Porch

I just went ahead and turned the water on in the crawl space minus the bug bomb. I had the job of cleaning the moss off the house and in order to do that I needed water! Because I am so good at planning things, I decided to just bite the bullet and go down there to twist the two cobwebbed knobs. I inhaled a lot of bug spray. I am shocked at how much the human body can tolerate. I was hacking and wondering if I had to call the poison control center once I crawled outside, but soon enough fresh air seemed to help and I was righted again.

I also painted the porch this past week, which was a sort of disaster. I painted the floor of it dark blue (like the shutters on our house) and it looks all great and everything, except I should have left a sign for kids to enter through the back. Or "wet paint" or something. A kid came up the porch and pulled the paint up in the print of his foot in several areas, and then somehow he touched the paint and christened my storm door with his finger prints.

I was livid. All I can say is that the kid ran away and his older brother was banned from my property until I could re-paint that madness.

Eraser Eater promptly made a sign for me and stuck it outside. He put "DANGER!" in large capital letters.

To be honest, the porch was depressing me. It looked horrible. And we were having people over for the Girl's eighth birthday party. I painted it days before the event, but because of all the thunderstorms and high humidity, it took a century to dry. I thought since the day before the party was completely sunny, I could do little touch ups in the walk way. I'm an idiot.

The next morning it was fabulously wet so in my Sunday best, I took one of my good rags (I can't think clearly in the morning, you know that) and wiped it all up. But I was barefoot and I got paint all over the bottom of my feet. It covered the bottom of my feet, actually. And I forgot about it. I just put on my heels and went, wondering later why it was a bit hard to take them off.

After the party was over (it was after church) the Prof. and I sat down with our glasses of pop and talked. He was on the couch opposite me. I kicked my feet up on the coffee table. Immobile, he stole a glance at my (I am sure) dark colored blue feet bottoms. But he thought he was being slick and looked at me like it was nothing but I intercepted. "I know what you're thinking," I said,"I stepped on the wet porch this morning...."

"Um, yeah, I was about to say..."

I don't know how many times in my marriage I will feel like Lucy Ricardo, wincing.

Of Late

I have very little to write about. I mean, I could write about nothing and then I could write about everything.

The Professor is supposed to bomb the crawl space to kill the bugs before I enter in, but that has not happened yet. The cars need to get washed and we need the water turned on. These robins keep perching on the rear view mirrors and pooping on the side of the car. It is pretty gross looking---long streams of white and black poop. The man keeps saying that if he had a gun he would "shoot that thing."

But other than that not too much is going on. Our mailbox that got annihilated a couple years ago has still never gotten fixed by the culprits, our grill has taken to catching on fire (apparently there was a recall we had no clue about) and only works half way, and the Prof. and I killed another pot of herbs I tried to buy again. We set them by the window and watered them but they still biffed it. When I found that there was still a little life yet in each plant, I put it outside once it got warm and what do you know, the next day, the whole pot was upturned.

"Guess I'm not supposed to have herbs," I mumbled to the Prof.

I made an amazing Oreo pie yesterday. I worked hard on it. I imagined exactly what I wanted. An oreo crust, a chocolate ganache layer, Oreo infused ice cream, another thin layer of ganache, and then more ice cream. I drizzled it with chocolate. As we ate it with our guests I heartily complimented myself after I took a bite. "This is awesome!" I yelped. I guess it is not proper to compliment your own pie, but it was the first time I had ever tried it. And I thought it up in Costco. The Prof. looked at me in surprise (I suppose he could not imagine his own mother hollering her own praise) and kept eating. Everyone else ignored me and kept eating---and no one talked about how incredibly wicked it was because I had already crowned myself queen.

But Eraser Eater, who was with me when I was audibly imagining my pie at Costco, said as he was chomping on a piece, "Gee Mom, is this the pie you were envisioning at Costco? It is AWESOME! Thanks! You're the best! You were right, it really WOULD be good!"

I give up on adults who insist on propriety.

Me and the Oldest

I've been hacking a lot due to the pollen here. I had a word of wisdom from my dear friend Laura about allergies/moving to new areas/honeymoon periods, etc and this spring has been an asthmatic mess. Breathing is an issue. The Oldest has been hacking up a lung too (we call it our TB). He asked me stupidly this spring if he had tuberculosis.

