Sprinkles and Pics

I don't know about you, but I so enjoy the little things in life. I see the little joys in life as being the sprinkles atop the cupcake; something you don't need for survival, but something that brings a little smile to your face. Let me share some of my sprinkles with you:

At first I was a little upset that someone had taped something to the fireplace, as once something is burned onto "the black," it's a booger to get it off...if it will come off, that is. So, here I walk into the living room and someone has taped a sign to "the black." I started to get upset, thinking about how much time it took to scrape goo off "the black," the last time someone did this....but then I took a closer look and saw that a little someone had written a note on said sign. It read, "For you Mom! Love DS." Ahh, how sweet! He'd made me a fire before he'd left for school. He'd thought of me and did something to show his love; built me a blazing fire to keep my morning warm. Such a fine young man he is--he'll make a fine husband some day (but I do have in ink and in blood a paper a sworn statement saying that he'll take care of his dear old mother in her less than golden years!).









Next is a picture of little Squirt. She was just so stinkin' cute in her little jammies (which kept riding her behind and made her all the more adorable), I had to take a picture.

Then there's the pictures that my children drew me (just two of many, I might add). I nearly died laughing when dd2 drew me the below pictures of myself and someone...I'm not quite sure who's to the right, but the expression on their face is a hoot! (That's right, you don't mess with Momma Bear unless you wanna get the big guns all fired up!):











And then there's the picture brought on by the inspiration that comes while spending time with Dad (isn't the blood so incredibly realistic?):































And then there's me in my much beloved straw cowgirl hat. Though dh did nothing but laugh at my perfect gardening hat, he did say, "It's you--all the way. It's just "you." And it is. Come summer, I'm putting on my cutoff jeans, digging out my favorite tank top, strapping on my yard boots, slipping on my gloves and wearing my perfectly frayed straw cowgirl hat!

YEE HAW!!

(And yes, my lawn mower has horse power!)

A Little Over 17

Today was another blissful run, a 17 miler. Scott (the Nazi Stopwatch Man) and I did a bit over 17, as I told him I'd rather go over than be under in mileage. Total running time was 2 hours 36 minutes and, just like the song, "I feel good (du-nuh-na-nuh-na-nuh-na-nuh). I knew that I would." Actually, I was so weak at the gym last night, I came home early and went to bed at 8PM! I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to run today, but I surprised myself. Not only did I run, but I ran well. Could have run farther and could have run harder. Knees are hurting though.

I like this running thing. I think I'm hooked.

We ran the last 3 miles on the blue track, inside, once again. And once again I bared to the world my spandex clad body. But, once again, I was too hot and sweaty to care.

My face hurts. I think my sensitive skin has been burned by the wind. We had a nippy and slightly harsh east wind to accompany us on our run today. Not only is my face a blushing shade of red, but it burneth greatly.

We ran past my country house today--the house I wanted to buy before we bought this one. (It's kinda hard to purchase a home, though, when the seller is in Mexico and doesn't take offers while they're there!) It was hiding behind the tree line, off past the field, just where I'd left it. My heart hit a painful twinge as my runny-nosed running group ran by...how was my big garden that I never got to plant things in getting along? And what about my fruit trees that were sitting in the perfect spot to the west of the house? And the calves--were they still in that pasture behind the back patio? The dog runs, still to the west, ready for my much beloved Lacey dog? Was the wood stove still keeping the family room and country kitchen warm? Did the back door still need to be replaced?

But, oh, wait. That's not my house. Though I wanted it to be. And to think, now I've got my perfect cowgirl hat and no country home to go with it. But I've been thinking, I may just dig up a portion of the back yard this year to expand my little garden plot. One of the nice things about old homes is the landscaping--big ol' trees and lots of shade. That's nice, unless of course, you want to grow things in the SUN in a GARDEN.

I shall be content with what I have, though. This is a beautiful home, and I am thankful for it. I can really work my lats while scrubbing the wood floors on the enitre top level. Then I can work my triceps and biceps by vacuuming all that wonderfully light colored carpet downstairs. And once it's vacuumed, I can thus work my lats and my arms by steaming all the dirty spots out of said light colored carpet.

Looks like my time is up, as the oven screams to me that the pizza is done cooking, and the son is giving me a great, in-depth, run down of homonyms. Boy, does he have a loooong list to tell me about. What a smart little guy he is.

Off I go, to eat a few more rolos (why do they have to wrap them--I can't eat as many that way!), and serve my little dears. Life is good.

Oh Happy Day

Though I'm exhausted from my therapy session, I must say that it's a good tiredness--Retail Therapy can really perform a pick-me-up! (Am I the only one who finds it odd that Macy's has bikinis right next to the winter coats?)

Not only did I find my straw cowgirl hat for this summer (a perfect know-it-when-I-see-it moment!), but I also got a free lunch. If you've taken college economics, then you know that "There's no such thing as a free lunch." But today, it was free....at least I think it was.....but come to think of it, perhaps I now have a stalker.....so maybe my overpriced college course and pre-highlighted used 5 pound textbook WAS correct.

Either way, dd4 and I went to "Baldi's" (as she calls it) to chow down on some delectable Mexican food. As I devoured the chips and salsa (it was hot today--cleared out my sinuses!) and she licked the bean bowl clean, I did notice that the man in the booth opposite us kept looking at me. A lot of people I don't know know me, and if they don't know me, they think they do. (Do you know just how many times I get mistaken for someone else?) I didn't think much f it, but was sure to use all my manners, since I had a little person watching me intently, imitating my every more.

Jose, my favorite waiter, kept speaking to me in Spanish, as he always does. I was feeling good today, as not only did I understand everything he said, I was even talking back 'en espanol.' (Sometimes I still dream in Spanish, I know I'm still bilingual somewhere in my over crowded brain!) It wasn't until the very end, when I was waiting for the check, that I had to ask him, "que?" Then, "No se?" In Spanish he said, "I will tell you one more time, no so rapido."

He kept talking about my friend (male) and how there was no check. He finally switched to English and told me, "There is no check, su amigo paid for your lunch." Even in English I didn't quite understand...I was like, "What friend? Who? Where is he? Did he take care of the tip, too?" Jose just smiled and said, "Su amigo, yes to tip," and walked away. STINKER!

So, I don't know who it was, but lunch was practically free. Practically being in the sense that I left a five dollar bill on the table for dear little, aging, missing the tip of a finger, always kind to my family and me Jose....I remember when he first started working there; he knew no English at all. A determined little booger he is, to be this fluent this fast.

That coupled with a few good finds at the mall, added to by going to the Home and Garden show in a bit, and topped off with an intsense upper body workout I intend to do at the gym later this evening (while listening to the newest songs I've just downloaded) equals the right to say, "Oh happy day!"

Weirdness

This is so weird; life right now. I feel like I've stepped (ya know, like when you think there's one more step, but there's not, and you have that weird feeling as your foot gropes around for the step, then smacks the ground, unsatisfied?) into the Twilight Zone. I've gone from never having enough time to having ALL this time, from a state of constantly tidying everything to not having much to tidy, from making three meals and three snacks a day to making only one of each. This truly is very weird.

I don't know if I should run around and jump for joy or curl up in the fetal position and suck my thumb.

Weirdness.

You may not find that word in Webster, but it does infact (which is technically two words and not one, mind you) exist.

