Yes, it's late. Or very early. Half empty, half full; you decide. Hubby's not home again and the grief tide is slowly but surely coming in.
We went to visit Neva yesterday. And Paul. Poor Neva, so lifeless on her death bed, just waiting to die. They said she wouldn't respond, couldn't respond, but I shall never forget how her eyes rolled 'round and she let out a tattered breath as I whispered in her ear, "Oh Neva, how lucky are you--you're going to see Jesus!" I fought back tears, thanked her for touching my life, stroked her thin, gray hair, told her goodbye and kissed her wrinkled cheek. It won't be long until she's gone, or arrives, or both, I suppose.
Until this past year, I would not have known how to treat a grieving person like Paul; his wife of 50+ years fading fast before his cloudy blue eyes. I am thankful for that lesson, for learing the ache of a grieving heart, as it can only be learned from experience; it is a very valuable tool to have handy. When speaking with Paul, Hubby kept trying to fill the awkward silence--oh, how I wished I could have put a sock in his rambling mouth!! A grieving person needs an open ear, not an open mouth. A grieving person needs a hand to hold, to see eyes that shed the same tears as theirs...not winded stories of relatives who've died. Argh.
People say the dumbest things when they don't know what to say...yet, they just keep on talking, completely clueless to the fact that their words only add to your grief...and they walk away ignorantly thinking, "I'm glad I comforted so-and-so." Yes, I also know this from painful experience, and it pained me to watch my own husband to do a hurting man what well meaning people have done to me.
...Just watched a movie, my little Dell gasping for breath every now and again. In my older age I do enjoy slowing down here and there to watch a movie in the comfort of my Select Comfort bed. (I'm gone up from 15 to 35. Perhaps tonight, err, this morning I'll spice things up a bit and settle in at 30.)
I asked the local Jack Black at the movie store for a good "chick flick," and he gave me his recommendation for Catch and Release. Interesting in a way, slightly funny, but not worth the $3.49. Of course, I am rather picky when it comes to films and rarely watch anything without content...which is getting harder and harder to find now days.
Whatever happened to a good romantic comedy without all the sex, alcohol and curse words? What a conditioning it is to watch these modern day movies. Has anyone heard of a two little words: plot and substance? Our advancing technologies have robbed our brains of their active imaginations. We have traded in stimulation for numbness and true humor for canned laughter. Oh, how tragic it is that we have lost dear Romeo and Juliet. Where is the Shakespear of our current age?
I did rent a documentary from the library which I wanted to watch, but the kiddos are camped out in front of the fire in the living room, and my laptop doesn't play VHS, so I was stuck with this ill begot DVD.
I have thought a time or two of the Mr. Jack Black Movie Store Man. Young man, I might add. Very early twenties at the oldest. He looks very much like Jack Black, and has the same slightly odd sense of humor; even has that crooked little smile. I'm not sure what his real name is, perhaps I'll ask the next time I'm in. He's a kid with personality. I do so enjoy good personality. It's very refreshing, much like mountain air after the rain or the taste of an ocean breeze.
The last time I went to rent a movie (The Nativity Story--very disappointing and a very hit-and-miss version of the original text), Mr. Jack Black was wearing shorts, boot socks, and a pair of army-like boots; topped off with his messy Jack Black hair and sloppy t-shirt with his slightly protruding Jack Black tummy. He was very candidly telling a story of how the previous night, as he was closing the store, a cow was moseying right on down the street which runs in front of the store. His animation made me chuckle. His eyes lit up as he described the creature, his face imitating the look a cow might have if it were free from the barn and taking a stroll down Lincoln Street. What imagination!
Anyway, I'll have to tell him that his movie recommendation was good for numbing the brain and ask him if he's ever seen the original Pride and Prejudice. I do wonder if he'd be able to stay awake through it. a Mt. Dew might do the trick.
Okay. Eyes are starting to droop, fingers are getting a bit achy. What an odd little word, "achy." Surely, it looks as if it needs an "e," but indeed it does not. Time to stoke the fire, feed the cat and slip back into my ever-so-comfortable bed.
Maybe I'll go out on a limb and be number 25 tonight...or maybe I'll just pass out. It's a toss up.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Yeah, Baby!
Oh yeah, gimme five. Uh-huh, oh yeah. Yeah, Baby! I just signed into my blog account on the second try. Oh yeah! Not the 10th try, not the 9th, not the I'm-gonna-hit-the-stupid-computer-
I-should-know-this'th try, but the second try. Oh yea. Mabe next time it will be the first try. Who's yo daddy?!?!?
That's right, after cleaning the moldy-since-July outside fridge, I seem to be very excitable about nothing in particular. I'm sure it has nothing to do with all the bleach fumes. My eyes do seem to be burning a bit, but I'm sure that's normal. Do Smurfs live at your house, too?
People. Aren't people so fabulously pathetic and interesting all at the same time? That's right, we had a library trip today. And we just happened to be there when Story Time was about to start. Against my better judgment, we stayed. It was painful.
About 18 little kids were ushered in, told to sit quietly, not move and not pick their noses (okay, they should have been told not to pick their noses!). Then the mock teacher started readying a bilingual story, with a lady who spoke Spanish translating after her. Blah blah blah. I found the hired employees of the 18 children rather interesting, myself. There was this one lady who would have fit perfectly into my upcoming 80's party: scrunchie in the hair, big bangs, neon colored jacket, irridescent sun glasses nestled against her boomerange bangs. Yes, she somehow didn't realize that 20 years have passed and that we now live in 2007. (This was alomst as bad as seeing a grandma in a mini-skirt....but not quite that bad.)
Anyway, this lady (let's call her the Braces-Lady, since she had such pretty braces with green bands in them--lovely), the Braces-Lady, was a real gem. I don't know just how much she was getting paid to work with these 18 children, but it obviously wasn't enough. I had to wonder if, perhaps, she was out on parole and somehow ended up working for the State taking care of children (sick and twisted but probably accurate). As I watched her interact with these kids, I envisioned a black, pointy cone-shaped hat on top of her head, a green wart on her nose (to match the bands in her braces, of course), and a tattered old broom out back as her source of transportation.
It made me sad. Very sad. It boggles my brain...why would you pay someone else to raise your child? And why would you pay someone to treat your child so disdainfully? I don't understand. The children suffer. The parents are ignorant and the Braces-Ladies of the world put another tick on the post, not understanding that they are shaping the lives of our worlds most precious resource--our children. No wonder society is one level above a pond of scum.
Scum...yes, that reminds me of the fridge in the garage. How colorful it was. Guests for Thanksgiving equals a clean fridge in the garage. I'm rather looking forward to Thanksgiving. Looks like we've got a total head count of 22. I might invite a few more. It's no good to be alone on the holidays, so we're opening the doors to our little (mold-free) world.
I'm soaking my turkey in brine this year. Never tried that before. Got a kickin' cranberry sauce recipe, too. Don't know where I'm going to find Black Current Liqueor in these parts, but I'm gonna die lookin'. Need a 5 gallon stock pot. Might have to break down and go buy one. Of course, I've got a 24 pound turkey, so I probably need a bigger pot than that. I might need to make a trip to Utah for that one.
3:00 PM. Mail time! What, oh what will the mailman bring me today? Mail! Mail! How I do love mail. Maybe I'll get some coupons so I can buy gallons and gallons of bleach!!! (Twitch, twitch.)
I-should-know-this'th try, but the second try. Oh yea. Mabe next time it will be the first try. Who's yo daddy?!?!?
That's right, after cleaning the moldy-since-July outside fridge, I seem to be very excitable about nothing in particular. I'm sure it has nothing to do with all the bleach fumes. My eyes do seem to be burning a bit, but I'm sure that's normal. Do Smurfs live at your house, too?
People. Aren't people so fabulously pathetic and interesting all at the same time? That's right, we had a library trip today. And we just happened to be there when Story Time was about to start. Against my better judgment, we stayed. It was painful.
About 18 little kids were ushered in, told to sit quietly, not move and not pick their noses (okay, they should have been told not to pick their noses!). Then the mock teacher started readying a bilingual story, with a lady who spoke Spanish translating after her. Blah blah blah. I found the hired employees of the 18 children rather interesting, myself. There was this one lady who would have fit perfectly into my upcoming 80's party: scrunchie in the hair, big bangs, neon colored jacket, irridescent sun glasses nestled against her boomerange bangs. Yes, she somehow didn't realize that 20 years have passed and that we now live in 2007. (This was alomst as bad as seeing a grandma in a mini-skirt....but not quite that bad.)
Anyway, this lady (let's call her the Braces-Lady, since she had such pretty braces with green bands in them--lovely), the Braces-Lady, was a real gem. I don't know just how much she was getting paid to work with these 18 children, but it obviously wasn't enough. I had to wonder if, perhaps, she was out on parole and somehow ended up working for the State taking care of children (sick and twisted but probably accurate). As I watched her interact with these kids, I envisioned a black, pointy cone-shaped hat on top of her head, a green wart on her nose (to match the bands in her braces, of course), and a tattered old broom out back as her source of transportation.
It made me sad. Very sad. It boggles my brain...why would you pay someone else to raise your child? And why would you pay someone to treat your child so disdainfully? I don't understand. The children suffer. The parents are ignorant and the Braces-Ladies of the world put another tick on the post, not understanding that they are shaping the lives of our worlds most precious resource--our children. No wonder society is one level above a pond of scum.
