HOUSEWIFE NEARLY WRECKS VAN EATING DIRTY GRANOLA BITE...

So I went to Wal-Mart today. Just to get a "few" items.

I didn't do too badly today, actually. I did, however, buy a ginormous container of coffee creamer because I knew we were about out. And this morning, I watched my husband put 6 teaspoons of creamer in his travel mug. SIX!!! So I said "Did you SERIOUSLY just put SIX spoons of creamer in your coffee? SIX?"

But I digress.

I also bought these new little snack thingys called "Morning Minis." Just another quaker oatmeal snack, but oatmeal is a good snack and I love it, so I picked up the peanut butter variety, 'cause my husband likes peanut butter.

And I'm thoughtful like that.

On my way out of the parking lot, I opened a pack of the Peanut Butter Oatmeal Minis to try them out. You know? To make sure they were good enough for my husband. I decided they were pretty good, so I finished the pack on my way to Hobby Lobby because it really was my snack time; the time at which, at home, I would be eating a cup of yogurt or some fresh fruit.

I "needed" to go to Hobby Lobby because their 12x12 paper is on sale - 5/1.00. And that's like...let's see...carry the one...that's like...well, that's a lot percent off!! Also, their candles are 50% off and I love their Butterscotch Sundae candles.

But I digress again (re-digress?)

Anyway, on my way to Hobby Lobby, I get to the last Peanut Butter Granola Bite thingy and I drop it on the floor of the van. I hate that.

So I immediately start counting backwards from 10, because everybody knows once food hits the ground you have ten seconds to retrieve it so you can consume it without fear of all sorts of horrible things happening to your digestive tract. Except, according to my brother the Master Sergeant, Army brats get 20 seconds.....

And the pressure of finding that Peanut Butter Granola Bite, before reaching the end of my countdown, was enormous.

Because, dang!

They're pretty good!!

And I failed. I did not find that nugget of food before counting off ten seconds. I did, however, notice that the floor of my van, on the driver's side, is astoundingly clean. I had to wonder for a moment if I was driving to Hobby Lobby in the wrong van. Until I glanced into the back floorboards and noticed the same crunched up Doritos, 2 water bottles, a Gatorade bottle, and a single powder blue fuzzy glove that have been there most of volleyball season. Whew!! What a relief. I was in my own mobile pigsty after all.

But no matter how many times I tried to lean over and scan the floorboard, while driving, I could not find my peanut butter granola bite. And I couldn't feel around with my feet, because that would crush it and besides, that would just be unsanitary. I mean, it's one thing to eat a piece of food off the floor of my van, but to eat one that's been touched by the bottom of my shoe...?

I think not.

Finally, at the last stoplight before entering Hobby Lobby's parking lot, I unbuckled my seatbelt and leaned WAAAAAAY forward and felt around under the seat.

And found my food!!! (Cue Hallelujah chorus here)

I gave it a quick once over and popped it in my mouth. So, I had counted to ten about 12 times?
It was worth it. And I probably have about 12 hours before the first wave of nausea hits.

And on another Hobby Lobby note: I spent $8.77, and felt pretty smug because the lady in front of me had just spent $219.00. TWO. HUNDRED. NINETEEN. DOLLARS!!!

But I bet she doesn't eat dirty food.

ANOTHER CONFESSION...

I have another confession to make.

And you really must keep this to yourself because what I'm about to tell you would be considered heresy in these here parts.

See, I love winter.

This is a VERY unpopular opinion to have in central Illinois. It would be like walking into Hillary Clinton's campaign headquarters and yelling "Georga Dubya rocks!"

But I can't help it. I love winter.

I love the snow. I love drinking hot cocoa and hot coffee while the wind howls and the snow swirls outside. I love having our whole family contained at home on a snowy winter night. I love the challenge of finding things to do inside for days on end; although, the older I get, the more of a homebody I become and I see it as less of a challenge with each passing year. I love the comaraderie that comes from sharing "tales of survival" with our neighbors after we've all made it through the most recent snow storm. I love reading The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder every year since I was in the fourth grade. I love looking out my back window and seeing 5 or 6 neighbor kids trudging through our yard on their way to our back hill to sled. I love how they look like multi-colored, walking marshmallows in their snow suits, mittens, hats, and scarves. I love that I no longer have to bundle my kids up for them to go outside in the winter. I love the pure silence that encompasses the world in the early morning hours after a night of snowfall. I love opening my pantry and freezer and seeing that we are well stocked and ready for whatever the weather may bring.

I love winter, and sometimes I think I don't want it to end.

But then one day, in late February or early March, I walk outside and there is a subtle difference in the air. The wind is still blowing, but it doesn't bite my cheeks. There is a softness to the air that wasn't there the day before. Maybe I'll spot a lone tulip that has poked its head up and is waiting patiently in the snow for its day to shine. There is something in the air that is telling us that our winter efforts will be rewarded with sunshine and warm breezes. There is something that is telling us to be patient, that it is just around the corner - the renewal we call spring. And then I realize that I am, after all, ready for winter to end.

And I will have to make yet another confession, though this one is not so controversial.

I love spring.

"OUR STANDARDS ARE SO HIGH, THEY ARE NEARLY UNATTAINABLE..."

Anybody care to take a guess where I heard that quote?

Anybody?

Could it be the Secret Service?

CIA?

Harvard Medical School?

Yale Law School?

Army? Navy? Air Force? Marines?

That would be No. No. No. No. No no no no.

I heard this highly thought provoking statement on "The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders."

Now, I realize to make a point about this I have to make another confession about watching trashy television. So here it is. One day after exhausting myself ignoring the laundry and pretending the bathrooms were clean enough, I sat and flipped channels for a couple of minutes. And lo and behold, on CMT, was this show about becoming a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader. And, like most trashy television, it mesmerized me and I couldn't stop watching these poor young girls who have made it their life goals to become a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader. I wanted to grab my daughter and sit her down beside me and say "This is what you SHOULD NOT aspire to be. This is what a shallow and superficial life looks like."

I do realize that some of these young women are "working" at this job while they go to school. And I realize that these young women do some worthy work. They visit our troops. They perform for charity. I realize all of that and I commend them for it.

But aren't there other ways to do worthy work without squeezing your pom pons into a micro-uniform and dancing on a football field to basically sell sex?

If these girls want to dance, could they not attend a performing arts school and aspire to become a dance teacher, and perform in community theaters?

Here's what got me. One of the directors/choreographers, while talking about one girl said "Boy, she's big isn't she? She has a stomach on her." OK. The poor girl about whom they were talking was probably 5' 8" and weighed 135 pounds. She had a gorgeous figure. If somebody said that about me, and I looked that good, she'd be picking my rings out of her teeth.

And these are WOMEN BEING THIS HARD ON OTHER YOUNG WOMEN. I just wanted to scream through the television screen to these young women and tell them "Go home! Put on some clothes and go to school. You're beautiful the way you are."

And then, as the directors were making another very difficult decision about which of these girls to cut, one of them said "The thing is, our standards are so high, they are nearly unattainable."

NNNYYYAAAAGGGGGH!!!

Are you kidding me? Uh, ladies? You're not training them for NASA, or medical school. You're not training them to protect our president. You're not training them to teach our children one day.

You're training them to smile big and kick big. And by the time they're 27 years old, they'll be considered washed up and they'll all hate themselves because they've spent the previous few years being told to lose five pounds and flatten their stomachs when they already look great and are in better shape than most people. Oh, and they won't remember what a brownie tastes like. And then they'll raise their daughters to be the same way, and we will have a whole new generation of girls with their very special definition of "high standards."

I think I will stick with instilling mediocre standards in my daughter - like four years of college and a job that requires her to be fully clothed.

I'M PRETTY SURE I'M SCHIZOPHRENIC

So, I've been reading over my posts about my school history and here's the thing.

It's boring. I was a boring kid. So until I find a way to present it in a way that makes it sound better than it was (without falsifying anything, of course) - my school years will be put on hold.

Becaue I believe in presenting only the best to my ones of readers.

So now on to my own mental self diagnosis.

I am pretty sure I'm schizophrenic. Before we had children I worked with real-live schizophrenics so I know whereof I speak (whereof I speak??)