Speaking of weirndness, after a fun game of dodgeball this morning (and a new, big, fat bruise on my arm thanks to Mr. Fireman with too much testosterone) I dropped my undies in the shower, right onto the freshly showered wet plastic shower floor. Once clean, you can't revert to dirty undies (or sweaty in my particular case), so I had to wear the wet ones. I'd forgotten what it was like to be two and have the cold/wet sensation of peeing your pants. Of course, I didn't pee my pants, but it looked like it once I got home from the gym. Weird, I tell ya.

I ate Ben & Jerry's for lunch today with Little Squirt sitting on my lap in front of the fire. She doesn't know that I picked out all the good pieces of brownie and chocolate chip cookie dough and just left her the ice cream...tee hee hee. She was just impressed that I was actually sharing my much coveted ice cream; one day she'll wise up.

Which reminds me, I do so love the smell of pine. I love smelling it when it's felled, delimbed, scored and cut, then loaded onto the Over Sized Lawn Ornament (which, sweetly enough, is not parked on the parking slab in the back yard, but is blissfully out on the farm--far, far from my sight), unloaded at the farm, split, reloaded, brought home, unloaded and stacked oh-so-precisely on the back patio for a winter's worth of burning. I love to plop a new piece of pine on the fire and smell it's sweet aroma. Burn, baby, burn. Nice n' sweet, and nice n' hot.

I miss the old free standing stove we had at the old house. Besides the fact that ds stood by it naked and scorched himself (um, can you say "duh!"), it was my favorite house accessory. We've got the fireplace insert now, my Blaze King, and it's alright--just not as big, burly and hot as the free standing tank was.

I like fire. Always have, always will.

Infact (haven't we talked about this: two words!), my dearest brother and I used to pass the time by playing with fire, melting straws down to the very end (whilst holding them between two fingers) and thus scorching our sensitive kid skin when the straw melted onto our thumb and pointer finger. Good ol' days. Maybe I should teach my kids how to do that....I've already taught them how to fry bugs and start fires with a magnifying glass...

I think Ben & Jerry are affecting my head...and I like it. I mean, what else is there to do when you've already got your work done, read too many kids stories to Little Terror, and already have dinner fixed? And all the laundry is done. That's right, I said DONE. Just what, oh what do I do with myself besides sit here and think how weird this all is. I honestly don't know what to do with myself if I'm not doing something. But I'm sure I'll figure it out. Even when I don't want to figure things out, my brain sits there and figures it out for me....it's like it has a mind of its own.

Time to hit the library. I've decided that I'm going to get serious about my weight lifting now. Time to get focused and sculpt that body I've always thought I'd have someday. Since I'm now "jobless," I suppose I've got the time to invest in it. Or write a book. I might actually look into that, something I thought I'd never have time for amidst raising children. Funny how things can change so quickly, huh?

Weirdness.

I think I'm beginning to like this new state of WEIRDNESS.

Death and Laundry

I love mornings like this: I get up, I go; I do, I make; I cook, I clean; I love on and be loved by; I work fast and hard and see good results before 9AM even hits the clock. And thus, I give myself a few minutes downtime before I repeat the above process.

I was just folding laundry (don't all my posts relate to the fact that I'm constantly doing laundry?) and thinking about (drum roll, please): death. The end of the line. The last cigar. The finito. And why do I think about death and the day that I will die? To help me live.

I call it "forward thinking" (do I need to slap a label on this and become rich in the process?). You have to think backwards from the end (which is technically looking forward from the point you're at now) to get the clearest vision. But before you can start all this gazing, you have to know what type of ending you want to have. Choices. We all have choices.

Think of how many choices we make everyday: be all good, be all bad; be half good then half bad; be half bad then half good; be 3/4's bad and 1/4 good; be 5/8 good and 3/8 bad. And that's even before we get out of bed. I know some of you ("drifters" as I call your class of personality) don't think that you consciously think, and therefore, you just kinda drift through life, thinking that you're not thinking. (And people like me drive you nuts!!) But even drifters have to think and make choices constantly. With all this on the table, I like to have a focus to my thoughts.

Thus, I think about death while doing laundry.

What really matters at the end of life? Money? Toys? Faith? People? Fame? Hope? Inheritances? Love? Family?

Overall, I am a business woman. I've got a sniffer for a good investment like a bloodhound for the trail. I've known deeply too much death to live so nonchalantly to believe that tomorrow will always come, so I'm looking to invest today. Money isn't that important to me (I honestly think if you threw me into a 3rd World Country, I'd be happy to be free from the hefty ties that money can bring), and toys are fun, but not a crucial part of life (though I do enjoy my wheat grinder). Fame is something I'd rather other people have, and being in the spotlight is something I can endure when I have to, but I prefer my snug little non-crowded quiet hole.

So on the terms of business and investing, I choose to invest in people, mostly. For to change a life is to change the world. To touch a life, to make an impact, to relate to and exchange the things that can't be bought with currency--these are the type of investments I look into. And I like to do business well. And this is why I think about death while folding laundry.

We are given so much everyday, even on the bad days. If time were money, would we all be investing differently? Do we give our time (and money) to things that last, that make a difference, or do we have short-term vision and kiss it away to what satisfies us today? I do both. But on the good days, I'm an investor.

And today is an investing day. This is not so much a pre-planned, tight agenda as it is a focus that is alert to looking out for the opportunities that will come my way today; opportunities to invest. I've been sitting on the sidelines too long during this tough season, turning a blind eye to these some times quiet chances to splatter a few people with kindness, to enjoy my brief moment of investment, to let the warmth of a little love fill a small portion of their soul.

But I am not so naive to know that some people prefer not to be loved, as it is either uncomfortable, foreign, or threatening to them. And it is these people that need the patience of a pure love. They may push you away, spit in your face, growl and grimace, but you know that they weren't always this way; this is a learned behavior brought to the forefront by some form of trauma. These people are still worth the effort of loving, even investing in. They may be a hard investment with little return, but that's okay, because you know that you have an endless supply of what they need. And giving is so much better than receiving.

Death and laundry.

Who would have thought the two went together? Yes, I hear the washer's chime, calling me to come and pay homage to it's sleek gray physique. So my little break is over (how did my fingers learn to type so stinkin' fast?), and I must go back to the grind of being the person I am:

A business woman that mentally stands at the end of her life, looking back and says, "What a great investment!"

Life Hurts

Life. Life hurts. It's just a fact, pure and simple. It can hurt more if you have expectations that it will hurt less, and it can hurt less if you learn how to numb it. I'm not one for low expectations, and don't necessarily agree that having low expectations is the way to go. For, as I look back through history and single out the men and women who have walked wisely and made a real, positive difference in this world, I see that their greatest moments were not ones marked by "low expectations."

Thus, I feel that it's not low expectations that makes one's life happy and tolerable, but it is instead the person or object of whom or to which one puts their expectations in. Think about it.

And as you think you may realize that everyone and everything will at one point let you down, so you may contrive, what is the point of having an expectation high enough for it to plummet to disappointment? And that's why I like Psalm 62:5: "My soul, wait silently for God alone, for my expectation is from Him. " For, I am a person with big expectations and grandiose dreams...I am also a person who has suffered much disappointment. But it's all in where the expectation is placed, and I have learned to not put my expectations in things, especially in woman or man, for they will fail sooner than later. I know this well. I fail myself everyday.

Expectations are good, it's just the placement of them that are wrong. Because, as we all already know:

Life hurts.