The Prof. and I looked at each other. Of course, the man always jumps at the chance to kid the poor gullible wretch. "Yes. You have it. And you are going to die soon."

The crew and I took a field trip to a local estate with huge grounds to hike and whatnot, and the Oldest and I both were hacking up a lung the whole time. He has been pocketing his inhaler and sometimes I bum it off him when I need to breathe.

"Hey, my mucus, it tastes metal-lick." He coughed again and swallowed it.

"You CAN'T DO THAT! Look. You swallow the junk and then it slides down into your throat again and all you can do is just hack it up---again. It's gross. It's like you're eating your snot. And the word is metallic, dude."

"Oh. But it tastes metal-lick, I mean, metal---how do you say it? It tastes like metal---like blood. Do you think I am coughing up blood? I have to have tumercolasis. This isn't good. Here--" {violent coughing spasm}"...mook," he stuck out his tongue.

"No blood, pal. Just snot. Now don't swallow it."

"But I have been doing that the whole time! I wish I would have known that sooner!"

"Well now you know." I handed him the inhaler, he coughed into his elbow pit and then ran off into the bamboo.

Eventually we reached a place where there was a huge hedge and on the other side of the huge hedge there was a building. The problem with this hedge was that it was some sort of flowering one and there was no way to get around it to the other side except to go through it. I forget the woes of spring and summer just about every year until it hits me for the very first time again. The Oldest did not want to walk through. The reason being: huge bumble bees soaring around the towering hedge and all over in a sort of canopy. He stood at the foot of it.

"I can't do it," he whimpered, "it is not possible. I am going to die, we are never going to get out of here, and there is no way out!" He was steadily backing away and petrified.

I immediately donned my spring/summer coping skills with freshness. My mind was clear even though I was hungry. But I was hungry. We were with friends. The pressure increases for good ideas to get out of the next panic mess. My ulterior motive: to get to food. The only way to get to food was to get through that bee infested canopy. The bee infested canopy was between me and fainting.

He started to cry. Yes, I do admit, my eyes began to roll. I just don't have time for this madness. "I just can't do it...." he was saying over and over in a soft shrill whisper, hands to mouth, eyes wide behind his glasses, looking to and fro from one side of the bee infested canopy to the other. I quickly imagined myself with a huge roll of duct tape. Really, I did. I ripped off a piece and blinded his eyes and then I suddenly got a great idea.

"Close your eyes," I said. I pulled out a stick of gum from my purse.

"What? Gum? Close my eyes? Are you nuts?" he wailed faintly, Mickey Mouse fashion.

"Please just close your eyes. Then when you are done closing your eyes, you can have this gum. But you have to keep them closed. We are going to walk through that walkway and you are going to hold my hand. But you can't open your eyes. And the bees won't get you because I will guard you. I am best at it. And when we are through walking, you can open your eyes and have the gum. Let's go. No choice."

He very reluctantly obeyed. Half way across, he stopped with his eyes shut tight and said, "I can't do it! They are going to get me!" I jerked his hand slightly and said, "You are half way there, man, and then it's over."

With eyes tight shut, he floated his head around like he could see in all that blackness. He timidly went forward, shaking. When over the threshold of bee-less air, he popped open his eyes, hastily grabbed the gum, threw it in his mouth, chewed it with violent relish and ran like the dickens to the field beyond.

Hast Thou Bedecked Thyself With Humor

I was reclining on the bed reading the torturous Merry Adventures of Robin Hood when Eraser Eater ran toward me to kiss me goodnight.

"Have you brushed your teeth?"

"No."

"Get in there."

He went to the bathroom and got going with the brush. He has one of those firefly toothbrushes that blinks a flashing red light until a whole minute is up. In the dark hall where he was peeking his head out to spy on me from time to time, he looked a bit strange----all dim yet glowing red about the mouth.

The Oldest was sitting in a chair, talking to me as this was going on. When I pointed out how "trippy" Eraser Eater looked, the Oldest decided he had his own bit to say (as usual). "Hey, that does look a bit odd. How bout you send that toothbrush to a lighthouse so they can bring in the ships with it!"

I tell you, he is a bright boy, but so not good at cracking jokes. He was laughing in a hearty, lusty manner at his own jest, sitting there in the chair, slapping his knee. He gets this genuine, actual smile that I love when he does this.

