Face it. I am a social drop out. Let me list, in no particular order, my failed attempts at social club type things.
1. Swimming lessons. Being that there were no puboic swimming pools within 20 miles of home, and the fact that seaweed and the lake version (lake weed?) Gave me the heebie jeebies, I didn't know how to swim for quite some time. I took a few lessons at age 12 when visiting my grandparents in Oregon, but when the swim coach decided to teach me to swim in 10 foot deep water, I screamed until she was forced to call my mother to take me home. I never went back. I still don't like swimming in water deeper than I am tall. And being a swim drop-out, all I can do is doggie paddle.
2. Dance lessons. In elementary school it was tres cool to take tap lessons at this one lady's house. She had a real dance studio in her basement, complete with mirrors and dance poles and stuff. Everyone's parents would drop them off for an hour of dance class. In this day and age, you wouldn't dare drop your kid off at a dance lesson in some lady's basement. But, back in the day and in my small safe town, it was normal. I remember pink leotards and a shiny brown floor and doing tap moves and even some ballet. In fact, I kept getting suckered into it. I think I did ballet once and tap twice but never learned a damned thing. Being an antisocial tomboy of sorts, I would get bored a few lessons in, and re-join when a new friend suckered me into it.
3. Singing lessons. I was really into the drama club in high school and all my friends were in choir. I was dying for a part in a play and thought, if I could learn to sing, I'd be golden. I would get the lead in Oliver or Fiddler on the Roof. Well, I didn't, and I dropped out of singing lessons. I did hours a week of lessons and note reading and musical theory and bla bla bla from a retired real operatic singer. I was a second soprano and was going to sing a solo in a little recital and I gave up. I was dreaming of reading notes in my sleep and it was like pulling teeth.
4. I am at 4 right? Sororities. Anyone who knows me woukd ne shocked to even hear me mention sororities due to my distain of them. If you like them or were even a sorority girl, I have no qualms but it is just not for me. But I pledged twice. Kind of. See ,curiosity had got the best of me and I wantee to know the enigma of a sorority.why did people want to join and what did it offer? I was so perplexed that I wanted to do a sort of sociological case study of a sorority. Besides, while I am a self avowed misanthrope, I also love people, quite a conundrum, and so I keep seeking social activities. A sorority was the ultimate social activity. I pledged, paid my dollar fee, and that was that. The pledge activities seemed like something from kindergarten and no amount of alcohol could make me that...I don't even know.
5. Girl scouts. I dreamed of girl scouts until I was old enough to join and gladly rushed to the community center behind school to sign up. I got my application for my uniform and went to the two "free, before you must buy your uniform" meetings. I blamed the cost of the uniform on my dropping out, but it was a farce. Girl scouts was lame. I wanted boy scouts ,but for girls. I wanted to start a fire out of rocks and climb trees and go fishijg. I wanted to tie weird knots and go camping and shoot bows and arrows. All we did in girl scouts was talk about character and cookies. We wouod sit in cliques and giggle and I would just scowl. On my second day, I got the brilliant idea to get the girls to go outside, and you know, do outside stuff. Across the parking lot was a soccer field which had muddy puddles along the edges, infested with tadpoles and frogs. We could catch tadpoles and raise them into frogs! We could climb the rocks above the community center! We could, apparently, stand on the cement and throw a ball twice before the other girls got bored and went inside to giggle about cookies and hair bows.
6. Birthing class. I wanted to be prepared to give birth, and to be knowledgeable and all that. I mean. I love learning and I am secretly a control freak so why not? And best of all Idid not do it alone, husbands were mandatory. We paid our fee and hubby reluctantly came along. We attended maybe 5 of the 10 meetings before dropping out. Maybe it was that we both worked full time and went to school full time. Maybe the classes moved too slow. I am really not sure, but yeah we dropped out. I kind of regret it as I learned nothing about birth itself and was horribly unprepared and dumbfounded during labor. Oh well.
6? 7? Anyways mommy and me. The local library has a mommy and me story time thing. I thought, wow, I can meet friends who live nearby and have young kids and must have lots in common with me. We can socialize, the kids can socialize, and they can listen to a book and watch puppets and it won't be me making cutesy voices and singing lame bursery rhymes that haunt me in my sleep. Win win! Maybe it was that the meetings were at nap time. Maybe it was that my son kept getting ear infections. Maybe it is that he would cry bloody murder whenever anyone couod clap, cheer, or make sudden movements. Maybe it was that my utopian ideal of awesome welcoming moms who were like my soulmates was unfounded. But I maybe attended four times in an entire year, when the meetings were weekly.
I bet there are even more circumstances which escape me. But social things get too loud and giggly and superficial, or too scary, or tooslow and dumbed down for my liking.or maybe I don't get along well with others. Who knows. Either way, I will certainly join and drop out of many more social clubs and events in my life. I hope some day I can find a club that I actually enjoy.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Friday, December 28, 2012
Godfather
Why did I have a music box as a child that played the theme song from The Godfather? It is kind of disturbing that that melody soothed me as a child and is still that way today.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
goth-esque
Most of my favorite authors and bloggers went through a goth stage when they were younger. I kept feeling all high and mighty cause, pshaw, I so didn't do that.
Oh crzp, or did I? I guess you, the reader, can decide. See, I escaped adolescense as a teen. I came home before curfew, didn't date, drink, curse, or do drugs. I even made honor roll. But then came college and suddenly I was 19 going on 14. And yes, perhaps, I went kind of goth.
I did not wear the black eye crud or lipstick, and I kept my tresses brown. But I did listen to Type O Negative, The Cure, Stabbing Westward and Nine Inch Nails. I owned a blac kand red brocade gown-like dress that I did, indeed, purchase at Hot Topic. I wore Doc Martens (might they be more punk than goth? I am bad at cliques). I read a lot of existentialist authors ahd penned sad poetry. I drew depressing art, like a lithigraph of a bleeding hand surrounded by sad song lyrics. I owned way too many candles. I mocked the popular crowd and didn't get why people could be so happy in such a sh1tty world.
So does that mean I indeed was kind of goth? Was I just in denial or am I truly too dense to realise the goth clique cliches?
Oh crzp, or did I? I guess you, the reader, can decide. See, I escaped adolescense as a teen. I came home before curfew, didn't date, drink, curse, or do drugs. I even made honor roll. But then came college and suddenly I was 19 going on 14. And yes, perhaps, I went kind of goth.
I did not wear the black eye crud or lipstick, and I kept my tresses brown. But I did listen to Type O Negative, The Cure, Stabbing Westward and Nine Inch Nails. I owned a blac kand red brocade gown-like dress that I did, indeed, purchase at Hot Topic. I wore Doc Martens (might they be more punk than goth? I am bad at cliques). I read a lot of existentialist authors ahd penned sad poetry. I drew depressing art, like a lithigraph of a bleeding hand surrounded by sad song lyrics. I owned way too many candles. I mocked the popular crowd and didn't get why people could be so happy in such a sh1tty world.
So does that mean I indeed was kind of goth? Was I just in denial or am I truly too dense to realise the goth clique cliches?
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Life is fleeting
I remember I was sitting with my son in his play pen when my husband came in and said, "I don't know how to tell you, so here goes; your dad had a heart attack. He is in the hospital."
I didn't believe it. In fact, I went back to browsing my Nook and watching Veggie Tales. I was likely in shock and unable to process things. It was about 2pm and I thought, will my dad make it?
I decided we had to go see him. I did not want to stay at home if these were his last minutes on earth. However, I had to wait for my husband to finish a conference call, and had to pack. We had a 14 hour drive ahead of us, and had to find a place for the dogs.
We left at about 5pm, dropped off the dogs, and drove until 1am; exhausted, we checked into a hotel to get rest, but for me, rest didn't come.
My mom called in the morning an I held my breath, expecting the worst. She said they were still in the hospital but things were looking up. She told me not to worry, not to come up, please stay home. But I didn't listen. She called again and I asked her how far her house was from the border. She couldn't tell me to turn back now!
Everything turned out okay, but I still worry.
On Christmas Eve, I saw that my best friend (of over 20 years!) had posted that she wanted her dad back. Shocked and confused, I texted her. Her dad had passed in his sleep, likely of a heart attack. He is younger than my dad, probably about 55 and one heart attack took him away with no warning. Alive and healthy one minute, gone the next.
My best friend, now in mourning, shock, and sadness. My heart aches for her and her family. I keep telling her I am sorry and that I am here for her. I keep telling her I love her, but all these things seem trite. Words cannot express what I feel and what I want to say.
This tragedy has made me more appreciative of my family, because you never know when someone will be gone forever. You cannot live in fear, but you must enjoy every moment of those close to you. Tell them you love them and tell them often. Call up your grandma just to chat, take your cousin out for coffee, buy your best friend a little gift just because. Do it. You will thank yourself and you will bring joy to others.
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I didn't believe it. In fact, I went back to browsing my Nook and watching Veggie Tales. I was likely in shock and unable to process things. It was about 2pm and I thought, will my dad make it?
I decided we had to go see him. I did not want to stay at home if these were his last minutes on earth. However, I had to wait for my husband to finish a conference call, and had to pack. We had a 14 hour drive ahead of us, and had to find a place for the dogs.
We left at about 5pm, dropped off the dogs, and drove until 1am; exhausted, we checked into a hotel to get rest, but for me, rest didn't come.
My mom called in the morning an I held my breath, expecting the worst. She said they were still in the hospital but things were looking up. She told me not to worry, not to come up, please stay home. But I didn't listen. She called again and I asked her how far her house was from the border. She couldn't tell me to turn back now!
Everything turned out okay, but I still worry.
On Christmas Eve, I saw that my best friend (of over 20 years!) had posted that she wanted her dad back. Shocked and confused, I texted her. Her dad had passed in his sleep, likely of a heart attack. He is younger than my dad, probably about 55 and one heart attack took him away with no warning. Alive and healthy one minute, gone the next.
My best friend, now in mourning, shock, and sadness. My heart aches for her and her family. I keep telling her I am sorry and that I am here for her. I keep telling her I love her, but all these things seem trite. Words cannot express what I feel and what I want to say.
This tragedy has made me more appreciative of my family, because you never know when someone will be gone forever. You cannot live in fear, but you must enjoy every moment of those close to you. Tell them you love them and tell them often. Call up your grandma just to chat, take your cousin out for coffee, buy your best friend a little gift just because. Do it. You will thank yourself and you will bring joy to others.
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Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Fleeting
Life is fleeting and enjoy it. Hi your loved ones.
My best friend's dad passed away in his sleep a few days ago. He was not too old, probably 55? An unexpected tragedy for the holidays.
I wasn't close to him but my best friend is like my sister and we spent so much time together that I did see her dad a lot. My heart aches for my friend and I am at a loss of what to say r do. I mean, what can you say or do? Sorry seems so..empty and trite. My sorrow doesn't have words and my love for my best friend, especially now, is huge. And now I am tearing up dammit so I will stop.
Please, love those special to you in your life, and even those not as life is fleeting.
My best friend's dad passed away in his sleep a few days ago. He was not too old, probably 55? An unexpected tragedy for the holidays.
I wasn't close to him but my best friend is like my sister and we spent so much time together that I did see her dad a lot. My heart aches for my friend and I am at a loss of what to say r do. I mean, what can you say or do? Sorry seems so..empty and trite. My sorrow doesn't have words and my love for my best friend, especially now, is huge. And now I am tearing up dammit so I will stop.
Please, love those special to you in your life, and even those not as life is fleeting.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
odd appreciation
I did not grow up in a normal household, even if it seemed normal to me at the time.
My dad and mom had separated for a few years after my dad fell into the wrong drug abusing biker gang (no joke!), and so my best friend (I was daddy's little shadow) had left my life. He moved to a local forest area with sparse campsites and we would visit him occasionally to gather his laundry, provide him with canned goods, and check on his well being. Most people would say he has homeless since, well, he didn't have a home, but tome he was merely camping. He had a teepee atop a rock outcropping and a campfire, a clothes line, and a cooler so to ke, he lived there. I still to this day cannot think of him as being homeless.
After he had cleaned up and got back on his feet, he returned home and life went on as usual. Well, as usual as life can be for a man diagnosed with a smorgasbord of things like Asperger's, borderline persinality disorder, ADD, anxiety, sociophobia, agorophobia, major depression, and probably another handful of things I seem to forget. I did not have a dad who wore slacks and a tie, or who coached littlea league, or watched football, or played poker with the guys. This also meant holidays and birthdays were abnormal. He is not good with numbers and so he doesn't remember birthdays (he would forget his own), and he,being himself, wouldn't go out and buy gifts or dress as Santa or decorste the tree. While he loved me and I knew it, he was kind of a scrooge. But I nevef questioned it.
One year I recall seeing something in a plastic grocery bag under the tree and he asked me to open it,a gift from him. He might give you a handpicked wildflower bouquet or sign a card but a present? So I eagerly opened the bag to find some paintbrush-tipped markers. There were not the markers kids get, but markers artists and adults use. The kind of markers thaf cost a dollar each. I was so excited that I looked past the missing colors ,appreciative of the colors I did have. I spent hours that night coloring picture after picture.
I remember thinking, how did he manage to go into a store, which had to be way far away in the city, to buy markers with money he didn't have? I had to ask, and he being too honest sometimes, let me know he found them at the dump. Now you would think I would scream bloody murder, cry, and scrub my hands furiously and call him a monster but I didn't. I knew he had to have washed them off very well, and since it was winter, the dump was freezing so it wasn't like they were sitting in a pile of hot garbage. Besides, I had played eith them for a while and hand't concocted some weird uncurable mystery garbage disease so they were fine. I just knew I couldn't tell my friends about my markers because they would ostracise me for having dump markers.
I had told someone of this (I forget who it was) and they were repulsed and felt sorry for me. I didn't understand and still kind of am baffled. Maybe it is just perspective. When you have lived with someone like my father, who cannot just go to Walmart or whatever, cannot hold down a 9-5 job, but who still does care about and love his family. You don't sweat the small stuff and you appreciate the little things. I guess if you weren't me you would feel sympathy for the poor little girl with dump markers but even to this day, I know he cares and when he saw those markers, his heart filled with love and he brought them home to give his daughter a gift he has picked out. A gift she would love. And I did, as it is 20 years later and I still remember those awesome markers and the joy of getting a gift from my dad.
My dad and mom had separated for a few years after my dad fell into the wrong drug abusing biker gang (no joke!), and so my best friend (I was daddy's little shadow) had left my life. He moved to a local forest area with sparse campsites and we would visit him occasionally to gather his laundry, provide him with canned goods, and check on his well being. Most people would say he has homeless since, well, he didn't have a home, but tome he was merely camping. He had a teepee atop a rock outcropping and a campfire, a clothes line, and a cooler so to ke, he lived there. I still to this day cannot think of him as being homeless.
After he had cleaned up and got back on his feet, he returned home and life went on as usual. Well, as usual as life can be for a man diagnosed with a smorgasbord of things like Asperger's, borderline persinality disorder, ADD, anxiety, sociophobia, agorophobia, major depression, and probably another handful of things I seem to forget. I did not have a dad who wore slacks and a tie, or who coached littlea league, or watched football, or played poker with the guys. This also meant holidays and birthdays were abnormal. He is not good with numbers and so he doesn't remember birthdays (he would forget his own), and he,being himself, wouldn't go out and buy gifts or dress as Santa or decorste the tree. While he loved me and I knew it, he was kind of a scrooge. But I nevef questioned it.
One year I recall seeing something in a plastic grocery bag under the tree and he asked me to open it,a gift from him. He might give you a handpicked wildflower bouquet or sign a card but a present? So I eagerly opened the bag to find some paintbrush-tipped markers. There were not the markers kids get, but markers artists and adults use. The kind of markers thaf cost a dollar each. I was so excited that I looked past the missing colors ,appreciative of the colors I did have. I spent hours that night coloring picture after picture.