Seasons. Right? Seasons. To everything there is a season. And we love the seasons, even those of you here from your golden land of California enjoy the turn of the seasons. Perhaps you wish that winter wouldn't stay so long, but you cannot deny your sense of childhood wonder when the seasons change. And such is life on the internal world; it weathers seasons.

Seasons are what make life interesting, and we love the seasons of change, even if it is only subconsciously. We all enjoy some sort of change, even if we try to argue that we don't. For a life without seasons is like all music having the exact same beat. No matter how masterfully done the composition is, at some point you will come to dread it, as the monotonous rhythm will no longer soothe, excite, or enrage....it will bore. And boredom is the death of living. Really living.

In and out of the seasons we go, sometimes willingly, sometimes dragged through the mire; but on we go. On I go. I will be glad for this season of pain to turn into spring, to bring forth new life, fresh air, and only the occasional storm. How long can ones' dark season be?

It is in the harsh times of life that we see who we are, how strong or weak our character is. It is through my sufferings being intensified over the past few years that I have truly become acquainted with who I am. Sometimes I, the she in me, has made me proud, very proud. More frequently, she makes me cringe, especially the confused and sometimes raging beast she has shown me she can be. But I am glad to know her, as she strengthens me, even in her bad times--she strengthens me in that I see who she can become. And this revelation is of great value, for it brings new light, new understanding, for the future. It helps to set new parameters, to know of what to beware of. For, one doesn't need to set up a fence to protect oneself from a kitten, but to protect oneself from a tiger is worthy of some forethought and strategic planning. It is not our strengths that we must fear, but our weaknesses.

We are never as good as we should be, yet never as bad as we could be. True?

Perhaps we vacillate between these two parameters of good and bad, depending on the season of life we are in. I know I do. And it bothers me. Why vacillate in the bad times? What does that say of my character? But oh, wait, there's me and my expectations again. I give myself no room for failure. None. And then I am disappointed with myself when I fail.

I am sick and wrong. And I know very well that:

Life hurts.

Yes, life hurts. But oddly enough, in pain we are united. Through pain and suffering we reach into the depths of each other, and compassion is born. Just like children: from the long gestation period of aches, pain, vomit, and fatigue, then through the wrenching I-want-to-pull-out-my-own-hair pains of childbirth comes something of great beauty; a new life. Precious. (And if you birthed your children with numbing agents, you have truly missed out on PAIN!) Through pain, we are united to our new babe; they are of great worth to us. All great things in life are worth the pain, are they not?

Let's think about that. Pain for a purpose is worth fighting for and enduring for. But pain with no purpose may very well be the death of our very souls; bacteria on our hope, limits on our faith, a total rejection of love. Yet life will bring both types of pain, will it not? But we have a choice. We can choose our pain.

Breaking the law and being thrown in prison brings pain, but that is pain that is chosen--pain coupled to consequence. Perhaps this is "bad" pain. Loving a person for the majority of your life, then having your very heart ripped from your chest as they (painfully) die, perhaps this is "good" pain; pain that came from something pure--pain that came with a season; pain with purpose.

What can I say? I am no great thinker, theologian, or scholar. All I know is:

Life hurts.

And what do we Americans really know of pain, anyway? We may think we know a thing or two as we live in a luxury the rest of the world cannot fathom. Amidst all our toys, gadgets, food, and worshiping of the god of personal comfort, we bring on ourselves much pain. Idiots, we are. So consumed with ourselves that we don't see a larger picture; our wailing over a splinter in our thumb shames us in the naked face of reality.

Life hurts. Sometimes from our own doing. Sometimes not. But overall:

Life hurts.

Valentine's Day

A day of love, aye? Do you know the real meaning of Valentine's Day? It is much more than conversation heart candies (I'm partial to the ones made by Necco), and men having to buy a dozen roses lest they enjoy being in the presence of The Ice Queen.

I ran into a dear little boy last night while gorging myself in a very un-lady like fashion, who tickled my humor bone by sharing his Valentine's Day poem with me:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I think you're more fun
Than sniffing glue.

Isn't that simply precious? I loved it. I've never sniffed glue, perhaps I should start. I did used to eat paste. Texture. I liked the texture. Which reminds me, I used to eat Ajax. Sometimes I still get the urge to do so; nutritional deficiency? Psychosis? Hunger? I think it had to do more with the texture and grit. I'm very odd about my textures.

A friend made me cookies a month ago, and the texture was incredible. They could have tasted like cow dung mixed with hay and dirt, but the texture had me eating half a dozen in less time than it takes Americans to spend their Stimulus Checks.

I'm becoming more and more of a texture freak the older I get. At least I haven't reverted to Ajax. But hey, that would make for an easy date, right? "Where would you like to eat tonight Snufflelumpagus?" "Oh, my dearest Tweedletum, let's not go out. Let's just dine here by the firelight with this new can of Ajax. Would you like to peel back the white sticker that forms the purpose of a lid, or shall I?"

I miss watching the Smurfs. I saw the DVD set at Walmart. I think I may just use some of my tax return to go purchase it, grab a can of Ajax, and revisit my childhood.

Have fun with your glue.

Contemplations

I've been told by someone who knows me better than any other, that my blog is rather an odd collection of shallow topics gone in depth. He mentioned how this is much unlike me, as I'm not a person who likes shallow, I crave depth like a sea mammal craves water with a deeper shade of blue. And he's right that I write of things in this manner.

I write to the shallow because this is my de-stress blog of nonsense, a place where the unimportant and nonchalant simply flow from my fingers onto the screen. That and, quite frankly, I've been told I am "too intense" of a person--who wants to be around someone who "has a plan for everything?" Not too many people, I gather (except for businesses that need a cut-throat CEO who gets PAID to have a plan for everything!). And that is the reality of the world I live in. That is the reality of a person with a "leader's personality" (as I've been told I have, curse me!). The vast majority is looking for the ease of following the path worn well enough to travel easily, they look for the rise with the least resistance, the boat with the sails.

And then there are those who belong to the (sick) personality race of my own; ones who see a different way, a new way, a way with possibly much pain, suffering, and toil, but a way of greater value, of a vaster depth; a more satisfying way. We are but a dime a dozen, but we are the movers and shakers of the world who have visions and dreams, whose annoying "unspontaneous-ness" (and I do believe that's a relative term) can keep a crowd in control and move a large mass towards a purposeful goal. Isn't there value in that?

So much of our strengths are also our weaknesses.

Being a person of my traits can be a very lonely walk. There are few that want to be blasted with the intensity of such a person. There are even fewer that will ever get close enough to see the tender depths of such a confident shell. And it is these few that can cause the greatest joy, and ultimately the greatest pain. And such is life.

* I like 4 ice cubes in my glass. More than 4 and I can't drink my drink, less than 4 and there's just too much space for the fluid to roam freely.

* I rarely have a favorite anything. I like variety and change, within a certain parameter.

* I am spontaneous, but only when I feel safe enough to be such.

* I am fiercely loyal to those close to me, but once you break my trust, I will hold you at arms length quite possibly, for forever.

* I am confident in all I choose to do, but sometimes question who I am as a person--this bothers me.

* I hold things close to my heart, good and bad alike. There are some things that I have never, ever shared with another person, and probably never will.

* I don't like talking on the phone and rarely do.

* I enjoy working hard, even if it's 'just' in a domestic realm; I have no respect for people with a poor work ethic.