My schizophrenia manifests itself when I am cleaning house. See, I can't seem to stay on one house-cleaning task until it's done.

You know how "they" say things like "while you are cleaning, when you come across things that need to be taken to another room, put them in a pile and return them in one trip; so you will save yourself many trips out of the room you are cleaning." You know how they say that?

Well, I can't do that. I can't let things pile up becaue then I don't feel like I'm accomplishing anything in that room; so I take things where they belong as I come across them. Plus, it's a little bit of exericse, especially if it involves the stairs, if I make several trips. The problem with this schizophrenic approach is that I get distracted in the room to which I'm returning things, which usually leads to another distraction, and so on and so on.

Here's an example.

I need to mop the kitchen floor, so I fill my bucket and get out my mop. I put all the chairs on the table and all the barstools on the counter. Then I notice there are some tennis shoes lying on the kitchen floor that belong upstairs. On my way upstairs I notice a stack of towels that belong in the master bath. So I grab the towels too. I drop the tennis shoes in the appropriate bedroom and then head to the master bath to put the towels away. While in the bathroom, I notice that I haven't put away my curling iron from the morning so I grab that and put it away. While putting the curling iron away, I notice the sink needs to be wiped out, so I grab the cleanser and wipe my sink. While I'm at it, I wipe Paul's sink, and then decide I might as well wipe out the tub. While wiping out the tub, I notice we are out of liquid soap, so I grab the empty bottle to throw it away, then notice the bathroom garbage needs to be emptied, so I grab a garbage bag and empty the bathroom garbage. Then I open the cabinet to get more soap to put on the tub and notice there are plenty of bottles of lotion in there. So I grab a bottle of lotion to stick in my daughter's room. I open the door to her room and realize she has some laundry that needs to be done. So I grab the laundry and head to the laundry room, which is off the kitchen. I pass the mop water and throw in the laundry. Only there's a load that needs to go to the dryer; and a load that is already in the dryer that needs to be folded. So I get all the laundry sorted and bring out the load to fold. There is no place to fold it since there are chairs on every surface in the kitchen. So I head to the dining room.
You all know what kinds of things end up in my dining room. So I fold the clothes and then set about returning various and sundry items to their proper place from the dining room.
Which leads me to find even more tasks that I have to get done.
Then I realize I'm hungry, so I head to the kitchen to grab some lunch only to find a bucket of cold mop water waiting for me. I look at the clock and say "Oh, I started this two hours ago" while slapping my forehead with my palm.
Then I pretty much repeat the process in a variation of the same theme.

It's a good thing my husband has never said anything even close to "What did you do all day?" Because the best I could probably come up with would be a very tentative "um....I put my curling iron away...."

See, housework can be very tiring and confusing and you must be at your physical and MENTAL best before you tackle it.

That's why there are many days I choose not to take the risk.

I'M FEELING BLUE TODAY...

Navy blue, to be exact.

We've been invited to the retirement ceremony (reception following) for a lifetime Navy man.
His title, according to the invitation, is Damage Controlman Chief Petty Officer Mark A. O____.

We are touched to have been included on this guest list; and we certainly look forward to witnessing this ceremony.

But I have no clue what to get this man for a gift.

He is one of my son's wrestling coaches - on a volunteer basis.
He is a volunteer fire fighter, and former EMT.
He is the father of my son's best friend.

Trying to decide what to get a man who has served his country for all of his adult life, serves his community, and gives his time to coach teenage boys is quite a task. But there's more to this man that makes ANY gift seem absolutely and totally...well....just NOT ENOUGH.

See, he saved my son's life one night.

Now, my husband probably thinks I overstate this and; to protect my son's privacy I won't go into details, but I feel ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN he saved my son's life or, at the very least, saved us from a very tragic outcome.

And when I think of what I can do for this man now, my head starts to ache, my throat swells up, and I get a tightness in my chest that makes it hard for me to breathe, because the emotion of what he has meant to my family, especially to my son, is too much for me to contain.

What do I get this man to honor him during this proud and awe-inspiring phase of his life? What do I get him that says "Thanks for serving our country. Thanks for working with these kids every day on the sport they love. Thanks for serving our community like you do."?

What can I possibly give him that says "Thank you for saving my son.....?"

If I thought cutting off my arm would be an adequate "thank you," then I'd cut it off. I've said it a few times to my family...."I'd cut off my arm for that man and his family..."

For the rest of my life, there will be room in my home and in my life for this man and his family, no matter what, no matter when. For the rest of my life I will remember his sacrifice and compassion. For the rest of my life I will feel that lump in my throat when I think of what he did for us.

Yes, I have put similar words in a letter to him and his wife, hoping to convey these words that simply seem impossible to convey. But, there are times when it would just be easier to open our hearts and let somebody read what is written upon it.

And so I am feeling (navy) blue today because I am at a loss. Some ideas are starting to trickle in, but nothing, NOTHING, seems adequate.

Any suggestions?

HEY....YOU WANT SOME CHEESE TO GO WITH THAT WHINE?

As captivating as my school history is sure to be to my ONES of readers, I am taking a break from writing about it to whine.

That's right, I'm going to whine.

Because, you see, I feel like poo. In fact, I've felt like poo since Christmas.

But, wait. Can I say poo on here?

My teenage son says poo all the time and it is so funny coming out of his teenage mouth:

"Dude, taste this. It tastes like poo."

"Man, that lunch today tasted like poo."

There are many worse things a teenage boy could be saying.

Anyway, I have felt like poo, on and off, since Christmas.

On Christmas Eve, I started feeling bad and just assumed it was stress, because I was entering into the time when we would be spending many hours with extended family. Enough said. And I have come to realize that stress, for me, manifests itself with physical pain very much like the body aches that accompany the flu.

Miraculously I started feeling better on Christmas night, as we returned from our parents' houses, then started feeling bad again the next weekend as more family started pouring into our home. See? Stress. But the "stress" kind of sick is usually just kind of an achey-all-over-and-I-need-to-go-to-sleep feeling.

Then, I got sick the weekend of January 5th. I know the date because that is when Paul and Kayla went on a ski trip; and Blake was going to be gone much of the weekend watching a wrestling tournament. I had many wonderful things planned for myself to pass the time. I was going to organize the stamp room. I was going to go to Hobby Lobby. I was going to make a batch of cookies.

But instead, I lay abed (lay abed? where did that come from?) with chills and nausea and body aches. This time I decided I had the legitimate flu, which really made me mad, because I had had the legitimate flu SHOT. You're not supposed to get the flu, if you have the flu SHOT. If I had been strong enough I would have filed a complaint.

Then the last weekend in January I got sick again - chills, nausea and body aches. It was either another bout of the flu, or food poisoning. I missed dinner at my mom's house which did not earn me any points, but again all I could do was LAY ABED and feel extremely sorry for myself and wonder what on earth was causing me to be sick all the time.

Then last night - guess what.

I started feeling sick again. It always starts the same - with this horrible bloated feeling in my stomach, not quite nauseaous but like I need to belch. And belch and belch and belch. I know, it's not a pretty picture, but I'm just tellin' it like it is. Except I can't belch. And then I know I'm going to spend the next day or two feeling lousy, with nausea, body aches, fatigue....

And pair that with what is not a pleasant time of the month for me anyway, and I just want to LAY ABED and moan "why me? why me?" Again, I'm just tellin' it like it is.

My poor husband called me this afternoon to see how I was doing and I started crying. I had felt it in the back of my throat all day, and then I heard his voice and I turned into a seven year old and said "I'm f-f-f-fine," and I couldn't stop the tears.

Because, COME. ON.

This is getting ridiculous. I am now at the point where I'm trying to decide if I need to go see my doctor and see what is going on with me. Is it just a fluke, and I really am catching every bug out there? Is it psychosomatic and I really AM losing my mind? But I really do feel lousy. All I've had to eat today are a few crackers and some tylenol. NOTHING even sounds good. That right there should be a red flag for anybody who knows me. AND I cancelled my hair appointment today, so my hair looks like poo.

And poor Kayla. I had to take something to her at school today and I'm surprised the poor child could hide her horror when she saw me. There I was in the same sweats I had slept in, no make up, hair plastered to my head under my furry faux leopard hat - because it's like TWELVE degrees here and I do not want to add an earache to all my other ailments.