I remember thinking, how did he manage to go into a store, which had to be way far away in the city, to buy markers with money he didn't have? I had to ask, and he being too honest sometimes, let me know he found them at the dump. Now you would think I would scream bloody murder, cry, and scrub my hands furiously and call him a monster but I didn't. I knew he had to have washed them off very well, and since it was winter, the dump was freezing so it wasn't like they were sitting in a pile of hot garbage. Besides, I had played eith them for a while and hand't concocted some weird uncurable mystery garbage disease so they were fine. I just knew I couldn't tell my friends about my markers because they would ostracise me for having dump markers.
I had told someone of this (I forget who it was) and they were repulsed and felt sorry for me. I didn't understand and still kind of am baffled. Maybe it is just perspective. When you have lived with someone like my father, who cannot just go to Walmart or whatever, cannot hold down a 9-5 job, but who still does care about and love his family. You don't sweat the small stuff and you appreciate the little things. I guess if you weren't me you would feel sympathy for the poor little girl with dump markers but even to this day, I know he cares and when he saw those markers, his heart filled with love and he brought them home to give his daughter a gift he has picked out. A gift she would love. And I did, as it is 20 years later and I still remember those awesome markers and the joy of getting a gift from my dad.
Yuck E Cheese
So I have sinusitis which is weawy fum I wub mot bweawing oup my bose.
So I spent two freaking hours in urgent care. While I love living in a first world nation, in second and third worlds you can walk into the farmacia or apothecary and get medicine. I don't advocate we adopt this policy for addictive drugs and the like, but it should be adopted in some cases.
Case in point, I get sinusitis yearly. As a kid it was a few times a year. I know the symptoms and how it differs from other illnesses. In fact, I in officially announce I am a sinusitis expert, having had it probably 100 times in my life, no exaggeration.
I am allergic to lots of medicines, and pregnant to boot, which leaves me one medication on earth to prescribe to me. Zithromax. It is safe for pregnancy and doesn't give me hives or anaphylaxis.
So why do I have to wait two hours and spend $30 to do this? Especially when m diagnosis is even circumspect anyways. Ugh.
And why am I so miffed about this?
I wasted two precious hours of my son's second birthday sitting in a disease ridden room away from my birthday boy.
Sprout TV has a birthday card, song, dance thing that my son loves. I sent in a handmade card and they didn't show it. His name didn't scroll across the screen. His card wasn't even on the website. I was pissed.
I was in a sinus daze instead if enjoying his special day.
I also was in a gaseous haze. Yep. We went to Chuck E Cheese and got pizza and it gave me the worst gas.y dogs once ate their poop and barfed it up and that is exactly what I smell like. I don't want to be near myself.
I can't take anything for my gas or congestion.
And it is making me obviously cranky.
Grr.
So I spent two freaking hours in urgent care. While I love living in a first world nation, in second and third worlds you can walk into the farmacia or apothecary and get medicine. I don't advocate we adopt this policy for addictive drugs and the like, but it should be adopted in some cases.
Case in point, I get sinusitis yearly. As a kid it was a few times a year. I know the symptoms and how it differs from other illnesses. In fact, I in officially announce I am a sinusitis expert, having had it probably 100 times in my life, no exaggeration.
I am allergic to lots of medicines, and pregnant to boot, which leaves me one medication on earth to prescribe to me. Zithromax. It is safe for pregnancy and doesn't give me hives or anaphylaxis.
So why do I have to wait two hours and spend $30 to do this? Especially when m diagnosis is even circumspect anyways. Ugh.
And why am I so miffed about this?
I wasted two precious hours of my son's second birthday sitting in a disease ridden room away from my birthday boy.
Sprout TV has a birthday card, song, dance thing that my son loves. I sent in a handmade card and they didn't show it. His name didn't scroll across the screen. His card wasn't even on the website. I was pissed.
I was in a sinus daze instead if enjoying his special day.
I also was in a gaseous haze. Yep. We went to Chuck E Cheese and got pizza and it gave me the worst gas.y dogs once ate their poop and barfed it up and that is exactly what I smell like. I don't want to be near myself.
I can't take anything for my gas or congestion.
And it is making me obviously cranky.
Grr.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Unhappy Birthday
My mom had a terrible birthday, with the Sandy Hook Elementary tragedy happening.
Everyone has blogged about it and I've felt like an arsehat for NOT talking about it.
Why haven't I?
I have very strong feelings that I am merely...ignoring. I am a teacher, having taught from pre-school through to adult education for, dear God, 12 years now. I have been in well over a dozen schools and interacted with thousands of students. To imagine that some of them could have been the victims (none were but still...) is too much. I don't want to think about some of the faces I've taught, erased.
I don;t want to think of the lack of security in schools. It has improved- as a child a parent (or whoever, good or bad) could just walk into the classroom. I mean, they never did in my small town and had the courtesy to check into the office, but still. Now they HAVE to and gates are locked and the like. My own current school is all high tech meets prison, with every door protected by a card scanner where you scan your id to get in...as long as the door is locked. And as in every school I know, to get in you must enter the office, check in, sign in, bla bla bla.
But what if you are crazy and hell bent and kill the secretary? Or merely scare her into submission? Even if you get past by conceling your motive, once you're in and on your massacre, it takes ten, twenty, howver many minutes for police to arrive. Even if there is an armed police officer next door, the crazy guy can shoot through a magazine or two of bullets. That quickly. And to my knowledge, no one on campus is ever armed but the one in a million Sandy Hook style crazy. Sure, we have lock down- lock the doors, hide, be silent. But what about the child on the way to the bathroom? The late to class student? The teacher on prep going to the staff lounge? Where do they go? What if the crazy guy shoots THROUGH the classroom window? And then can get IN?
Dear God I don't want to think about this but I do since I work in a school.
I now think, what if? When dropping my son off at daycare. And having another child on the way, maybe it is my hormones or just mama bear instinct but I do not like to think about these what ifs. But I'm confronted with it daily, on the news, at home (seeing my child makes me think, what if? Please, God protect us from evil), at work (what if it happened here?
I'm tired of this all, also, becoming just a gun debate. It's mental health, security, society. It's much larger. Take away everyone's guns and only the criminals will have them, since they don't care for laws. Give them to everyone easier than it is to buy a package oftwinkies M&Ms and you get people who, again, shouldn't have guns. But then here I go, a hypocrite for saying it's not a gun rights debate.
It is a tragedy, People are sick mother f***ers. We either do nothing about the warning signs, or label them and turn it into a stigma- both are damaging.
We need to, no matter who, what, when,where, protect our children.
So...my rambling point, I just gave. We need to protect our children. Whatever that means and whatever it takes.
RIP
Everyone has blogged about it and I've felt like an arsehat for NOT talking about it.
Why haven't I?
I have very strong feelings that I am merely...ignoring. I am a teacher, having taught from pre-school through to adult education for, dear God, 12 years now. I have been in well over a dozen schools and interacted with thousands of students. To imagine that some of them could have been the victims (none were but still...) is too much. I don't want to think about some of the faces I've taught, erased.
I don;t want to think of the lack of security in schools. It has improved- as a child a parent (or whoever, good or bad) could just walk into the classroom. I mean, they never did in my small town and had the courtesy to check into the office, but still. Now they HAVE to and gates are locked and the like. My own current school is all high tech meets prison, with every door protected by a card scanner where you scan your id to get in...as long as the door is locked. And as in every school I know, to get in you must enter the office, check in, sign in, bla bla bla.
But what if you are crazy and hell bent and kill the secretary? Or merely scare her into submission? Even if you get past by conceling your motive, once you're in and on your massacre, it takes ten, twenty, howver many minutes for police to arrive. Even if there is an armed police officer next door, the crazy guy can shoot through a magazine or two of bullets. That quickly. And to my knowledge, no one on campus is ever armed but the one in a million Sandy Hook style crazy. Sure, we have lock down- lock the doors, hide, be silent. But what about the child on the way to the bathroom? The late to class student? The teacher on prep going to the staff lounge? Where do they go? What if the crazy guy shoots THROUGH the classroom window? And then can get IN?
Dear God I don't want to think about this but I do since I work in a school.
I now think, what if? When dropping my son off at daycare. And having another child on the way, maybe it is my hormones or just mama bear instinct but I do not like to think about these what ifs. But I'm confronted with it daily, on the news, at home (seeing my child makes me think, what if? Please, God protect us from evil), at work (what if it happened here?
I'm tired of this all, also, becoming just a gun debate. It's mental health, security, society. It's much larger. Take away everyone's guns and only the criminals will have them, since they don't care for laws. Give them to everyone easier than it is to buy a package of
It is a tragedy, People are sick mother f***ers. We either do nothing about the warning signs, or label them and turn it into a stigma- both are damaging.
We need to, no matter who, what, when,where, protect our children.
So...my rambling point, I just gave. We need to protect our children. Whatever that means and whatever it takes.
RIP
Sunday, December 16, 2012
The Patriot (Elf) Act
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| Image courtesy of http://elfontheshelf.com |
So, after the zillionth elf reference, my curiosity got to me and I decided I needed to know about this Elf cult. I mean, I don't watch The Voice or Survivor and don't own True Religion jeans so I'm kind of out of the pop culture loop. As a human being on this planet, I should know something about this kind of thing, you know, to be kind of "with it".
So I googled it and basically this stuffed elf spies on your children and reports his findings back to Santa. Fu€king snitch! And he "magically" moves his placement daily so to better conduct his covert ops. Monday it is the bookshelf, Tuesday the mantle, and if you are a mother with no life, the elf gets naughty and he is in your panty drawer sniffing your delicates like a little pervert by Friday. The elf drinks liquor and watches porn and makes messes in your house and is the type of guest I'd call the cops on...and social services cause he is 5150 (code for danger to self/others).
He is also so "magical" he cannot be touched or he just turns into a mute stuffed elf and then who tells Santa you didn't laugh at Grandma gumming her ice cream and that you didn't rip your sister's Barbie head off, and you said thank you all in the same day so gimme my Nintendo DS, Santa? Apparently, since you touched Frankie the fu€ked up elf, he is dead to us and Santa is giving you pink knitted bunny slippers, Naughty Nathan.
The thing that most disturbs me is this Elf is a great ambassador for the Patriot Act. You register your elf online and track him, name him, and Lord knows what else since I didn't register because I'm sans Elf. Then this elf spies on your family, looking for key words and actions that indicate "naughty" and he will report back to Big Brother aka Santa (or perhaps the government). These reports, even if falsified, determine your future and how everyone treats you even if it is incorrect information. I mean, how valid is the information from a stuffed Elf mass produced in a Chinese factory? There has to be a margin of error pretty big or we'd be using these guys in Iraq for intel. Special Ops Elf Division. 1225 Airborne. But see, we're not.
What does the elf see? Does he just notice when your kiddos don't share a toy, or does the elf see all? Did he see me pick my wedgie this morning? Does he know hubby and I have "special" time? Can the elf operate weaponry? Just who is this elf?
And is there a re-education camp for parents who get the creep factor and try and rid of the elf? Is there such thing as ridding of the elf or is it some elfin mafia thing? If you throw him away does he come back all Chucky-like? Will the elves gang up on you and suddenly you are dead, in Santa's sleigh trunk, headed to the middle of nowhere?
One thing is for sure, there will be no elf on my shelf this Christmas.
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Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Cheesy mommy moment
We had a car in the shop so hubby drove me to work in our remaining car, then we'd retrieve the other car. Anyways,
My school's cell reception is sh1t. Figuratively speaking that is, but literally too since it was built atop a manure farm. No sh1t people. But enough with the sh1t puns. Hubby couldn't reach me so he came to find me. Here comes the sappy part...
I go to ask the teacher across the hall something and she offers me a cookie (score!) then I glance down the hall and hubby is leaning in a corner all schmexy with my son in his arms. Aww I have a high school crush! You know cause he was in the hall at my school...anyways. It gets better. I g towards them and my son wants to walk so hubby puts him down and e tentatively waddles my way. He then started running and smiling. The part that got to me was I am used to seeing big monstrous kids, some over 6 feet tall in the hall. Suddenly there is just this teeny toddler in this expansive void of a school hallway. And then I decided to show him off to my coworker and my son was barely taller than the chair.
And for some reason my cheesy y heart melted to see my little guy in this big world I work in. So out of place and so cute.
My school's cell reception is sh1t. Figuratively speaking that is, but literally too since it was built atop a manure farm. No sh1t people. But enough with the sh1t puns. Hubby couldn't reach me so he came to find me. Here comes the sappy part...
I go to ask the teacher across the hall something and she offers me a cookie (score!) then I glance down the hall and hubby is leaning in a corner all schmexy with my son in his arms. Aww I have a high school crush! You know cause he was in the hall at my school...anyways. It gets better. I g towards them and my son wants to walk so hubby puts him down and e tentatively waddles my way. He then started running and smiling. The part that got to me was I am used to seeing big monstrous kids, some over 6 feet tall in the hall. Suddenly there is just this teeny toddler in this expansive void of a school hallway. And then I decided to show him off to my coworker and my son was barely taller than the chair.
And for some reason my cheesy y heart melted to see my little guy in this big world I work in. So out of place and so cute.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Amazing Grace
I live near a private lake that has overpriced cheesy shops to support the over 4 million tourists a year. I rarely go there, but has grown tired of walking around the pond sized lake in my own town, so my husband and I went here for a walk instead.
The sun had just risen, and all the shops were closed and the area was completely empty, my kind of environment, quiet. We walked past the stores and looped around by the lake.
I watched the sun and clouds at play, making pink shimmery reflections on the lake, the sun warming the water and creating a rising foggy mist. It was gorgeous.
We walked onto a private dock to grt a better view (I mean, no one was there to stop us) and suddenly we heard it.
There was a figure on a neighboring dock, facing out towards the lake. The figure was carrying something awkward. He lifted it a bit and a haunting sweet melody began to erupt.
The man had bagpipes, and was playing Amazing Grace. He did not notice our presence, so we stayed still, afraid to interrupt this private moment. The melody echoed across the lake, as the sun's colors turned golden and the mist sparkled like diamonds. Imagine that, a man's own private moment secretly a private concert for us, a gorgeous song with a backdrop only God himself could provide.
The sun had just risen, and all the shops were closed and the area was completely empty, my kind of environment, quiet. We walked past the stores and looped around by the lake.
I watched the sun and clouds at play, making pink shimmery reflections on the lake, the sun warming the water and creating a rising foggy mist. It was gorgeous.
We walked onto a private dock to grt a better view (I mean, no one was there to stop us) and suddenly we heard it.
There was a figure on a neighboring dock, facing out towards the lake. The figure was carrying something awkward. He lifted it a bit and a haunting sweet melody began to erupt.
The man had bagpipes, and was playing Amazing Grace. He did not notice our presence, so we stayed still, afraid to interrupt this private moment. The melody echoed across the lake, as the sun's colors turned golden and the mist sparkled like diamonds. Imagine that, a man's own private moment secretly a private concert for us, a gorgeous song with a backdrop only God himself could provide.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Where I live
There are times where I hate where I live. When the fog is bad-not "quarter mike visibility" bad but "the dashed line is only one dash long and I can't see the guardrail" bad. When the road is covered in rock slides. When we get a gust of wind measuring 115 mpg and your roof wants to lift off. When there are flatlanders (tourists) triple-parked along the highway, sledding into traffic, driving 2moh, and getting away with breaking traffic laws because their visit means money for the struggling mountain community.
I hate that if I want organic chicken or chips without MSG or if I need a sweater or baby supplies or ethnic foods, I have to drive 45 minutes to an hour down a deadly road, through a ghetto, just to get something it seems every other town has. I have to also drive this far for work, the doctor's, dental and eye care, and really anything else because all my town has is an overpriced crappy grocery store, a yuck-Donald's, a small hardware, an a zillion second-hand stores.