* I am claustrophobic.

* I love children--all of them. Yours, mine, theirs; I love them all.

* I can handle being the only adult with 30 children, but put me in a room with 30 adults and I'm looking for the nearest exit.

* I can be the main speaker at an event for more than a hundred people and never break a sweat, which is good, because one time I completely forgot to wear deodorant.

* I have a hard time coming to a complete stop at all stop signs, and I often run the ones that are at railroad crossings.

*I live a passionate life, and can't understand how one would live, be it not passionately.

* I don't sleep well due to stress and the numerous burdens I carry on my extra large shoulders.

* I don't know how to not carry large burdens, as a passionate person cares deeply about people and things, situations and life in general. I think there may be medical records showing that passionate people die young.

* I enjoy the domestic task of laundry now that I have a pretty gray kick-butt washing machine.

* I enjoy improving my corner of the world, making it a pleasant place, wherever it may be.

* I still don't like fish.

*I don't know that I'll ever like fish again.

*I fear the ocean, being on the water, as I don't know what lies beneath.

* I fear situations that are like the ocean, where I don't know what lies beneath.

* I love music. A friend once told me that my music is an extension of myself. I think she was right.

* I don't write much music anymore, I miss that.

* I sing at the top of my lungs when no one else is in the car with me.

* I don't like to sing in public, especially when I'm mic'd. People see me do it so often, they probably think I enjoy it. Couldn't be farther from the truth!

* I don't like to hear myself sing on my own cd's. Too bad I have children that like to listen to them.

* I was supposed to be deaf by the time I was in my 30's, so the expert said. My desire to prove him wrong has been sweet.

* I don't like to wait. I know this is a character flaw, but on the flip-side, its strength is that I'm a 'get 'er done!' type of gal.

* I don't like doctors.

* I especially don't like doctors that just want to cut things out of my body.

* I love Ben & Jerry's. But I did pass them by in the aisle today, saying "I'd love to get together with you, but you know I'll have to run 15 miles just so you don't stay with me. I'm sorry, my love, but I'll have to pass."

* I think sometimes that I think, process things, more like a male than a female. Is that wrong?

* I like things blunt. I enjoy frilly words and metaphors, just not when I'm trying to work out a situation.

* I have a friend who once called me a "word smith." Perhaps she's never heard me be blunt.

* I am sometimes too blunt.

* I am getting better at not being so blunt. I think.

* I enjoy a good challenge, but sometimes need a cheerleader to get me across the finish line.

* I'm going to run a marathon in May. I started this journey not because I loved to run, but because I liked the idea of doing something that very few people can do. Now I love to run and enjoy the satisfaction that comes with it. I smile when I think of being able to tell my great-grandchildren, "Yes, my dears, these weak little legs were once strong enough to run 26.2 miles..."

* I hate hypocrites. And I am one right now.

* I don't know who I am right now, but I can't say that I like her.

* I have much work to do and a little girl to feed. Time to make my exit.

So, is this a bit more in-depth for you, and less of a kiddie wading pool? For, you know, blue is my favorite color.

Especially a deeper shade of blue.

More Pictures

I'm tired, and waiting for a munchkin (who keeps screaming, "Moooooommmmmm!" from the upstairs tub) to finish her bathing. (And now she's crying, since her screaming didn't do the trick. She's as stubborn as her father, so let's see just how long she'll sit in what's probably now cold water and cry.) So, while she reeks out her drama for this hour of the day, I will upload pictures. Hooray!

As I upload: Oh, what drama, I tell you! Wailing, crying, and finally, I hear her let the water out. What a little rascal she is. She's not hurt; she's just upset that I didn't come running to her every whim. Training, I tell you; it's all in the training. Give in now and you'll have a monster on your hands when hormones set in. Put in the hard work now, and you'll still have a monster on your hands when the hormones set in, but at least you'll have respect.

Anyway, this is my life: I've just gotten out of the shower, turban wrapped head and all, and I slip into the kitchen to grab my protein shake, only to find my favorite son, sitting at the bar with, yes, swimming goggles on. While eating. Goggles. Breakfast. I didn't really know they went together....perhaps it's eye protection in case there's splashing whilst the force of the spoon on the milk, plus the gravitational and centripetal force, causes a great tidal wave of milk to defy gravity and thrust itself onto the cornea? I mean, at least, that's my best guess.

Then there's:

Yes, my favorite son again, the architect. This was his latest construction project. It is rather elaborate, but you can't quite see that from the picture.

And don't you just LOVE all those stickers he put all over his train table?

Thanks to Little Terror, there's also a Barbie sticker completely stuck on one of the dressers....gripe, gripe, gripe.

But anyway, isn't my favorite son so incredibly astute and as cute as a bug?


Now, you've got to love this, dd2' very own paper doll; drawn, cut and colored from her own imagination. This is the daughter that isn't the academic all star or book worm; she's much more than that. She may struggle with words, but her hands create some of the most artistic things.

I happen to like the dress she made for the doll--don't you just love the pattern and colors?

And you've got to love my white and gold flecked retro counter top beneath the doll. Isn't that gorgeous? (Hey, at least it's not GREEN like the old house!) Old houses, ya gotta love 'em! I'd take one over a new construction any day of the week!





Now this was fun. Field trip day in true Western fashion--I loved it! Though most of the activities were for the kids, I wanted to feed the calf, and ride the horse, milk the goat and run the cattle shoot. But no, no, no, I behaved myself, took pictures, and was the cheerleader for my team of little curious minds.







































I don't get it. Why go to the park with your kids and then sit on a bench and watch them play? Why not play with them. Perhaps I'm the one with a few screws loose, but I love to play at the park with my kids. I actually find it a bit bothersome when another adult comes along and expects me to sit and chat with them when I'd rather be riding the merry-go-round. (Shhhh, don't let that secret out!)

Here we were making a "train" on the slide. I must have been the cushion, as I got sat on a lot, but it was a ton of fun. I'm wondering just how long the City will leave up this old-school, high, un-gaurded, burn-your-butt-in-the-hot-sun slide. Until then, "choo choo!"




Time for just one more pic.... I had a Scensty party a while back. It was hard work smelling all those scents! I think I was completely high afterwards. Of course, I don't know what it feels like be high, so maybe I wasn't. Either way, I got tickled watching some of the kiddos go through the scents...they'd pick through the baskets and repeat the comments that they'd heard the adults say earlier. "Oh no, I could never have that smell in my house." Or, "A little too sweet."

Kids are so impreshionalbe, let's hope we shape the next generation in a way that brings a brighter future.

Now, off to detangle the mass of curls I've genetically passed on to my big blue eyes, too-big-for-her-shorts daughter. (Do you know any other 4 year old that not only tells you how to drive, "No Mom, you're going the wrong way. Turn here." but also gives shopping advice? "Mom, this one is bigger and costs not so much dollars."

Lord, help me!

Pictures

In the great words of Toby Mac: "Love is in the house and the house is packed. So much so we left the back door cracked..." Here's the kids lovin' on one another.












Being too icky to play outside, the kids rolled up the rug in the foster room and made a long jump rope out of three different scarves. I was folding laundry and heard syncopated jumping (which was of great confusion to me!), then old-school jump rope rhymes (that took me back to the day!). Upon investigation, I found the kids taking turns jumping and roping in the bedroom--fun for them and fun for me to watch!