Scum...yes, that reminds me of the fridge in the garage. How colorful it was. Guests for Thanksgiving equals a clean fridge in the garage. I'm rather looking forward to Thanksgiving. Looks like we've got a total head count of 22. I might invite a few more. It's no good to be alone on the holidays, so we're opening the doors to our little (mold-free) world.
I'm soaking my turkey in brine this year. Never tried that before. Got a kickin' cranberry sauce recipe, too. Don't know where I'm going to find Black Current Liqueor in these parts, but I'm gonna die lookin'. Need a 5 gallon stock pot. Might have to break down and go buy one. Of course, I've got a 24 pound turkey, so I probably need a bigger pot than that. I might need to make a trip to Utah for that one.
3:00 PM. Mail time! What, oh what will the mailman bring me today? Mail! Mail! How I do love mail. Maybe I'll get some coupons so I can buy gallons and gallons of bleach!!! (Twitch, twitch.)
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Fall Fun...Err, Just Fall
Yes, it is fall. And I am back. I was going to delete this blog, but I have found it to be a fun little blue place in which I can be myself; the good, the bad and the ugly (more bad than good and more good than ugly).
It's funny how I was waiting for Fall, and here it is, and I'm too busy to enjoy it. I don't bake my neighbors cookies anymore, I haven't visited Grandma Loyal since MAY, and I owe Mr. David down the street dinner and a card game in front of the fire. (I love old people, they're much more interesting that people my age!)
So far this fall I made friends with a man who doused himself in gasoline and was ready to light himself on fire, I've completed 7 full weeks of school (did you know that Venus is the only planet that spins backwards?), I've gained 8 pounds (I just couldn't say no to the entire bag of miniature Reeses Peanutbutter Cups....and the New Yorker Ben&Jerry's ice cream...and the chocolate truffle cheesecake), and I'm just starting to get over the flu, which I've had for nearly 10 days now. Yes, I'm making progress, aren't I?
I'm tired, the house is not spotless, I just cut out 20 cardboard hammers, pliers and screwdrivers, I need to practice my speech for the Women's Tea and it's a full moon. Am I the only crazy person who can't sleep during a full moon? Well, I know I'm not, thanks to my good friend Google, but I'm the only in-the-flesh person I know who can't. So, I may as well talk to myself rather than lay in bed tossing and turning for another 3 hours.
Oh, know what happened today? I got to witness a semi take the front end off David and Mary's Chevy 4X4 (yes, it was a pretty silver truck--w a s). I was dropping the hubby off at Freightliner, across the street from Flying J, and as I was headed to get back on the highway I heard this loud "POP!" and saw debris flying allover the road with a semi right behind it. I looked at the hit vehicle and thought to myself "am I an accident magnet or what?" (I am getting rather skilled at filling out police reports, a highly admirable skill, you know.)
I immedietley pulled over (the man holding the "look at me, I can't get a real job, but I have money to smoke cigarettes and drink coffee while holding a cardboard sign" thought I was stopping for him. Nuh-uh.) and saw fluid leaking out from under the hit vehicle. I ran over to the truck, hoping I wouldn't see anything that would make my lunch come back up. The cab was filling with smoke and the two occupants were sitting there, snug against their air bags, looking rather dazed. I had to pry open the door to even talk to the passenger, a lady in her mid 60's.
Using my Professional Mother skills, I told the people to get out of the truck (I was afraid they were going to get hit again, since they were hanging out in the road). I assessed the situation, started barking out orders and really didn't see how the stinky smoke inside the cab was good for their lungs. Since I'm the last person in the world to not own a cell phone, I asked if they had one, then used it to call 911.
Ya know, I have a reoccuring nightmare every so often where someone is in the house, some tresspasser. I call 911 and can't get through, the line's busy. When I do get through, I get put on hold. Well that almost happened. After about 9 rings, some 911 operator answers THEN I get put on hold. Only in Idaho!
Anyway, I did what I could to take care of the old couple (sometimes a hug gives more comfort than a thousand fluffy words), waited around for the officers, filled out a police report, gave Mary and Dave my phone number (they were from out of town and I wanted to make sure they could contact someone local if need be) and came home. And to think...I didn't even wear my lucky red underwear or cape today. (Not that I would wear a cape--I have watched The Incredibles, ya know!)
After the Jason incident last month (the man who tried to light himself on fire, but I just happened to be there to stop him) and this incident today, I'm wondering what November or December will bring. Maybe I'd just happen to be around when Santa looses a reindeer or Mr. Turkey runs out in the road. Yes, Domestic Goddess to the rescue!
Oh, did I tell you (of course I didn't since I am infact {which is technically two words and not one} talking to myself) that my camera is smashed? Yes, yes it is. Out it tumbled from the back of the Burb, onto the cold, hard asphalt. No more camera. I needed to upgrade anyway...I'm just hoping that I'll be able to get away with not doing photography for a little bit. I've really scaled back anyway, but there are still some people who always call this time of year.
Infact (didn't we already have this discussion about the word infact?), I had one unfavorable customer call and ask if I'd do their family photos again this year. I've never been SO delighted that my camera was broken! This is why I'm not good at business--I like to do things my way. And if you're unpleasant to work worth, I don't want to work with you!!! Not exactly a super-hitter business slogan, is it?
Okey dokey, time for me to go change the laundry. That's right, people, the Domestic Goddess never slumbers; she's on call 24 hours a day (whether she likes it or not). I mean, who needs an alarm clock when a 5 year old can wake you up in the wee hours of the morning saying, "Mom, Mom! I found a stink beetle on my bedroom floor! Come see! Mom, Mom!" (If any of you need an alarm clock, I do have a jar of beetles and a 5 year old that gets up at the crack of dawn.)
And you thought domestic life was for wimps, aye? I'd like to see you do my job...
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Ugh Blugh
Uhg bluh bluh blah bluh. Yada yada blah predada. Yippiekiaye and a dub dub dub.
Blah blah blah bla blah. BTW: those new honey chipolte chicken fingers at Chili's are pretty darn good. Why did my daughter just tell the cat to "shut your pie-hole?" Oh yes, that would be one of the beautifuly artistic words her dad uses (Grrrrrrrr!). Anyway, what was I saying?
Ahhhhhhhuuhhhhhhhh. Blurp. Slurp. Plop. Blop. Blip. Zlip. Bloop. Frop. Flizzle. Slirch. Uh bluh bluh blee blee bluh. Yes, brain powering down now...blewewewew. Bluzzz...zzzzz.zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Blah blah blah bla blah. BTW: those new honey chipolte chicken fingers at Chili's are pretty darn good. Why did my daughter just tell the cat to "shut your pie-hole?" Oh yes, that would be one of the beautifuly artistic words her dad uses (Grrrrrrrr!). Anyway, what was I saying?
Ahhhhhhhuuhhhhhhhh. Blurp. Slurp. Plop. Blop. Blip. Zlip. Bloop. Frop. Flizzle. Slirch. Uh bluh bluh blee blee bluh. Yes, brain powering down now...blewewewew. Bluzzz...zzzzz.zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
La La Land
Where is it? I don't know, but buy me a ticket and get me on board! I do suppose, though, that La La Land is different for everyone, as their own personalities enjoy, or detest, for that matter. Today's been a toughie.
It started off with me not getting out of bed before 9AM. Yes, that meant that I was not feeling well, which, infact (which is technically two words and not one), I am..or I am not...feeling well, that is. Secondly, not waking up before 9AM also means that the children, the smaller ones that don't have concrete chores, have been running amuck, eating granola on the couches and spilling it into every room, including the bathroom. And, naturally, I had just swpet, vacuumed and mopped the floors yesterday (Murphy's Law).
Then came the gum incident. Obi put gum in Kassi's hair becuase he was mad at her (not normal behaviour for him, he's not feeling well, either). The gum was still wet enough with saliva, I was able to pick the hairs out of the gum, one by one--no cutting needed. As I was doing this, I gave Kass a large piece of gum and told her to start chewing. When I was done with her hair, I had her put her piece of gum into Obi's hair, which I then squished around until his hair was all matted up. He started running around screaming as if I'd just lit him on fire (which, by the way, I have never done--you don't work for CPS do you?). He got sent to his bedroom, screaming, and I came back upstairs to escape the drama.
I look out the window, and sure enough, there's an officer of sorts knocking on my neighbor's door. Wonderful. From expereince, I know that if Obi is in his room screaming and throwing a fit, he is able to be heard from outside the house, thanks to single-pained, old dirty windows. So, I go back downstairs, into the Den of Drama, and tell him to be quiet if he ever wants to see the light of day again.
I come back upstairs to hear the phone ringing. It's someone I don't really care to talk to...ever. They leave a message and I am befuddled by their absolute lack of common sense. I hit myself in the head just to make myself feel better. Then comes the drama from outside. Someone fell off their bike while riding and now needs surgery. Then the neighbor kid comes over to show us pictures of her dad (which is still married to her mom) with his girlfriend and their child. Of course, her little brother is a byproduct of her mom spending time with her boyfriend, not her husbnad. How sweet. Then it's lunchtime.
I tell Obi that after lunch he's going straight to bed. He's smart enough, he doesn't touch his lunch. I'm so tired I could pass out, so I do the only sensible thing--eat a piece of chocolate truffle cheesecake (which I had made for the luncheon I was going to have tomorrow, which the black-masked Flu decided to ruin for me). When one is feeling ill, cheesecake, as wonderful as it may seem, is not the answer. So, there I am, regretting my chocolate lovers decision, ready to puke on the little boy who won't eat his lunch.