But then, I also love it here. If I can get away to the city and eat some Indian food and buy some kale and shop for a pair of pants, if I can do this at least once a week to get away, I feel...normal. After too many hours in crowds and smog, when the novelty f civilization and consumerism runs off and starts to fill me with rage, I can escape home under the whoosh of the pine trees in the wind.
I love where I live because I can see the stars, the meteor showers, he Milky Way peek through the towering trees, over five stories tall. I can see the local bald eagle soar over our little pond-sized local lake, and can hear coyotes yap at the bear wandering the neighborhood. I can feel the crunch of oak an maple leaves under my feet in fall, smell the crisp winter scent as the snow piles higher and higher, a foot, two, three, muffling all sounds. I can see the grass sprout and watch the Stellar's Jays build their best under my eaves. I can enjoy a cool 80 degree summer day, walking past lupine flowers and penstemon growing by and underground spring.
I can look at a tree I once climbed and hike to the creek I used to splash in. I can climb some boulders at nearly tree line and recall camping memories.
I can look over my deck, our "private bistro" an enjoy the view. I can nibble on some grilled vegetable pizza my hubby made, and look one way over the tree tops to the next mountain range, or look the other way to the neighbor's and watch the sun filter trough the giant cedars and yellow pines, making sunny sparkles and shadows below.
Here are two photos from my deck. My neck of the woods has much prettier places even, but this is my view. mY view that I enjoy every day, which shows the stars and sunsets and snowy trees and wispy fog. A view that can get covered in birds or falling leaves.
I hate that if I want organic chicken or chips without MSG or if I need a sweater or baby supplies or ethnic foods, I have to drive 45 minutes to an hour down a deadly road, through a ghetto, just to get something it seems every other town has. I have to also drive this far for work, the doctor's, dental and eye care, and really anything else because all my town has is an overpriced crappy grocery store, a yuck-Donald's, a small hardware, an a zillion second-hand stores.
But then, I also love it here. If I can get away to the city and eat some Indian food and buy some kale and shop for a pair of pants, if I can do this at least once a week to get away, I feel...normal. After too many hours in crowds and smog, when the novelty f civilization and consumerism runs off and starts to fill me with rage, I can escape home under the whoosh of the pine trees in the wind.
I love where I live because I can see the stars, the meteor showers, he Milky Way peek through the towering trees, over five stories tall. I can see the local bald eagle soar over our little pond-sized local lake, and can hear coyotes yap at the bear wandering the neighborhood. I can feel the crunch of oak an maple leaves under my feet in fall, smell the crisp winter scent as the snow piles higher and higher, a foot, two, three, muffling all sounds. I can see the grass sprout and watch the Stellar's Jays build their best under my eaves. I can enjoy a cool 80 degree summer day, walking past lupine flowers and penstemon growing by and underground spring.
I can look at a tree I once climbed and hike to the creek I used to splash in. I can climb some boulders at nearly tree line and recall camping memories.
I can look over my deck, our "private bistro" an enjoy the view. I can nibble on some grilled vegetable pizza my hubby made, and look one way over the tree tops to the next mountain range, or look the other way to the neighbor's and watch the sun filter trough the giant cedars and yellow pines, making sunny sparkles and shadows below.
Here are two photos from my deck. My neck of the woods has much prettier places even, but this is my view. mY view that I enjoy every day, which shows the stars and sunsets and snowy trees and wispy fog. A view that can get covered in birds or falling leaves.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Irish Blood is still Strong
I loved Saint Patty's Day as a child, a day everyone wore my favorite color and if I did too, I was free from raining for an entire blissful day.
I wanted to go all out in emerald shoes and minty leggings, dressed like Cindy Lauper meets a leprechaun, but instead I'd just hide my green shirt inside my snow jacket, hiding the color from my dad, hiding my secret yearning to be Irish and have a neat culture and own holiday.
My dad was born outside London, in a devout Catholic but English family. They still swear to this day to be related to royalty and to speak the Queen's English, not the SE London twang your ears hear. Around my family, never ever mention the Irish unless you want a spiteful nasty tirade of slur words and racist depictions. The Irish are worse than the blacks or gays or any other downtrodden group. They drink, fight, take jobs, and give the UK a bad name. They are filthy animals.
Therefore, to not disappoint my father, I hid my green shirt until out of his sight, and refused to admit any sympathy towards the Irish.
As an adult, I decided to trace my family tree and I found the unspeakable. Something my family denies, claiming my original record from the UK must be fakes because this family would never even speak I the filthy Irish. Yes, my grandfather hails from Port Glasgow Scotland of Northern Irish blood. Servants and near-slave laborers building ships and living in the squalor of the immigrants' tenements. I'm a quarter Irish from what I can tell, but I remind my family of my great Grandmother Alice Toll, an Irish immigrant. I feel the Irish in my blood and always have, an identity that was hidden but obvious.
When I told my dad, he believed me but said, "oh f&#% I'm Irish trash hub? Guess I have to learn to hate myself." The rest of the family, as stated, refuses to believe this truth, because someone as wonderful as my family would never ever "go Irish". My grand mother now even refuses to speak of my grandfather, a man who fathered her three children. Sure, they divorced when the children were teens, but he still existed. She has removed any photographic evidence of him, as has the entire family, so I haven't a CPR what my own grandpa looked like. If you mention his name she says l
"Who?". The Irish ancestry has addendum fuel to her hate, and now she asked anyone she meets, "you're not Irish are you?" And goes on a racist rant.
I seem to be the only one happy with my lot. I love Irish music and the music and accents and scenery of Ireland seem hauntingly familiar and "right" to me. I've traced where in Northern Ireland my family was from, the same town as actor Liam Neeson.
So there, family. We're Irish and I'm okay with it.
I wanted to go all out in emerald shoes and minty leggings, dressed like Cindy Lauper meets a leprechaun, but instead I'd just hide my green shirt inside my snow jacket, hiding the color from my dad, hiding my secret yearning to be Irish and have a neat culture and own holiday.
My dad was born outside London, in a devout Catholic but English family. They still swear to this day to be related to royalty and to speak the Queen's English, not the SE London twang your ears hear. Around my family, never ever mention the Irish unless you want a spiteful nasty tirade of slur words and racist depictions. The Irish are worse than the blacks or gays or any other downtrodden group. They drink, fight, take jobs, and give the UK a bad name. They are filthy animals.
Therefore, to not disappoint my father, I hid my green shirt until out of his sight, and refused to admit any sympathy towards the Irish.
As an adult, I decided to trace my family tree and I found the unspeakable. Something my family denies, claiming my original record from the UK must be fakes because this family would never even speak I the filthy Irish. Yes, my grandfather hails from Port Glasgow Scotland of Northern Irish blood. Servants and near-slave laborers building ships and living in the squalor of the immigrants' tenements. I'm a quarter Irish from what I can tell, but I remind my family of my great Grandmother Alice Toll, an Irish immigrant. I feel the Irish in my blood and always have, an identity that was hidden but obvious.
When I told my dad, he believed me but said, "oh f&#% I'm Irish trash hub? Guess I have to learn to hate myself." The rest of the family, as stated, refuses to believe this truth, because someone as wonderful as my family would never ever "go Irish". My grand mother now even refuses to speak of my grandfather, a man who fathered her three children. Sure, they divorced when the children were teens, but he still existed. She has removed any photographic evidence of him, as has the entire family, so I haven't a CPR what my own grandpa looked like. If you mention his name she says l
"Who?". The Irish ancestry has addendum fuel to her hate, and now she asked anyone she meets, "you're not Irish are you?" And goes on a racist rant.
I seem to be the only one happy with my lot. I love Irish music and the music and accents and scenery of Ireland seem hauntingly familiar and "right" to me. I've traced where in Northern Ireland my family was from, the same town as actor Liam Neeson.
So there, family. We're Irish and I'm okay with it.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Crushed
Conversation heart candies scarred me for life.
In fourth grade, there was this total hunk of a boy, Kevin R. I don't remember how he looked anymore but I am sure he was dreamy because all the girls wanted him. As the scrawny, pale, shy, coke bottle bespectacled nerd, I was last on his radar. Except...that my overly hopeful imagination deceived me when reality set in and i found out he just might like me! When our teacher, Mrs. A berated me in front of the class for something like 20 minutes over missing homework, he looked generally concerned and told Mrs. A to stop yelling. Aww, he stood up for me and my heart skipped a beat! Then, right before Christmas we got to choose our own seats for the week, he chose to sit next to me. And then I found out his birthday was the day after mine. We even got in trouble for talking to one another during a test. Talk about soul mates!
When Valentines rolled around, I was still hopelessly in love with Kevin. I can still remember, clear as day, making out a class set of Valentines and writing a heart over the "i" in his name in red pen. That wasn't enough. My love for Kevin was epic and I had to show it. I reached over to the conversation hearts candy box my mom had given me and frantically rummaged through them. And then, heaven on my side, I found a pink "date me" heart. My heart was racing and my hands went clammy as I dropped it in the envelope and sealed it. I wanted to rip it open and take out the heart, I was a foolish idiot! And yet I wanted to run to his house right then and hand deliver it, sealed with a Bonnie belle lipgloss kiss.
Valentines day ticked by slowly and finally it was card exchange time. I was a nervous wreck and kept glancing his way, cautiously, to not be seen by others. I saw him grab my card. This was mission critical. The jovial sugar induced babble of the classroom drowned away as all my focus was on him. He pulled it out, glanced inside, and his friend ripped it from his hands. "Haha Kevin has a wannabe girlfriend!" The jerk giggled as he whispered to someone to pass it on. I swear Kevin had a disappointed look on his face as the rumor wheel circled away from him and came my way. Suddenly someone nudged me and whispered in my ear, "pst someone wants to date Kevin hahaha pass it on". I was mortified beyond relief. I tried to play it cool and sat there, choking back tears, shoving. Cinnamon hearts down my gullet to kill the pain. My legs were shaking and I dashed out of class, collapsing into sobs outside the library.
Mrs. A came out and asked what was wrong and I lied. I mumbled something about needing to go to the bathroom and not having enough bathroom privilege points. She patted me on the back and I walked back in, sworn to secrecy for life.
Ever since this occasion, lasting until age 23 when I started dating the man I knew i would marry, I never told a soul who I had a crush on. I kept it all inside, afraid of public mockery. Isn't it funny how a little thing can mean so much?
In fourth grade, there was this total hunk of a boy, Kevin R. I don't remember how he looked anymore but I am sure he was dreamy because all the girls wanted him. As the scrawny, pale, shy, coke bottle bespectacled nerd, I was last on his radar. Except...that my overly hopeful imagination deceived me when reality set in and i found out he just might like me! When our teacher, Mrs. A berated me in front of the class for something like 20 minutes over missing homework, he looked generally concerned and told Mrs. A to stop yelling. Aww, he stood up for me and my heart skipped a beat! Then, right before Christmas we got to choose our own seats for the week, he chose to sit next to me. And then I found out his birthday was the day after mine. We even got in trouble for talking to one another during a test. Talk about soul mates!
When Valentines rolled around, I was still hopelessly in love with Kevin. I can still remember, clear as day, making out a class set of Valentines and writing a heart over the "i" in his name in red pen. That wasn't enough. My love for Kevin was epic and I had to show it. I reached over to the conversation hearts candy box my mom had given me and frantically rummaged through them. And then, heaven on my side, I found a pink "date me" heart. My heart was racing and my hands went clammy as I dropped it in the envelope and sealed it. I wanted to rip it open and take out the heart, I was a foolish idiot! And yet I wanted to run to his house right then and hand deliver it, sealed with a Bonnie belle lipgloss kiss.
Valentines day ticked by slowly and finally it was card exchange time. I was a nervous wreck and kept glancing his way, cautiously, to not be seen by others. I saw him grab my card. This was mission critical. The jovial sugar induced babble of the classroom drowned away as all my focus was on him. He pulled it out, glanced inside, and his friend ripped it from his hands. "Haha Kevin has a wannabe girlfriend!" The jerk giggled as he whispered to someone to pass it on. I swear Kevin had a disappointed look on his face as the rumor wheel circled away from him and came my way. Suddenly someone nudged me and whispered in my ear, "pst someone wants to date Kevin hahaha pass it on". I was mortified beyond relief. I tried to play it cool and sat there, choking back tears, shoving. Cinnamon hearts down my gullet to kill the pain. My legs were shaking and I dashed out of class, collapsing into sobs outside the library.
Mrs. A came out and asked what was wrong and I lied. I mumbled something about needing to go to the bathroom and not having enough bathroom privilege points. She patted me on the back and I walked back in, sworn to secrecy for life.
Ever since this occasion, lasting until age 23 when I started dating the man I knew i would marry, I never told a soul who I had a crush on. I kept it all inside, afraid of public mockery. Isn't it funny how a little thing can mean so much?
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Why I ain't no Southern gal
I hate fried chicken.
There. I said it. Some Southern Meemaw is rolling over in her grade right now at my pronouncement. Stoplights in Alabama have flickered. Pappy's banjo stopped twanging.
I have never really liked fried chicken but would eat it up as a kid, being a rare treat that everyone loved, right?
It doesn't excite me, no way no how. The chicken gets either so moist it drips in grease or just dusty dry. The chicken meat has no flavor, the crust just tastes like "fried".
Hubby made homemade fried chicken tonight and I was all excited- maybe homemade would be different. Maybe I could join normalcy and like fried chicken. Three bites in, I was certain that I still don't like it.
I tried to figure out why I kind of like chicken fingers. I mean, they are like fried chicken, being they are made of chicken and fried. But then I figured it out. I can drown a finger in ranch or BBQ or whatever sauce to render it flavorful (you can't do a 1:1 ratio of sauce:chicken with fried chicken) and I don't have to pick around bones and weird colored meat and stringy things. It's the sterile meat experience I'm looking for in my chicken, and for my chicken to taste like sauce, not chicken. The one thing that should not taste like chicken is chicken.
Chicken tiki masala, mole, coq au vin, Kung pao etc... Great. Chicken just as is, coated in a crust? You can have my serving.
There. I said it. Some Southern Meemaw is rolling over in her grade right now at my pronouncement. Stoplights in Alabama have flickered. Pappy's banjo stopped twanging.
I have never really liked fried chicken but would eat it up as a kid, being a rare treat that everyone loved, right?
It doesn't excite me, no way no how. The chicken gets either so moist it drips in grease or just dusty dry. The chicken meat has no flavor, the crust just tastes like "fried".
Hubby made homemade fried chicken tonight and I was all excited- maybe homemade would be different. Maybe I could join normalcy and like fried chicken. Three bites in, I was certain that I still don't like it.
I tried to figure out why I kind of like chicken fingers. I mean, they are like fried chicken, being they are made of chicken and fried. But then I figured it out. I can drown a finger in ranch or BBQ or whatever sauce to render it flavorful (you can't do a 1:1 ratio of sauce:chicken with fried chicken) and I don't have to pick around bones and weird colored meat and stringy things. It's the sterile meat experience I'm looking for in my chicken, and for my chicken to taste like sauce, not chicken. The one thing that should not taste like chicken is chicken.
Chicken tiki masala, mole, coq au vin, Kung pao etc... Great. Chicken just as is, coated in a crust? You can have my serving.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Might as well write my name on the bathroom wall
I remember when a "frienemy" of mine in high school wrote, in the girl's restroom "for a good time call..." With my name and number. I knew it was her cause she often misspelled my name and had distinct printing. I found out the rumors about me from someone else.
Just like in 4th grade when I put a heart candy saying "date me" in Keven Reed's Valentine. He was born a day after me, knew I existed, and looked sad when the teacher berated me in front of the class for a half our for never doing my homework. I mean this hunk and I were meant to be. His friend snatched the card an busted up laughing, "look someone wants to date Kevin pass it on". I swear Kevin gave him stink eye as each child bent over and whispered to the next. The message got to me and I ran out crying.
Anyways, maybe it's the pregnancy hormones at work but it was like Kevin and the bathroom all over again.