Eraser Eater saw this great deal of mirth and cried out with toothbrush smashed against his cheek, "Why don't you send your brain to science!?" At this, the fountain burst into a flowing stream and my Oldest was almost on the floor laughing his sides off.

"Oh Mom, that boy, oh, that boy, he kills me every time. He always has one up his sleeve!"

"Yeah, so Mom...." He just stood there waiting for a response.

Try reading in this house. It is impossible.

"Yes?"

"I did inform Dad today that you don't really get crackin' until around 7:30. Well, sometimes it is more like eight....."

"Is that so?" I put the book mark in my book and set it down.

"Yeah," he was really grinning now,"in fact, I think you only really start getting going by 9:00, but if I truly thought about it, you are only rolling by noon." At this he was nearly on the floor again. My smile wasn't helping. "In fact, because you can be so lazy, forget paying the bills anymore or even bothering to get out of bed...." he was gasping for air...

"Me? Lazy? You flinch every time I tell you to do the dishes!" He rolled his eyes in playful vengeance.

"Yeah? And you just stand there when I ask if I can play games and say, 'uh, I don't know. Uh, not now.' And then I ask later and you say, 'maybe later' and then I ask later and you say, 'it's time for bed now! why would you want to play games now?' And then what do you know, POW! the whole idea is shot because you delayed it so long!" Now them's fightin' words.

"My plan has worked successfully." I picked my book back up.

"You mean you have been doing this on purpose all along?"

"Perhaps."

"You are craftier than I thought!" he bellowed in complete belief.

Sad Song (Noel Gallagher-Oasis)

I LOVE this song. Noel is amazing. I want a recording of this terribly bad.

New Batch

I made lavender soap the other day and it looks like blueberry. Oh well. It is pretty though! I got a little too heavy on the blue, I think. Argh. It smells great.

Hello World, Here Comes a Great Typist.

Uh, long time no see.

I am about to delete this thing. I will turn moderation off. Bee convinced me.

Not that there is much to moderate. I am just ridiculously busy. I have recently taken up a worship leader/coordinator role at my church so that is taking some time. I am having quite a great time arranging old hymns and making them spunky. My next project is "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silent" and "Christ the Lord is Risen Today". We will see how that all pans out.

And it looks like I may teach three literature classes this fall, so the intense reading and note-taking will ensue.

My Girl just got over pneumonia, and Eraser Eater had a major asthma attack on Friday, resulting in his oxygen level being severely low and his lung capacity even lower. When they finally got him to 75% capacity level they allowed us to step out of the office and toward home with a hefty prescription and instructions. When I didn't have the flu, I was taking care of ailing people. Heck, when I had the flu I was taking care of people.

"What does that mean?" The Oldest said.

We were listening to "Eight Days a Week" on the radio.

"It's a Beatles song. You know, the guy loves the girl so much that he loves her MORE than just seven days a week, see, it's pretty clever," I said, stepping on the gas.

"I don't see what's so clever about that. There aren't eight days in a week. It makes them look dumb. I don't get it."

"Forget it then."

"Yeah, ok. Hey Eraser Eater, this kid in class told me about a game you can play online that you can design yourself. He designed a stupid game where a bear catches hamburgers for points!"

Anything with design and Eraser Eater is ON IT.

"What is this game?!" he hollered.

"It is just a game where you can design your own game if you want," answered the Oldest.

"Where do you find it?"

"On the internet! You go on the internet! Do I have to keep saying it!?"

"WHERE ON THE INTERNET, OLDEST? HUH? I WANT ANSWERS HERE!" He made sure that he growled and laughed all at the same time as he said this.

I burst out laughing against the steering wheel.

"How's he so funny?" the Oldest gave me a half-grin that meant he barely got the humor.

"The boy is just clever," I confessed.

But he doesn't get clever or humor. Poor old sap.

New Song

Here is a new song I put up on my new music site. Give it a listen for me.

Listings and Dialogue

When shopping for a birthday gift today the Girl and I found Smurf stuffed animals. Incredible. 

I usually wake up in the morning wanting to go to bed already and then proceed to long for that step into bed all day long. Is that normal?

I ate two pieces of cheesecake yesterday but don't feel fat. I mean, I was sure to get on the treadmill, but I don't feel fat. That's good, people.

Once the election was over, Obama sent me a letter thanking me for voting for him. Wait. I think I already told you that before. Like I have also told you before, I am getting very old and forget stuff.