I ended up cutting the gum out of Obi's hair (which was my indirect way of reminding said little boy's father that he needed to give said child a hair cut about 2 weeks ago), listening with empty empathy to how funny he'll look with his new hair cut. I offer to buzz his head, he wails and moans about how nobody will come to his birthday party becuase he'll have funny looking hair. And I thought I was the irrational one!
Drama, drama, and more drama.
I finally get the kids in bed, and I lay down for my much needed nap, only to have to phone ring. I wasn't going to answer it, but some much-too-well-trained child eagerly raced for the phone and brought it to me--how thoughtful.
And now I sit in my thrift store chair, reclined, in my pajamas, head hurting, body aching, and hands ready to strangle the whining child who got delegted to MY bed (wait--how'd that happen?). Yes, I am a desperate housewife in need of plastic surgery and a tummy tuck, then a vacation in the Bahamas with a pet monkey named Jack. That, or I'm just a flu-struck woman in need of a magic wand and a new wardrobe.
Ahhh, La La Land. Now there's a question, what would my La La Land look like? Well, for starters, it wouldn't be 92 degrees. Let's think more in the 70's range--how about 72? Yes, it's a delightful 72 degrees, the skies are blue with gloriously ginormous white, puffy clouds. Only well mannered, disciplined children play on the streets of La La Land and old couples stroll along, arm in arm, smiling at all the wonderful, disciplined children, who eagerly pick up the trash along the sidewalk. Wait, that's nice, but that's not my La La Land.....
My La La Land looks more like a homestead. Without telephones. The only neighbors are a few miles away, and they're good, hard workin' folk like yourself. There's an ocean nearby, mountains, too. No big city in the vicinity...oh look, my bubble's already been burst. The monster on my bed is slowly winding down, but still in need of a little "reminder" from La Mama.
As my good friend Arnold always says:
"I watch Oprah and wear pink bunny slippers."
Oh wait, silly me, that's not it....let's try again:
As my good friend Arnold always says:
"I'll be back!"
It started off with me not getting out of bed before 9AM. Yes, that meant that I was not feeling well, which, infact (which is technically two words and not one), I am..or I am not...feeling well, that is. Secondly, not waking up before 9AM also means that the children, the smaller ones that don't have concrete chores, have been running amuck, eating granola on the couches and spilling it into every room, including the bathroom. And, naturally, I had just swpet, vacuumed and mopped the floors yesterday (Murphy's Law).
Then came the gum incident. Obi put gum in Kassi's hair becuase he was mad at her (not normal behaviour for him, he's not feeling well, either). The gum was still wet enough with saliva, I was able to pick the hairs out of the gum, one by one--no cutting needed. As I was doing this, I gave Kass a large piece of gum and told her to start chewing. When I was done with her hair, I had her put her piece of gum into Obi's hair, which I then squished around until his hair was all matted up. He started running around screaming as if I'd just lit him on fire (which, by the way, I have never done--you don't work for CPS do you?). He got sent to his bedroom, screaming, and I came back upstairs to escape the drama.
I look out the window, and sure enough, there's an officer of sorts knocking on my neighbor's door. Wonderful. From expereince, I know that if Obi is in his room screaming and throwing a fit, he is able to be heard from outside the house, thanks to single-pained, old dirty windows. So, I go back downstairs, into the Den of Drama, and tell him to be quiet if he ever wants to see the light of day again.
I come back upstairs to hear the phone ringing. It's someone I don't really care to talk to...ever. They leave a message and I am befuddled by their absolute lack of common sense. I hit myself in the head just to make myself feel better. Then comes the drama from outside. Someone fell off their bike while riding and now needs surgery. Then the neighbor kid comes over to show us pictures of her dad (which is still married to her mom) with his girlfriend and their child. Of course, her little brother is a byproduct of her mom spending time with her boyfriend, not her husbnad. How sweet. Then it's lunchtime.
I tell Obi that after lunch he's going straight to bed. He's smart enough, he doesn't touch his lunch. I'm so tired I could pass out, so I do the only sensible thing--eat a piece of chocolate truffle cheesecake (which I had made for the luncheon I was going to have tomorrow, which the black-masked Flu decided to ruin for me). When one is feeling ill, cheesecake, as wonderful as it may seem, is not the answer. So, there I am, regretting my chocolate lovers decision, ready to puke on the little boy who won't eat his lunch.
I ended up cutting the gum out of Obi's hair (which was my indirect way of reminding said little boy's father that he needed to give said child a hair cut about 2 weeks ago), listening with empty empathy to how funny he'll look with his new hair cut. I offer to buzz his head, he wails and moans about how nobody will come to his birthday party becuase he'll have funny looking hair. And I thought I was the irrational one!
Drama, drama, and more drama.
I finally get the kids in bed, and I lay down for my much needed nap, only to have to phone ring. I wasn't going to answer it, but some much-too-well-trained child eagerly raced for the phone and brought it to me--how thoughtful.
And now I sit in my thrift store chair, reclined, in my pajamas, head hurting, body aching, and hands ready to strangle the whining child who got delegted to MY bed (wait--how'd that happen?). Yes, I am a desperate housewife in need of plastic surgery and a tummy tuck, then a vacation in the Bahamas with a pet monkey named Jack. That, or I'm just a flu-struck woman in need of a magic wand and a new wardrobe.
Ahhh, La La Land. Now there's a question, what would my La La Land look like? Well, for starters, it wouldn't be 92 degrees. Let's think more in the 70's range--how about 72? Yes, it's a delightful 72 degrees, the skies are blue with gloriously ginormous white, puffy clouds. Only well mannered, disciplined children play on the streets of La La Land and old couples stroll along, arm in arm, smiling at all the wonderful, disciplined children, who eagerly pick up the trash along the sidewalk. Wait, that's nice, but that's not my La La Land.....
My La La Land looks more like a homestead. Without telephones. The only neighbors are a few miles away, and they're good, hard workin' folk like yourself. There's an ocean nearby, mountains, too. No big city in the vicinity...oh look, my bubble's already been burst. The monster on my bed is slowly winding down, but still in need of a little "reminder" from La Mama.
As my good friend Arnold always says:
"I watch Oprah and wear pink bunny slippers."
Oh wait, silly me, that's not it....let's try again:
As my good friend Arnold always says:
"I'll be back!"
Sunday, June 24, 2007
The Dreaded Trip for Anyone But Barbie
Yes, today was one of those days, you know, one of those shopping days, where you come home from the mall and swear, "I will never eat again." You got it, it was swimsuit shopping time.
Since my siwmsiut got a hole in the knee last year, I thought it was time to buy a new one. Wow, how things have changed. The men's siuts have gotten extremely longer and the women's siuts, well...let's just say that there's more material in the men's suits than in the womens.
I'm really wishing, right about now, that I would have started my weight lifting routine back in March...it really would have paid off by now, I'm sure....or that I wouldn't have eaten for the last month.
I was lookin amongst all the itsy-bitsy-bikinis for something modest but not grandma-style. Classy, not smutty; stylish, not made out of wool...I finally found that suit that I liked (had to undress the manequin to get it!), but it was one size too small. Yes, thank you, I needed a larger size. And, of course, they didn't have any. I find the prefect siut and it's one stinkin' size too small. Oh, the irony!!
What's with all the halter top swimming siuts, anyway? Does anybody actually swim in their swimming suits anymore? Ya know, I just didn't find the suit selection for "Women Who Have Had Four Children" in amongst the "I'm Anorexic With Fake Boobs" section. Pity, pity.
It was soo funny...here I am trying to find the perfect suit, which, infact (which is technically two words and not one), I did, just not in my size, and I just happen to be in Target with the hubby, the fourth store in search of the impossible find. We look at the suits in the junior section, let me describe them for you in two words: dental floss. Hubby says, "Can you fit a junior's size?" I throw him daggers with my eyes and say, "Yes." He says, "Well there's nothing here, let's go look in the women's section." I tell him I'm sure there's no more, but we head off towards the back of the store anyway. I'm gawking off, my atteion being redirected to all the clothing racks I'm passing that say "75% off" (I mean, really, how can you pass that up?!?), and I hear Hubby proudly proclaim, "Here! I found some!" I look at the rack of colorful suits and look back at him, beaming with his wonderful hunting skills and say, "Hello! These are PLUS size! These are parachutes with elastic in them!"
So, not only is the perfect swimsuit one size too small, but now my hubby's lead me to a rack of plus-sized swim wear. Yes, thank you. Thank you Jenny Craig, and Martha Stewart and Dr. Suess.
So, in stride, I say, "Okay, I'll see if something fits." I go through the rack, look for the smallest sizes and grab some to try on. I get to the dressing room and count out how many suits I have for the lady at the counter. She looks at me, looks at the suits and says, "Aw honey, those ain't gonna fit you, those are plus sizes." I very politely tell her I know, but I'd like to try them on anyway. She looks at me like I'm an idiot, points to the front of the store and says, "Did you look up there, I'm sure you could find something in your size up there." Deciding to skip the dental floss description, I sweetley explain to the woman, who is making such a wonderful scene for me in front of everyone whose curious ears have know perked up, that I need a suit that is bigger on the top than it is on the bottom, doing a little Vanna White hand action to show her that my bust will not be covered by dental floss. I explain that I thought I'd give the swimsiuts in my hand a shot (they were all two pieces, the new hit now-a-days). She looks at me very disapprovingly and says in an exasperated tone, "Well fine, go try 'em on," as she lets me pass into the dressing rooms. The she says, "Have fun." Have fun? Have FUN? I'm surprised my head didn't spin as my forked tongue spit out something like "Look lady, I'm not Barbie and you're not my mother. I've got a 4 year old son that doesn't need to be looking at his mother's cleavage and other body parts that are barely covered by dental floss. If I want to wear a parachute, LET ME!!"