I live legally in place A. But moved temporarily but not legally to place B to work on finding work. We registered a car there because the post office at place A lost our license. Twice. In one. Year.
So that apparently changed my place if residence with the registrar of voters unbenounced (how the hell do you spell that?) to me. It explains why I could not vote for myself the election. FYI I ran for school board in place A. My tax record and stuff all show it as a primary residence.
Anywho my meandering point here is, journalists are filthy whores. Wait did I just say that? And how does that relate to anything?
The local newspaper called me I inquire why I changed my voter registration a bit over a week before te election. I said I didn't because until I did research last night I didn't know registering a car under your hubby and yourself at an address that actually gives you your mail, changes your voting info even if your driver's licensee, tax records, etc say differently.
So the arsehole press slandered me and ripped me a new ---hole. Publicly. In print and virtuallly. Saying I was stealing the vote, all measly 10% of it and that had I been honest, one if te other losers would have got all my vote and won. Which is statistically impossible but I digress.
They slandered me for telling another running mate that I would not be in place A for a week as I was staying on weekdays in place B. ( yes I was I had to refurb a rental or be sued, and my son was sick so there. Again all my record at that time had my primary residence in place A.).
Then the lovely little press claims I denied any contact with them when they requested info on my candidacy while running which is total b.s. you can google my name and their newspaper and clearly see my name and my blurb of info I told them. So try outright lied just to slander me.
And they were really picking for bones or whatever, saying I didn't attend a meeting on Oct 11. True, I didn't but I didn't have care for a 21 month old with a double ear infection. The meetin was at his bedtime. I figured it bad or to bring in a screaming sick child with me and being that I ran for school board, should I be all, "I care for kids first and that's why I attended this meeting with my very ill, sleepy, feverish infant in tow"?!?!
So yeah I got all sensitive and hurt. Because seeing my photo on the grit cover of the newspaper in the morning, with biased and misleading information, is more than crappy. And when the press didn't even tell me what I told them would be in print and in the front cover never the less, I think I have a darn good reason to be Hirt and pissed off. Don't people have better things to do?
Just like in 4th grade when I put a heart candy saying "date me" in Keven Reed's Valentine. He was born a day after me, knew I existed, and looked sad when the teacher berated me in front of the class for a half our for never doing my homework. I mean this hunk and I were meant to be. His friend snatched the card an busted up laughing, "look someone wants to date Kevin pass it on". I swear Kevin gave him stink eye as each child bent over and whispered to the next. The message got to me and I ran out crying.
Anyways, maybe it's the pregnancy hormones at work but it was like Kevin and the bathroom all over again.
I live legally in place A. But moved temporarily but not legally to place B to work on finding work. We registered a car there because the post office at place A lost our license. Twice. In one. Year.
So that apparently changed my place if residence with the registrar of voters unbenounced (how the hell do you spell that?) to me. It explains why I could not vote for myself the election. FYI I ran for school board in place A. My tax record and stuff all show it as a primary residence.
Anywho my meandering point here is, journalists are filthy whores. Wait did I just say that? And how does that relate to anything?
The local newspaper called me I inquire why I changed my voter registration a bit over a week before te election. I said I didn't because until I did research last night I didn't know registering a car under your hubby and yourself at an address that actually gives you your mail, changes your voting info even if your driver's licensee, tax records, etc say differently.
So the arsehole press slandered me and ripped me a new ---hole. Publicly. In print and virtuallly. Saying I was stealing the vote, all measly 10% of it and that had I been honest, one if te other losers would have got all my vote and won. Which is statistically impossible but I digress.
They slandered me for telling another running mate that I would not be in place A for a week as I was staying on weekdays in place B. ( yes I was I had to refurb a rental or be sued, and my son was sick so there. Again all my record at that time had my primary residence in place A.).
Then the lovely little press claims I denied any contact with them when they requested info on my candidacy while running which is total b.s. you can google my name and their newspaper and clearly see my name and my blurb of info I told them. So try outright lied just to slander me.
And they were really picking for bones or whatever, saying I didn't attend a meeting on Oct 11. True, I didn't but I didn't have care for a 21 month old with a double ear infection. The meetin was at his bedtime. I figured it bad or to bring in a screaming sick child with me and being that I ran for school board, should I be all, "I care for kids first and that's why I attended this meeting with my very ill, sleepy, feverish infant in tow"?!?!
So yeah I got all sensitive and hurt. Because seeing my photo on the grit cover of the newspaper in the morning, with biased and misleading information, is more than crappy. And when the press didn't even tell me what I told them would be in print and in the front cover never the less, I think I have a darn good reason to be Hirt and pissed off. Don't people have better things to do?
Friday, November 30, 2012
Gzzt
My brain feels fried. Too many things going on at once at work and home and my body and brain. There are times when wine and a hot bath sound so appealing yet are forbidden. Sigh.
I realize this is more like a "tweet" and sucks as a nablopomo post, especially as my last one. Well boo hoo. I wrote something at least, so there.
I realize this is more like a "tweet" and sucks as a nablopomo post, especially as my last one. Well boo hoo. I wrote something at least, so there.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Baby
Yes. I'm barely pregnant and I'm comparing it to my first and other people's experiences. I'm more tired this time and feel things going on in my not-there-yet baby bump. It's like I can feel my placenta forming or whatever is going on in there. It's weird.
So far, knock on wood, no morning sickness or cravings or strong emotions or anything. Except my right eye twitches but that can be non-pregnancy related.
I sometimes forget I'm pregnant. It's like reality hasn't kicked in that I'm having a second child. A second child! Second pregnancy and labor and sleepless nights. Second diapering, breast feeding, fear of SIDS. Second colds and colic and ear infections. Second laughs and second first words.
A second child. Weird. It doesn't seem real.
So far, knock on wood, no morning sickness or cravings or strong emotions or anything. Except my right eye twitches but that can be non-pregnancy related.
I sometimes forget I'm pregnant. It's like reality hasn't kicked in that I'm having a second child. A second child! Second pregnancy and labor and sleepless nights. Second diapering, breast feeding, fear of SIDS. Second colds and colic and ear infections. Second laughs and second first words.
A second child. Weird. It doesn't seem real.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Cats the Musical
My mother in law loves musicals, me not so much. Sure I was an extra nun in The Sound of Music, the too-early for marriage pick for Sprintze in Fiddler on the Roof. But being in a musical is night and day different than watching one.
Everyone told me when I was young to watch Cats. I loved Cats and art and music, I means, it's the perfect thing! But I hadn't any interest.
My mother in law was watching it one day, and so I decided to pay attention to it so I'd be worldly or cultured or something.
Tra la la, music jingled and cat-people danced and my mother in law was enamored. Until I began to giggle uncontrollably.
Why? Well, if there are supposed to be cats, where is their stinky litter? Why aren't they sitting on books and homework the owner is working on? Why doesn't the old cat hack up hairballs and lick his potty parts at inappropriate times?
I'd totally go to see that version of Cats.
Everyone told me when I was young to watch Cats. I loved Cats and art and music, I means, it's the perfect thing! But I hadn't any interest.
My mother in law was watching it one day, and so I decided to pay attention to it so I'd be worldly or cultured or something.
Tra la la, music jingled and cat-people danced and my mother in law was enamored. Until I began to giggle uncontrollably.
Why? Well, if there are supposed to be cats, where is their stinky litter? Why aren't they sitting on books and homework the owner is working on? Why doesn't the old cat hack up hairballs and lick his potty parts at inappropriate times?
I'd totally go to see that version of Cats.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
The Man Who Changed the World
You know, I don’t even remember his name – and I’m okay with that.
Karen missed her dad. He went from stay at home dad to disappearing dad overnight, leaving her mom in tears at the coffee table. Karen was shuttled from friend to friend, caring for her while her mother worked two jobs in the evening. Her mom was too caught up in things to do much, so Karen would practice her cursive and then microwave some canned soup for dinner while her mom stared vacantly at the television. She missed her father terribly, and her mother was more absent than ever. If her mom spoke it was a mumble about "drug abuse", whatever that was, and to ask Karen for marriage advice. Like Karen had a clue! At only 8 years old, boys still had cooties! All she knew was she wanted her family back.
One Saturday, Karen's mom looked mournfully into her eyes, stroked her hair, and said dryly, "grab your sleeping bag. We're visiting your father". Karen leaped at the chance and sat impatiently in the car while her mom nonchalantly packed the car.
They drove in silence for what seemed like hours, deep into the night on a desolate road. While the road seemed lonely and her mother stoic, the mood could not quelch Karen's excitement.
After what seemed like forever, Karen's mom pulled the car to the shoulder. "What's wrong mommy? Where's daddy's house", inquired Karen. Her mother gave an exasperated sigh and snapped, "Here, your damned father lives here like some wild animal, out in the bushes". Karen was confused why daddy would live in the bushes, and was scared of the wild animal her mother spoke of. She opened the door, stepped out, and froze in fear. "Get going, follow my flashlight beam, don't stray, c'mon now" her mom squawked, grabbing her hand. They hiked up a steep hill, nearly slipping on the loose rocky soil, and came upon a plateau where Karen could see a campfire and some shadowy figures roaming around.
A tall silhouette approached her and she jumped, only to feel a warm calloused hand catch her fall, a familiar hand and smell and giggle-her father.
She jumped into his arms and didn't want to let go; she was carried to the campfire and her dad set her die on a log used as a seat. Karen saw her mom pitch the tent, crawl in, and turn off her flashlight, exhausted. Karen missed her once jovial mother, but she brushed away her sadness, basking in the love of her father.
Another dark figure approached and patted her head. "Do you like songs, darlin'? I know a song my daddy taught me, a song that goes back before time. It's in my people's tongue, Apache, but you are smart like your daddy, I bet. You will catch on, wanna try", he suggested, as he broke into a melody. The words were full of whispery sounds and strange utterances that seemed oddly soothing. Karen caught on quickly and began to sing the chorus.
She kept singing the song, as she watched the Milky Way cross the sky and could hear the crackle of the fire die down. The strange lyrics were comforting and addictive and she could not stop.
Next thing she knew, she could feel someone shaking her awake. "Karen, hurry up, we've got to get going, your mom has already packed us up sweetie" whispered her dad. "Daddy, you are coming home?" Karen inquired, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Yes", he confirmed, "I had this profound dream. I went to a heavenly place full of music and love and was told to go home. My family needed me. Everything would be okay. Your mother said she had a similar dream. Sure wish I could remember the tune, it was lovely. Now c'mon sleepy head, we've got a long drive." Karen grabbed her dad's hand and they began to walk to the rocky hill leading to the car. "Daddy, do you know the name of the man last night? He sang me a song, it goes like this..." Karen said, beginning to hum the melody and mumble the words. Her dad froze in his tracks and bent down in front of her, tears in his eyes. "Who taught you that song, sweetie? I know it. It was the song from heaven in my dream", he cried, stroking her hand. "Daddy, it was the other dark shadow by the fire. He was there all night and he taught me the song. I sang it all night while watching the stars. You were right there, daddy, he was in your campsite, silly daddy. I don't know his name but that's okay. I hope he finds his way home too" Karen giggled earnestly. Her dad's face had gone pale and he mumbled, "I, I don't understand, I...never mind. I guess some things aren't clear. But I'm going home with you. To be a happy family here on Earth, my strange little sweetheart." And with that, she climbed in the car and off they drove, Karen looking towards the plateau and waving until it vanished into the distance.
Karen missed her dad. He went from stay at home dad to disappearing dad overnight, leaving her mom in tears at the coffee table. Karen was shuttled from friend to friend, caring for her while her mother worked two jobs in the evening. Her mom was too caught up in things to do much, so Karen would practice her cursive and then microwave some canned soup for dinner while her mom stared vacantly at the television. She missed her father terribly, and her mother was more absent than ever. If her mom spoke it was a mumble about "drug abuse", whatever that was, and to ask Karen for marriage advice. Like Karen had a clue! At only 8 years old, boys still had cooties! All she knew was she wanted her family back.
One Saturday, Karen's mom looked mournfully into her eyes, stroked her hair, and said dryly, "grab your sleeping bag. We're visiting your father". Karen leaped at the chance and sat impatiently in the car while her mom nonchalantly packed the car.
They drove in silence for what seemed like hours, deep into the night on a desolate road. While the road seemed lonely and her mother stoic, the mood could not quelch Karen's excitement.
After what seemed like forever, Karen's mom pulled the car to the shoulder. "What's wrong mommy? Where's daddy's house", inquired Karen. Her mother gave an exasperated sigh and snapped, "Here, your damned father lives here like some wild animal, out in the bushes". Karen was confused why daddy would live in the bushes, and was scared of the wild animal her mother spoke of. She opened the door, stepped out, and froze in fear. "Get going, follow my flashlight beam, don't stray, c'mon now" her mom squawked, grabbing her hand. They hiked up a steep hill, nearly slipping on the loose rocky soil, and came upon a plateau where Karen could see a campfire and some shadowy figures roaming around.
A tall silhouette approached her and she jumped, only to feel a warm calloused hand catch her fall, a familiar hand and smell and giggle-her father.
She jumped into his arms and didn't want to let go; she was carried to the campfire and her dad set her die on a log used as a seat. Karen saw her mom pitch the tent, crawl in, and turn off her flashlight, exhausted. Karen missed her once jovial mother, but she brushed away her sadness, basking in the love of her father.
Another dark figure approached and patted her head. "Do you like songs, darlin'? I know a song my daddy taught me, a song that goes back before time. It's in my people's tongue, Apache, but you are smart like your daddy, I bet. You will catch on, wanna try", he suggested, as he broke into a melody. The words were full of whispery sounds and strange utterances that seemed oddly soothing. Karen caught on quickly and began to sing the chorus.
She kept singing the song, as she watched the Milky Way cross the sky and could hear the crackle of the fire die down. The strange lyrics were comforting and addictive and she could not stop.
Next thing she knew, she could feel someone shaking her awake. "Karen, hurry up, we've got to get going, your mom has already packed us up sweetie" whispered her dad. "Daddy, you are coming home?" Karen inquired, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Yes", he confirmed, "I had this profound dream. I went to a heavenly place full of music and love and was told to go home. My family needed me. Everything would be okay. Your mother said she had a similar dream. Sure wish I could remember the tune, it was lovely. Now c'mon sleepy head, we've got a long drive." Karen grabbed her dad's hand and they began to walk to the rocky hill leading to the car. "Daddy, do you know the name of the man last night? He sang me a song, it goes like this..." Karen said, beginning to hum the melody and mumble the words. Her dad froze in his tracks and bent down in front of her, tears in his eyes. "Who taught you that song, sweetie? I know it. It was the song from heaven in my dream", he cried, stroking her hand. "Daddy, it was the other dark shadow by the fire. He was there all night and he taught me the song. I sang it all night while watching the stars. You were right there, daddy, he was in your campsite, silly daddy. I don't know his name but that's okay. I hope he finds his way home too" Karen giggled earnestly. Her dad's face had gone pale and he mumbled, "I, I don't understand, I...never mind. I guess some things aren't clear. But I'm going home with you. To be a happy family here on Earth, my strange little sweetheart." And with that, she climbed in the car and off they drove, Karen looking towards the plateau and waving until it vanished into the distance.
Monday, November 26, 2012
My little hobby
One of my hobbies is postcard collecting. My goal is to have one from every country, as well as each US state and Canadian Province. I also like I just plain collect them. They are like little snapshots into another place, with an excerpt from a stranger's life. As a blog writer, the glimpses seem poetic to me, fascinating.
I got my first postcard in fourth grade; to practice letter writing our teacher had us write a postcard to a classmate. My first postcard was pink with a tabby cat. Sadly I have lost that one but have one from 4th grade that I did not write on and kept for myself.
My relatives and one of my mom's friends found out my hobby and sent me cards when on vacation. Then my great Aunt Edna passed and she had a box of postcards that I fought my cousins for, tooth and nail. In the box was a metallic looking card of the cityscape of Russia. I love that card even now.
