, that is for sure!

#3

We are going to a retreat this weekend but I will leave you with my number three. :) I hope you guys all have a great next few days!!

My number three is that I never know when to quit. 

If I did not have the Professor there to tell me to stop things, like raking leaves until my hands bleed or until dark, I would never stop. The same thing goes to just about everything else. I refuse to give up and trust me, it sounds like a good trait, but really it can quickly turn into a bad one. 

I am presently working in a shoe dept. of a well-known dept. store. Sometimes shoes are misplaced and it takes going through the whole stock room to find them. The other night I had a customer wait a whole half hour (with my going out from time to time to assure her I am still looking---and she was really nice about it and said she would have no problems waiting) for a shoe search. By the end of the half hour my fellow associate came to me and said, "Hey, you've got to stop. The store is closing in one minute. Really, we can take her number and take care of this tomorrow."

I think if he hadn't said that I would have kept going all night. Heaven forbid I work by myself!!

I have a dear friend who told me that she would rather have my trait of never quitting because she can go out and mow the lawn and want to quit half way through. She has to remind herself of her ancestors, strong and hearty, who plowed for hours to produce a harvest. She said even the guilt of that is not powerful enough to make her continue. 

I don't know quite what makes me keep going. I think it is because I have this goal and if I don't meet it I feel like a failure. I refuse to fail. I will bleed before I fail. If I didn't set a goal I wouldn't give a rip, actually. 

Goals are the devil.