But, of course, I'm much too polite to say anything like that, so I didn't. (But I'm obviously not too polite to print it!)
There was this one suit, I would have got it if I hadn't been looking for a "Mom" swimsiut. It was white with big blue polka dots and silver piping. It was sassy with a capital "S"; a tankini with attitude. It made me want to dye my hair blonde and put on bright red lipstick and a pair of Prada's. Yes, it was that sassy. The bottom was navy with a funky little polka-dot belt and a cool clasp. But, no, no, no--I was looking for the "Mom" suit, remember, not the "Sassy, Let-Me-Splash-You-With-Some-Attitude" suit. Such a shame.
Why am I writing about swim wear at 10:48PM?
Oh yes, I remember why--I've been a little insomniac lately. It's part of the greif cycle, ya know. At least I've started eating again. And I have started sleeping more, just not back to usual yet.
Give it time, just give it some time.
Alright. Well. Let's hit the sack, shall we. So much for my glorious early mornings, so quite and pristine. I'm already looking forward to fall: turtlenecks, no bikinis. Leaves falling, no 90 degree weather. School schedule, no wasted days. Scrumptious things in the oven, since that swimsuit is packed away. Anticipation for the holidays, Christmas music and decking out the house for the seasons...fall. Yes, fall will be good.
Until then, I'd like to strangle Barbie.
Since my siwmsiut got a hole in the knee last year, I thought it was time to buy a new one. Wow, how things have changed. The men's siuts have gotten extremely longer and the women's siuts, well...let's just say that there's more material in the men's suits than in the womens.
I'm really wishing, right about now, that I would have started my weight lifting routine back in March...it really would have paid off by now, I'm sure....or that I wouldn't have eaten for the last month.
I was lookin amongst all the itsy-bitsy-bikinis for something modest but not grandma-style. Classy, not smutty; stylish, not made out of wool...I finally found that suit that I liked (had to undress the manequin to get it!), but it was one size too small. Yes, thank you, I needed a larger size. And, of course, they didn't have any. I find the prefect siut and it's one stinkin' size too small. Oh, the irony!!
What's with all the halter top swimming siuts, anyway? Does anybody actually swim in their swimming suits anymore? Ya know, I just didn't find the suit selection for "Women Who Have Had Four Children" in amongst the "I'm Anorexic With Fake Boobs" section. Pity, pity.
It was soo funny...here I am trying to find the perfect suit, which, infact (which is technically two words and not one), I did, just not in my size, and I just happen to be in Target with the hubby, the fourth store in search of the impossible find. We look at the suits in the junior section, let me describe them for you in two words: dental floss. Hubby says, "Can you fit a junior's size?" I throw him daggers with my eyes and say, "Yes." He says, "Well there's nothing here, let's go look in the women's section." I tell him I'm sure there's no more, but we head off towards the back of the store anyway. I'm gawking off, my atteion being redirected to all the clothing racks I'm passing that say "75% off" (I mean, really, how can you pass that up?!?), and I hear Hubby proudly proclaim, "Here! I found some!" I look at the rack of colorful suits and look back at him, beaming with his wonderful hunting skills and say, "Hello! These are PLUS size! These are parachutes with elastic in them!"
So, not only is the perfect swimsuit one size too small, but now my hubby's lead me to a rack of plus-sized swim wear. Yes, thank you. Thank you Jenny Craig, and Martha Stewart and Dr. Suess.
So, in stride, I say, "Okay, I'll see if something fits." I go through the rack, look for the smallest sizes and grab some to try on. I get to the dressing room and count out how many suits I have for the lady at the counter. She looks at me, looks at the suits and says, "Aw honey, those ain't gonna fit you, those are plus sizes." I very politely tell her I know, but I'd like to try them on anyway. She looks at me like I'm an idiot, points to the front of the store and says, "Did you look up there, I'm sure you could find something in your size up there." Deciding to skip the dental floss description, I sweetley explain to the woman, who is making such a wonderful scene for me in front of everyone whose curious ears have know perked up, that I need a suit that is bigger on the top than it is on the bottom, doing a little Vanna White hand action to show her that my bust will not be covered by dental floss. I explain that I thought I'd give the swimsiuts in my hand a shot (they were all two pieces, the new hit now-a-days). She looks at me very disapprovingly and says in an exasperated tone, "Well fine, go try 'em on," as she lets me pass into the dressing rooms. The she says, "Have fun." Have fun? Have FUN? I'm surprised my head didn't spin as my forked tongue spit out something like "Look lady, I'm not Barbie and you're not my mother. I've got a 4 year old son that doesn't need to be looking at his mother's cleavage and other body parts that are barely covered by dental floss. If I want to wear a parachute, LET ME!!"
But, of course, I'm much too polite to say anything like that, so I didn't. (But I'm obviously not too polite to print it!)
There was this one suit, I would have got it if I hadn't been looking for a "Mom" swimsiut. It was white with big blue polka dots and silver piping. It was sassy with a capital "S"; a tankini with attitude. It made me want to dye my hair blonde and put on bright red lipstick and a pair of Prada's. Yes, it was that sassy. The bottom was navy with a funky little polka-dot belt and a cool clasp. But, no, no, no--I was looking for the "Mom" suit, remember, not the "Sassy, Let-Me-Splash-You-With-Some-Attitude" suit. Such a shame.
Why am I writing about swim wear at 10:48PM?
Oh yes, I remember why--I've been a little insomniac lately. It's part of the greif cycle, ya know. At least I've started eating again. And I have started sleeping more, just not back to usual yet.
Give it time, just give it some time.
Alright. Well. Let's hit the sack, shall we. So much for my glorious early mornings, so quite and pristine. I'm already looking forward to fall: turtlenecks, no bikinis. Leaves falling, no 90 degree weather. School schedule, no wasted days. Scrumptious things in the oven, since that swimsuit is packed away. Anticipation for the holidays, Christmas music and decking out the house for the seasons...fall. Yes, fall will be good.
Until then, I'd like to strangle Barbie.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Why, Yes, I'd Love a Staple, Why Not Two?
Ya know, it's kinda hard to go running when one's husband drops the staple gun on one's foot. Yes, I know you may be astonished, but it is true. And yes, this is just one of many lessons I've learned the hard way, by being in the wrong place at the right time. Yet, on the bright side, I have found that Lamaze breathing does come in handy in such circumstances. Were I a sailor, I would have let out a few choice words as the incident unfolded, but not being one fit for the sea, I resorted to heavy breathing and animal noises. Growling, mostly.
So here I am, waiting for this dumb wound to heal and getting fatter by the minute.
I did open a new bag of truffles the other day....just didn't taste as wonderful as I remember. But don't worry, I ate the whole bag. Waste not, want not.
Kali just came in and said that the "neighbors with the noisey car" wanted to what religion we were; if we were mennonites." How funny. Obviously they have no clue as to what Mennonites are. (Ya know, those who don't wear jewelry or any clothing with personality, and the married women wear their little 'caps' to show, as they interpret from Corinthians, that their heads should be covered in submission to their husbands.)
Are those MY feet that smell? Can't be, I never have smelly feet (a sign of toxin's in the system, y'all!). Nope, not me. The plant right next to me...Mr. Retard has gone and used it for a litter box again. What a waste of a cat! Furry, kinda cute, not very snuggly, and can't even catch a bug, let alone anything nocturnal. Pathetic!
Anyway, what was I saying? Nothing, probably. As I don't really have anyone that I'm talking to, but myself. How are you doing, self? Oh, me? I'm doing well, thank you, how about you? Oh, well, I'm doing well as well; how's your mother?...
Stuffed shells in a spicy marinara sauce, that's what's in the oven. Maybe I'll be hungry by then. Body is despressed, mind is trying to get over the hill to the greener grass, but the body hasn't caught up...yet. It sleeps way too much, has no appetite and burts into tears for no reason. What a miserable body to have. I pity men that have never had the fun-house ride of being held hostage by one's own hormones, especially when they're readjusting: "Hey guys, let's build a baby. Get busy!...OK, bad idea, let's run rampant and unchecked and, hey, why not a little schizophrenia, that'd be fun....yipee, hang on guys, it's gonna be a wild ride!" Yes, if hormones could talk, that's probably what they'd be saying...is it wrong to hear voices?....
I can see, now, why people drink. What an easy escape from whatever problem one might have. I cook with the stuff but never drink it--can you say: nasty? Wine's good in so many dishes, but to drink a glass, I'd rather have a staple gun dropped on my foot. And rum, well that's good in caramels, but that's all, and bourbon, you just want my secret bourbon chicken recipe, don't you? Well, take a number. But hey, as long as I'm talking to myself, let's not tell anyone that I don't have a recipe for it, I just kinda throw it all together. Brown sugar and a hint of soy sauce, be generous with the garlic!-- that's the key people, figure it out yourself and leave me in peace!!!!!!