Here are the kids fascinated by the new, very cool washing machine. The spin cycle is simply mesmerizing. And you thought we didn't have fun at our house? We pop some popcorn and pull up a chair! (Well, at least I do...)




Then there's dd3 rocking out with her keyboard. Three words for ya: hill airy us! Maybe I'll upload a sound clip if I can figure out how. She sees mom play the piano and sing, so she grabs her keyboard and does the same thing. Too cute!

Here's dd3 and me, spending special time together every day since the older kiddos are now in school most of the day.

We read books, clean, clean, clean, and play more games of Candy Land than one adult should ever have to play in a lifetime. We also bake cookies for the post-school event of children rushing home, and do a lot of shopping, which dd3 happens to like more than I'd like her to!

Frustrated

I'm frustrated. Had I the time, I'd probably cry.

I have decided that I need a crier, someone who's very good at crying, to help me, teach me how to cry. But I don't have time to cry right now, or to practice crying, so I won't allow myself the luxury.

I just got a call from Health & Welfare a few hours ago, foster daughter is moving out tomorrow morning. Yes, thank you for the less than 24 hour warning to get all the clothing and bedding washed, prepare her little heart for the move, prepare mine and not to mention my own children's! It's Sunday. SUNDAY! Which means that this decision to move foster children was made on Friday at the latest. FRIDAY! Which means that the caseworker didn't bother to mention this "little change of plan" to me until today. TODAY!

ARRGGGHHHHHHH!

Does she think that I flippantly care for the children under my roof? That I can take them or leave them on a whim? Perhaps others can, but that doesn't fit into my "all or nothing" style. But "it is what it is," as I frantically wash, gather, gripe and pack; filling out inventory forms, gathering all important papers, updating files, jotting down notes for the new placement, making photocopies as a form of insurance, and making sure everything is in order. And these are just the non-important logistical things. What of the more life-changing things of playing together, sharing stories, taking pictures, joking, laughing, chatting, making memories? Where's the time for that admist moving a little brown eyed girl from her sweet yellow butterfly bedroom right across the hall from mine?

Monday is my big cleaning day, but that day has become today, my day of rest. Who wants someone from the State seeing their house even the least bit untidy? The only good news in this is that when I get PO'd, I clean like a one-eyed woman on a life-or-death mission. Get in my way, I'll run you over without even noticing; I may just think that the vacuum is clogged again. (I am the expert de-lodger of legos, Playmobils, and other small-but-not-small-enough parts that can be found in odd places inside a vacuum cleaner.)

I'm just so frustrated. I need to learn how to properly deal with stress. I don't know how this is done. I need to figure it out, though, lest I die of heart failure before 40 knocks on my door. IT seems that I constantly have a furrow in my brow--am I getting a wrinkle there? NOT COOL!

Okay, venting time is over. It's a good thing I'm not taking the advice to do what makes me happy; I'd be serving Roasted Social Worker in a Red Wine Sauce for dinner.

Bon Appetite!

Random Thoughts From a Bed-Ridden Woman

I don't know that "bed-ridden" is the exact term, but for lack of a better word, "bed-ridden" will have to do. I am, however, in bed, soaking in the warmth and caustic energy from the well worn electric blanket. Can you say "C o z y?" Nice n' cozy. Me in my warm bed, in my favorite red flannel men's long sleeved shirt that I picked up at a thrift store many moons ago. I remember the first time I saw this shirt, I knew I must have it. It belonged to a small man, as it fits me snugly. It's a very nice quality shirt with just the right amount of wear and tear; perfectly broken in just for me. And a nice deep red to boot. And it only cost me a buck, one dollar, four quarters--what a steal.

I'm pretty much like that: I'm a 'know it when I see' it kinda girl. I'm like that with flannel shirts, fabric, furniture, photography, food, art, music, lost of stuff, really...even people. It's hard to explain. But, what can I say, I know what I want when I see it. There's no second guessing, no wishy-washy hee-hawing, just a very concrete 'that's it!,' 'that's what I've been looking for,' or 'yes you, you're the one.'

Anyway, what was I saying?

Oh yes, I'm staying home today, perhaps in my snug little bed all the day long. (I say that and I want it to be true, but I know that at some point I'm going to get stir-crazy and I'll have to get up and do something that I deem to be productive.) It feels like a movie day, with the cold weather, tired body, and overcast skies. But, the problem with a movie day is that eventually I get tired of watching movies....unless I'm watching 24. Then, I get sucked into the time wasting trap of needing to know what happens next--how does Jack get out of his current dilemma? Do the terrorists launch the nuke? And then, of course, there's my all time favorite: Tony! Him and his trademark, "yeah," get me every time....I find myself hearing him in my head, "yeah, yeah." Very staccato. With a half "I don't give a rip" attitude. "Yeah."

I hear things in my head quite a bit. Some of the things I hear make me giggle. Like, I was a the fabric store quite a while ago, looking at all the colors of endless bolts, trying to match the baby quilt I'd designed in my head to what was available in front of me. I threw several bolts into my already full shopping cart just to have the woman next to me say, "Oh my, that's a lot of fabric!" And thus engaged the voice in my head that said, in a very "The Price is Right!" tone and inflection: "Why thank you Captain Obvious! Tell her what she's won, Johnny, for being so incredibly astute!" But I didn't say that, of course. I just smiled and said, "Why yes it is, isn't it?" and went along my way.

I'm not quite sure how to turn what I hear in my head off, but I do enjoy it's humor and sarcasm.

Anyway, what was I saying?

Oh, I had a funny moment at the gym last Friday night. I hadn't been doing my normal Friday night workout for over a month, so when I re-started this unholy tradition a few weeks ago, I was not surprised to see some of the people that also have nothing more exciting to do on a Friday night but sweat and pump iron. There is this one man who's usually there; I find it most interesting that his front teeth are capped with silver. It begs the question: why?

So, I'm doing inclined flys on the bench, impressed with myself that I've got a 25 pound dumbbell in each hand, enjoying the burn that my muscles are giving me, knowing that I'm approaching being maxed out is a sweet victory. On my last set: rep number 8, rep 9, 9.25, 9.5, now shaking like a leaf, 9.75, now shaking and sweating, 9.85, shaking, sweating, and ready to pop a vein, ahhh, I can't do it. I'm maxed out! Hooray! And down to my sides my arms go; I let the weights drop from my hands down just a few inches to the floor. The pain feels good! I stand up, grab the weights to put them away, and next to me is the silver-tipped-tooth man.

I put the weights back and look at him, he's just kinda staring at me, but smiling. I smile back and turn to hit the track for a few high intensity laps. Then I hear him saying something through my earphones that blare Toby Mac's "Irene" (what a catchy beat). I hit pause on my player and say, "I'm sorry, what?" And he says, "You drop weight?" I must have looked puzzled, hence he says it again, "You drop weight?"

I'm thinking about how I just dropped my 25's on the floor and said apologetically, "Yeah, that was me. Sorry." (For when you drop weights, it does make a bit of a sound.) He kinda looks at me weird (something I'm used to) and says, "No, no. You drop weight??? I don't see you for month, and you drop weight." I think I understand what he's saying now. He's either asking or stating that I've lost weight. Now I get it.