I did not vote for Obama.

My teeth are getting closer together and so the braces will be off in a few months. YES! No more eating on one side! 

Today I thought for some reason I was very wise when I said to my Oldest: "You will never control people; you can only control yourself." Then I shortly realized that I am an idiot.

I almost slipped and fell at a bowling alley today wearing my 12 year old boots. Well, I didn't have them when I was twelve, I've just had them for that long.

I think chocolate makes people very happy.

I love Titus Two's version of "Fly" by Sara Groves.

Yesterday I got raw chicken juice on my running shoes.

I have a guitar that is bigger and better than me.

I broke a humidifier a couple of weeks ago. It MELTED. I must say that I have broken many and that has never happened before.

I heard a sweet girl today get so excited about a Webkinz that she squealed so high-pitched she sounded just like a boiling tea kettle. Amazing. I did a double take. 

My Oldest, when corrected nearly the whole car trip home long, whimpered and put his head down in shame and despair. 

"This day is over," he said piteously.

"Oh but you will have chicken tacos for dinner!" I bellowed. 

"We shouldn't have chicken tacos for dinner! Good endings to bad days just isn't right!"

I rolled my eyes.

"I just like bad endings to bad days. Can't we eat something else?!"

Like what, a death cake? A dead body? A burnt up hog within a funeral pyre? Chilled monkey brains?

"I'm sorry, that's just really weird. We're having tacos, pal."

Of Late

On Tuesday we went to see the sights in D.C. with our niece from Idaho. That was interesting. We went to see the National Archives and saw The Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights, and a copy of the Magna Carta (one of the four) some colonist had. I hate to sound ignorant, but it was pretty boring. The place was so dimly lit (for preservation purposes, I am sure) that to read anything was nearly impossible. You could practically take a nap in there. In fact, the security guard standing next to the Declaration was doing just that.

Next we looked at the White House and then went up into the Washington Monument. You know, that big masonic spear just smack in the middle of the city. It was pretty high up. I enjoyed seeing the National Cathedral (one of my favorite places) in the distance, northwest. The Professor did not go up as he is afraid of heights. I am a little afraid of heights, I guess. Once up on the top I felt pretty dizzy and wanted to go down. My sister in law already bolted so I was left with the kids and my niece, who was doing just fine. Eraser Eater started to pull stuff because he hadn't seen the north side of the monument and I was ready to puke and go to the elevator. "You get to see the north side and you get barf in your pocket," I said. He obeyed reluctantly.

We were going to go to the National Gallery of Art (where we frequent whenever we are in the city) but we happened to be walking by the Museum of Natural History and just went in there as time was running out. The Girl held all the available live insects in the insect section. The boys sort of ran the other direction and watched her from behind an exhibit. Even my niece held a worm, which is one of my room 101s. 

On a lighter note, this past week the Girl has been sick and I have been trying to avoid the germ, as Howard Hughes as I can get at times. At one point, my brain was so lacking one morning while waiting for my coffee to brew, that I accidentally drank from her pill-taking glass. In great panic I quickly gathered my wits and tried to think of a way to kill the now ingested germ. "Liquid disinfectant," I thought,"Rubbing alcohol---what can I drink? I can't drink that." My brain was only half functioning. 

Like lightning, I remembered that I had hard liquor in the upper cabinet above my head. I grabbed the first bottle I saw: bourbon from the sangrias I made at Christmas. I swiftly uncapped it and chugged. Ok, so it was in the morning and I almost puked. It burned slowly all the way down, and I imagine it would have burned all the way back up too! Foul stuff.

So far, I am fine. I guess that works, eh? 

Just one more thing. 

For most of my life I have let others run me. And I mean, the kind of people who prey on people like me because I have been a people pleaser. In many ways I could say that I have been my own problem, I just have gotten myself into the trap too many times to not find the common thread. 

But God changed it. He removed me from a particular situation into a new one. A fresh one. 

And I could assess. 

And a couple of years ago I ran into the same problem but with a different person. I cut it off. I let that "friendship" go. For good reason too. 

And now I have another right now. And each time I run into this type of person (manipulators), I can smell them from a mile off and I know that they are going to pull their tricks once they get an inch closer. 