I always tell our kids that they need to represent our family well, especially at school, and then I show up looking like....like....well....like poo.

My poor children.

BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME...LET'S TALK ABOUT ME

I have been admiring the new clock on my wall; albeit a little sheepishly. Oh, the lengths of embarrassment I will face to achieve The Look in my house. But achieve it I did.

I am a little hesitant to post right now because I feel tremendous pressure about the contents of my blog. See, a friend of mine told me the other day that she really enjoys my blog and that it brightens her morning when she reads it. And suddenly I felt a heaviness about me, when I realized the responsibility I face in making somebody's day a little brighter.

I mean do any of you realize the pressure one faces when one is responsible for the emotional upswing of hundreds...I mean tens....okay ONES of people (ones??) It is EX. HAUST. ING.

But I will soldier on.

So back to my school history. We left off at sixth grade so we are now entering into the school years in which my daughter finds herself now....Junior High.

Seventh Grade - By seventh grade I had really settled in with a nice group of friends in our new town. I had started new friendships over the summer and, to this day, maintain contact with one of the girls who was my best friend through junior high and high school. Her name is Nicki.
I loved school. Seventh grade, for the most part, was the beginning of what would be a wonderful school career for me. I loved everything about school from the time I started seventh grade until I graduated high school. Looking back, I know it was because my home life was dysfunctional and chaotic, but that's another post.
I tried out for the volleyball team but didnt' make it. So I, along with a girl name Janie, decided we'd be scorekeepers and managers. That was the beginning of another perfect friendship that lasted all the way through high school. Janie was FUNNY and we just cracked each other up all the time.
At that time, our junior high was 7th, 8th, and 9th grades. My brother was in 9th grade, and my other brother and sister were in 10th (no, they're not twins....long story). The second semester of my seventh grade year, they closed down our junior high building. It was finally condemned by the state because the fine people of our hometown continually voted against a referendum to give us a new school. As a side note, it was about TWENTY years later that the town finally approved a new school and that was only because somebody actually set fire to the old building and it burned to the ground.
Anyway, so the junior high students had no school building for the last semester of my seventh grade year, while the city worked to get it up to state code. So they put us on split shifts with the high schoolers. The high school students went to school from 7:30 a.m. until noon; and the junior high students went from 12:30 until 5 p.m - in the same building. If we had track practice or anything, it was held at 10:30 in the morning - BEFORE SCHOOL.
This was a wonderful set up for my one brother and me, because we got to sleep in and sit around all morning watching "Please Don't Eat the Daisies" and "Gomer Pyle, USMC." It was a great set up for my older siblings because they had the whole afternoon to do homework and to watch "General Hospital" and "The Mike Douglas Show."
I don't think it was a very good set up for my mom, having four teenagers on two different schedules. I cannot imagine how she juggled that....

Eighth Grade - In eighth grade we got to go back to our old building which had been made new. Although only half of it was made new; the other half was closed down. It was a HUGE building so that wasn't a problem. In eighth grade I ran track and was in student council, both of which I had done in Seventh grade. I also competed in a literary contest, in which I memorized a 'one person play' kind of thing. I played a nervous mother who was in the audience of a literary contest, watching her daughter participate. It was a "humorous piece" and I got first place so I guess I had the knack for it.
In eighth grade, two friends and I were given the privilege of running copies on the mimeograph machine in the teachers' work room. Remember those? They left the paper kind of wet, and the ink was purple, and you always smelled it when you were handed your paper?

Did anyone else smell it to get a whiff of the wet ink?

Anyway, we were MIMEOGRAPHING these papers and the machine got jammed, and all the paper literally became airborne as it came off the roller and started flying into the air. And it quickly picked up speed! We were slack jawed and helpless. I do not know how we fixed it, but when it was finally over there were literally hundreds, and I do mean hundreds, of papers on the floor, on the work tables, on the storage cabinets. It was like an adolescent Lucy and Ethel (plus a friend) had been set loose in the teachers' work room.

And it smelled like wet ink.

Ninth Grade - Wait...my husband just said "boy you're writing a long one today..." so maybe I should post High school tomorrow?

Should I? Shall we take a vote?

All those in favor of my stopping now, please raise your hand....

Wow, that's a lot of hands.....

WHY DID I BOTHER GETTING UP FROM MY NAP

Before you read this post, go down and read the previous post first.

Did you read it? Are you done?

I'm having a hard time concentrating because my husband is doubled over laughing at me right now.

Here's why.

I showed him the clock. I was explaining to him, how the stupid clock manufacturers screwed it into the box and I couldn't get it out of the box, and if HE couldn't get it out, I was taking it back and demanding a full refund and....

He simply turned the little plastic thingy around one of the screws and pulled it out....

Then he almost became too weak with laughter to do the others, so I meekly and with as much dignity as I could muster, unscrewed the other two BY HAND, and pulled the clock out of the box. But I had tried to turn those littley plastic thingies ealier and it just seemed like they kept turning and turning and turning with no success (said in a high pitched whiney voice).

Can somebody tell me WHY there were screws in there in the first place?

And can somebody tell me HOW to get this husband of mine to stop laughing at me?

WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER LEAVING THE HOUSE?

Can somebody please tell me WHY, when I go out in the mild sleet and freezing temperatures to have my daughter's cell phone serviced for the THIRD time in SEVEN months, that the "Service Personnel" merely call the warranty department for me and hand me the phone; thereby leaving me to have to take the phone apart and read them a microscopic 21-digit number, describe to them the color of the "little rubber dot there to determine if there's water damage," and then tell them "what color the battery prongs are to determine if there is corrosion...," confirm our billing address and last four digits of our social security number, only to be told that they will send us a replacement phone; and that while the phone itself will be new, the software within it has been reprogrammed, and that if they determine the phone is indeed damaged, and it was our fault, they will put the charge on our bill; leaving me to wonder if I will be receiving part of the service guy's paycheck for doing his job for him today? And while you're at it could you tell me if that is the longest run-on sentence you've ever come across?

Could somebody please tell me why these people are allowed to call themselves "Service Personnel" and why these companies are allowed to call these places of business "Service Centers?"

Thank you A T & T. You were absolutely NO help whatsoever to me today. And when our contract is up, you're history.


Now.

Could somebody please tell me WHY when I finally break down and buy a REALLY BIG clock for our family room, spending every last dime of my birthday money for it, I bring it home to find it is actually SCREWED INTO THE BOX, making me have to use THREE different screw drivers and a paring knife to try to get that thing out of there, only to give up and prop it on the floor, still screwed into the box, to consider taking it back to the store and getting a full refund?

Could somebody please tell me WHY the powers-that-be thought that clock was going to get stolen, so they took the precaution of screwing a 24-INCH DIAMETER clock into its box; while I carried a lipstick around the store for 2o minutes that had absolutely no packaging around it at all and would have very handily fit into my purse?

Can somebody tell me WHY I should be doing anything right now besides going to bed for a nap and wondering why I even bothered to leave the house today?

I didn't think so.

MORE ME ME ME....ME IN SCHOOL

When I think of how quickly my kids are moving through their own journey through the hallways, I find myself looking back to myself in the stages they are in now.

Thus, this post - my school history. And NO I did not attend school in a one-room scoolhouse, contrary to what my kids think. Nor did I sit in class and listen to lessons on how the earth is flat; although I slipped in right under the wire on that one.

Kindergarten - My kindergarten teacher was Miss Hall. She had long blonde hair done in a Farrah flip. We had a white bunny as a classroom pet. That's all I remember.

First Grade - My first grade teacher was Mrs. Harris. She was nice and she was BEAUTIFUL. My mom really liked her because she had taught my brother and worked very well with his learning disabilities. In first grade I went to the third grade class for reading.