Understanding, I think, I say, "Oh yes, a little bit. Not much." Then we both stand there, me feeling a little bit awkward. So, to fill the weird moment I jokingly say, "Yeah, I eat too many tacos...and ice cream!" as I pat my belly. He smiles at me and says, "Oh, no more tacos? That's good. You drop weight!" I can now see the extent of his English, so I just smile, say "Yup," and make a quick exit. I ask myself, "What was that all about?" But now I have a name for him: Taco Man. Think he'll mind?

Then there was this other guy; I call him the Greek God Wanna Be. He is, by far, the most "ripped" man in the entire gym. Without being pumped up, every single one of his muscles stands out in rapt attention, begging for women to faint and fawn over his very presence. (I think he's disgusting, personally.) He'll walk into the gym like he owns the place, give unsolicited advice to other men that are trying to get just as ripped as him, and then there's always the (for me: humorous) moment when he decides to take off his sweat shirt and bless everyone with his shirtless, unseasonably tan body. After he's made sure that everyone's had a good chance to look at him, he'll thus slip on a muscle tank that is slit through the sides so you can count his 6 pack (why even wear a shirt if you're just going to don something that looks like it's been shredded?).

He'll then strut around, get his sidekick to lift with him, take a break to make sure someone's watching, then lift some more.

I've had the un-pleasure of speaking with him a few times. It's amazing how such a fabulous shell of a body can house such a pitiful creature of a man. And, if the inner man is the equivalent of maggot infested dog poo, then so is the whole man, Greek wannabe or not! He did give Taco Man a few pointers on a chest exercise, which I did eavesdrop on, but other than that, I try to steer clear of his over-inflated ego. Didn't his momma raise him any better? I feel sorry for the woman that ever becomes his wife, if he can, indeed, find a woman who's willing to live with a man that's completely in love with himself.

Anyway, what wa I saying?

I'm not sure. But I'd better be going.....I'm so hungry lately. And for sweets. And Valentine's Day is just around the corner. This could be a very dangerous situation! Spandex doesn't lie, ya know. But I'll worry about that tomorrow as I finish my Ghiradelli Dark & Mint chocolate bar today.

Okay! Out of bed! This bed-ridden woman has had enough of this bed!

15 and Feelin' Mighty Fine

I wasn't going to do it. I even told the team leader, "No, don't count on me, I won't be there." But, thanks to a disturbing dream, I was awake at 4:30 this morning, and watched the clock click on until 5:30; then I rolled outta bed. Since I wasn't planning on running today, I didn't have all my latest spandex set out with my running shoes, so I had to fish around in my once-but-not-now perfectly organized closet.

I geared up, headed to the gym and got a little ticked as, once again, I was locked out of the building on a cold winter day. So I grabbed the newspaper that was propped against the door and headed back to the Burb, grouchy.

Not very many people showed up to run today, so my group had three spandex clad slightly deranged runners (including moi), and the slower group had but two (one of which was not wearing spandex). My group set out and I thought to myself, "God help me," as I have been the slowest of the three in my group. We started out running and I thought, "I'm gonna die! I can't keep this pace for 15 miles!" as we did our first mile in well under 9 minutes. But I decided that die or barf, I was gonna do what I had to to stay with these two elite runners; my pride was at stake, what choice did I have? Really?

As is usual for me, the first three miles are the hardest, and then, somehow, I grow wings on my feet. At mile 5 I started feeling good. Really good. We were running country roads and I was passing people going up hills. My legs seemed to be disconnected from my body and I was just along for the ride. My core felt nice and strong; I never struggled to breathe, never huffed nor puffed, my posture was tight and upright. It was a thing of beauty...I just drank deeply of the pristine scene around me; the sun on the horizon, making the sky blush with its presence. The white fields, worn wooden fences and picturesque tree lines made me wish for my non-existent country home. Two dogs playing out in a frozen field brought a smile to my face; the dairy air smelled good to my nostrils, though others would disagree with me and my deluxe sniffer.

Scott, our former Marine ring leader (also the same man who let me know that he did, indeed, know CPR, but didn't know if he liked any of us well enough to administer it!), had a funeral to go to this morning, so at 10 miles he cut out and practically sprinted back to the gym. Diane and I ran together for a bit, but my pace was too fast for her, so she told me to go on ahead. We decided we'd run the 2 miles back to the gym, then do our additional 3 miles inside. So, I left her behind, looking back every half mile to make sure she was still there.

Without Scott, the last two miles seemed to take forever. Instead of letting my brain totally zone out, I had to watch the clock, be attentive for cars, and have an eye out for icy patches. So here I am, the woman who's blissfully been running on icy, snowy, muddy country roads and what do I do when I reach the sidewalk? I totally biff it and end up flat on my face. Seriously! There I am, prostate on the side walk, covered in all the nasty gunk from the winter weather, half laughing at the clumsiness that still seems to haunt me from my childhood. (I've never known anyone quite like me--I can be so athletic and coordinated, but a complete clutz at the same time. What gives?)

Panicking for a moment (my thought was "Oh no! What if I pulled something and can't run again? Nooooooo!"), I did a mental scan to make sure everything was feeling normal (whatever that is). After that checked out, I rolled over onto my back and just lay there for a few moments, looking up at the cold, gray sky, soaking in the refreshing cool of the frosted sidewalk. Then, thinking about how I didn't want to mess up my running time, I got up, dusted off my bum (and had ice stuck in my pony tail), and kept on going. (I was a sight to behold once I got back at the gym. For some reason, I looked like I'd just fallen down on a muck covered sidewalk.)

I'm not sure who all saw my comically performed uncoordinated moment (I was near the traffic light and people were stopped waiting for the blessed green), but I'm a pro at falling down in public, so my ego's not too terribly bruised....just a little stiff.

So, I finished out my three miles at the gym. Not expecting to be running in warmth, I didn't dress to run at the gym! But, losing all sense of pride, I striped down to my base layer spandex and ran the blue mile three times. I don't know how other people felt about my skin tight spandex turtleneck top and skin tight capri spandex bottoms, but I was beyond the point of caring. All modesty flew out the window, and boy did I feel good not having three layers of clothes on!

So, now I'm home and feeling good and am actually thankful for that disturbing dream that got me out of bed this morning. Just think...I would have missed all this fun. Are you counting down the days? Only 14 more days till a 17 miler! Yeah!

I clocked 35 running miles this week. That was a bit much. Though I enjoyed every mile, my knees are complaining. When I told the instructor earlier this week that I wanted to do more running than the Marathon Training Schedule said, she firmly told me, "Stick to the schedule!" But, as always, I had to learn the hard way. (Am I insane? Why can't I just take what someone else says and call it true? Just not my style, I guess.) So, I went way over on my mileage and now I need to go purchase some knee bands to help my complaining patellas. Should have listened. But oddly, I feel content while in pain, now knowing that I don't have to second guess the schedule! Lesson learned (retard)!

And now, off to the beautifully clean needing-to-be-remodeled kitchen to make up some dead cow meat on a bun: hamburgers! Yes! Fresh from the grill and dripping with cheese! (Did you just hear the Hallelujah chorus, too?) I think I'll even make some homemade potato chips. Baked, not fried, mind you. Yummmmm.... (Do you love food, too, my friend?)

Though this has been delightful, my sweet little Dell, I must be going. Domestic Goddess must fire up the grill and mix dead cow with delectable spices. So much to do before the clock strikes 12!