There goes the oven, calling me like I'm some servant to its chime. Better go and pesto up my cibatta, if ya know what I mean.
Chow.
So here I am, waiting for this dumb wound to heal and getting fatter by the minute.
I did open a new bag of truffles the other day....just didn't taste as wonderful as I remember. But don't worry, I ate the whole bag. Waste not, want not.
Kali just came in and said that the "neighbors with the noisey car" wanted to what religion we were; if we were mennonites." How funny. Obviously they have no clue as to what Mennonites are. (Ya know, those who don't wear jewelry or any clothing with personality, and the married women wear their little 'caps' to show, as they interpret from Corinthians, that their heads should be covered in submission to their husbands.)
Are those MY feet that smell? Can't be, I never have smelly feet (a sign of toxin's in the system, y'all!). Nope, not me. The plant right next to me...Mr. Retard has gone and used it for a litter box again. What a waste of a cat! Furry, kinda cute, not very snuggly, and can't even catch a bug, let alone anything nocturnal. Pathetic!
Anyway, what was I saying? Nothing, probably. As I don't really have anyone that I'm talking to, but myself. How are you doing, self? Oh, me? I'm doing well, thank you, how about you? Oh, well, I'm doing well as well; how's your mother?...
Stuffed shells in a spicy marinara sauce, that's what's in the oven. Maybe I'll be hungry by then. Body is despressed, mind is trying to get over the hill to the greener grass, but the body hasn't caught up...yet. It sleeps way too much, has no appetite and burts into tears for no reason. What a miserable body to have. I pity men that have never had the fun-house ride of being held hostage by one's own hormones, especially when they're readjusting: "Hey guys, let's build a baby. Get busy!...OK, bad idea, let's run rampant and unchecked and, hey, why not a little schizophrenia, that'd be fun....yipee, hang on guys, it's gonna be a wild ride!" Yes, if hormones could talk, that's probably what they'd be saying...is it wrong to hear voices?....
I can see, now, why people drink. What an easy escape from whatever problem one might have. I cook with the stuff but never drink it--can you say: nasty? Wine's good in so many dishes, but to drink a glass, I'd rather have a staple gun dropped on my foot. And rum, well that's good in caramels, but that's all, and bourbon, you just want my secret bourbon chicken recipe, don't you? Well, take a number. But hey, as long as I'm talking to myself, let's not tell anyone that I don't have a recipe for it, I just kinda throw it all together. Brown sugar and a hint of soy sauce, be generous with the garlic!-- that's the key people, figure it out yourself and leave me in peace!!!!!!
There goes the oven, calling me like I'm some servant to its chime. Better go and pesto up my cibatta, if ya know what I mean.
Chow.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Another One Bites the Dust
Okay, so it's been a rough day...but it's got me to thinking:
How can you comfort someone who's suffering if you havne't first experienced their pain?
How can you have compassion in it's depths if you haven't first known the depths yourself?
And how can you appreciate life if you haven't first greived the loss of it?
We live day to day, in and out, same ol' same ol' and the mundaneness of it all slowly tarnishes the passion that we once had, the dust comes ever so slowly that we don't notice we're all but covered in apathy. And the clock keeps ticking. Taking it for granted, we live at a level of piamisso granduer, all the while just assuming that tomorrow will always come. But, for some, it doesn't. For some, it takes a diagnosis of cancer before the living really gets started. It takes the loss of a loved one before we slow down and really appreciate the little things. It takes a hurricane to make us appreciate the glorified shack we once lived in, and ill-health to make us relish the aches and pains of a normal life.
We're all so fickle.
Especially me.
The more I get to know myself, the less I like me. Is such the way of always being refined? At least I'm not in love with myself, prehaps there is hope for me yet!
I broke my fast on the 8th day. And boy, did I do it in grand fashion: a burger, sweet and juicy, fresh off the grill, dripping with cheese, smothered in trimmings on a whole wheat bun. It was wonderful. I was slightly regretful that I had broken my fast; I didn't know at the time that I was pregnant. Incase you've never been pregnant: pregnant women must eat. So, then I didn't feel so bad for breaking my fast, infact (which is technically two words and not one), I slightly mourned the fact that I couldn't fast again, and wouldn't be able to for quite some time...10 months plus another year of nursing...that's nearly 2 years worth!...or so I thought.
Well, another one bites the dust. Eight pregnancies, four miscarriages. Four little peices of my heart torn from me, four little children in Heaven with their Creator. Four precious little souls left on earth for me to guide, direct, teach, discipline and love. All the more precious are they, indeed....people told me not to get married at 18. Yes, a mere 18!!! But I did anyway. How's the rhyme go? "First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage." And indeed, life played out the riddle and along came the baby; I was but a mere 19. And the last line played again; baby number two at age 20. Then the rhyme almost broke, the love got lost, the marrige almost crumbled, and no more babies were wanted, so that was taken care of premanently...or so we thought. But then, a peculiar thing happened and the ryhme played itself backywards...I got pregnant (shock!), the love creeped back in and the marriage mended. I was but a mere 23. And along came little Kirsten at a mere 25.
People always say, "You're too young to have four children!" And I suppose that in today's world, I am. The Mormon's think I'm one of their own, the Catholics accept me based on my status of mother of four, and the "unsaved" wonder why on earth anyone would want to have four pesky, suck-the-life-outta-ya and drain-your-wallet kids. ... Now I am wondering if every year will bring me the greif that comes with wanting, and not having a child. At 28 I'm too young to not be able to have children. Perhaps that it why I had children when I was but, in many a person's eye, just a child myself. Odd, isn't it, how life plays out. Yet, I do know, from experience, that all things will work together for good "for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose."
Tomorrow is a new day. I look forward to it. The wounds will heal, the pain will subside, and sometime, somewhere, I will be able to comfort someone, perhaps my own child, when they lose one of their own. My heart will brim over with love that knows, and I will comfort them, as the precious few that have comforted me. And I will cry, my eyes spilling with tears, in rememberance, tears of present and past loss, and I will smile, being glad that I had suffered, that I may extend comfort. My soul will mourn and my hert will break, and all the while I will be thankful that I will be able to share the burden, having known it so personally.
And in the meantime, I will let things settle, as ash falls after a volcano explodes, so will I wait for the ash to settle, then dust myself off, and be on my way. Or so I tell myself. In the meantime, I will run. And run and run and run. And let my body release the stress and the pain that it feels so deeply, so inexpressibly inside. And I will enjoy the air in my lungs, the blood pumping in my veins, and the beating of my heart. I will enjoy being alive. I will not take this gift for granted.
How can you comfort someone who's suffering if you havne't first experienced their pain?
How can you have compassion in it's depths if you haven't first known the depths yourself?
And how can you appreciate life if you haven't first greived the loss of it?
We live day to day, in and out, same ol' same ol' and the mundaneness of it all slowly tarnishes the passion that we once had, the dust comes ever so slowly that we don't notice we're all but covered in apathy. And the clock keeps ticking. Taking it for granted, we live at a level of piamisso granduer, all the while just assuming that tomorrow will always come. But, for some, it doesn't. For some, it takes a diagnosis of cancer before the living really gets started. It takes the loss of a loved one before we slow down and really appreciate the little things. It takes a hurricane to make us appreciate the glorified shack we once lived in, and ill-health to make us relish the aches and pains of a normal life.
We're all so fickle.
Especially me.
The more I get to know myself, the less I like me. Is such the way of always being refined? At least I'm not in love with myself, prehaps there is hope for me yet!
I broke my fast on the 8th day. And boy, did I do it in grand fashion: a burger, sweet and juicy, fresh off the grill, dripping with cheese, smothered in trimmings on a whole wheat bun. It was wonderful. I was slightly regretful that I had broken my fast; I didn't know at the time that I was pregnant. Incase you've never been pregnant: pregnant women must eat. So, then I didn't feel so bad for breaking my fast, infact (which is technically two words and not one), I slightly mourned the fact that I couldn't fast again, and wouldn't be able to for quite some time...10 months plus another year of nursing...that's nearly 2 years worth!...or so I thought.
Well, another one bites the dust. Eight pregnancies, four miscarriages. Four little peices of my heart torn from me, four little children in Heaven with their Creator. Four precious little souls left on earth for me to guide, direct, teach, discipline and love. All the more precious are they, indeed....people told me not to get married at 18. Yes, a mere 18!!! But I did anyway. How's the rhyme go? "First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage." And indeed, life played out the riddle and along came the baby; I was but a mere 19. And the last line played again; baby number two at age 20. Then the rhyme almost broke, the love got lost, the marrige almost crumbled, and no more babies were wanted, so that was taken care of premanently...or so we thought. But then, a peculiar thing happened and the ryhme played itself backywards...I got pregnant (shock!), the love creeped back in and the marriage mended. I was but a mere 23. And along came little Kirsten at a mere 25.
People always say, "You're too young to have four children!" And I suppose that in today's world, I am. The Mormon's think I'm one of their own, the Catholics accept me based on my status of mother of four, and the "unsaved" wonder why on earth anyone would want to have four pesky, suck-the-life-outta-ya and drain-your-wallet kids. ... Now I am wondering if every year will bring me the greif that comes with wanting, and not having a child. At 28 I'm too young to not be able to have children. Perhaps that it why I had children when I was but, in many a person's eye, just a child myself. Odd, isn't it, how life plays out. Yet, I do know, from experience, that all things will work together for good "for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose."