Second Grade - This was an eventful year for me. That was the year a girl named Julie slapped me in the face while we were in line to come in from recess. We argued all the time. She was the kind of girl who threw horizontal tantrums, even in second grade, and bullied her parents. And slapped other children. Our mothers got together to discuss our encounter, and they spent the entire time in our driveway, in the car. I was crying in the house the whole time, because I was sure Julie's mom was beating up my mom. You know, figuring the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
After Christmas break, in second grade, my class returned to school to find out our teacher, Mrs. Best had died. Our teacher's aide became our full time teacher. Of course there were no counselers brought in to help us deal with our confusion or process our loss. Nobody offered to answer questions. We were just told she had died and that Mrs. Rinker would now be our teacher.
Second grade was also the year I won the all-school spelling bee. The last remaining speller, besides myself, was an eighth grader. And I beat her. I remember spelling the word, watching the teacher nod her head that it was correct, and then seeing and hearing the whole student body rise up from the gym floor in a huge wave of cheers.
And I collapsed into the teachers arms and cried, because I had been so nervous and was so glad it was over. But I made my mark on that little grade school by being the second grader who beat the eighth grader in spelling. The word was "mischievous."
I always say I peaked very early in life.

Third Grade - My teacher that year was Mrs. Brandt. Her daughter,Patty, was in my class, because there was only one class of each grade. Mrs. Brandt's teenage son was accidentally shot to death that year. My mom took me to their house after the funeral so she could leave food and pay her respects. And so I could talk to Patty. I remember asking my mom "What do I say to her?" As an eight year old, I had no idea how the death of a son and brother would effect that family. But now I think of them often and wonder about that impact.
Also in third grade my classmates and I sat in our chairs and listened to the fourth grade teacher scream at her students next door. And we dreaded Fourth grade.

Fourth Grade - We got the screaming teacher. That's all I remember. Ironically when Paul and I returned to the area after college and started attending church, there was the screaming teacher and her husband. She wasn't screaming in church, though.

Fifth Grade - In fifth grade I had Mrs. Foster. My aunt and uncle, who are twins and are only 8 years older than I, also had Mrs. Foster. They called her Bird Legs. I never did. In fifth grade, I started playing the clarinet. And I started wearing panty hose.

Sixth Grade - This is another pivotal year in my life. My teacher was Mr. Coppage and he was really nice. For math, Mr. Kilcullen came to our room. He was always smudged with chalk dust. Sixth grade is when I got my first and only detention - a noon detention. With most of my classmates. For our math test, covering 4 digit numbers, we were told that the comma wasn't necessary for four digit numbers, so we could put one or not. So 98% of the class, including myself, chose not to use the comma. And we got noon detentions for not using the comma. Where is the justice?
Sixth grade is the year we moved. We moved on December 2, 1978. And I hated school for the rest of the year. It is really, really hard to be the new girl at that age; although, I ultimately adjsuted much better than my siblings who were in 8th and 9th grades. My sixth grade year is why we have made such an effort to have our kids attend school in one place from kindergarten through senior year.

That's enough about me. I know. I can't believe I'm saying that.

Tomorrow - junior high and high school.

Oh, the anticipation.

IT'S ALL ABOUT ME...MY QUIRKS PART I

This is my birthday week, which I actually keep forgetting. But it is, so for the next few days, I am going to post things all about me. ME, ME, ME, ME.

Oh, wait. This blog is all about me anyway.

Oh, well. More me. That's what I need. More Me. Can't we all use more Me.

So I will start by listing my quirks, 'cause that seems like a common thing to do on blogs. Notice I named this post ....MY QUIRKS PART I. That's because I'm sure once my family read this, they will want me to add a few (dozen.)

So in no particular order, here goes....

Let's see...quirks? I'm thinking...I'm thinking.... Gee I must be quirkless (quirk free?)

Right, family?

1. I have a ridiculous love of ZipLock bags, especially the gallon size ones - probably because they represent organization, and even though I'm not a very organized person, they give me a very small sense of being so.
I went into my own private little depression when Wal-Mart stopped carrying the snack size ones. Thankfully, our kids had already outgrown them, but still...

2. Ditto with paper towels. I reach for them way too often, when I should be grabbing a sponge or a dish cloth, therefore causing us to have to buy them too frequently. But that is because....

3. I can't stand to have a wet, or even damp, dish towel draped over the kitchen sink. If it is wet, even if it's been used to wipe up clean water, I toss it in the laundry. Drives my husband crazy.

4. I am afraid of thunderstorms.

5. Ditto spiders, but...

6. Now that I am a mother, I have to pretend I'm not. Except with the spiders. Now that Blake is bigger than I am, I can make him kill the bugs.

7. Whenever I crack eggs, for whatever reason, I stop and wash my hands with soap and water before continuing my work. I don't rinse them or wipe them on a towel. I wash them. And I have taught my kids to do this too.

8. I don't, however, have any problem EATING that raw egg once it's been mixed into cookie dough.

9. Even though I'm not very organized, I always know where something is - "move that basket...now lift that stack of papers...see that little envelope? It's under there." Is that a quirk or a gift?

10. All of my clothes must face the left when hanging in my closet. When I was pregnant with Kayla, I went into a hormonal snit when I noticed Paul had not hung Blake's little toddler clothes all facing to the left.

11. I must make my bed every day. Rain or shine, sleet or snow, sick or well. Ok, if I'm DEATHLY sick, I won't make it, but 99% of the time, I make my bed. If it's been a crazy day, I have been known to make my bed at 6 p.m. even though I will be crawling into it in a few hours. I know. Crazy.

12. I love all boxes, bottles, cans and jars and am always thinking of ways to use them as gifts. I have a stash of them in my craft room just waiting to be turned into decorative gift holders. I have to be sneaky about this, because if I'm not careful, Paul will grab them first and throw them in the garbage or the recyle bin. And then I say something like "Did you take that cute little bottle the caramel syrup was in...'cause I was going to put Valentine m&m's in it." And he'll say, I put it in the recyle bin." And I'll say, through clenched teeth "Ok. If I have taken the time to wash it out and set it on the sink to dry, it means I want to keep it. That was going to be a REALLY cute gift. OKAY?"
Something like that.

13. I am a grammar snob.

14. Also a water snob.

15. I love McDonald's Filet-O-Fish sandwiches. LOVE. THEM. Every time I eat one, as I put the last bite in my mouth, I say "Man I could eat another one of these." Once, when I was pregnant I went back and ordered a second one. It's a delicious memory.

16. I can't think of a 16....

But I'm sure I'll be back with an addendum...

B.A. - BLOGAHOLICS ANONYMOUS

In my entire blog history - my blistory - I have left two negative comments on other blogs. I wouldn't even call them negative, more like...um...dissenting comments.

The first time was when I read a post on an issue about which I am very passionate. The author is also very passionate about this issue and our two passions didn't quite agree. I should have put more thought into my comment, but I allowed myself to shoot off at the mouth, so to speak, and fired off words that reflected my passion. The author of the blog responded and I responded yet again, this time with a note along the lines of "you are so right. I admire you're convictions."

The second time, I thought for a couple of days about my comment because I truly respect the passion with which some of these people write about certain issues. I left my comment in what I hoped was a respectfully worded manner. The author of THAT blog then proceeded to make a nasty reference to my comment in her blog - referring to it as though I had attacked her. It seems that some bloggers can rant and rave and spew venom and belittle those who have differing beliefs, but if someone dares to leave a comment that does not mesh perfectly with their own mindset then we are ignorant, lazy, and just plain unworthy to be part of the blogosphere.

They are like the playground bully who hits and kicks and terrorizes others but, when somebody fights back, turn into whimpering victims who can't understand where the anger is coming from.

I admire people who have such passion for something that they will devote nearly their entire blog to that subject. Really, I admire that a lot. I don't always agree with their opinions, but I admire the passion. What I don't admire is intolerance. Intolerance for differing opinions, WHEN STATED RESPECTFULLY. I can't stand intolerance.

There are two things about my "dissenting comments" that I'd like to point out.

First, I tried very hard NOT to attack the author. I didn't attack them as a person. I disagreed with their viewpoint, and I said so, but I didn't call them self centered, or say they favored one child over another, or call them a whiner, or tell them to buck up and deal with it. Maybe I attacked their ideas. But I didn't attack them. Big difference.

Second, I signed my comments. Well, I didn't sign my first and last name, but I left my HW, which would lead them back to my blog, where they could leave further comments for me, as could other readers. They at least had a way to identify the person who left the comment. I did not hide behind "ANONYMOUS."

Because really, what is the point of posting a nasty comment as ANONYMOUS? What do you think is going to happen to you? It's not like somebody is going to wait for you after school and give you a black eye. It's not like they can see you through the computer screen and know exactly who you are.