Advice

I don't ask for advice often. And for good reason. That being in that if I don't respect you,why would I listen to what advice you have to give? (And this, my dear Dell, is why it is of the utmost important that 1. Your children respect you and 2. That you be a respectable person.)

Sure, we all screw up, stumble into a mess, get dirty. Everyone has those times. I'm a living, walking, talking example of that right now. I'm talking about overall. Who are you overall.

I've gotten some advice lately. Of course, I didn't ask for it, but people feel oh so inclined to offer. Maybe the "Kick Me" sign fell off my back and was replaced with a "Give Sucky Advice" sign. Let's take a look at some of the advice I've been given recently:

Time heals all wounds. Ahh, isn't that sweet? So, to heal all my wounds, all I need is time (and an endless supply of vicadin). Time heals all wounds? No it doesn't! Who first uttered those words, Father Time? Someone with no sense of time? A person with a stop watch? Time heals all wounds about as well as a piece of glass in the bottom of your foot heals without attention. Of course, this is coming from the "A" type personality, who likes everything buttoned up, in order and properly filed. Maybe if you're a different personality, this works for you, as you happily skip through life with your pretty little red cape and basket full of time. (Can I just say, what a bucket'o'crap!)

Here's another big hitter someone told me:

Do what you want, as long as it makes you happy. You know what would really make me happy? Catching the person who broke my window and stole my purse, ran up my debit card, chewed my new pack of gum and threw out my expensive lipstick! I'd like to catch them, then pull out their fingernails one by one, shove my lipstick up their nose so high it touches their brain, and smoosh my pre-chewed gum into their armpit hair. Then I'd like to string them up from a tree, naked, and use them as a live pinata. That would make me happy.... Or perhaps I'd like to reek a little revenge in line with the Carrie Underwood song and (we're sorry to interrupt this program, but due to the rating of the following material, we are not able to approve it for public viewing)...

Doing what makes me happy is so relative, it's worthless advice. No great leader throughout history has left a profound mark in this world by just doing whatever made them happy. Unless you count Bill Clinton, who, let's remember, "Did not have sex with that woman--Monica Lewinski." C'mon Bill, who'd you think you were foolin'?

Then there's:

Don't give up! Keep fighting! You must fight! This was my least favorite advice because it was the best advice, and it actually came from someone I respected. And do still respect. It's true that all good things in life come with a price tag, and it's at the moment when times are tough that we need to really decide, "Am I going to fight, or am I going to run?" And very few fight. It's much easier to run. So, so, so much easier. It's not about time magically healing things, or doing what makes you happy, it's about doing battle, though you're tired and worn and have been on the field much too long. It's about giving everything you have, and more, to fight for what's worth bleeding, dying, and living for.

I have found more and more lately, that if you don't know what you stand for, you'll fall for anything.

And anything has many a face. Anything wears many a hat, sings many a tune. Anything can be just that: anything. And oh how quickly the fall into anything is. It's not a rolling grassy knoll, it's a jagged, going-nowhere-but-down, pitch black plunge.

Stand firm, don't stumble. And then go.

Go, fight, win!

Belly Dancer, That's Me

I'm hiding in the basement. In the Man Room, actually. I'm never in here, so let's see just how long it takes for someone to find me. I can hear feet on the wood floor upstairs, walking around, looking for me. Into my bedroom they go; squeak, squeak, stomp. Into the dining room, now the kitchen, through the loop into the bedroom again. Ha! I cannot be found! I must type fast.

It is a rule of thumb that if you hang for a while in places no one would ever expect you to be, you can get away with stealing for yourself a few moments of blissful silence. As with any stealing, you eventually pay for it, and the price is usually higher than the item you stole; so shall my brief affair with silence be.

Anyway:

I tried something new and exciting today: Belly Dancing. I'd forgotten that I love to dance. Or perhaps I never knew. Either way, I enjoyed myself. So much so, infact (which is technically two words and not one), that the rest of the day nearly paled in comparison to my delightful Belly Dancing session this morning. And not only did I get to dance, I got to wear a partial costume, so that was the icing on my fat free cake.

You know the fringe you've seen on the costumes in Dancing With The Stars? Well, thanks to my large, foot-shaped mouth,I had on a black wrap with long, white, swaying-with-my-hip fringe. When you walk into a "multi-purpose" room at the gym and see the instructor adjusting a wrap snug around her hips, one of the things you don't say is, "Oh man, and here I wanted to wear one!" One must not say this, because there just might be a small chance that the instructor has brought with her some extra wraps...(This was an instance much like the last Tupperware party I was at. After my comment of "Who on Earth would ever use that?" found me the new, lucky winner, of said item.) Thus, the wrap over my spandex (yes, I do enjoy spandex, thank you) made me feel that I had been a belly dancer for years, not just a newbie. It's funny how a simple little detail makes such a difference. (And yes, I did want to take the wrap home with me, but the instructor wouldn't let me.)

With a few minutes of instruction on how to "pop" one's hips, I believe I took a mental train to India, had a nice tan, had my waist-length hair back (it's getting closer, maybe by the end of summer!), a red dot between my eyes, and bare footsies (after the instructor had a good laugh over my red and pink striped anklets, I decided they really didn't match the fringe and had to go). I was "popping" to the left, double "popping" to the right. Step, step, jump; pop front, pop back. Step, side, step, double pop, double pop. Yeah baby, I was all over that like white on rice.

I had "snake arms" a slithering, hips a swaying and pretty soon, though I tried to restrain myself (something I am particularly good at doing) my whole body just had to move to that interesting Indian beat. I was off in my own little dancing world when the instructor with the headset brought me back to attention after she'd called my name a third time. Looking like a little girl who'd been caught dreaming about ponies, I said, "I'm sorry, what?" And she said what I guess she'd been saying while I was (mentally) dressed like Jasmine and charming a snake with my magnificent moves. She said, "I said, you missed your calling!" A little dumbfounded, since I'd just gotten back to the states, first of all, then back into the "multi-purpose room", I countered, "What? What calling?" The class laughed (just how long was my little trip to India?) as the teacher had to spell it out for me. "Dancing! You missed your calling to dancing!"

And it got me to thinking about yes, I do so love to dance.

So, a little (expensive!) trip to Walmart has me as the new owner of a Dancing With the Stars cardio workout CD. Oh yeah, this'll be fun! It's a good thing the living room is large, cuz I'm gonna boogie down tomorrow while the kids are at school! I'm pushing those cow-hide couches to the piano wall, and I'm rolling up the rugs. Maybe I'll even leave the blinds open. I'm gonna salsa, baby, and tango! And I don't care who knows it! (The mailman has seen worser things from my house.)

I don't cut loose too often in public. Okay, so I never cut loose in public, but at home is a whole different ball of wax (I'm sure our foster daughter has a whole lot to tell of her crazy foster mom who spontaneously bursts out into song, does Thriller or The Hustle on the drop of a dime (while singing), and who has a million different voices for all the different characters while reading bedtime stories.). And you thought what, that I had no fire in my belly, aye?

While running up the miles on the treadmill tonight I was talking with Paula, the gym's Administrative Assistant, who was sweating more than I while climbing hills on the elliptical beside me. I asked her what it took to be an instructor at the gym, and she told me "About $400 and a class." Then she tried to coax me into being an instructor. I told her I wanted to teach dancing. She looked at me, sweat dripping from her brow, and ask, "For kids?" What does she think, that no other sick and crazy woman wants to learn how to bust a move? (Surely there's at least one of you out there, right? Or am I really the only one?) I smiled my crooked little smile and said, "No Paula, I don't think children should pole dance." She let out a roar of a laugh which got me to giggling and by the end of it all, she finished her workout and I was left with a side ache from all the lack of oxygen. See, it doesn't pay to laugh (I nearly needed CPR and though I really do like Paula, I don't like her that much! No offense!)