And so it has happened. The ground, again, had to be stood. And they are pissed because they can't control me like they thought they could, because, I don't know, there is some spiritual sign on my head that says, "please control me, I like it."

Until I can get the sign off my head, I will not be able to ward off the manipulators. They like me A LOT. Instead, I have to keep telling them no, and they do not like that. AT ALL. 

Have I ever told you that I have probably had the telephone hung up on me about a thousand times? I don't even think I am exaggerating. 

Language

Eraser Eater finally got to go to Ikea to spend his gift card last weekend. Yes, he got an Ikea gift card. Is that not wild? He was so thrilled it was ridiculous. Yes, he is ten. He especially likes the modern design of home items. He got a rug to put under his modern chair (that I assembled with half a brain in tact, remember), a shelf to put his things on (the side table he really wanted was discontinued), and a pillow to put on his chair. A modern one. 

During morning prayer the kids and I use the BCP and then say our own petitions in the middle. After that, we go around and thank God for a few things each. Yesterday Eraser Eater said "Ikea."

The kids think it is fun because I always thank God for things like chocolate and Nutella. 

I have been teaching Fahrenheit 451 in my upper level lit class at the co-op. It has been a little bit of an issue since the book has a lot of mild language. I tried my best not to make it too much of an issue though. In class on Monday I went over the fact that people in this world use bad language and we as Christians are called not to do so. I quoted scripture and left it at that. 

The rest of the class went great---until I asked the kids what they thought of the society in the book. My son, the Oldest, raised his hand (yes, he is in my class). 

"I thought it was a hellish nightmare!" he hollered.

You Are As Big As Me

I just have to do something about my lazy kids. I HAVE to. Not only do they argue all day when put together, they intentionally annoy one another. Yesterday at Co-op I was in the quiet church office making copies for my classes. Eraser-Eater comes storming into the quiet room, silently weeping. 

"The Girl told me that I am in love with Avery." 

"So?"

He retreats to the corner of the little cramped room where he sticks his nose in the corner and weeps some more. A muffled "but I don't! And it's not funny! She's making fun of me!" comes out in a blurry wail. 

In comes the culprit. 

"What!?" she says with long eyes. 

"Get in my classroom RIGHT NOW!" I whisper.

Then the Girl wants to push the cart at Costco today and when I refuse to let her and the Oldest chides her about it, she whimpers, "I just don't feel a part of this family!" 

To make myself feel better I mentally grab an economy pack of duct tape, rip it open, and start taping. Hands bound together, feet---maybe just one big tape to the cart. But, the most important detail is the major slab of tape over the mouth. That is a MUST. Oh how stupid I was, I would think. I tried so hard to get them to talk and now all I want is for them to silence themselves. 

I clogged a toilet.  Forget that. They don't admit fault. More like: the toilet's clogged!

I'm really hungry. I know I just ate. I am starving!

You keep sitting in the middle seat! I want ROOM!

They even keep each other in line and then argue about that!

You are supposed to do the dishes! 

You ate all those chips! I thought you said yesterday you were going to watch what you ate!

Your room is a mess! 

Stop sitting in that bathroom forever and a day! You know you are going to clog it!

Quit banging the glasses!

You promised Mom you would time yourself when playing games! That's it...I'm setting the timer!

Mom said TWO HOURS of playing piano, you're playing it whether you like it or not!

Drink all your milk right now!

You are not getting dessert!

The list goes on and on. Then someone wails (usually the one being bossed around) and then I am the one, bound by the wrists, brought to the scene of the crime with my head all a muddle. 

It is the same song and dance every time and it doesn't stop. And it is all because they talk. 

On our way out of Costco this afternoon the kids and I battled our way to the car in the freezing air with frozen yogurts in our hands. I have Raynaud's disease, for those of you that don't know, and when I touch frozen stuff for too long or when I am just plain cold, my digits go numb and it can be painful and very uncomfortable. By the time we reached the car I was spent but I had to get those stupid purchases in the trunk. 

My twelve year old son, avoiding the whipping wind, stuck out his hand to jerk the door handle. 

"Can I get some help?!" I yelped, an icicle hanging from my nose as I was struggling to drop a big box of Costco junk in the trunk.

"Are you crazy? It's freezing outside!" And he opened the car door went inside. 

He of course, had the advantage as I did not want to leave the cart there (a big SUV was waiting for me to leave too) and get in the car and chew the boy out. I was so cold I was starting to burn but I knew I had to finish the whole job so I could get in the car and chase him down.