Tomorrow is a new day. I look forward to it. The wounds will heal, the pain will subside, and sometime, somewhere, I will be able to comfort someone, perhaps my own child, when they lose one of their own. My heart will brim over with love that knows, and I will comfort them, as the precious few that have comforted me. And I will cry, my eyes spilling with tears, in rememberance, tears of present and past loss, and I will smile, being glad that I had suffered, that I may extend comfort. My soul will mourn and my hert will break, and all the while I will be thankful that I will be able to share the burden, having known it so personally.
And in the meantime, I will let things settle, as ash falls after a volcano explodes, so will I wait for the ash to settle, then dust myself off, and be on my way. Or so I tell myself. In the meantime, I will run. And run and run and run. And let my body release the stress and the pain that it feels so deeply, so inexpressibly inside. And I will enjoy the air in my lungs, the blood pumping in my veins, and the beating of my heart. I will enjoy being alive. I will not take this gift for granted.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Peonies Are For Pansies
I don't get it. What's with these sissy flowers that bloom then go away for the rest of the season? Hasn't anyone heard the motto: Form with Function? (I'll give you a tee-shirt, I've got some extras). Peonies smell good, but what other than that? They droop because their blooms are so large, they attrack ants like a melted popsicle on a hot sidewalk, and they bloom once, leaving the rest of the summer colorless.
I'm irritated.
And the peonies, well, they're really getting on my nerves!
Obviously there's been too much pulp in my juices and I've re-awakened my digestive system which only has one thing to say: FEED ME. Ahhhhhh. Hitting my head on a brick wall is starting to seem like a good idea; anything to take my mind of off the "f" word; the word I lust after and would just about do anything for: food. F. O. O. D.
The fresh strawberries on the kitchen counter are driving me nuts. I've still got my eye on that sandwich wrap and Garibaldi's calls to me like a lover in the night.
Did I mention that I'm rather irritable today? Sometimes I'd really like a free pass to be irresponsible. Why do I have to be so darn driven? I've tried to be more irresponsible, I just can't do it. I wouldn't say it's harder than not eating for 8 stinkin' days, but it just...just rubbed me the wrong way.
Stupid peonies. All bloomed out in the backyard, looking so happy and healthy and...fed. Like they're not even hungry.
Well, it's true folks, the flesh is fickle and I'm a perfect example right now. Miss Family Values would like nothing more than to smash something in a fit of rage. Feed me. Or to light something on fire and watch it burn. Feed me. Or to run something over with my big ol' 'Burb....wait, that's kinda gross, nevermind.
Speaking of gross and being run over, there was this huge water snake in the Costco parking lot today, which someone ran over. I took the kids over to see it as it was trying to find a hiding place in the shrubbery. It ws the largest and longest water snake I've ever seen. I'm not good at guestimating, but it was at least a yard long. Probably a yard and a half, possibly 2? And it was a fatty, too.
Just so some little prissy city girl didn't have a heart attack on the spot and wet her pants in the process, I told the person at the front door (the card checker, ya know--ohh, ahh, what an exciting job) about the snake. Hopefully someone did something humane to it....like, took it out for lunch and knit it a sweater. (Can you tell I'm not much for PETA?)
Can you tell I'm just a tad bit irritated? And I think I've got a boil. Big, red, painful. Remind me, why am I doing this again?
Yesterday was such a breeze. Infact (which is, of course, two words and not one), yesterday I spent almost 7 hours in the kitchen. I made like 8 pizzas (that was a lot of dough), a chocolate trifle, manicotti, stuffed shells, spaghetti, snacks for the growing number of children that populate my house and then, of course, dinner. Can I say that the fresh corn on the cob made me salivate like one of Pavlov's dogs?
And then there's today. Maybe I can look at the bright side of something. Like....like...like the scale says I'm down 11 pounds. Of course that's not really something to celebrate, though, becuase at least 3-4 pounds of that is simply water weight and the rest is body fat, which, if I'm not careful when I eat again will come back in double time.
Well, my little friend Dell hasn't been feeling well. It was quite the rumble just to get him to turn on for me. I need to back up all my files before I start losing things--better start with the pictures.
Time to go change the sprinkler and hunt for some more weeds. Then there's the laundry and the gerneral maintenance. Same ol' same ol'. I could really use a vacation....I don't really care where. Just somewhere.
Over and out.
I'm irritated.
And the peonies, well, they're really getting on my nerves!
Obviously there's been too much pulp in my juices and I've re-awakened my digestive system which only has one thing to say: FEED ME. Ahhhhhh. Hitting my head on a brick wall is starting to seem like a good idea; anything to take my mind of off the "f" word; the word I lust after and would just about do anything for: food. F. O. O. D.
The fresh strawberries on the kitchen counter are driving me nuts. I've still got my eye on that sandwich wrap and Garibaldi's calls to me like a lover in the night.
Did I mention that I'm rather irritable today? Sometimes I'd really like a free pass to be irresponsible. Why do I have to be so darn driven? I've tried to be more irresponsible, I just can't do it. I wouldn't say it's harder than not eating for 8 stinkin' days, but it just...just rubbed me the wrong way.
Stupid peonies. All bloomed out in the backyard, looking so happy and healthy and...fed. Like they're not even hungry.
Well, it's true folks, the flesh is fickle and I'm a perfect example right now. Miss Family Values would like nothing more than to smash something in a fit of rage. Feed me. Or to light something on fire and watch it burn. Feed me. Or to run something over with my big ol' 'Burb....wait, that's kinda gross, nevermind.
Speaking of gross and being run over, there was this huge water snake in the Costco parking lot today, which someone ran over. I took the kids over to see it as it was trying to find a hiding place in the shrubbery. It ws the largest and longest water snake I've ever seen. I'm not good at guestimating, but it was at least a yard long. Probably a yard and a half, possibly 2? And it was a fatty, too.
Just so some little prissy city girl didn't have a heart attack on the spot and wet her pants in the process, I told the person at the front door (the card checker, ya know--ohh, ahh, what an exciting job) about the snake. Hopefully someone did something humane to it....like, took it out for lunch and knit it a sweater. (Can you tell I'm not much for PETA?)
Can you tell I'm just a tad bit irritated? And I think I've got a boil. Big, red, painful. Remind me, why am I doing this again?
Yesterday was such a breeze. Infact (which is, of course, two words and not one), yesterday I spent almost 7 hours in the kitchen. I made like 8 pizzas (that was a lot of dough), a chocolate trifle, manicotti, stuffed shells, spaghetti, snacks for the growing number of children that populate my house and then, of course, dinner. Can I say that the fresh corn on the cob made me salivate like one of Pavlov's dogs?
And then there's today. Maybe I can look at the bright side of something. Like....like...like the scale says I'm down 11 pounds. Of course that's not really something to celebrate, though, becuase at least 3-4 pounds of that is simply water weight and the rest is body fat, which, if I'm not careful when I eat again will come back in double time.
Well, my little friend Dell hasn't been feeling well. It was quite the rumble just to get him to turn on for me. I need to back up all my files before I start losing things--better start with the pictures.
Time to go change the sprinkler and hunt for some more weeds. Then there's the laundry and the gerneral maintenance. Same ol' same ol'. I could really use a vacation....I don't really care where. Just somewhere.
Over and out.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Loving to Hate
What's with this little weenie laptop? Where's my lovely friend Dell? Oh, wait look, this one is a Dell, too. But it's a twinki Dell, feels funny to type on, rather awkward and tiny.
Anyway, I have found a new relationship to be in, and, yes, it's a love-hate relationship. I have found a new love of an old friend, but I'm hating not being able to love this old friend. Yes, I'm loving the fact that I now fit my size 10 jeans, but I'm hating the fact that I haven't eaten anything in 6 days. I love the thought of my body being able to heal and clean itself up, but I hate the fact that I haven't eaten in 6 days. I love the fact that if I don't give up, I'll just keep losing the fat and the toxins,BUT I hate the fact that I haven't eaten in 6 days. I love the fact that Wal-Mart still sells Lindor truffles, sweet, beautiful, consouling truffles (no, licking the packaging doesn't count as eating, so I'm in the clear on that one), but I HATE THE FACT that I haven't eaten in 6 STINKIN' days (if it wasn't unlady-like to swear, I would let out a long, sailor-styled line of obsenities at this point!). I love to hate my new life at this current place and time.
It's rather odd, I find comfort being in the kitchen, making meals and freezing them, baking bread and fruit breads (banana bread never smelled so sweet!), cookies, granola. I can do all that and not miss a beat, but you wanna talk about making dinner? That's another story. It's like Dr. Jekel and Mr. Hyde. Pleasant Little Suburban House Wife turns into Psycho Carrie, ready to unload on any little person that says, "Mommy, I need....". It's bizarre. Obviously, I love my dinner. Between 4 and 6PM are my weakest moments. Before then and after, I'm truckin' along, singing the Dori song, "Just keep swimmin'! Just keep swimmin'!"
I'm having Garibaldi's withdrawls. Chips, salsa. OH, if I could only have an affair with their salsa, mmmmmm.... And what about my Chile Colorado? Or my beloved Burrito Jalisco? Or my picadillo chimi and tamale combo!! Oh, the pain! Oh, the longing! Oh, the drama!