Or can they......?

If you have something to say, and you feel strongly about it, say it and identify yourself in some way. Give people the opportunity to respond to you. Give people the opportunity to read your blog and find out where you're coming from on things. Give people the opportunity to see what a perfect person is like. Becasue most ANONYMOUS commenters who have nasty things to say come off as though they believe themselves to be perfect; that's why they seem to think it's ok to attack the PERSON and not simply disagree with the idea.

So, come on ANONYMOUS. It's time to show your face. It's time for you to step up and identify yourself to all these people to whom you've been so mean.

We double dog dare ya.

THE FORMAL DINING ROOM..

I always wanted a formal dining room.

Even though we are not formal people. Really. We're not. But I just liked the idea of having a formal dining room. Because it seemed very traditional. And I like things that are traditional.

So we have one now. Only it's not formal either. We don't have a china cabinet or matching sideboard. We don't have silver candlesticks. We don't have a damask table cloth (what IS damask, anyway?)We do have a small little cabinet thingy that we bought on one of anniversaries. It doesn't match our table, but I like it like that.

We rarely eat in the formal dining room. We usually eat at the bar for most meals, and only use the dining room for company and then it's to spread the pizza out or line up the sandwiches.

But I have a formal dining room, and it's the first room you see when you come into the house. I would say the people who built this house must have been on drugs, but that would be us. And except for a couple of days in 1991 and again in 1994, when I was status post c-section, I have never used any mind altering substances. Neither has my husband. Now that we are raising teenagers, though, that may change...

So since the dining room is the first room you come to upon entering our house, it has become the drop off point. I set a little rug in one corner by the door so we can line our shoes up, and then I said "One pair of shoes down here per family member. I. MEAN. IT. I. AM . NOT. KIDDING." Thinking that would curtail the clutter.

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.

At this very moment, my dining room table is holding a backpack filled with various and sundry school items, a stack of stuff including a binder, an algebra book, and a really cool pencil pouch with groovy polka dots on it; and a canvas tote bag - black with bright pink hearts all over it - a tissue (Good Lord! We're Pigs!) and my center piece - a long narrow wooden tray with three candles in tins lined up on it. Thank goodness the candles are not lit or the house would go up in flames like well...a house afire.

At this very moment, my dining room FLOOR is holding a pair of size 13 Nike hi-tops, a pair of size 13 "stompin' boots," a pair of suede lace up boots with little pom pons on the ends of the strings, a pair of "Tuggs", which are faux Uggs from Target (our name for them, clever aren't we?), a new pair of black and pink softball cleats, a pair of plaid Rocket Dogs tennis shoes, a pair of Lands End boots that zip up the back and really aren't very comfortable but they were on clearance and they are cute, ANOTHER black tote bag with multi colored hearts and a little silver trim on it; a hooded sweatshirt, and a volleyball bag, completely full and ready for a game. Oh, and one 9-year-old yellow lab. The only things missing are the wrsestling bag and the other back pack, but I am NOT asking any questions.

Why am I letting you know all of this? Well it's not for posterity, I tell you that.

It's so when those of you who know me see me next, you'll understand why my forehead is black and blue.

That's from banging my head repeatedly against the wall while repeating to myself "This is the phase of life I'm in. This is the phase of life I'm in. This is the phase...."

That would be the kitchen wall, because it's too crowded in the dining room.

I HEART RUBBER STAMPS...

I am a rubber stamper. I make greeting cards and other gift items. I love stamping. LOVE. IT.
I could stamp all day and all night. Although I always feel like I should hang my head in shame when I add "um...no...I don't scrapbook. It's not that I don't think scrapbooks are perfectly lovely. Some of my best friends are scrapbookers. And I certainly don't think there's anything wrong with scrapbooking. It's a wonderful creative outlet. Really. I totally respect scrapbookers. It's just that I...well...I...I just don't have the patience or the discipline to sort all my photos from the shoeboxes they are in and then put them in a book. I mean, where would I start? It's just not for me, but I'm glad YOU enjoy it. Where would we be without scrapbookers?
Um..no...I am not a scrapbooker. But I hope we can still be friends."

Anyway, when we finished our basement a couple years ago my husband built me a stamp room. And yes, that's what we call it.

"Where's Mom?" "In the stamp room." "I'll be in the stamp room kids." "Um, boys, you can't use the stamp room as part of your X-box party..." I love my stamp room. LOVE. IT. Other stampers envy me my stamp room.

No brag. Just fact.

And I am ever so grateful to my husband. So much so that every now and then, I sneak up behind him, while I'm on a break from stamping, throw my arms around his waist and whisper seductively in his ear "Thank you for my stamp room." Gets his motor running every time.

One of my favorite parts of the stamp room is the extra desk we put in. On the wall of cabinets, we put in two desk tops, so I could have a friend stamp with me or, more importantly, my daughter. And every now and then, when she can fit me into her busy schedule, she sits at her desk and does a project. And, tonight being Thursday, she might just fit me in tonight, so we can watch CELEBRITY APPRENTICE while we stamp.

Anyway, I just finished my first major stamp project. I made 53 Valentine cards for the kids at the children's home where my mom works.

For a long time I've really wanted to start doing something meaningful with my stamping supplies and, if I have any, talent. Finally it dawned on me that I could start with the kids at this
children's home.

And I had so much fun. At first I worried I wouldn't be able to come up with enough "boy" looking Valentine cards, then I decided not to fret over that and just go with the ideas that came to me. You know, freely accept the creative energy that floated into my brain.

Yeah, that's it. Creative energy floating into my brain.

So if you notice my hands are stained with purple ink, or red, or pink. That's what it is.

Creative energy.

THERE WAS A TIME...

There was a time when this kind of winter weather would have passed me by without much of an impact on me. I'd alter my day a bit; dress the kids a little warmer, putting them in turtle necks and sweatshirts, thick winter socks. I'd go without a few groceries that I thought I needed just to avoid getting two little ones out in the ice and sub freezing wind chills. I'd "break the rules" a bit when it came to playing at home. We'd build a blanket fort, bring out the macaroni bucket, watch videos. And more videos. We'd ALL get a nap after lunch.

We'd stay in where it was warm. And safe.

Yesterday, as winter weather began to settle in, Kayla's volleyball game was cancelled. And was I ever relieved; because I was nervous about putting my daughter on the team bus in that sleet and those freezing gusty winds which the news had said "could be hazardous for high impact vehicles like buses and semi-trucks." Kudos to the SV school district for cancelling that game. The bad weather had barely started and somebody had the foresight to keep those kids home. So many times, the powers that be will take the chance that the weather won't get any worse, only to have kids and their families on the roads in dangerous conditions. This time their prediction was spot on.

So the game was cancelled and I got to feel that brief moment of relief.

Until I realized my other child was out in that weather. He was at wrestling practice 15 miles away. Thank goodness he had come home and taken the jeep before he went, so at least he wasn't driving that little mustang that makes me crazy nervous. But still. He is 16 and a half. This is his first winter of driving. He was driving on county roads, not major highways. And he's my baby boy. Even his dad was worried. I know because his dad called and said "is Blake home? These roads are bad." So if DAD was worried, then surely MOM had a right to be a complete basket case.

Of course, everyone made it home safely and we settled in for the night and I resisted the urge to bake cookies and we listened to the wind howl and howl and howl all night long. And before falling asleep I turned to my husband and said "Thank you for our wonderful home."

And I found myself thinking all evening long "There was a time, when this weather didn't set me on edge like it does now."

There was a time when I was able to keep both my chicks in the nest, protecting them from winds that howl and snow that bites. There was a time when the closest they came to being out in the elements was pressing their faces against the picture window while they watched the blowing snow. Or they were only out in the snow when I chose to spend 20 minutes bundling them up so they could go out and stumble around in it for 10 minutes, before they decided it was too cold after all; so we'd come in and place mittens and socks on the heat registers, find our favorite blankets and settle on the couch to watch Barney.

There was a time when they were only out in the world when I was right there beside them, watching, monitoring, teaching, protecting.

But now?

Now is the time when they are out in the elements, more and more, without me. And for longer periods of time.

Now is the time when I have to bury my fears and let my face be masked in confidence. Confidence in them. Confidence that they will make the right choices. Confidence that they will heed my usual words as they leave the house "Represent us well. Be safe. Be smart."