First, I got in the car and rubbed my hands together as I winced and almost cried, head down on the steering wheel for a few moments.

"I am starting to wish I helped you," he began.

I put on my gloves. (It would have helped if they had been on before, what a dork I am)

My beginning sentence started with, "You are as big as me...you are HUGE..........!!!!!"

This is Funny

I have never heard an animal sound like this before! What a riot!

School Last Week

Last week I had one horrendous day with school (the first day) and then it was better after that. Suddenly the Oldest knew how to isolate X and the Girl knew how to stay on task, and Eraser Eater stopped whimpering from the floor. There were a few times I almost wept openly, crying out to the homeschool gods to release me of this painful task, but because I have a pea brain, I forget about my sorrows once I go to the bathroom or get myself a drink of water, and I start all this malarkey up again, like it is brand spankin' new.

Like things could not have gotten worse, Eraser Eater's chair came in the mail. The smallish sort of box was placed in his chubby hands and he hastily ripped the thing open. It was nearly five o'clock in the evening and I was sitting next to the Oldest at the table, helping him isolate X and gingerly pulling out my teeth, one by one, and pelting them at his nose when things got a bit difficult.

"Mom! Can you help me put this chair together?!" yelped Eraser Eater in an over-excited manner. The Girl and the Neighbor Girl were sitting on the floor helping him rip open the box. The whole idea of putting a chair together was a bit too much for me at that moment. You see, when the mind is freshest it can think clearly and work as expected. But as the day goes on and pressure is applied, soon the brain gives way and soon you have soup once you hit exactly five o' clock. I had about two brain cells left to use floating in that boiled mass of liquid thinking material, and I didn't want to use it on putting a chair together. But then the pieces....

The pieces the girls decided to scatter about in their great haste----it seemed that they were scattering all over the walls and hair and everything scatterable. It was a wretched thought. The next thing you know, I have gathered up all my teeth, put them back in their sockets, and high-tailed it to the scattered pieces. Screws and little do-hickeys. Two arm rests. A pad. Various other pieces of chair like material. I grabbed the instructions. They were unreadable, and they didn't even have any words. Pictures of nonsense. Nothing made sense. Pounding the skull does not work, it just rattles the soup.

When the brain is freshest it can take two seconds to figure out how to put four pieces of chair together. It took me probably forty minutes. I read the instructions backwards, sideways, then finally not at all. I studied the pieces. I put it together wrong then I put it together right. Eventually a very smaller-than-I-thought-it-would-be chair emerged before my eyes.

"It's perfect!" squealed Eraser Eater. "It's modern and perfect!" He sat in it. The Girl sat in it. The Neighbor Girl sat in it.

I turned around. No Oldest at the table. "Oldest!" I yelled.

He peeped from around the corner. "I took a little break...."

Ejected soup on the floor.

Doozie Was Almost Right

Putting the smack down is a bit tiring. That is what I have had to do since the Professor went back to work after his two week vacation.

This past year:

Wrinkles have developed on my forehead
a number of things have died or given up years of service including my ghetto oven and my coffee maker
And the rest is a blur.

The Girl was caught last week eating the contents of her nose while I was reading a book to her out loud. I could not believe it. In fact, it made me so angry because I remember the countless times I have struggled to get her to eat something she doesn't like the taste or texture of. Granted, she is not overly picky, but to be semi-picky and then to be PICKY (if you catch my drift) on top of it sent me over the edge.

I made her oatmeal, her meal of non-choice.
"Why did you put a banana in it?" she winced, holding a spoonful of her punishment at bay.
"To make it extra gooey---like a booger!" I hollered.
"Mom!!!"she gasped, surprised at me.
"What?" I said, "you can't eat actual food, but you can eat the taint from your nose---the accumulation of various germs piled on one another over and over...."
"Mom! Please!" she begged, looking helplessly at her spoonful of gooey, booger-like stuff.

It took her two hours to eat it. Aren't I wretched?

And now I must go get tires on my car. Ugh. Perhaps that is my "toll house" of purgatory-like punishment. Perhaps.

Ok So Maybe I Died

I am so sick of blogging because since church people and general public people don't care about me and those I love (wah-wah-wah) I think my blog is a bloody failure and I am tired of attempting to write on it. Nonsense. It is all nonsense.