Which reminds me, I must, at some later point in time, tell you about the time I nearly died choking; vitamins can be hazardous to your health! But not to worry, I now know how to properly insert the handle of a wooden spoon down my own throat to dislodge horse pills. It's kinda like a plunger...but not.

Man, I can ramble, can't I? Only for you, my little Dell. Only for you.

Now! Off to the showers! Scrub a dub dub. Wait a minute--just what is with that nursery rhyme, anyway? "Scrub a dub dub, three men in a tub, and just who do you think they be? The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. Turn 'em out! Naves all three!" Is that how it goes? And just what does that mean? And how can you really fit three men in a tub? And what's with the occupational discrimination? And were they bathing or...yes, WHAT were they doing in the tub? ..... I ask you, jury, who do find guilty of this crime? Was it the butcher (As I point a perfectly nailed finger at the befuddled, balding butcher)? The baker (who cringes as he's caught eating another flakey French pastry)? Or (dramatic pause) the candlestick maker (as I turn in my nice gray pen striped suit on my size six, perfectly formed body, raptly in his direction to glare at the wax covered, dirty apron wearing man)?! .... I'm sorry, where was I?

Showering. Yes, I was going to take care of my personal hygiene. I do so enjoy good hygiene.

'Nite!

Notes to Self

When you feel like crying, do. When you feel like laughing, laugh. When your heart hurts, pray; when your laptop dies, borrow another. When people use you, love them anyway; when friends can't understand, still return their calls. When Ben&Jerry's New York Cheesecake hits the shelves again, buy the store out as quickly as possible. When your thoughts turn south, take a rain check; when life deals you a bad hand, play it the best you know how.

When your body starts breaking down, fast; when you feel tired, rest. When others tell you how bad fasting is, remember they probably have never fasted themselves. When people smile, return the favor; when you feel the urge, create moments of random kindness. Don't stop dreaming, though people tell you too often "not gonna happen." Work hard and don't fret too much when life throws another curve ball (instead of being surprised, how about you work on being prepared?). Remember to respect yourself, even when others don't. Try not to be too naive, though I know it's hard for you. Let your gullible self out only when you're in the company of safe people, and let your guard down enough for people to see you're human.

When your kids are disappointed, teach them that life is often this way; when you're disappointed with life, remember what you taught your kids. When it hurts to love, keep loving, don't stop. Remember that life is short, you could die tomorrow; so love, love, love and love some more. Don't be stingy; love those that love you and love those that don't; remember that some people don't know what real love is, show them through your actions.

When you get down, remember those that have less than you; when you get depressed, remember to take your Super B Vitamin Complex. When things seem impossible, remember that a good tool box is filled with beauty from ashes; that pain is only wasted if you don't learn from it and grow. Remember Melissa in your prayers, as her son died today; don't take life for granted--it is too precious, too short. That could have been your 10 year old. But no, it was hers. Love on her, even when the days have passed and others have forgotten her pain; remember her.

Whenever you're stranded on an island, remember Castaway; whenever you're stuck in the shadow of the valley of death, remember who your Shepherd is. Whenever you're lost at sea, pray that you'll die quickly before the fish eat you; whenever you're lost in the mountains, hide well so they can't find you. Whenever you think back to what could have been, slap yourself and drink a tall glass of Here and Now; whenever you want to hit something, remember that hitting steel pillars at the gym causes swelling and broken blood vessels. Whenever you think you're fat, you probably are; whenever your nails split, don't peel them back even further.

Whenever you're tempted to do wrong, think of the heritage you'll leave your children; whenever you're tempted to do right, think of the heritage you'll leave your children. Whenever something fabulous happens, write it down; whenever something awful happens, read about all the fabulous things that have happened to you. Whenever someone hurts you, remember the times you've hurt others; whenever someone asks your forgiveness and you don't care to give it; think of all you've been forgiven of. Remember who you are, and if you're not sure, remember how to remember; whenever there is a song in your heart, find the matching notes on the keyboard.

Whenever you are in need, remember where your help comes from; lift your eyes up to the hills.

Gates

What's the purpose of a gate? To let things and people in, to let things and people out; to keep things and people in, to keep things and people out.

My house has three gates. Small, medium and large. And they fit their purpose. When the kids forget to close the gates, we get unwanted animals, trash and sometimes people in our yard. As such, I have been thinking a lot about gates.

Our minds need gates. And perhaps surveillance, with monitors and a guard tower. And guns. Our minds are the driving forces of our physical bodies, our control and command center. People can do incredible, almost super-human things with their minds...or terrible, horrible, unthinkable things. The thoughts start in the mind then work their way out. One of my favorite musicians has a line in their song Slow Fade which says that "the journey from your mind to your hands is shorter than you're thinkin'." And it's true.

I proved it this morning. I told myself I'd eat healthy today, and until 9:30Am while cleaning out the fridge, I did just that. But then, at the back of the fridge, all squished up in a much too large Ziplock bag was the homemade chocolate and peanut butter cups dd2 had made. I couldn't throw them out, for that'd be wasteful. And I couldn't save them for when the kids came home from school, as there weren't enough for everyone. So, despite my earlier pep talk to myself, I dove into the bag like a fish into water and devoured (yes, devoured) the entire bag's worth. I even licked my fingers. So much for the pep talk.

Intentions. Don't most people have good intentions? Good people and bad alike? (As if there were some vast difference.) A good intention would be to keep the gate closed so the puppy doesn't run out into the street and get hit by the car that was speeding, and then have to be taken to the Vet who, after you've forked out hundreds of dollars, gives from the charity of his heart to sew little beloved doggie back together... But the good intention didn't work it's way out, and the puppy got hit, and the wife got mad (for she'd said, "Make sure you close the gate so the dog doesn't run out and get hit by a car."), and there were even more bills to pay. Good intentions lost over to an open gate. Sometimes open gates can bring much pain, followed by high cost.

We have good intentions everyday, or at least, I do. But I am finding that my good intentions cannot compete with my nature. Intentions verses Nature. The nature of man. Or, the nature of woman, more appropriately. And thus, I need a gate.

I need a gate on my mind to keep out what my Good Intentions have decided must stay out. A gate to keep inside what my Good Intentions say should stay in. A gate to act as a form of defense against the storm that wages; a gate to help defer the strangers that walk by and think they may want to stop in, snoop around, possibly steal and/or destroy. A gate to help protect what needs protecting, and a gate to remind me where the boundaries are, in case my Good Intentions take a nap and I suddenly catch amnesia as to what's right and what's wrong. (Though I don't necessarily think eating leftovers stashed at the back of the fridge was wrong, my thighs do say that is wasn't helpful.) I need a gate, and sometimes, perhaps a guardsman to stand at the gate, so that when trouble comes, it may not linger as long as it would were the post empty.

For if the gate is breached, especially in the midst of battle, how much more pain and loss there is, were the gate firmly staffed and gaurded.

And now, thanks to caller ID I have yet another call from the State, my pitiful analogy of gates must come to a close.

Don't forget: lock the gate.