Then my mom's friend sent me a card from Chile, a Christmas postcard, but the man who sent it to my mom's friend had written it on a boat on his way to Antarctica. Isn't that awesome?
Within the last ten years, I have received among thousands of cards, one black and white card from 1969 of Kabul, Afghanistan, given to me by a news reporter. I also won some contest from a world traveller and got a very propaganda filled card from North Korea.
I'm moving so most of my cards are packed but you can see one from Mauritius and one from Belarus.
A bit over a year ago, I joined a website (for free!); postcrossing.com (sorry dunno how to link from my not so smart phone) and you send a card to a random user and receive one from a different random user. So I might send one to Stanislav of Moscow and get one from Aiko of Kyoto. It is pretty neat, I think. I love the element if surprise as to where I will send a card, and I try and choose one I think the recipient will enjoy. Then I eagerly visit the post office almost daily waiting for a mystery card in my box. Who will it be from? What will they write about? What will the image be of? What wonderment will it spark in my mind?
No wonder my blog is partially named, "wanderlust" for I have it!
I got my first postcard in fourth grade; to practice letter writing our teacher had us write a postcard to a classmate. My first postcard was pink with a tabby cat. Sadly I have lost that one but have one from 4th grade that I did not write on and kept for myself.
My relatives and one of my mom's friends found out my hobby and sent me cards when on vacation. Then my great Aunt Edna passed and she had a box of postcards that I fought my cousins for, tooth and nail. In the box was a metallic looking card of the cityscape of Russia. I love that card even now.
Then my mom's friend sent me a card from Chile, a Christmas postcard, but the man who sent it to my mom's friend had written it on a boat on his way to Antarctica. Isn't that awesome?
Within the last ten years, I have received among thousands of cards, one black and white card from 1969 of Kabul, Afghanistan, given to me by a news reporter. I also won some contest from a world traveller and got a very propaganda filled card from North Korea.
I'm moving so most of my cards are packed but you can see one from Mauritius and one from Belarus.
A bit over a year ago, I joined a website (for free!); postcrossing.com (sorry dunno how to link from my not so smart phone) and you send a card to a random user and receive one from a different random user. So I might send one to Stanislav of Moscow and get one from Aiko of Kyoto. It is pretty neat, I think. I love the element if surprise as to where I will send a card, and I try and choose one I think the recipient will enjoy. Then I eagerly visit the post office almost daily waiting for a mystery card in my box. Who will it be from? What will they write about? What will the image be of? What wonderment will it spark in my mind?
No wonder my blog is partially named, "wanderlust" for I have it!
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Crafty card
I usually do "art" not "crafts", if there is a difference. However, I wanted to get crafty for my son's upcoming birthday.
On sprout tv (a PBS thing for small children) they have daily birthday announcements and you can send in a handmade card with Sprout TV characters and it just might, may e, possibly be awesome enough that thu show it on TV. I really hope they do...
Here's the outside; I still have to do the interior.
On sprout tv (a PBS thing for small children) they have daily birthday announcements and you can send in a handmade card with Sprout TV characters and it just might, may e, possibly be awesome enough that thu show it on TV. I really hope they do...
Here's the outside; I still have to do the interior.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Which fork is it?
I have this gorgeous dress that cost$ $160 and I've been dying to wear it and won't be able to for about a year. I took up the rare opportunity of both fitting in the dress and having a babysitter, to go out on a date with my hubby.
We chose some fancy bistro type place, since I looked nice and stuff. The kind of place that is the scene in which to be seen, the place with foie gras confit foam Perdue or whatever. And while I am a foodie so gourmet food is quite enjoyable, the scene is not so enjoyable.
I grew up in a boiled dinner, eat in front of the tv in your sweat pants family. Going "out" to eat meant Jack in the Box. So I get a bit confused at these hoity toity places.
I don't know which forks to use. Of you want me to use different forks for different things, save me the embarrassment and bring me the salad fork with my salad, thank you.
I think linen napkins are pretty and do make great lap protectors, but what do I wipe my greasy hands onto? What if, because I'm a walking allergy, I need to wipe or blow my nose? I don't want to "excuse myself to powder my nose" a dozen times, I mean, that makes the other diners suspicious, like, is she selling drugs,? Does she have explosive diarrhea?
And then there are weird foods. Can you eat truffle pomme frites with your hands like you do with fast food fries? What do you do with an inedible chunk of fat? How do you remove an olive pit with class? (Apparently nibbling and sucking the olive, pinched between our fingers, and hiding the olive pit under your plate is NOT the way. Again, just bring me pitted olives, okay?)
And what do you do if you have a huge chunk of meat and bread in your teeth? Trying to discretely dislodge it with your fingernail is not the answer. Complaining to your hubby about it lacks class (but wins in distinction). Trying to ignore it when all you can think about is the entire animal between your molars doesn't work either.
Which is why, for me, taking me to some hole in the wall taco shop is a much better idea. I can use no forks if I choose, and I can pick my teeth, blowy nose, suck an olive pit, hide inedible a, and have a good meal.
We chose some fancy bistro type place, since I looked nice and stuff. The kind of place that is the scene in which to be seen, the place with foie gras confit foam Perdue or whatever. And while I am a foodie so gourmet food is quite enjoyable, the scene is not so enjoyable.
I grew up in a boiled dinner, eat in front of the tv in your sweat pants family. Going "out" to eat meant Jack in the Box. So I get a bit confused at these hoity toity places.
I don't know which forks to use. Of you want me to use different forks for different things, save me the embarrassment and bring me the salad fork with my salad, thank you.
I think linen napkins are pretty and do make great lap protectors, but what do I wipe my greasy hands onto? What if, because I'm a walking allergy, I need to wipe or blow my nose? I don't want to "excuse myself to powder my nose" a dozen times, I mean, that makes the other diners suspicious, like, is she selling drugs,? Does she have explosive diarrhea?
And then there are weird foods. Can you eat truffle pomme frites with your hands like you do with fast food fries? What do you do with an inedible chunk of fat? How do you remove an olive pit with class? (Apparently nibbling and sucking the olive, pinched between our fingers, and hiding the olive pit under your plate is NOT the way. Again, just bring me pitted olives, okay?)
And what do you do if you have a huge chunk of meat and bread in your teeth? Trying to discretely dislodge it with your fingernail is not the answer. Complaining to your hubby about it lacks class (but wins in distinction). Trying to ignore it when all you can think about is the entire animal between your molars doesn't work either.
Which is why, for me, taking me to some hole in the wall taco shop is a much better idea. I can use no forks if I choose, and I can pick my teeth, blowy nose, suck an olive pit, hide inedible a, and have a good meal.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Black Friday
I survived Black Friday. I hate Black Friday but hubby had a very rare day off work; we might not get another shopping opportunity before Christmas.
I hate crowds. I hate shopping. I hate the want want want.
I started out okay, with some tea from Starbucks and a sugary treat. We went to Barnes and Nobles, a place I could spend over a grand at. It was fun to dream and browse.
Then my son pooped and I had no bags to put it in. Then I forgot and left the diaper in the car to stew in the 85 degree heat. Eww.
Did I mention it is 85 out and I hate te heat?
I met hubby at Bed Bath and Beyond but it, as always, smelled too strong and I didn't want to go in. And I was thirsty and did I mention it is hot out?
So I went to Cost Plus to avoid the stench and get a drink and their line looked short and the drinks cool and refreshing. Except the line wasn't short. It snaked all around the store. Dammit! I was thirsty and hot and felt like I'd explode in a dry poof!
Defeated, I trudged to Target. The toy and electronic section was BEYOND crowded. Chaos. And I was thirsty.
The Target line looked hellishly long but it was deceiving thank God and we were in and out in a jiffy and I got my drink. I got my drink!
Then we finally made it in the car, after being certain I'd lost my hubby's keys.
We talked about pregnancy brain. It is real folks. I hate having caught stupid. We then got lunch and hubby said, "do you realize the trips to the bathroom you will have after that burrito?" And my response was, "I'm pregnant. I'm stupid and poop a lot. Your point?"
And that my friends was my Black Friday adventure. Off to eat my Mexican food. But guess what? Hubby got me a macho sized cool drink for my farty food. God bless him.
I hate crowds. I hate shopping. I hate the want want want.
I started out okay, with some tea from Starbucks and a sugary treat. We went to Barnes and Nobles, a place I could spend over a grand at. It was fun to dream and browse.
Then my son pooped and I had no bags to put it in. Then I forgot and left the diaper in the car to stew in the 85 degree heat. Eww.
Did I mention it is 85 out and I hate te heat?
I met hubby at Bed Bath and Beyond but it, as always, smelled too strong and I didn't want to go in. And I was thirsty and did I mention it is hot out?
So I went to Cost Plus to avoid the stench and get a drink and their line looked short and the drinks cool and refreshing. Except the line wasn't short. It snaked all around the store. Dammit! I was thirsty and hot and felt like I'd explode in a dry poof!
Defeated, I trudged to Target. The toy and electronic section was BEYOND crowded. Chaos. And I was thirsty.
The Target line looked hellishly long but it was deceiving thank God and we were in and out in a jiffy and I got my drink. I got my drink!
Then we finally made it in the car, after being certain I'd lost my hubby's keys.
We talked about pregnancy brain. It is real folks. I hate having caught stupid. We then got lunch and hubby said, "do you realize the trips to the bathroom you will have after that burrito?" And my response was, "I'm pregnant. I'm stupid and poop a lot. Your point?"
And that my friends was my Black Friday adventure. Off to eat my Mexican food. But guess what? Hubby got me a macho sized cool drink for my farty food. God bless him.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Thankfulness
Everyone and their mother is posting, tweeting, blogging about what they are thankful for.
Not me.
I'm not a Scrooge but I refuse to blab on about what I am thankful for, and I am tired of hearing why everyone I thankful for. Big freakin deal.
There are people out there, glad to have scavenged some recyclables from the mall garbage. Others glad to own one pair of clothing. Glad that they have not died of famine or AIDS or cancer, yet. I know, there goes the holiday cheer out the window. But when I hear someone say they are thankful for their XBox or a huge turkey dinner, it infuriates me. When they say thy are thankful for family and friends, it either sounds empty or like they only have to be thankful one day a year.
Besides, the things I am thankful for are my own. For me, it is a private, introspective kind if thankfulness, hat I wish not to share. In fact, some of it can't be put in words, it is just a feeling.
But anyways, off my soap box...have a happy Thanksgiving!
Not me.
I'm not a Scrooge but I refuse to blab on about what I am thankful for, and I am tired of hearing why everyone I thankful for. Big freakin deal.
There are people out there, glad to have scavenged some recyclables from the mall garbage. Others glad to own one pair of clothing. Glad that they have not died of famine or AIDS or cancer, yet. I know, there goes the holiday cheer out the window. But when I hear someone say they are thankful for their XBox or a huge turkey dinner, it infuriates me. When they say thy are thankful for family and friends, it either sounds empty or like they only have to be thankful one day a year.
Besides, the things I am thankful for are my own. For me, it is a private, introspective kind if thankfulness, hat I wish not to share. In fact, some of it can't be put in words, it is just a feeling.
But anyways, off my soap box...have a happy Thanksgiving!
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Turkey Day Haiku
I sealed my fate
When I opened the door and
The turkey was burnt
Oh God the dishes
Pile up to the ceiling
Stuck-on cranberry
Not enough liquor
My family funny farm
Grandmas pants are off
Five sticks of butter
Pass me another serving
Coronary please
When I opened the door and
The turkey was burnt
Oh God the dishes
Pile up to the ceiling
Stuck-on cranberry
Not enough liquor
My family funny farm
Grandmas pants are off
Five sticks of butter
Pass me another serving
Coronary please
Grinding metal
Have you ever had an unfounded fear, one that makes you say, "this is how I am going to die?"
Sure, it is a morose thought, a thought I shove down inside and try to ignore.
I am talking about car accidents. I read the Highway Patrol reports and local news about "TCs" or traffic collisions, I notice the burnt rubber marks across lanes and the crosses decorating my winding road. I go through days where I refuse to drive myself anywhere, the fear gripping me and crippling me. I get convinced, especially with my horrid vision problems, that I will meet my demise by a horrifying car accident. When I am okay with driving myself,I am hyper vigilant and notice cars too close behind me, on their cell phone, weaving, or looking tired. It's nerve wracking.
It wasn't so bad many years ago; when I finally got my license and car at age 22, I could not stay put! I once drove over an hour to the ocean just to say I had been to the beach, and I took weekly trips to the ethnic enclaves of Los Angeles, or the bustling clubs of Hollywood just because I could. I would sacrifice my measly food budget, subsiding off of ramen and cereal just to have gas money, to be a college nomad in the concrete jungle of California.
One day, I was on the Ten Freeway and there was a semi truck to my left and one to the right and they both tried to merge into my lane with me in it. I slammed down on the accelerator and watched them nearly hit one another, just inches from my tail lights. I pulled off the freeway and sat there and cried. A panic attack overcame me as I realized I was not invincible, that cars were deadly weapons.
A year later, I went to run errands and then meet my fiancé for coffee. We had taken separate cars, and I had finished my coffee too quickly and was ready to head home and make sure our puppy hadn't eaten the couch or my shoes or the cat. My fiancé stayed to finish his coffee and off I went.
I was driving up the boulevard in my nearly new car when it happened. To my right was a street that bisected the boulevard, a stop sign was there for them to stop since the boulevard was through traffic with a high speed limit. Approaching the stop sign was an older maroon car that sure didn't look like it was going to stop. I didn't know what to do. I was going 45mph and he sure looked to be doing the same, but I couldn't slam on my breaks at 45 with traffic behind me. So I sped up. I remember crossing into the opposing lane, hoping no one would hit me head on, hoping the guy would stop. He didn't.
I didn't hear a sound when he hit me on the passenger side. I don't know if I screamed. All I know is I was propelled far into opposing traffic. I knew that all sound had stopped and time had slowed. I slowly pushed the brakes an nothing happened. I tried to jerk the wheel away from oncoming traffic but noting happened. I slowly spun out of control for what seemed like hours, silently whirling out of control. I was in a panic, my car would not work at all, like that nightmare where your legs won't run but worse. Whatever happened, I could not stop it.
I spun into a driveway where my car's momentum slowed and stopped. I numbly jumped out of the car, the airbag not even deployed but my entire passenger side crumpled. I saw the maroon car and said, "ambulance, call an ambulance that f@cker hit me", except I was crying and shaking furiously, stuttering and pacing in circles. I didn't realize the maroon car was the f@cker for a moment. When I finally did, I wanted to scream, cuss him out, strangle him and kick him in the nuts for not stopping and actually hitting me. But all I could muster were choked sobs and crazy lady muttering. I couldn't even think straight to give him my name and insurance information.
I don't know if an ambulance came or not. I was so shaken up, all I remember is calling my fiancé and sobbing,"accident. Hurry" as my stupid cell lost reception. He supposedly drove well over the speed limit, not sure if I were dead or alive. I don't recall getting in his car. I don't recall speaking to the police. It all went kind of blank.
I ended up un-injured, my car completely totaled. Therefore, it seemed to be a happy ending but it has marred me for life. I now know how quickly things can happen, how if even the slightest thing changed, I could have been killed. How it could happen again. In a split of a second, the last sound you might ever hear would be the grinding of metal or the odd silence of tragedy.
Sure, it is a morose thought, a thought I shove down inside and try to ignore.
I am talking about car accidents. I read the Highway Patrol reports and local news about "TCs" or traffic collisions, I notice the burnt rubber marks across lanes and the crosses decorating my winding road. I go through days where I refuse to drive myself anywhere, the fear gripping me and crippling me. I get convinced, especially with my horrid vision problems, that I will meet my demise by a horrifying car accident. When I am okay with driving myself,I am hyper vigilant and notice cars too close behind me, on their cell phone, weaving, or looking tired. It's nerve wracking.