Let's think about something else, shall we....like...like....umm...thank you, stomache, for reminding me at this precise moment how lonely you are. Let's think about...monkies. Monkies are cute...when they're plastic. Ears, tail, little lips and mouth, fingers. Smelly. Ancestors. (hahaha) No, monkies is not cutting it here, let's think about something else.
Mountains. Ahh, now there's something good to think about. Purple mountains majesty. Fresh air. Scenery. Birds singing. Soft breeze swaing the Indian Paint Brush. Divine.
Homesteading. I'd like to do it. I'd get me a goat to milk, a pig to slaughter, and a cow to slaughter, too. I'd start a small orchard; apples, plums, pears. I'd start me a garden; veggies galore! I'd start me an herb garden and perfect the art of making tinctures. I'd plant so much basil I could swim in it! I'd plant my own wheat, grind my own flour and make my own pasta. I'd have a berry patch. Black berries and red raspberries; I'd just walk outdoors and have me some breakfast. I'd plant me some melons. Oh, lucious watermelon! I'd plant me some flowers; daisies, Black-eyed Susan's, hollyhocks. No roses allowed! Grapes. I'd start me some grape vines. Honeysuckle! I'd put it outside my bedroom window. I'd come to town for toilet paper, and that's about it. (No, I'd skip the outhouse, just incase you were wondering. I'm not THAT in to homesteading!)
Okay, that's looking like enough gibberish for tonight. Let's hope I can make it through another day of fasting tomorrow. I was hoping to go 30 days. Maybe even 40. At 40 days, though, I'd being weighing in around 120 pounds--I'd look like a Hollocost survivor! At 30 days, I should be around 130...I was a size 6 at 135 pounds, so I'll be pretty stinkin' skinny at 30 days, too. I'm not even going to think about the next 22 days--I'm just going to try to make it through tomorrow!
Oh, my beloved sandwich wrap, bacon, lettuce, tomoato, avacado, red onion, triple meats, all rolled up in a beauty of a wrap; I shall dream of you tonight. (Or should I say lust about?) Come visit me in my dreams and leave me sweet kisses in my belly.....
OK, I'm losing my cookies.....mmmmm...cookies. I'd better go before I salivate all over this pathetic excuse for a Dell.
Anyway, I have found a new relationship to be in, and, yes, it's a love-hate relationship. I have found a new love of an old friend, but I'm hating not being able to love this old friend. Yes, I'm loving the fact that I now fit my size 10 jeans, but I'm hating the fact that I haven't eaten anything in 6 days. I love the thought of my body being able to heal and clean itself up, but I hate the fact that I haven't eaten in 6 days. I love the fact that if I don't give up, I'll just keep losing the fat and the toxins,BUT I hate the fact that I haven't eaten in 6 days. I love the fact that Wal-Mart still sells Lindor truffles, sweet, beautiful, consouling truffles (no, licking the packaging doesn't count as eating, so I'm in the clear on that one), but I HATE THE FACT that I haven't eaten in 6 STINKIN' days (if it wasn't unlady-like to swear, I would let out a long, sailor-styled line of obsenities at this point!). I love to hate my new life at this current place and time.
It's rather odd, I find comfort being in the kitchen, making meals and freezing them, baking bread and fruit breads (banana bread never smelled so sweet!), cookies, granola. I can do all that and not miss a beat, but you wanna talk about making dinner? That's another story. It's like Dr. Jekel and Mr. Hyde. Pleasant Little Suburban House Wife turns into Psycho Carrie, ready to unload on any little person that says, "Mommy, I need....". It's bizarre. Obviously, I love my dinner. Between 4 and 6PM are my weakest moments. Before then and after, I'm truckin' along, singing the Dori song, "Just keep swimmin'! Just keep swimmin'!"
I'm having Garibaldi's withdrawls. Chips, salsa. OH, if I could only have an affair with their salsa, mmmmmm.... And what about my Chile Colorado? Or my beloved Burrito Jalisco? Or my picadillo chimi and tamale combo!! Oh, the pain! Oh, the longing! Oh, the drama!
Let's think about something else, shall we....like...like....umm...thank you, stomache, for reminding me at this precise moment how lonely you are. Let's think about...monkies. Monkies are cute...when they're plastic. Ears, tail, little lips and mouth, fingers. Smelly. Ancestors. (hahaha) No, monkies is not cutting it here, let's think about something else.
Mountains. Ahh, now there's something good to think about. Purple mountains majesty. Fresh air. Scenery. Birds singing. Soft breeze swaing the Indian Paint Brush. Divine.
Homesteading. I'd like to do it. I'd get me a goat to milk, a pig to slaughter, and a cow to slaughter, too. I'd start a small orchard; apples, plums, pears. I'd start me a garden; veggies galore! I'd start me an herb garden and perfect the art of making tinctures. I'd plant so much basil I could swim in it! I'd plant my own wheat, grind my own flour and make my own pasta. I'd have a berry patch. Black berries and red raspberries; I'd just walk outdoors and have me some breakfast. I'd plant me some melons. Oh, lucious watermelon! I'd plant me some flowers; daisies, Black-eyed Susan's, hollyhocks. No roses allowed! Grapes. I'd start me some grape vines. Honeysuckle! I'd put it outside my bedroom window. I'd come to town for toilet paper, and that's about it. (No, I'd skip the outhouse, just incase you were wondering. I'm not THAT in to homesteading!)
Okay, that's looking like enough gibberish for tonight. Let's hope I can make it through another day of fasting tomorrow. I was hoping to go 30 days. Maybe even 40. At 40 days, though, I'd being weighing in around 120 pounds--I'd look like a Hollocost survivor! At 30 days, I should be around 130...I was a size 6 at 135 pounds, so I'll be pretty stinkin' skinny at 30 days, too. I'm not even going to think about the next 22 days--I'm just going to try to make it through tomorrow!
Oh, my beloved sandwich wrap, bacon, lettuce, tomoato, avacado, red onion, triple meats, all rolled up in a beauty of a wrap; I shall dream of you tonight. (Or should I say lust about?) Come visit me in my dreams and leave me sweet kisses in my belly.....
OK, I'm losing my cookies.....mmmmm...cookies. I'd better go before I salivate all over this pathetic excuse for a Dell.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
That's Pathetic!
Okay, so what type of person writes in their blog about their computer? "My little Dell...." Face it, people, that's just sad. Or brilliant. Or psychotic.....let's go with brilliant.
Just designed a new quilt, can't wait to see it come to life. What am I, some old granny stuck in a 20-something body (haven't hit 30 yet, trying hard to avoid it!) I cook, I sew, I quilt, I take care of my lawn and plant flowers. I think the only difference between me and ol' Grandma Loyal down the street is that I have better vision and two good hips.
I've been thinking: dance lessons. How fun would that be? Maybe I've got too many shows of Dancing With the Stars stuck in my brain, or perhaps my inner self was tamed too much when I had to take ballet as a child, instead of swing or clogging. But then, the practical side of me says, "Where on earth would I use my aquired danceing?" Not at Costco, the gas station, or the City Park--unless I want to get called for disturbing the peace. I'm not much for the night life, so really, am I gonna Salsa in the library or Waltz through WinCo? But still, it'd be fun.
I think it's time to forage the kitchen for something to fill my tummy. Yes, when you spend lots of time around small children, your vocabulary starts to change. Instead of stomach, it's tummy. Instead of scrathces, it's boo-boo's. Very practical parts of one's anatomy are no longer the same, once labeled by a 2 year old. I'll spare you the details on that one and let your imagination run wild; hopefully you have one to do so.
Now, where's that short order cook I ordered???
Just designed a new quilt, can't wait to see it come to life. What am I, some old granny stuck in a 20-something body (haven't hit 30 yet, trying hard to avoid it!) I cook, I sew, I quilt, I take care of my lawn and plant flowers. I think the only difference between me and ol' Grandma Loyal down the street is that I have better vision and two good hips.
I've been thinking: dance lessons. How fun would that be? Maybe I've got too many shows of Dancing With the Stars stuck in my brain, or perhaps my inner self was tamed too much when I had to take ballet as a child, instead of swing or clogging. But then, the practical side of me says, "Where on earth would I use my aquired danceing?" Not at Costco, the gas station, or the City Park--unless I want to get called for disturbing the peace. I'm not much for the night life, so really, am I gonna Salsa in the library or Waltz through WinCo? But still, it'd be fun.
I think it's time to forage the kitchen for something to fill my tummy. Yes, when you spend lots of time around small children, your vocabulary starts to change. Instead of stomach, it's tummy. Instead of scrathces, it's boo-boo's. Very practical parts of one's anatomy are no longer the same, once labeled by a 2 year old. I'll spare you the details on that one and let your imagination run wild; hopefully you have one to do so.
Now, where's that short order cook I ordered???
Monday, May 14, 2007
Dell, A Friend Indeed
Oh, what would I do without you, my precious little Dell? How will I ever cope once your tired fan burns up and I must sit, lonely, until you are repaired? You've been used, abused, spilled on, picked on, lost your keys, had them glued back on, sat on, dropped, and yet, you faithful little Dell, you still turn on for me.
Is it wrong to name one's computer? Just incase it is, I shall call my little friend Dell, since that is, of course, the name on this sleek, oversized screened, piece of fabulous equipment...for some reason, that reminds me of people sewing their name on their underware. Which brings me to the thought, just where does that little joke come from? Did someone, somewhere really do that? Which begs the question: why?