As I send them off under an umbrella of prayers and wonder where the years have gone.

THE CONFESSION

I have been living a lie.

An e-lie if you will.

There is something I have been keeping from the blog world that I finally must confess to you.

So far I have just been too ashamed and embarrassed to put forth the ugly truth about myself. I fear abandonment (by all 4 of you) I fear social isolation (e-social isolation? social e-isolation?) I fear finger pointing and snickering.

But, in order to have inner peace, I must let you know this awful truth about myself.

I do not know how to blog.

There. I said it. It's true. I'm a blog phony. A big fat blog liar. A bliar?

Oh, I can put the words to paper, so to speak; and some even say I have a way with words. But that is all I know how to do. Get the words out there. But there are so many other things I can't do.

I can't post photos. Ok, I did it once but it took me FOREVER. And the entire time I was doing it, I kept thinking there had to be a better way. Surely the bloggers who post photos on a daily basis do not go through this daily - with mulitple photos. I know I need to invest the time into really looking and studying and learning this stuff, and soon it will be second nature. But I am impatient and old and set in my ways, and I just don't have the energy to tax myself that way.

I can't link to other blogs or websites. I have looked in the "help" section of blogger and the only thing that accomplished was making my eye twitch. Again, I know this will just require a little bit of time on my part, and the end result will be worth it. Think of the wealth of information that I can open up to you, my readers, when I learn how to link. You lucky people you.

I can't seem to lure commenters onto my blog. Probably because of the other things I can't do. I know this doesn't really matter, because this blog is mainly for my children - a legacy. But still it's nice to know you're not speaking to a brick wall. My own husband doesn't even comment, which shouldn't surprise me, because when he travels, his e-mails home are never more than five words "arrived fine will call later" A man of few words - in person and on the keyboard.

I'm sure if I could post photos my comments might increase. Then again, I don't have small children, and those are the photos people love. My children are teenagers and, even though my 16-year old son runs from a camera, I think they're gorgeous. But most people don't look at pictures of teenagers and send comments like "so cute!" or "can't wait til mine can do that?" I don't have cows or mustangs. My husband is not a cowboy. I don't have triplets. Or a new baby.

But I still want to post photos. Mainly for that legacy thing.

In light of all this, I want to confide in you about someting else.

I'm thinking of breaking up with Blogger. Please don't tell yet. Blogger is just too complicated. I won't go into the details, but we've been having problems for a long time. Blogger's been good to me, in some ways, but I think the end is near. Out of respect for Blogger and our time together I will let Blogger know first the reasons for our breakup. I have been composing the letter in my head for a while. I know I need to let Blogger down gently, but I also know it must be a clean, swift breakup. And I don't really want to leave Blogger until I have someone else lined up. I am a girl who needs a word companion. I know that is weak. But I have to have somebody waiting in the wings before I break off this relationship. I just hope I don't have to get a restraining order.

There. It's all out. Judge me if you will. Now I am going back to bed and regret clicking on "Publish Post."

I (heart) JENNIE FINCH...

I have started to love Thursdays. Thursdays are fun. Thursdays are exciting and full of anticipation. Thursdays are the new Friday. Well, not REALLY, but they are something to look forward to.

Why?

Because that's when we watch CELEBRITY APPRENTICE.

The kids and I love that show. LOVE. IT.

Several years ago, when The Apprentice first started, the kids and I sat down to watch the premier episode because Daddy was traveling. And, although, it may not have been the best television for elementary school kids; it was a fun and relaxing way to spend an evening at the (near) end of a week without Daddy.

We haven't always been able to catch it in following seasons, because the kids have become busier. And if the kids are busier, mommy and daddy are busier.

Now, though, we are watching it, because each of the kids has a favorite celebrity on it.

Kayla loves Jennie Finch, the Olympic gold medal pitcher for the U.S. Women's Softball team. And Blake likes Tito Ortiz, a UFC fighter. I watch it because I love to hate (well not Hate exactly...) Omarosa. That woman....

Anyway, last night Blake and I sat side by side on the basement sofa and watched celebrity apprentice. At eight o'clock, I plopped myself on the couch and said "Celebrity Apprentice...I expect complete silence" (a running joke in our house) and lo and behold, Blake comes down the stairs ready for an hour of television himself. Not up in his room, but in the basement. Right beside me on couch. And I knew he was there for the entire hour because he came prepared. With a snack size bag of gardettos, cheetos, and sun chips (that would be THREE snack size bags of various chips) and a 54 ounce bag of skittles.

So I said, "Don't you think you should have some fruit, or maybe another bowl of that stew we had for supper? There's yogurt. Want a yogurt? You know, if you're hungry?" And he said "If I had stew for supper, I don't need it again. Besides, I'm not really hungry."

Oh. Okay. It was just that wheelbarrow full of food that fooled me.

Anyway, Blake and I sat on the couch and laughed and snarked and commented on how we miss Gene Simmons because he was so funny. And we listened to Stephen Baldwin laugh and didn't say a thing because I was laughing so hard at Stephen's goofy laugh. And I tried to eat a few Skittles but they were just so sweet they made my teeth hurt - which is why I bought those at Sam's instead of m&m's - because I won't suck Skittles up like a hoover, and with m&m's my kids wouldn't stand a chance. Neither would my hips.

And the only thing wrong with the evening was that the sofa, on my right, was empty. Kayla was babysitting and couldn't be there. She did, however, come home and say "Did you see that Jennie got fired? I'm so mad." And I said "Yeah, she's too nice. Donald Trump knew it. He knew she didn't belong in that world. She's better off."

Yes, Jennie, you are too sweet for the business world. You are too genuine. We HEART you, Jennie.

Last week, Kayla and I watched CELEBRITY APPRENTICE in my craft room, while we, well, crafted.

And it was the best evening EVER!!!

Because Gene Simmons was SO FUNNY. And I could hear both my kids laughing, Blake from the family room and Kayla from the desk beside me. And no matter how old your kids get, their laughter is pure music.

And, my stars, Kayla has a great laugh. When she was four years old, our friend used to love to hear her laugh. He'd say "She's got the biggest laugh for such a little girl. I love that laugh." She laughs from the belly - a bubbling source of joy that cannot be contained. It's pure and genuine and is guaranteed to make even the grumpiest person smile.

Whether she's laughing at herself (which she can do better than some adults) or recalling a funny experience with a teacher, or relaying something embarrassing that happened to a friend; her laugh is quick and sparkly. It's contagious. It reaches every bit of her body and then radiates outward to anybody who's lucky enough to be nearby. It reaches her eyes and makes them dance. And the accompanying smile? Lord, have mercy, is it ever sweet.

It makes my heart say "What a gorgeous smile. How will any boy ever be able to resist that?"

It makes my head say "What a gorgeous smile. We are so lucky not to have to put braces on those teeth."

So, even though Jennie has gone home to her husband and baby and awesome softball talents; and even though Gene Simmons has gone home to whatever it is Gene Simmons manages to do with himself now that he is a washed up rock-star; I will still look forward to Thursdays. And I certainly hope my kids do too. I am willing to bribe them with skittles until the final episode, if that is what it takes.

Because I believe in instilling certain family values in my kids. Like the importance of sugary treats and trashy television.

Yep. Mother of the Year, that's me.

NOW THAT'S OFFENSIVE...

So I just got a Lane Bryant catalog in the mail. I don't know why. I've never shopped at Lane Bryant. I do not wear the sizes that Lane Bryant offers. But there it was in the pile of mail.

Even though I don't wear their sizes, I looked through it because I like to look at any clothes.

I mean it was kind of like a mini shopping trip in my kitchen.

And that is when I became offended.

Lane Bryant is a store for plus size women. And from what I can tell in their catalog, they have some pretty clothes. Funny thing is - none of the models in the catalog were plus size models.
Seriously I don't think any of these women wore above a size 10. And I don't think that's plus size. In fact, it's probably small compared to the average American woman.

So why, in the name of all that is relaxed fit and stretchy, would Lane Bryant choose to put these obviously- not- plus- size- women in their catalog for plus size clothing?

Do NOT EVEN TRY to tell me there are not women out there beautiful enough to model for this catalog and TRULY wear their clothes. There are many, many, many beautiful women who are plus size who should have the opportunity to model the clothes this catalog offers.