It wasn't so bad many years ago; when I finally got my license and car at age 22, I could not stay put! I once drove over an hour to the ocean just to say I had been to the beach, and I took weekly trips to the ethnic enclaves of Los Angeles, or the bustling clubs of Hollywood just because I could. I would sacrifice my measly food budget, subsiding off of ramen and cereal just to have gas money, to be a college nomad in the concrete jungle of California.
One day, I was on the Ten Freeway and there was a semi truck to my left and one to the right and they both tried to merge into my lane with me in it. I slammed down on the accelerator and watched them nearly hit one another, just inches from my tail lights. I pulled off the freeway and sat there and cried. A panic attack overcame me as I realized I was not invincible, that cars were deadly weapons.
A year later, I went to run errands and then meet my fiancé for coffee. We had taken separate cars, and I had finished my coffee too quickly and was ready to head home and make sure our puppy hadn't eaten the couch or my shoes or the cat. My fiancé stayed to finish his coffee and off I went.
I was driving up the boulevard in my nearly new car when it happened. To my right was a street that bisected the boulevard, a stop sign was there for them to stop since the boulevard was through traffic with a high speed limit. Approaching the stop sign was an older maroon car that sure didn't look like it was going to stop. I didn't know what to do. I was going 45mph and he sure looked to be doing the same, but I couldn't slam on my breaks at 45 with traffic behind me. So I sped up. I remember crossing into the opposing lane, hoping no one would hit me head on, hoping the guy would stop. He didn't.
I didn't hear a sound when he hit me on the passenger side. I don't know if I screamed. All I know is I was propelled far into opposing traffic. I knew that all sound had stopped and time had slowed. I slowly pushed the brakes an nothing happened. I tried to jerk the wheel away from oncoming traffic but noting happened. I slowly spun out of control for what seemed like hours, silently whirling out of control. I was in a panic, my car would not work at all, like that nightmare where your legs won't run but worse. Whatever happened, I could not stop it.
I spun into a driveway where my car's momentum slowed and stopped. I numbly jumped out of the car, the airbag not even deployed but my entire passenger side crumpled. I saw the maroon car and said, "ambulance, call an ambulance that f@cker hit me", except I was crying and shaking furiously, stuttering and pacing in circles. I didn't realize the maroon car was the f@cker for a moment. When I finally did, I wanted to scream, cuss him out, strangle him and kick him in the nuts for not stopping and actually hitting me. But all I could muster were choked sobs and crazy lady muttering. I couldn't even think straight to give him my name and insurance information.
I don't know if an ambulance came or not. I was so shaken up, all I remember is calling my fiancé and sobbing,"accident. Hurry" as my stupid cell lost reception. He supposedly drove well over the speed limit, not sure if I were dead or alive. I don't recall getting in his car. I don't recall speaking to the police. It all went kind of blank.
I ended up un-injured, my car completely totaled. Therefore, it seemed to be a happy ending but it has marred me for life. I now know how quickly things can happen, how if even the slightest thing changed, I could have been killed. How it could happen again. In a split of a second, the last sound you might ever hear would be the grinding of metal or the odd silence of tragedy.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Bittersweet baby
I will miss....
• My brand new wardrobe drats
• liquor to survive my overly worried Jewish mother in law over the holidays
• coffee, energy drinks, microbrewery beer, and sushi
• not peeing every two minutes
• snuggling and co-sleeping-big bit bed for my boy!
But I am excited too. I want a nice easy pregnancy like last time. Generally speaking, I enjoyed being pregnant. Although, I dread the attention pregnancy begets as extra attention an cheerfulness bugs me. In ornery like that. And the thought that I am a f|€#ing invalid. I will keep you all updated on the invalid comments I get thus time.
I'm excited to know I am carrying another life, a sibling for my son. I'm excited to know what my baby looks like and his/her personality. I will even find out the gender this time!
I'm annoyed though as my first OB appointment isn't until January. I don't get an estimated due date, chance to. Hear the heartbeat, or see the original ultrasound that looks like the protein squiggle in eggs. I want all that NOW!
So it is bittersweet but mostly sweet!
I will take guesses as to due date, lair hours, and gender. You can get ideas from my post a week or so ago about my labor experience.
• My brand new wardrobe drats
• liquor to survive my overly worried Jewish mother in law over the holidays
• coffee, energy drinks, microbrewery beer, and sushi
• not peeing every two minutes
• snuggling and co-sleeping-big bit bed for my boy!
But I am excited too. I want a nice easy pregnancy like last time. Generally speaking, I enjoyed being pregnant. Although, I dread the attention pregnancy begets as extra attention an cheerfulness bugs me. In ornery like that. And the thought that I am a f|€#ing invalid. I will keep you all updated on the invalid comments I get thus time.
I'm excited to know I am carrying another life, a sibling for my son. I'm excited to know what my baby looks like and his/her personality. I will even find out the gender this time!
I'm annoyed though as my first OB appointment isn't until January. I don't get an estimated due date, chance to. Hear the heartbeat, or see the original ultrasound that looks like the protein squiggle in eggs. I want all that NOW!
So it is bittersweet but mostly sweet!
I will take guesses as to due date, lair hours, and gender. You can get ideas from my post a week or so ago about my labor experience.
Disbelief
I took a test yesterday.
To be more accurate, I took three. When you get the same results from all three, it should be believable. And then I took another.
I was just talking to my husband this weekend about expanding our family, but that we would not purposely try and instead leave it up to God or nature or date or whatever.
So I took a pregnancy test two days ago being that I was late. I spent $12 on the box of two and nervously urinated on one. No pink line or blue plus mark or happy unicorns or anything. Just plain blank. For hours. So I urinated on the second one and same thing. I didn't want to spend $12 for duds again, but sure as hell wasn't going to wait till I could feel kicks to confirm anything. So I dashed over to the 99 cent store and searched and searched. They weren't by tampons or feminine wash. They weren't by pain killers, shampoo, or diapers. Where were they? Then I got into the zen of 99. I envisioned cheap cigarettes an Jerry Springer, malt liquor and knock off stale Cheerios made by enslaved Chinese toddlers. My couch and decency gone, it came to me. Check out stand! I mean, a pregnancy test is totally an impulse buy- gum, candy lighters, stickers, and pregnancy tests. Got it.
So the next morning (morning pee is super concentrated and thus more "valid") I did the potty dance again. And I got a faint result. And more disbelief.
So like the obsessed crazy lady that I am, I did it two more times. They all showed a "yes" but the last was super faint. I didn't believe it. In statistics there are false positives and these lines took longer to appear and were fainter than when I was pregnant with my son. Again, I had disbelief.
But being a mother, I was also excited so I put my news on Facebook and called my parents and the in laws. My parents were doubtful and worried that "this is the wrong time", and my in laws...keep gleaming and asking me if I feel okay like I am a f€%^ing invalid.
So in my confusion, disbelief, and indifference, I went to the hospital for the blood test version, fool proof.
So...? I find out for sure today after 1:395. Or tomorrow, with people of or the holiday. I have from two and a half to twenty six and a half hours to did out and time can't go by any slower. I barely slept and dreamed I was pregnant and didn't know it till I have birth (like that tv show) and I was all panicked about prenatal care. Them they wanted to do a c-section and I had twins with complications. Not a fun dream.
I awoke before dawn and have since been counting down the minutes.
Tick tick.
To be more accurate, I took three. When you get the same results from all three, it should be believable. And then I took another.
I was just talking to my husband this weekend about expanding our family, but that we would not purposely try and instead leave it up to God or nature or date or whatever.
So I took a pregnancy test two days ago being that I was late. I spent $12 on the box of two and nervously urinated on one. No pink line or blue plus mark or happy unicorns or anything. Just plain blank. For hours. So I urinated on the second one and same thing. I didn't want to spend $12 for duds again, but sure as hell wasn't going to wait till I could feel kicks to confirm anything. So I dashed over to the 99 cent store and searched and searched. They weren't by tampons or feminine wash. They weren't by pain killers, shampoo, or diapers. Where were they? Then I got into the zen of 99. I envisioned cheap cigarettes an Jerry Springer, malt liquor and knock off stale Cheerios made by enslaved Chinese toddlers. My couch and decency gone, it came to me. Check out stand! I mean, a pregnancy test is totally an impulse buy- gum, candy lighters, stickers, and pregnancy tests. Got it.
So the next morning (morning pee is super concentrated and thus more "valid") I did the potty dance again. And I got a faint result. And more disbelief.
So like the obsessed crazy lady that I am, I did it two more times. They all showed a "yes" but the last was super faint. I didn't believe it. In statistics there are false positives and these lines took longer to appear and were fainter than when I was pregnant with my son. Again, I had disbelief.
But being a mother, I was also excited so I put my news on Facebook and called my parents and the in laws. My parents were doubtful and worried that "this is the wrong time", and my in laws...keep gleaming and asking me if I feel okay like I am a f€%^ing invalid.
So in my confusion, disbelief, and indifference, I went to the hospital for the blood test version, fool proof.
So...? I find out for sure today after 1:395. Or tomorrow, with people of or the holiday. I have from two and a half to twenty six and a half hours to did out and time can't go by any slower. I barely slept and dreamed I was pregnant and didn't know it till I have birth (like that tv show) and I was all panicked about prenatal care. Them they wanted to do a c-section and I had twins with complications. Not a fun dream.
I awoke before dawn and have since been counting down the minutes.
Tick tick.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Ode to a vice
Oh how I will miss your poisonous brew, Mr. energy drink. My nights of insomnia, my before dawn wake up, my long days dealing with hoards of cranky gang banging teens, my long drive down a cliff and into urban sprawl and famously bad traffic, my late nights grading essays, my pregnancy induced lethargy.... You can no longer cure my sleepy ailments and I must go it alone, barely awake, numb to the world, like a big, giant, round zombie.
Today, I decided to savor your syrupy heart racing slurry just one last time. I will miss you but it's for the better.
Today, I decided to savor your syrupy heart racing slurry just one last time. I will miss you but it's for the better.
The Autumn of Indecision
This autumn has been full of stress due to the indecision an back-and-forth games of big life decisions.
I will be kind of brief here cause I've blogged about my indecisions before.
I got a part time job in October. My son was actually harming himself in day care, screaming and biting himself. He got kicked out. My job was stressful, the students completely unruly and disrespectful. I dreaded work. I dreaded having my son harm himself in day care. I was ready to quit. I called HR and found out it takes months to get a replacement and my record gets tarnished. So I decided, why stay 4 months then quit when I can just suffer through the year, my contract ending without repercussion in 6 months?
Then I own two homes. A small suburban home we rent out and a larger home in the boonies. We were prepping suburb house and enjoyed the convenience of civilization. We had to not pay the boonie house mortgage to do a loan mod and then we were all, ooh big house how nice. Then we were all, oh it's remote, we get cabin fever, the commute is dangerous in the winter weather, we hate it, get rid of it. For simplicities sake.... I will say we did this yes no thing well over a dozen times. We even ordered and canceled a u-haul truck. Twice. In one week. And I am still not sure where we are living but....maybe I do know.
I grew up as an only child and hated it. I despise the first few month of newborn sleep deprivation hell so that made me think, no more kids. I grew tired of people asking me why I had just one child. But, either way I decided I wasn't going to try. Just let it be. And then I decided, yes let's have another, but again leave it up to free. And now...
I might be moving to the remote but roomier house as I might be adding to my family. Cause two pee sticks can't be wrong, right?
But I don't believe it yet.
And I still feel full of indecision, house and job wise.
I will be kind of brief here cause I've blogged about my indecisions before.
I got a part time job in October. My son was actually harming himself in day care, screaming and biting himself. He got kicked out. My job was stressful, the students completely unruly and disrespectful. I dreaded work. I dreaded having my son harm himself in day care. I was ready to quit. I called HR and found out it takes months to get a replacement and my record gets tarnished. So I decided, why stay 4 months then quit when I can just suffer through the year, my contract ending without repercussion in 6 months?
Then I own two homes. A small suburban home we rent out and a larger home in the boonies. We were prepping suburb house and enjoyed the convenience of civilization. We had to not pay the boonie house mortgage to do a loan mod and then we were all, ooh big house how nice. Then we were all, oh it's remote, we get cabin fever, the commute is dangerous in the winter weather, we hate it, get rid of it. For simplicities sake.... I will say we did this yes no thing well over a dozen times. We even ordered and canceled a u-haul truck. Twice. In one week. And I am still not sure where we are living but....maybe I do know.
I grew up as an only child and hated it. I despise the first few month of newborn sleep deprivation hell so that made me think, no more kids. I grew tired of people asking me why I had just one child. But, either way I decided I wasn't going to try. Just let it be. And then I decided, yes let's have another, but again leave it up to free. And now...
I might be moving to the remote but roomier house as I might be adding to my family. Cause two pee sticks can't be wrong, right?
But I don't believe it yet.
And I still feel full of indecision, house and job wise.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
If I could meet anyone famous...
I'd meet four among the living and two from the past. Sure there might be more, but here goes.
1. The Dalai Lama. He is an amazing man full of such peace, love, and wisdom that I could learn a lot from him.
2. John Taylor Gatto. His writing has inspired me and changed my life. Okay not quite changed it but it has answered many of my questions and his works make me think an exuberant "I knew it, exactly, agree". He loves children and education but not our schooling system and he tells it like it is. I could go on for pages so I will move on to number three...
3. Jenny Lawson aka the bloggess. We had similar childhoods (I mean how many kids grow up with dead animals in the freezer, and I'm not talking hamburger and chicken). She seems to be funny and awesome. Actually she reminds me of my BFF, also named Jenny. And two Jenny's is even more awesome.
4. Rob Zombie. I'm not much into the art of the macabre and all that he is into, but I can tell he is quite a genius and artist, a creative mind that intrigues me.
1. Thomas Jefferson. I read his biography and many founding articles and the like. He had some amazing ideas and I'd love to hear his ideas for the present era.
2. Abe Lincoln. Kinda the same reason as Jefferson.
1. The Dalai Lama. He is an amazing man full of such peace, love, and wisdom that I could learn a lot from him.
2. John Taylor Gatto. His writing has inspired me and changed my life. Okay not quite changed it but it has answered many of my questions and his works make me think an exuberant "I knew it, exactly, agree". He loves children and education but not our schooling system and he tells it like it is. I could go on for pages so I will move on to number three...
3. Jenny Lawson aka the bloggess. We had similar childhoods (I mean how many kids grow up with dead animals in the freezer, and I'm not talking hamburger and chicken). She seems to be funny and awesome. Actually she reminds me of my BFF, also named Jenny. And two Jenny's is even more awesome.
4. Rob Zombie. I'm not much into the art of the macabre and all that he is into, but I can tell he is quite a genius and artist, a creative mind that intrigues me.
1. Thomas Jefferson. I read his biography and many founding articles and the like. He had some amazing ideas and I'd love to hear his ideas for the present era.
2. Abe Lincoln. Kinda the same reason as Jefferson.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
I'm no idiot but...
...well, maybe I am.
I love my hubby's Acura for the zoom factor and plush leather seats. But I love my slow as a dog cloth seated Subaru because I can operate it.
I might have a Master's degree and was in the Gifted program in school but this Acura confuses me to no end.
I don't know how to fast forward or change songs on a cd or auxiliary iPod.
I don't know how to display the exterior temp which really sucks because I am a nerd and like to know the temperature on a constant basis.
I apparently don't know how to operate the lights. I drove down a foggy rainy road at dusk for 35 minutes until hubby saw me (we were caravan ing) and flashed his brights at me. Then he kept flashing them and I was like, what?!?! My phone was not connected to Bluetooth but the iPod part was, so when I called him he was as quiet as a whisper an all full of echo but I heard "l l l light ight" and I screamed, "I don't know how!" Being very vision impaired, I was not about to look for the light button so I played with buttons until there was light. I think.