When I worked at the retirement/rest home, there were several folks there who did have names on their underware, so that when they were laundered, there was no doubt to whom the owner was. Perhaps if I reproduce several more times, labeling ones underware may be the way to go. I'll keep you posted.
Well, I got the chance to use my MP3 player today, what a joy that was. Finally, good mucisc all the time, no radio commercials, no fuzz. I still haven't figured out how to put those little ear phones into my ears. Either I have small ear holes or I'm just not talented enough to figure out the mystery of it all. A picture really would have helped, ya know.
Hubby's not home again tonight and I'm rahter ready to go postal on a certain child that knows just how to make my blood boil. Which she is, of course, doing right now. So much for parent of the year award.
On that flat note, let's wrap this up and do some surfing. Juice fasting. How's that for exciting? I think I'm going to give it a whirl. I'll do a couple days and see where I want to take it from there, or, at least, that's my half-baked plan. The last time I fasted for 4 days my temperature dropped to 94 degrees. I'll have to keep track and see what happens this time. Yes, that's me, the overgrown guinee pig doing yet another experiment on myslef. That's my life, just one big science experiment (I have learned not to put cinnamon oil under my tongue lest I feel like my body is on fire, and that even aprons marked "non-flammable" can burn if you hold a lighter on them for long enough...what was my grade in chemistry...a C?? I learned lots of things, just not what the teacher was teaching.).
Good night, Little Dell, how consoling you are. My precious, friendly, little Dell.
Is it wrong to name one's computer? Just incase it is, I shall call my little friend Dell, since that is, of course, the name on this sleek, oversized screened, piece of fabulous equipment...for some reason, that reminds me of people sewing their name on their underware. Which brings me to the thought, just where does that little joke come from? Did someone, somewhere really do that? Which begs the question: why?
When I worked at the retirement/rest home, there were several folks there who did have names on their underware, so that when they were laundered, there was no doubt to whom the owner was. Perhaps if I reproduce several more times, labeling ones underware may be the way to go. I'll keep you posted.
Well, I got the chance to use my MP3 player today, what a joy that was. Finally, good mucisc all the time, no radio commercials, no fuzz. I still haven't figured out how to put those little ear phones into my ears. Either I have small ear holes or I'm just not talented enough to figure out the mystery of it all. A picture really would have helped, ya know.
Hubby's not home again tonight and I'm rahter ready to go postal on a certain child that knows just how to make my blood boil. Which she is, of course, doing right now. So much for parent of the year award.
On that flat note, let's wrap this up and do some surfing. Juice fasting. How's that for exciting? I think I'm going to give it a whirl. I'll do a couple days and see where I want to take it from there, or, at least, that's my half-baked plan. The last time I fasted for 4 days my temperature dropped to 94 degrees. I'll have to keep track and see what happens this time. Yes, that's me, the overgrown guinee pig doing yet another experiment on myslef. That's my life, just one big science experiment (I have learned not to put cinnamon oil under my tongue lest I feel like my body is on fire, and that even aprons marked "non-flammable" can burn if you hold a lighter on them for long enough...what was my grade in chemistry...a C?? I learned lots of things, just not what the teacher was teaching.).
Good night, Little Dell, how consoling you are. My precious, friendly, little Dell.
Stomach Acid and Pink Bathrobes
Yes, I own a pink bathrobe, and yes, I wear it. Infact, (which technically is not one word, but two) I am wearing said bathrobe right now while typing. Infact (which again, is technically two words, not one), I have just eaten half a dozen chocolate-chip oatmeal cookies while wearing said pink bathrobe while filling out reviews at Allrecipes.com. Infact (I'm not going to let the technicality of the word "infact" --which is technically two words and not one--bother me anymore; it is Monday, you know, and I do have certain rights!!), I have done very little today except flush my daughter's stomach acid down the toilet, water the tree, and talk on the phone while folding laundry; all while wearing said pink bathrobe.
I never really understood bathrobes in the first place. I mean, why not use a towel and save yourself the pain of having an extra hook for a robe? There is no shame in wearing pajamas without a robe, and if you can just wear your birthday suit and feel comfortable walking around, more power to ya (I find it rather breezy myself)...unless your a pediphile or someone who's got a few screws loose, then, well, that's rather disturbing to walk around in your birthday suit, so you may want to purchase a bathrobe.
What was I saying?
Oh yes, today is Monday and I had quite forgotten that I started a blog, until I ran across myself on the internet and remembered "Oh, yes, I started a blog." So, I decided to post on my blog spot and couldn't quite figure out how to log on (of course, this is after half a dozen cookies, a glass of milk, and cleaning up vomit while wearing my pink bathrobe). But, alas, here I find myself writing gibberish with unusually cold fingers and feeling rather dizzy from the rush of sugar that I've just ingested while wearing this rather lovely, soft pink bathrobe.
I'm not much of a time waster, so I find it rather peculiar that I am typing into cyberspace with no point other than me, myself, I, am wearing a pink bathrobe...and who really cares about that anyway? It must be the cookies. Or the vodka. Of course, I didn't have any vodka, so it must be the cookies.
I find it rather hard to give myself downtime, as there is always more work to be done and just sitting and doing nothing is but a tragic use of minutes lost that I can never retreive. Of course, physics has proven that time is not linear, but indeed more circular, so perhaps the past of my past is not lost completely. Either way, wasted minutes are not the best use of a limited number of minutes.
I got am MP3 player for Mother's Day, preloaded with my favorite 3 CD's. I didn't get the chance to go running yesterday, it was so very windy, and then there was the fact that I woke up at 3AM and was ready to pass out at lunchtime. And today, I am so very tired and filled up on cookies. Perhaps I'll dig out the bathing suit and find a comfortable patch in the backyard to go soak up some sun. I have almost turned a darker shade of white, much to my surprise. My brother gets the brains (which tan well), my sister gets the looks (which tan well) and what do I get but a pink bathrobe and a sarcastic sense of humor?
What was I saying?
I'm feeling rather sleepy now, but the laundry has claimed the bed, so perhaps I might trade in the pink bathrobe for something more suitable, say, snorkeling gear, and start my day, now that it is nearly 1PM. What is that? Did I say it's nearly 1PM? Why yes, I did! How fortunate for me! It's nearly nap time. Oh, I am suddenly finding myself giddy with half-formed joy. Perhaps I can actually get up from my chair with the high hopes of finding a warm place to nap. Of course, that would mean that I would need to leave the warmth of the laptop....hmmm....I'll have to think about this one.
Well, that was a glorious waste of time, sitting here, doing nothing in my pink, rose splahsed bathrobe. Ahh, Monday's, what could be better...well, I can think of lots of things that could be better, but let's not focus on that right now.
I never really understood bathrobes in the first place. I mean, why not use a towel and save yourself the pain of having an extra hook for a robe? There is no shame in wearing pajamas without a robe, and if you can just wear your birthday suit and feel comfortable walking around, more power to ya (I find it rather breezy myself)...unless your a pediphile or someone who's got a few screws loose, then, well, that's rather disturbing to walk around in your birthday suit, so you may want to purchase a bathrobe.
What was I saying?
Oh yes, today is Monday and I had quite forgotten that I started a blog, until I ran across myself on the internet and remembered "Oh, yes, I started a blog." So, I decided to post on my blog spot and couldn't quite figure out how to log on (of course, this is after half a dozen cookies, a glass of milk, and cleaning up vomit while wearing my pink bathrobe). But, alas, here I find myself writing gibberish with unusually cold fingers and feeling rather dizzy from the rush of sugar that I've just ingested while wearing this rather lovely, soft pink bathrobe.
I'm not much of a time waster, so I find it rather peculiar that I am typing into cyberspace with no point other than me, myself, I, am wearing a pink bathrobe...and who really cares about that anyway? It must be the cookies. Or the vodka. Of course, I didn't have any vodka, so it must be the cookies.
I find it rather hard to give myself downtime, as there is always more work to be done and just sitting and doing nothing is but a tragic use of minutes lost that I can never retreive. Of course, physics has proven that time is not linear, but indeed more circular, so perhaps the past of my past is not lost completely. Either way, wasted minutes are not the best use of a limited number of minutes.
I got am MP3 player for Mother's Day, preloaded with my favorite 3 CD's. I didn't get the chance to go running yesterday, it was so very windy, and then there was the fact that I woke up at 3AM and was ready to pass out at lunchtime. And today, I am so very tired and filled up on cookies. Perhaps I'll dig out the bathing suit and find a comfortable patch in the backyard to go soak up some sun. I have almost turned a darker shade of white, much to my surprise. My brother gets the brains (which tan well), my sister gets the looks (which tan well) and what do I get but a pink bathrobe and a sarcastic sense of humor?
What was I saying?
I'm feeling rather sleepy now, but the laundry has claimed the bed, so perhaps I might trade in the pink bathrobe for something more suitable, say, snorkeling gear, and start my day, now that it is nearly 1PM. What is that? Did I say it's nearly 1PM? Why yes, I did! How fortunate for me! It's nearly nap time. Oh, I am suddenly finding myself giddy with half-formed joy. Perhaps I can actually get up from my chair with the high hopes of finding a warm place to nap. Of course, that would mean that I would need to leave the warmth of the laptop....hmmm....I'll have to think about this one.
Well, that was a glorious waste of time, sitting here, doing nothing in my pink, rose splahsed bathrobe. Ahh, Monday's, what could be better...well, I can think of lots of things that could be better, but let's not focus on that right now.
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