My Girl is going pee and playing her DS at the same time. Cool.

I took all the Christmas festivity garb down today and felt a twinge of sadness. What am I saying? I always feel a twinge of sadness! What is the flipping difference! I need meds! Must have meds!

Not only am I sad, I am insane. Just like I put the tree up on my own, I took it down on my own. My dearly beloved watched the Vikings game and was happy that they won. I gave him a kiss and congratulated him after closing up an ornament box. The man is from Minnesota and believe me, did we have lefse and meatballs for Christmas dinner! Thankfully I did not have to make it. My poor SIL pretty much made everything while I mixed up terrible drinks and made people drink them. I also skewered up little rolls of pb&j sandwiches and cheese with those little sword toothpicks so the kids would eat them. I also chopped up some fruit and whatnot and put that out there. 

The Professor looked at me gravely for a moment as he put away the vacuum (that I didn't use).

"Did you buy M&Ms?!"

I stared at him. I thought about how little time we had left until our guests would arrive. I dumbly looked at him straight in the face and I said, "Uh, I forgot."

"You FORGOT!? WHY YOU LITTLE...."

No. He actually just shook his head, turned down the hall, got his coat on, and went to the store. "We need more snacks," he said flatly in that Minnesotan voice of his. 

This is what I DID do:

Learned how to make paper snowflakes

Taught children how to do it

Made paper snowflakes

Glittered them up

Suspended them from the ceiling

Created two centerpieces

Strung lights and garlands

Put out a tablecloth

made meatballs

made cookies

made deviled eggs no one ate (and threw away today)

made mulling spice packets

cleaned up

did endless dishes

set up plates and silverware

and I can't remember what else

BTW----No one at the M&Ms either.

The Sick Dysfunctional Church

I have discovered once again that not many people care about anyone else but themselves. I can tend to do this myself, so I understand. 

What I don't understand is how the Church can be so unfriendly. So I sit next to you or behind you in the building. But you just sort of nod your head when you see me or you just scowl at me. Same difference. You don't want to talk to ME, the new person. In fact, it is not even so much as intimidation, which is more admirable. It is INDIFFERENCE. NO INTEREST:

I pretty much don't care about you, I have no clue what you do, I have no clue where you have been, and I don't want to know. Sure, we worship the same God, but you know, I am just glad He cares about you because I certainly don't worry about it. To me, you don't exist. You are just a warm body that sits in the seat behind me and because you make contact with my eyes I must nod at you slightly because you are in fact, a human. I even wave at my neighbor when they drive by. That's sort of the same thing.

Now I know what some of you may think. Why the heck do I not put myself forward? I don't know. Maybe it is some sick fascination with the whole lot of it. I want to see if anyone eventually will ignore the sign on my forehead that says don't talk to me, I am not worth it. I have actually thought about putting the sign on my forehead for fun. It would be perfect. I would walk into the building and there I would be, the sign on my head shining in the glow of the multi-purpose Christian bookstore-smelling room. I wonder what people would do. I have the guts to do it but my Minnesota born husband would be too polite to allow it. 

One of the ladies at church asked me if I ever went to the Sunday School (she is actually in a small group with me, so she talks to me--she is one of the only people who does). She mentioned that the Sunday School teacher is so gifted, I would really love it. She described the man and seemed shocked that I could not place his face, or even know who he was. 

"He sits in the back," she said to further my knowledge. 

"Oh, in the back of the whole building---over by the soundboard and all that---" I said, thinking of the blur of people that sit there and how weird it always seemed to me. "Well, I can't place him really," I continued, "In fact, I have never heard of him probably because no one talks to us."

She slightly jerked back, a little surprised at what I had said, but pulled it in just quickly enough so that I questioned my own thoughts on this. Maybe she wasn't surprised. 

"Oh," she said.

I don't know what the mature thing would be to do in this situation. Maybe ignore it or approach everyone and say, "Hello, I have been going here for four months or more now and I have never gotten to know you." You know, blame it on myself.

But that is easy for a person like me to do. Blame it on myself. I cut my teeth on horrendous emotions like that. I am sick of blaming things on myself all the time. For awhile it seems ok to do, but then again, it is unhealthy. Just as unhealthy as having no interest in people who seem like they must be nice, and hey, they are going to heaven where I am going and maybe I will get to know them there. How comforting. 