Then it started to rain. I mean, really rain, not the California light drizzle death storm 8000. I have no clue how I work the wipers. I mean, I rarely drive, let alone this car, and I live where we don't see rain from May 1- Nov 15 many years. I never thought to ak my hubby how to use the wipers in a car I never drive in a place that never rains.
So I click the lights and the cd button and then the back window wiper. The back window wiper goes faster and faster and won't stop. I keep pushing, twisting, and pulling things and th front wipers go off, victory! Except that it is to spray water and window cleaner onto my already soaked windshield. I try and remedy it and my blinkers go off and people around me look confused and the back wiper is still on.
I was supposed to rush over I get cat litter and diapers while hubby went home. I am unable to properly see through the sheets of water. I finally find a way to work the damned things, except it is by overextending my middle finger and holding the wiper lever constantly. My finger starts to get sore and I decide screw it. I am going home and admitting defeat and demanding hubby fix the wipers or go to the store himself.
I turn on the blinker to turn into the neighborhood and voila! I get the wipers to work.
I am still not sure how I both turned off the back wiper and turned on the frit wipers. I think I pushed forward and down but I can't be so sure. But I was both laughing, cussing, and crying when they finally worked.
I love my hubby's Acura for the zoom factor and plush leather seats. But I love my slow as a dog cloth seated Subaru because I can operate it.
I might have a Master's degree and was in the Gifted program in school but this Acura confuses me to no end.
I don't know how to fast forward or change songs on a cd or auxiliary iPod.
I don't know how to display the exterior temp which really sucks because I am a nerd and like to know the temperature on a constant basis.
I apparently don't know how to operate the lights. I drove down a foggy rainy road at dusk for 35 minutes until hubby saw me (we were caravan ing) and flashed his brights at me. Then he kept flashing them and I was like, what?!?! My phone was not connected to Bluetooth but the iPod part was, so when I called him he was as quiet as a whisper an all full of echo but I heard "l l l light ight" and I screamed, "I don't know how!" Being very vision impaired, I was not about to look for the light button so I played with buttons until there was light. I think.
Then it started to rain. I mean, really rain, not the California light drizzle death storm 8000. I have no clue how I work the wipers. I mean, I rarely drive, let alone this car, and I live where we don't see rain from May 1- Nov 15 many years. I never thought to ak my hubby how to use the wipers in a car I never drive in a place that never rains.
So I click the lights and the cd button and then the back window wiper. The back window wiper goes faster and faster and won't stop. I keep pushing, twisting, and pulling things and th front wipers go off, victory! Except that it is to spray water and window cleaner onto my already soaked windshield. I try and remedy it and my blinkers go off and people around me look confused and the back wiper is still on.
I was supposed to rush over I get cat litter and diapers while hubby went home. I am unable to properly see through the sheets of water. I finally find a way to work the damned things, except it is by overextending my middle finger and holding the wiper lever constantly. My finger starts to get sore and I decide screw it. I am going home and admitting defeat and demanding hubby fix the wipers or go to the store himself.
I turn on the blinker to turn into the neighborhood and voila! I get the wipers to work.
I am still not sure how I both turned off the back wiper and turned on the frit wipers. I think I pushed forward and down but I can't be so sure. But I was both laughing, cussing, and crying when they finally worked.
Two pounds of butter
We will likely use two lbs of butter for Thanksgiving. We don't do healthy foods for Thanksgiving...it is all rich foods full of butter and cream.
Our menu thus far? (Subject to change)
Rosemary-garlic buttered turkey
From scratch turkey drippings gravy with rosemary and Chardonnay
Sour cream mashed potatoes
Caldo verde soup
Buttered corn
Cornbread and sage sausage stuffing (which I loath but the rest of the family loves... At least this version beats the family usual of it made with white bread and sausage)
Sourdough stuffing
Butterscotch and walnut whipped yams
Pumpkin pie
Apple streudel
Our menu thus far? (Subject to change)
Rosemary-garlic buttered turkey
From scratch turkey drippings gravy with rosemary and Chardonnay
Sour cream mashed potatoes
Caldo verde soup
Buttered corn
Cornbread and sage sausage stuffing (which I loath but the rest of the family loves... At least this version beats the family usual of it made with white bread and sausage)
Sourdough stuffing
Butterscotch and walnut whipped yams
Pumpkin pie
Apple streudel
Friday, November 16, 2012
If only....
If only I could show movies all day in class!
If you think giving 38 inner city, at-risk teens a lecture, heavy assignment, or other scholarly task on a Friday before they take a week long holiday is a keen idea, let me save you the trip to the loony asylum and tell you this: show them a movie. Your sanity (and theirs) will thank you.
I chose the Simpsons Treehouse of Horrors V because, hey it has to do with English Literature and Composition, right? It is based loosely on The Time Machine and The Shining. So I gave then 9 questions about climax, exposition, inference, and other things that make people who don't teach English yawn.
Guess what? No one called me a b1tch today, and no one wrote fuc you (or the real spelling of it) on the board. I only found two paper airplanes and four paper wads out of the droves of 200 students. My breakfast muffin got a paper clip shoved in it, sure, and I told one student to not make a shank out of the metal part from his spiral binder. But that is all folks. Some might think, wow, that was a good day? Yes. Yes it was.
I got told by a few students to enjoy my holiday. I got complimented on my pants and appearance even thought I looked like a puffer fish meets Rudolph (thanks, sinusitis). My room was nearly spotless after each class instead if full of enough waste to overflow two waste baskets. No one tried to "bump music". I got more work from my students than ever- probably 75% completed the assignment! I had students tell me how nice the day was. No one talked over me or shoved me to get out the door before the bell. Students who had no interest in working were quiet, cordial, and respectful to those who did. I only used my whistle once, and that's cause my voice didn't want to work for a moment. I only had to threaten "book work and a pop quiz" once.
It was awesome. Just like my students, I wish I could show Simpsons or other fun movies every day and build curriculum around it. I'd have most students passing the course and very few discipline problems. I'd maintain my sanity to boot.
But, alas, we have textbooks and department mandated curriculum and blah blah blah. So much for my sanity.
If you think giving 38 inner city, at-risk teens a lecture, heavy assignment, or other scholarly task on a Friday before they take a week long holiday is a keen idea, let me save you the trip to the loony asylum and tell you this: show them a movie. Your sanity (and theirs) will thank you.
I chose the Simpsons Treehouse of Horrors V because, hey it has to do with English Literature and Composition, right? It is based loosely on The Time Machine and The Shining. So I gave then 9 questions about climax, exposition, inference, and other things that make people who don't teach English yawn.
Guess what? No one called me a b1tch today, and no one wrote fuc you (or the real spelling of it) on the board. I only found two paper airplanes and four paper wads out of the droves of 200 students. My breakfast muffin got a paper clip shoved in it, sure, and I told one student to not make a shank out of the metal part from his spiral binder. But that is all folks. Some might think, wow, that was a good day? Yes. Yes it was.
I got told by a few students to enjoy my holiday. I got complimented on my pants and appearance even thought I looked like a puffer fish meets Rudolph (thanks, sinusitis). My room was nearly spotless after each class instead if full of enough waste to overflow two waste baskets. No one tried to "bump music". I got more work from my students than ever- probably 75% completed the assignment! I had students tell me how nice the day was. No one talked over me or shoved me to get out the door before the bell. Students who had no interest in working were quiet, cordial, and respectful to those who did. I only used my whistle once, and that's cause my voice didn't want to work for a moment. I only had to threaten "book work and a pop quiz" once.
It was awesome. Just like my students, I wish I could show Simpsons or other fun movies every day and build curriculum around it. I'd have most students passing the course and very few discipline problems. I'd maintain my sanity to boot.
But, alas, we have textbooks and department mandated curriculum and blah blah blah. So much for my sanity.
TGIF
Guess what... it is Friday! An I have a week off for Thanksgiving due to furloughs.
This post will lack my normal flair. Why?
I have sinusitis, oh joy! I lived off of throat lozenges and tissues at work yesterday.
My son was up until 2:30 am tossing and turning and crying and screaming. He was drinking water like a fiend and refused to let go of his sippy cup all night.
So we are tired and I couldn't take work off because to order a sub you have to use a school login on an employee laptop. Guess what? My laptop is at work since, well, I use it at work. So I have to go to work all day while I feel crappy and while my son is likely ill or in pain. :(
And farewell to Twinkie. Hostess is striking or closing or something and all Hostess products could soon be no more. I don't really like Hostess, but an orange cupcake or snow ball a few times a year is a treat, and twinkles are an edible American icon. My hubby sent me in to 7-11 to get twinkles an try only had one left. He was sad. So, goodbye Hostess.
This post will lack my normal flair. Why?
I have sinusitis, oh joy! I lived off of throat lozenges and tissues at work yesterday.
My son was up until 2:30 am tossing and turning and crying and screaming. He was drinking water like a fiend and refused to let go of his sippy cup all night.
So we are tired and I couldn't take work off because to order a sub you have to use a school login on an employee laptop. Guess what? My laptop is at work since, well, I use it at work. So I have to go to work all day while I feel crappy and while my son is likely ill or in pain. :(
And farewell to Twinkie. Hostess is striking or closing or something and all Hostess products could soon be no more. I don't really like Hostess, but an orange cupcake or snow ball a few times a year is a treat, and twinkles are an edible American icon. My hubby sent me in to 7-11 to get twinkles an try only had one left. He was sad. So, goodbye Hostess.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Irish cream
I have a love-hate with Irish Cream. It is like drinking velvet, and yet, like drinking paint thinner.
My first taste of liquor as at about age eight. My uncle had a trailer and invited me inside; this sounds like some creepy trailer trash "I got candy little girl" situation but I assure you it wasn't. He had a motorhome parked at my grandma's house which he used for hunting game. Anyways, I always loved to play in the motorhome because it was like the ultimate play fort, so I went inside and went into the fridge to get a soda. My family doesn't drink soda, so an ice cold Pepsi was a special treat. He then grabbed a glass and said, "hey, want a sip of Irish Cream? Just a teeny sip?"
I was lactose intolerant, something I didn't quite realize meant "milk hurts your innards" and instead thought of it as "my mean parents won't let me have milk". So when my uncle offered Irish cream, naive me thought, hey Irish cream must be some extra special kind of milk and my parents will never know! I was all excited that I'd get to drink milk, so I put the bottle to my mouth and took a huge gulp.
Ahh the cooling coating tastiness of, what the heck? This "Irish cream" stuff began to burn my throat and I rushed to the sink to spit it out. "I think your milk went bad" I cried, as my uncle broke out into fits of laughter. He explained it was not milk but alcohol and that was why I was supposed to have the tiniest sip. I recall telling him that they shouldn't trick people by naming it after some kind of foreign milk.
And so, even to this day I get a little twinge whenever I have Irish cream.
My first taste of liquor as at about age eight. My uncle had a trailer and invited me inside; this sounds like some creepy trailer trash "I got candy little girl" situation but I assure you it wasn't. He had a motorhome parked at my grandma's house which he used for hunting game. Anyways, I always loved to play in the motorhome because it was like the ultimate play fort, so I went inside and went into the fridge to get a soda. My family doesn't drink soda, so an ice cold Pepsi was a special treat. He then grabbed a glass and said, "hey, want a sip of Irish Cream? Just a teeny sip?"
I was lactose intolerant, something I didn't quite realize meant "milk hurts your innards" and instead thought of it as "my mean parents won't let me have milk". So when my uncle offered Irish cream, naive me thought, hey Irish cream must be some extra special kind of milk and my parents will never know! I was all excited that I'd get to drink milk, so I put the bottle to my mouth and took a huge gulp.
Ahh the cooling coating tastiness of, what the heck? This "Irish cream" stuff began to burn my throat and I rushed to the sink to spit it out. "I think your milk went bad" I cried, as my uncle broke out into fits of laughter. He explained it was not milk but alcohol and that was why I was supposed to have the tiniest sip. I recall telling him that they shouldn't trick people by naming it after some kind of foreign milk.
And so, even to this day I get a little twinge whenever I have Irish cream.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
When dreams come true
Some say I was lucky as a child. You must be spoiled, they'd say. Everyone was jealous that I was an only child, but all I wanted was a sibling. I had this idealized vision of a Leave it to Beaver type of hunky dory family relations, a sweet and funny sibling would be like a permanent slumber party...awesome!
It seemed like my dream was this close to coming true when my dad told me he had been married before, and had a little boy. I tried to ask him why I'd never met him, why no one spoke about him, how old he was...I was eager for every little detail to paint my dream, but my dad was like a closed book and never mentioned it again.
I would sometimes imagine what it would be like to meet this mysterious half-brother, what he might look like, and what games we might play. I could show him my tree fort and we could build bike ramps together. We'd go camping and hiking and chase after the dogs. I sometimes even had imaginary conversations with him, and imagined his responses and expressions.
When I was a teenager, I still knew not to approach my dad about the subject, so I went to my mom. Maybe she knew something I didn't, I thought. She told me we had me once before, that I was about five or six and he a few years older. She didn't have any real details; just that we'd met briefly and that he looked like my dad somewhat. I racked my brain trying to remember meeting him. I had to remember meeting him, I mean; I yearned for such a thing since I could remember so how could I forget such a thing? I told my mom she was wrong. We either hadn't met, or I was a baby because I didn't remember it. I insisted that she was lying to me.
After I got married, I found a new hobby, genealogy. Well, it wasn't a new hobby but with the advent of Internet, suddenly I didn't have to rely on my senile relatives' confusing falsified stories. I could find the truth about everyone.
I tried to find my half-brother, but how do you find someone when all you know is their first name and mother's first name? It isn't much to go on. I sent out a message to the ancestry threads with what little I knew.
Years passed. And then one day I got an email. It said something like, "Hi I don't have Internet but was using a friend’s and searched my name. Is this for real?"
I got his phone number and sat done at the table and breathed, trying not to panic. I dialed the number and hung up quite a few times. Was it really my brother? What would he be like? Would he be excited to talk to me? Did he know about me? Tons of questions ran through my mind and my hand began to shake as I dialed the number once more. A man picked up.
It was him, but we both didn't believe it, like it was a prank. We knew so little about one another; we couldn't exactly fact-check. I barely even recall the conversation, I was so nervous. We talked maybe all of three minutes. It was exciting, but didn't fit my dreams. It was like talking to some random stranger.
A few years later, I found him on Facebook but his account was blocked, but his wife's was not. I emailed her, thinking she'd think I was some stalker. A few long weeks later (I may or may not have checked my Facebook every hour) she responded, and he friended me and we talked on the phone once again. He had a lot of the same interests as my dad. We again didn't talk much though, guys often don't talk much and my dad hates the phone, so he probably does too. Again, it wasn't some heartwarming talk with "reunited" as the sound track. But then again, what do you say to someone you've never met but dreamed of for thirty years? What does he have to say, being the child dad didn't abandon?
I did find out though, that we may indeed have met, but even he didn't remember it. If we met, he was no older than six and I, no older than two. Take that, mom!
For a few weeks, I obsessed over his photo in Facebook like some tween might obsess over Bieber. What parts of his appearance did he share with my-our- dad? How did we look similar? If we met again, would we instantly "click" and hug and cry like they do on talk shows? I thought of what clothes I'd wear to our reunion, what photos I would take, how our conversation might go. Again, I was back to age five, dreaming about a brother, just this time I could use his real image and voice.
We still have yet to meet and whenever we talk (maybe once a year, very brief) I initiate contact. I feel our sappy reunion may never happen, and I will continue this life with this ghost of a sibling. However, I try and remain positive. I have a lot of joy in a reunion, and he has some pain. He has a wife with a chronic illness and just too much on his plate to accept some unknown sibling into his life.
It seemed like my dream was this close to coming true when my dad told me he had been married before, and had a little boy. I tried to ask him why I'd never met him, why no one spoke about him, how old he was...I was eager for every little detail to paint my dream, but my dad was like a closed book and never mentioned it again.