Shame on you Lane Bryant. And shame on you models who took a job away from the women who truly deserve to model for this catalog.

I am tempted to track you all down and force feed you chocolate.

THE BIG QUESTION

Why, why, WHY, in the name of all that is on sale and going fast, can't I go to Wal-Mart and stick to my list.

WHY, must a list that started out like this:

milk
oatmeal
cookies/snack cakes
ketchup
laundry soap
corn
carrots

end up costing me $200? Two. Hundred. Dollars!!

Somebody stop me!

Obviously I have issues.

I have stock-up issues. I blame this on my mother's neurotic need to stock up on certain things. I stock up on different things, but still, I've obviously inherited it from her. I probably have the only husband in the world who says "Honey, we have too much food in the house..."

I have "I don't want to have to go to the store again" issues. If I am at the store, I wander the aisles thinking about what else I might need so I don't have to get out again.
I blame this on my husband's former travel schedule.

He used to travel for work quite a bit. I mean VERY. EXTENSIVELY. He went to Peru and Columbia quite regularly, and on short notice. He went to Pakistan and Brazil. He'd leave on Monday, come home on Friday, leave on Monday come home on Friday.....and I'd use his time at home to make sure I had everything I needed in the house before he left again so I wouldn't HAVE to run out with two babies to get crucial items. Because in January and February in Illinois, you don't want to have to bundle two babies up to go buy apple juice, milk, diapers and baby Tylenol during a snow storm. I always took the kids out while he was gone but I wanted them to be trips that I CHOSE to do - like the mall or McDonald's or the children's museum. It was one way to make a stressful time easier for me - eliminating any inconvenience I could because I had no backup.
Isn't it funny how we become entrenched in a certain mindset even after our circumstances no longer warrant it? I am still sometimes stuck in the "MUST BE READY FOR ANYTHING!" mindset. What an impact those years made on me.

Finally, I have "well, now we can afford it" issues. When the kids were little, we lived on a very tight budget so that I could stay home to raise them. I don't regret it for one minute but there were certain things the kids asked for that I would have to say "no" to because they were too expensive.

Like grapes.

Kayla loved grapes. And I almost always told her no we couldn't buy grapes, because they were usually $3.59 a pound or more, and then we'd buy apples. I always felt bad that I couldn't justify fresh grapes for my little girl. When they would go down to $2.59 a pound, I'd run out and buy them, cut them up and let her feast on grapes. But I wasn't going to go to work so that my children could eat grapes.
Which leads me to another question. Would young mothers today consider me a bad mom because I didn't stretch my budget to include more fresh produce for my kids? I was raised on canned fruit and so were my kids to a certain extent. In fact, I think most kids 15 years ago were, at least in my circle of friends. But fresh produce in this part of the country is pretty expensive for half of the year. And it's not always that good because of what it goes through to get here. So...am I a bad mother because I wouldn't buy grapes for my daughter when she was 3?

But back to the "well, now we can afford it" issue. Today I bought two fresh pineapples. Because Kayla has been enjoying fresh pineapple and I want to be able to keep it at home for her; because now we can afford it. I mean it's not a box of chocolates, or frozen pizzas. It's pineapple. So I bought two because she loves it, and so do I.

That, and I wanted to use my new pineapple corer.

Other things I bought,

dog food

ketchup, ranch dressing, and barbecue sauce - because they, along with maple syrup are like nectar from the gods for my family. Seriously my family are condiment junkies.

a space heater for the basement

a shower curtain for the kids' bathroom - because I am ashamed of the words that go through my head when I clean their shower and the "one-piece -with -the -look- of- two -panels -and- a -valance" shower curtain keeps falling in my face. I went with a plain straight shower curtain.

bananas
eggs
Mucinex - that stuff is NOT cheap
English muffins
canned soup

various other things that will make my husband do that thing with his eyes because we have too much food in the house. But, boy, wait 'til the next blizzard hits and we have everything we need. Who'll be complaining then, huh?

Oh, and guess what I packed in Kayla's lunch this morning.

Grapes.

Yep, life is good.

A LETTER TO FRITO LAY'S...

December 29, 2007


Dear Chester Cheeto,

First, thank you.

Thank you for your (NATURAL) White Cheddar Cheetos puffs. They are simply out of this world.

I enjoy these delicious puffs of white cheddary goodness for a number of reasons.

First, because they are WHITE cheddar, they do not leave an orange residue on my hands or mouth when I have eaten a few (dozen). They still leave a powdery residue but it doesn't show as badly when I wipe my hands on my pants.

Second, they are NATURAL - it says so right on the bag. Surely, that means they are a healthy snack. Right? So I can eat as many as I want. Right?

Third, they are just so darn delicious. But therein lies the problem.

See I can't stop eating them. I have been known to eat a standard size bag, which is 8.5 ounces, in two or three sittings. As I munch away on them, letting the powder build up on my fingers (invisibly of course) and wiping my hands on my pants, allowing my teeth to become coated in the (NATURAL) powder of white cheddar; I lose all track of time and reality. I allow myself to think I'm having a (NATURAL) snack.

I mean, at least I'm not eating the WHOLE bag in one sitting. That would be outrageous.

Right?

Imagine my surprise though, when I read the "Nutrition Facts" on the back of my bag of White Cheddar Cheetos Puffs and saw that there were "about 9" servings per container.

NINE?!!?

So that leads me to assume that there are people out there who actually stop eating these delicious powdery puffs after enjoying only "About 32 pieces."

ASTOUNDING!!

That also leads me to assume that this 8.5 ounce bag is not meant to be a "Snack size bag! Great for lunch boxes and after school snacks!"

OOOPS!!

I guess a snack size bag would be more like...say....1.5 ounces? (Sigh...that seems so small)

Which leads me to my request.

Could you please, PLEASE, in the name of all that is good and holy (and low fat and healthy) start making SNACK SIZE bags of NATURAL White Cheddar Cheetos Puffs?

I had actually stopped buying the NATURAL White Cheddar Cheetos Puffs for a long while because I could not trust myself to behave like a rational human being while they were in the house. I only just bought them this week to share with our Christmas company.

I'm generous like that.

So, if you would PLEASE start making them in snack size bags, I will start buying them again.


And again, and again, and again.


I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours covered in White Cheddary Goodness,

HW

...AS LONG AS I CAN HAVE YOU HERE WITH ME, I'D MUCH RATHER BE FOREVER IN BLUE JEANS BABE...

Blue jeans.

The quintessential comfort wear. The all purpose clothing. Pair them with a sweater for a day of shopping; a sleek blouse for a date with your husband; a school t-shirt and tennis shoes to sit on the bleachers at you kids' sporting events.

Ah, blue jeans. We all love them.

Except, well...I don't. At least not anymore.

In high school, back when Calvin Kleins were the most coveted article of clothing, I wore jeans everyday. Lee jeans. I never had Calvin Klein jeans. I think I had some Gloria Vanderbilt and some Vidal Sassoon (sp?), but no Calvins. Mostly Lee jeans. And I wore them with oxford blouses or polos, tucked in, a matching belt and white tennis shoes - the whiter the better. And we purposely bought our jeans too long so we could cuff them.

I guess I was semi-preppy. Not completely preppy because none of my tops had a little alligator on them.

Jeans were so easy back then. We bought our size, paired them with the appropriate top, made sure they were cuffed just right, shielded our eyes from the glare of our ultra white shoes, and went on our way.

Ah, the good old days.

Now jeans are just...well...stressful. Jeans have become a thorn in my side. My back side to be exact, and my waist and my thighs.

Let's start with the waist. Could waist bands get any lower? The first time I bought "below the waist" jeans, I knew I was entering territory that really should be off limits for 40 year old mothers of teenagers. Actually for any 40-year-old. It is not attractive to lift your arms and have your stomach show because your jeans are sitting too low on your body. Of course, not MUCH of your stomach shows if you happen to be wearing high waisted under pants, which evidently are not the foundation garment of choice when wearing the latest style of jeans. That is all I'll say about that.