We went to a Christmas Party on Sunday to get to know people as a sort of last effort before we decide to do something drastic (like use signs) or perhaps just resort into our own selves. We sat at a table. No one sat next to us except the pastor and his wife who probably discovered that no one would sit next to us. 

When I went to the bathroom half-way through the thing I prayed to myself for something to happen where we would feel welcome. I am going to sound very charismatic right now but who cares at this point, I am not a looney tune, I just heard this or at least the thought, independent from myself: "Just enjoy your husband." 

I did. 

I encourage you all who feel lonely in a church full of people to enjoy your spouse especially in those things because by golly, that may be the only fellowship you ever get. Amen and amen.

Over-extending

I totally almost threw up. I put my treadmill on the incline of 11% and then ran that way for four minutes. That was a really bad idea and entirely awful. What was I thinking? 

Seriously, that is the first time that I have ever felt like lying on the floor and simply dying. Please promise me you all will never do that. I wouldn't wish that on Satan. 

The other night I was talking to an acquaintance about Christmas. We were talking about what we had to get done before the big day and I was telling her I had some baking to do. "Do you have any baking left to do?"

She looked at me a little blankly and shook her head like she thought I was crazy. She barely shook her head, actually. She lazily said, "No, I have no baking to do. I just...don't ever bake on Christmas...." she said it like that was a normal thing, like baking was the weirdo thing to do. I don't know, maybe it was just me. She continued, "But...I do other things like write a Christmas letter and mail it out to family..."

Oh WOW, really? I almost blurted. That is so intense. A Christmas letter. 

What the heck is wrong with ladies in my generation? They can't cook, they don't clean, they don't have any kids (although this lady does have kids). It is like bringing a batch of brownies to a cookie exchange. ---Or worse, bringing Chips Ahoy.

My mixer broke on Thanksgiving. I had forgotten about it, so yesterday when I needed it to whip up some whipped cream, I had to do it by hand. Most of these ladies would never know how to whip some cream by hand. 

I am not boasting here though. I really am not. I SHOULD know what I know. I've done my research, I have done my homework. It's my job, baby. I am just ashamed of all my fellow thirty-something year olds who don't know how to do squat in the house. AND---

I am tired of older ladies who have kids that are YOUNGER than mine thinking that I don't know what I am talking about when it comes to motherhood because I am younger. Um, hello, mine are older and in ONE PIECE so I have done SOMETHING right. Right? And um, I have them with me 24-7 so that gives me a heck of a lot more experience so the woman knows what she is talking about. 

I think 31 {gasp!} has newly given me some attitude. Stand back, I bite.

No One Will Eat My Chocolates

I just halfway finished my batch of chocolate covered cherries. I am making sixty of them. Who will eat them? I am not sure. The Professor's side of the family has an aversion to chocolate and fruit mixed together (I am probably the opposite---chocolate and chicken doesn't sound half bad, so I completely don't understand this madness), so I guess I will bring a good bit of them to the church Christmas party on Sunday, my dreaded day of all days, the day I become an old hag.

Moving on....

I have made some truffles, buckeyes, fudge, and I just don't feel in the mood for cookies. I like making candy. But no one eats it except the kids, but they would be happy with Palmer chocolate, if you catch my drift, so that doesn't count much. Chocolate with 75% wax is not chocolate, it is most likely wax, and if my children can tolerate it, they can tolerate just about anything with sugar in it. 

A customer a couple of weeks ago approached me and asked my opinion about two sets of boots. He wanted to know which ones I thought were better. He had one pair of tall black spike-heeled boots and another pair of ugly camel brown, chunky tall boots. 

"Black," I said, "they don't shout out at you as much."

He opened his eyes wide and jerked his head back in surprise. "I would think that the black spikey heel would be a bit of an attention-getter, if you ask me."

"Really?" I said, "I just assume black is pretty tame."

"But the heel...I bet you money if you walk around in these things every guy would turn his head. Now THESE" he held up the camel brown ones, "these won't get you one bit of attention."

I thought about how I rarely dress to get attention. I thought about how the Professor always thinks that I am ignorant about men and what they notice. I responded:

"I wouldn't ask me, I am an odd person. My opinion doesn't count."

"Odd as in how?"

"As in not usual."

He bellowed out a hearty laugh and put the black boots down.