I would sometimes imagine what it would be like to meet this mysterious half-brother, what he might look like, and what games we might play. I could show him my tree fort and we could build bike ramps together. We'd go camping and hiking and chase after the dogs. I sometimes even had imaginary conversations with him, and imagined his responses and expressions.
When I was a teenager, I still knew not to approach my dad about the subject, so I went to my mom. Maybe she knew something I didn't, I thought. She told me we had me once before, that I was about five or six and he a few years older. She didn't have any real details; just that we'd met briefly and that he looked like my dad somewhat. I racked my brain trying to remember meeting him. I had to remember meeting him, I mean; I yearned for such a thing since I could remember so how could I forget such a thing? I told my mom she was wrong. We either hadn't met, or I was a baby because I didn't remember it. I insisted that she was lying to me.
After I got married, I found a new hobby, genealogy. Well, it wasn't a new hobby but with the advent of Internet, suddenly I didn't have to rely on my senile relatives' confusing falsified stories. I could find the truth about everyone.
I tried to find my half-brother, but how do you find someone when all you know is their first name and mother's first name? It isn't much to go on. I sent out a message to the ancestry threads with what little I knew.
Years passed. And then one day I got an email. It said something like, "Hi I don't have Internet but was using a friend’s and searched my name. Is this for real?"
I got his phone number and sat done at the table and breathed, trying not to panic. I dialed the number and hung up quite a few times. Was it really my brother? What would he be like? Would he be excited to talk to me? Did he know about me? Tons of questions ran through my mind and my hand began to shake as I dialed the number once more. A man picked up.
It was him, but we both didn't believe it, like it was a prank. We knew so little about one another; we couldn't exactly fact-check. I barely even recall the conversation, I was so nervous. We talked maybe all of three minutes. It was exciting, but didn't fit my dreams. It was like talking to some random stranger.
A few years later, I found him on Facebook but his account was blocked, but his wife's was not. I emailed her, thinking she'd think I was some stalker. A few long weeks later (I may or may not have checked my Facebook every hour) she responded, and he friended me and we talked on the phone once again. He had a lot of the same interests as my dad. We again didn't talk much though, guys often don't talk much and my dad hates the phone, so he probably does too. Again, it wasn't some heartwarming talk with "reunited" as the sound track. But then again, what do you say to someone you've never met but dreamed of for thirty years? What does he have to say, being the child dad didn't abandon?
I did find out though, that we may indeed have met, but even he didn't remember it. If we met, he was no older than six and I, no older than two. Take that, mom!
For a few weeks, I obsessed over his photo in Facebook like some tween might obsess over Bieber. What parts of his appearance did he share with my-our- dad? How did we look similar? If we met again, would we instantly "click" and hug and cry like they do on talk shows? I thought of what clothes I'd wear to our reunion, what photos I would take, how our conversation might go. Again, I was back to age five, dreaming about a brother, just this time I could use his real image and voice.
We still have yet to meet and whenever we talk (maybe once a year, very brief) I initiate contact. I feel our sappy reunion may never happen, and I will continue this life with this ghost of a sibling. However, I try and remain positive. I have a lot of joy in a reunion, and he has some pain. He has a wife with a chronic illness and just too much on his plate to accept some unknown sibling into his life.
I can make it just one more day...crap...year
Disclaimer, I wrote this on 11/9 and my computer and internet had a fight and lied to me, claiming it posted.
So first of all, I got called a b!tch today by my sutdents. a lot. I got my name erased from the board. My laptop unplugged. Fuk you written on the board. I HAD to respond to fuk you. Seriously that is what it said, not f u ck but fuk. I said to the class, "seriously/ You're in an English class. Whoever wrote tis cannot even spell the offensive term they're trying to piss me off with." Or something like that.On that note....My big secret thing I was deciding...if to keep my job.It stresses me out.My son has issues at daycare; he was biting himself and covered in bruises.Hubby could not take any more time off work to rescue my son, or he'd lose his job.I love teaching but this job....umm....yeah....it makes me want beer. At lunch. Which I can't do.I struggled all yesterday with the choice- stay or quit? And I knew quitting meant never. teaching. again. But I was ready. My heart was in it. I'd quit. I'd quit for myself, for my family, and be a stay at home mom. I was ready.So I was ready to quit yesterday, went in ready to quit and had to wait till the end of the day with lack of time. I counted the minutes till the dismissal bell. I survived today just barely...just thinking "only tomorrow and its over". You can do it, I told myself. It felt so liberating, to wake before dawn knowing I could sleep in soon. The kids throwing paper wads, cursing, talking over me would soon vanish. To know my son would be okay and I'd never have to worry. I'd miss teaching but it was in the cards...I'd be just a mom. And then I was told the whole process of quitting can take months. Months. Like until March. School gets out at the end of May, so why create drama and hatred and suffer till March when I can leave quietly into the night in May?Ugh. So I'm staying and throwing a flip the switch (replace sw with b). No more Mr. Nice Guy. We will practice enering the class until we have it right. Then if they interrupt my instruction, back to entering the class and guess what? That same lecture. Again. Till then can compose themselves correctly. I even have a yard duty whistle which I am not afraid to use. I will no longer say "be quiet. I'm waiting." Nope. Sure we will ose a day of instruction but I hope to gain a day of sanity and peace.
So first of all, I got called a b!tch today by my sutdents. a lot. I got my name erased from the board. My laptop unplugged. Fuk you written on the board. I HAD to respond to fuk you. Seriously that is what it said, not f u ck but fuk. I said to the class, "seriously/ You're in an English class. Whoever wrote tis cannot even spell the offensive term they're trying to piss me off with." Or something like that.On that note....My big secret thing I was deciding...if to keep my job.It stresses me out.My son has issues at daycare; he was biting himself and covered in bruises.Hubby could not take any more time off work to rescue my son, or he'd lose his job.I love teaching but this job....umm....yeah....it makes me want beer. At lunch. Which I can't do.I struggled all yesterday with the choice- stay or quit? And I knew quitting meant never. teaching. again. But I was ready. My heart was in it. I'd quit. I'd quit for myself, for my family, and be a stay at home mom. I was ready.So I was ready to quit yesterday, went in ready to quit and had to wait till the end of the day with lack of time. I counted the minutes till the dismissal bell. I survived today just barely...just thinking "only tomorrow and its over". You can do it, I told myself. It felt so liberating, to wake before dawn knowing I could sleep in soon. The kids throwing paper wads, cursing, talking over me would soon vanish. To know my son would be okay and I'd never have to worry. I'd miss teaching but it was in the cards...I'd be just a mom. And then I was told the whole process of quitting can take months. Months. Like until March. School gets out at the end of May, so why create drama and hatred and suffer till March when I can leave quietly into the night in May?Ugh. So I'm staying and throwing a flip the switch (replace sw with b). No more Mr. Nice Guy. We will practice enering the class until we have it right. Then if they interrupt my instruction, back to entering the class and guess what? That same lecture. Again. Till then can compose themselves correctly. I even have a yard duty whistle which I am not afraid to use. I will no longer say "be quiet. I'm waiting." Nope. Sure we will ose a day of instruction but I hope to gain a day of sanity and peace.
Epic fail
I wrote (ahem bragged) on Facebook how I had found a Thanksgiving tasting at my lover grocer's. I'm a sucker for Sam's club samples, Trader Joes samples, and any free food in little cups because, well, who doesn't love free food?
So I was super excited to find a gourmet tasting with nearly two dozen samplings of gourmet food and wine. There were arancini, pecan pies, organic turkey.... I listed all I ate on Facebook to make others jealous of my tasting experience.
Yeah...damn you autocorrect. As hubby drove us home alon bumpy windy mountain roads, I wrote my Facebook post and auto correct corrected "duck" into...ummm....dick.
My phone wouldn't let me edit or delete my post where Im bragging about delicious dick at the grocery store. Nope. I am permanently placed I. The cyber space hall of fame for talking about delicious samples of dick.
Sigh.
And I don't even really like duck (as in, quack quack) but I bragged nevertheless because you usually get samples of cheap crappy stuff, not gourmet duck.
And that, my friends, is why it is wrong to brag.
So I was super excited to find a gourmet tasting with nearly two dozen samplings of gourmet food and wine. There were arancini, pecan pies, organic turkey.... I listed all I ate on Facebook to make others jealous of my tasting experience.
Yeah...damn you autocorrect. As hubby drove us home alon bumpy windy mountain roads, I wrote my Facebook post and auto correct corrected "duck" into...ummm....dick.
My phone wouldn't let me edit or delete my post where Im bragging about delicious dick at the grocery store. Nope. I am permanently placed I. The cyber space hall of fame for talking about delicious samples of dick.
Sigh.
And I don't even really like duck (as in, quack quack) but I bragged nevertheless because you usually get samples of cheap crappy stuff, not gourmet duck.
And that, my friends, is why it is wrong to brag.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
I swear I am packing to move
Hubby will be mad. I have barely packed in two hour's time. The house looks the same. We are moving tonight.
Below are images of why I haven't gotten very far. It's not for lack of trying.
You can see my son ON the kitchen table. This happens every time I turn myself around to pack something.
Then, he decides what to pack in the box. You can't quite see, but he is putting his shoes in the dishes box. And my bra, my shoes, his car, the utensil drawer of the dishwasher, his bottle, and he even tried to pack the dog. No joke. But an ornery 70 lb shepherd is quite immobile so he gave up.
Then, boxes make great toys and seats and stages for dancing, especially the box labeled "danger and fragile" full of wine glasses and knives.
So, my dear readers, back me up when hubby says I got nothing done.
Below are images of why I haven't gotten very far. It's not for lack of trying.
You can see my son ON the kitchen table. This happens every time I turn myself around to pack something.
Then, he decides what to pack in the box. You can't quite see, but he is putting his shoes in the dishes box. And my bra, my shoes, his car, the utensil drawer of the dishwasher, his bottle, and he even tried to pack the dog. No joke. But an ornery 70 lb shepherd is quite immobile so he gave up.
Then, boxes make great toys and seats and stages for dancing, especially the box labeled "danger and fragile" full of wine glasses and knives.
So, my dear readers, back me up when hubby says I got nothing done.
And so I procrastinated
I have to do things in a predetermined un-budge-able order; yeah I'm a bit kooky. Like, when I clean the house I have to do dishes, wipe the counter, vacuum all rooms, and the proceeds to do whatever else needs cleaning.
I'm pretty sure I am moving, and went to get boxes and covertly ran in stores to take handfuls of ads to use for packing fragile things. I want to pack the kitchen dishes first. But I have a bunch in the dishwasher that need to dry first. I can't pack anything else until the dishes are packed. Why? Because; that's why. My brain can't get past "pack dishes". And then I'd pack clothes right now, shoving them into garbage bags, but most of our clothing is in our bedroom/home office and hubby has meetings non stop for 4 more hours.
I can't pack anything else until I can get to the dishes.
I can't clean the house cause our vacuum is where we are moving to; not here.
So I have nothing to do.
Sometimes I hate my brain.
I'm pretty sure I am moving, and went to get boxes and covertly ran in stores to take handfuls of ads to use for packing fragile things. I want to pack the kitchen dishes first. But I have a bunch in the dishwasher that need to dry first. I can't pack anything else until the dishes are packed. Why? Because; that's why. My brain can't get past "pack dishes". And then I'd pack clothes right now, shoving them into garbage bags, but most of our clothing is in our bedroom/home office and hubby has meetings non stop for 4 more hours.
I can't pack anything else until I can get to the dishes.
I can't clean the house cause our vacuum is where we are moving to; not here.
So I have nothing to do.
Sometimes I hate my brain.
Monday, November 12, 2012
A what's it thingymajig called a liebster because I am awesome and wonit!
I won a liebster award!!! (Thank you a ton, Angela at
http://notappropriate4.blogspot.com/?m=1. Visit her blog she is awesome).
What is a liebster?
Well first, it is German for favorite and other happy words that make me think of rainbows and unicorns and good wine and laughing. Okay, it is an award supposedly from Germany that is part chain letter (without the pyramid scheme gimmick or bad luck for 13 years or a million dollars from Ghana. You don't even get a jelly of the month.) it exists solely to give brownie points of recognition for nifty, snazzy, awesome bloggers
http://notappropriate4.blogspot.com/?m=1. Visit her blog she is awesome).
What is a liebster?
Well first, it is German for favorite and other happy words that make me think of rainbows and unicorns and good wine and laughing. Okay, it is an award supposedly from Germany that is part chain letter (without the pyramid scheme gimmick or bad luck for 13 years or a million dollars from Ghana. You don't even get a jelly of the month.) it exists solely to give brownie points of recognition for nifty, snazzy, awesome bloggers
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Veterans
In honor of Veteran's Day, I want to reflect back to the veterans I know.
http://disorderlywanderlustblog.blogspot.com/2012/10/perspective-exersize-and-what-you.html?m=1. Talks about one veteran.
Another is a friend of my husband's too. He has Purple Hearts (yes, plural) and has been through tough times. After a bad divorce, he came to our place for a bit to get back on his feet.
One morning he needed to get to the vet hospital and it had snowed like mad. The berm was four feet high and full of ice, we were rendered immobile. He and my hubby picked at it as the doctor's appointment neared. The friend went Inside to get a cup of hot coffee and my hubby stood outside, nearly at the point of tears as he struggled against nature, the berm now growing as snow began to fall rapidly. He prayed for help; the strength to power through the berm. To just get his friend to the doctor on time.
Suddenly, our neighbor (a county maintenance guy) drove up in his plow and without even asking, he plowed out our driveway. For free. We tried to give him money, coffee, an offer of dinner and he refused. He drove away to plow the county roads and do his job, off into the snowy abyss. My husband was nearly in tears again.
That night the friend told me he was completing chemotherapy and had to get to his appointments. He is still among us, but he was humble and didn't want us to know his health problems and the severity.
Sometimes you get an answer and a miracle you never expected.
So to veterans, you are heroes to be remembered and honored, every day of the year.
(Why did I show a photo of people gazing at the shimmering Pacific? It was a beautiful moment, captured before I rounded the bend to meet my husband s friend, after his Veteran's bike run. I could hear the bets cheering and saw this image and thought: it says hope, peace, wonder, the past and future all in one. It was a beautiful sight for a beautiful moment, as I thought, wow these veterans are awesome people.) and yeah I wrote this on Nov 11 but since I just write it, my iPhone changed the date to today.
http://disorderlywanderlustblog.blogspot.com/2012/10/perspective-exersize-and-what-you.html?m=1. Talks about one veteran.
Another is a friend of my husband's too. He has Purple Hearts (yes, plural) and has been through tough times. After a bad divorce, he came to our place for a bit to get back on his feet.
One morning he needed to get to the vet hospital and it had snowed like mad. The berm was four feet high and full of ice, we were rendered immobile. He and my hubby picked at it as the doctor's appointment neared. The friend went Inside to get a cup of hot coffee and my hubby stood outside, nearly at the point of tears as he struggled against nature, the berm now growing as snow began to fall rapidly. He prayed for help; the strength to power through the berm. To just get his friend to the doctor on time.
Suddenly, our neighbor (a county maintenance guy) drove up in his plow and without even asking, he plowed out our driveway. For free. We tried to give him money, coffee, an offer of dinner and he refused. He drove away to plow the county roads and do his job, off into the snowy abyss. My husband was nearly in tears again.
That night the friend told me he was completing chemotherapy and had to get to his appointments. He is still among us, but he was humble and didn't want us to know his health problems and the severity.
Sometimes you get an answer and a miracle you never expected.
So to veterans, you are heroes to be remembered and honored, every day of the year.
(Why did I show a photo of people gazing at the shimmering Pacific? It was a beautiful moment, captured before I rounded the bend to meet my husband s friend, after his Veteran's bike run. I could hear the bets cheering and saw this image and thought: it says hope, peace, wonder, the past and future all in one. It was a beautiful sight for a beautiful moment, as I thought, wow these veterans are awesome people.) and yeah I wrote this on Nov 11 but since I just write it, my iPhone changed the date to today.
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