When I wear the low waist jeans, as I am today because that's all that's out there to buy, I spend my day feeling as those I'm about to lose my britches, therefore constantly pulling up on my belt loops; or fearing that if I bend over I'm going to expose my backside to my children which would certainly send them running from the room, hands covering their innocent faces as they scream "MY EYES!! MY EYES!!" Or at least put them in therapy for a good while.

I do not need this added stress in my life right now.

Teenagers are used to these low waist bands because that is all they know.

But I am not a teenager. Nor do I want to dress like a teenager. I do not want to dress like my 13-year-old daughter. Not that I don't think she looks darn cute all the time, but she does not need a mother that dresses like her. She needs a mother that dresses like a mom. A mom who tries to look hip and stylish while still maintaining some sense of sophistication and appreciation for this phase of life. A mom that looks like a mom without wearing "mom" jeans. A difficult task.


Now we will talk about the "cut" of the jeans. There's boot cut, straight leg, flare, extra flare. Oh and the boyfriend jean. I don't know what in the world a boyfriend jean is. Since I don't have a boyfriend, I'm not going to worry myself over that.

I do know that the boot cut is made with a little flare at the bottom and is usually pretty long so you can wear them with those really nifty pointy, high heeled boots. Those boots that scare me.

Those boots that look so cute and, alright, sexy, but that I can't bring myself to buy because I simply cannot see myself spending a day in boots that squish my toes together and bring on a bout of vertigo. The kind of boot that would surely make my chiropractor and my podiatrist frown. If I had a chiropractor or a podiatrist.

But if you buy boot cut jeans, you almost have to have some sort of boot to wear with them to achieve The Look. Another level of stress in the blue jean dilemma.

Straight leg jeans are making a comeback. And I like those ok. These are made shorter than the boot cut jean, because they are meant to be worn with those cute little ballet flats. You know the ones that have no arch or support of any kind, therefore the enemy of all podiatrists, I'm sure; and are supposed to be worn without socks regardless of the temperatures outside. I have my straight legs on now. With socks and a pair of "mom" slip on shoes. Seems no matter how hard I try, I can't achieve The Look with any of my jeans. There is always one element of The Look that I can't pull off.

The Look. That is the problem. Designers are making jeans for a certain look. A look that can only be achieved by a certain kind of woman.

I am not that kind of woman; though I certainly envy that kind of woman.

I am just not cut out for today's styles.

I blame it on my jean-eology.

THE WRONGNESS OF IT ALL

Last week I heard the local news report the death of a Marine corporal in Iraq. He was from a tiny town near where I went to grade school. I remember thinking two things: "That's close to home" and "Corporal? That means he was very young."

This morning, the news reported that the body of this 21-year-old marine had arrived home and that his visitation and funeral would be held at the local high school. This made me think two things: "How tragic for parents to have to wait for their child's body to 'arrive home.'" and "High school? How heart wrenching."

There are, in my mind two reasons for the funeral to be at the high school.

First, in a tiny town like this there would be no other place big enough to hold the crowd of people coming to pay their respects. As one who has always lived in small towns, I think I am safe in saying that in this small town, most people knew this young man. They played sports with him. Or taught him in school or Sunday school. Maybe they gave him his first job. Maybe they disciplined him for adolescent mischief. Maybe they shared kisses with him after a high school dance. Maybe they drove around with him on Friday nights, cruising the small town square. Maybe they walked down the aisle with him for graduation. Or they worked with his parents. Or they baby sat for him. Somehow, they knew him. That is the nature of a small town. And in cases like this, I think it would be a comfort to his parents to have "everybody know everybody."

But to me the other reason for having his funeral at the high school is more heart wrenching.

High school was likely his most recent milestone in life.

Until he fought and died for his country.

A mere 3 years ago, he was probably sitting in class in a small school building in the heart of Amish country, surrounded by corn fields and family owned businesses; counting the days until Christmas break. Counting the days until graduation. A mere 3 years ago, he was planning his weekend. Basketball? Video games? Final exams? A mere 3 years ago, could he have envisioned life beyond this rural community? Could he envision the stark difference he would be facing when he arrived in Iraq? A mere 3 years ago, did he even know he would become a marine?

His funeral was not held at the church where he got married, because he had not yet had the chance to get married.

His funeral was not held at the church where his child was baptized because he had not yet had the chance to have a child.

He will not have co-workers at his funeral, because his co-workers are still in Iraq fighting this war. And he had not yet had the chance to decide on a civilian lifestyle, a civilian job where he would move on to another set of significant relationships.

He was still in the phase of life where his most significant relationships, besides his fellow marines, and his family, were most likely high school friends. Because that was his most recent milestone in life.

Until he fought and died for his country.

This is not about the rightness or wrongness of this war. Nor is it about the rightness or wrongness of the man who presides in The Oval Office.

It is about the wrongness of a life being cut short before milestones are reached. It is about the wrongness of a family having to wait for the body of their loved one to arrive home. It is about the wrongness of a mother having her heart wrenched out of her. It is about the wrongness of a father looking at the body of his son... marine... hero, and seeing a baby taking his first steps, a 5-year-old at a tee ball game, a teenager driving for the first time. It is about the wrongness of knowing there will never be grandchildren by him. There will never be another Christmas with him

It is about the wrongness of having to wonder, forever, about your child's last terrifying moments in life. Did he cry for his mother? Did he cry for a young sweetheart?

As one of our ministers said recently, death just feels wrong. No matter when, no matter who, there is a wrongness to death. To somebody, in some way, for some reason, there is a wrongness to any death.

And so today, as my son walked out the door, to get in the car with his best friend, and drive away to school, I wanted to follow him. Not to keep him at home, but to engrave in my mind his long lanky frame, backpack and wrestling bag both on the same shoulder, ball cap, high tops, football coat unbuttoned despite the freezing temperature....climbing into the car to head off to his day.

But I just stood at the door and watched. And saw a chubby toddler pushing a plastic lawnmower, a 6-year-old at a Chicago Bulls game, a 7th grader who broke his finger in kickball, a 16-year-old learning to drive....

And I thought of a heartbroken mother in a tiny town in the middle of Amish country who knows what it means to measure milestones, to measure life, by the blink of an eye.

BUYIN' THE BLING...

By noon today I WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN breathing easy after a frustrating week.

First there was the annual checkup. By the way, I almost went to that a day early. Wouldn't that have been fun? I would have looked pretty eager...

Yesterday my daughter stayed home sick from school. But I also had to go for my annual mammogram. Perhaps we'll talk about that another time.

Daughter is still home sick today, but I had to go to the grade school to do an ArtsPals presentation. I am involved in this group where we work with our Downtown Arts Council to present classic works of art to grade school students. I chose 3rd grade because my memories of 3rd graders are happy ones. The print was to be at the school waiting for me, and I was told "no I shouldn't pick it up early because somebody else may need it...." which didn't really make sense to me because each print was specifically chosen for each class and the schedules of each presenter were also carefully relayed to other presenters. It really went against my nature not to have the print at home for a few days so I could become very comfortable with my presentation.

Whatever.

The print wasn't at the school today.

I know!! Can you believe it? Those prints are NOT supposed to leave the school. I'm tellin'.

I was all ready with two activities for the kids to do that would familiarize them with the techniques the artist used. I had my note cards all ready to prompt discussion. I had traded e-mails with the teacher to schedule 30 minutes out of her busy teaching schedule.

And no painting.

So I told the teacher I could choose a different print and wing it, and there would be no activities, or re-schedule. We chose to re-schedule because the kids would really benefit more with corresponding activities. I was truly embarrassed and felt terrible for the mistake. I am still trying to get the bottom of the missing print.

So I left the school mumbling under my breath about "I thought I'd have this over with today and now I have to plan another day for this and what if I don't find the print for the TWO other presentations I already had scheduled for next week, and this wouldn't have happened if I'd been allowed to get the print two days ago so that I could be fully prepared and who would have the print anyway? Nobody else is supposed to present that piece. It is a THIRD GRADE print, for Pete's sake, and nobody else is scheduled to present it and so much for keeping each other informed on our schedules if somebody is going to take my print when I need it....grumble, grumble, grumble....

Then I drove to the mall because we are going to the company Christmas party tonight, and I "needed" some stuff to finish off my outfit. I needed some "diamond" earrings to go with my sparkly sweater. I found some very nice faux bling for around 10 dollars. I found some very nice black suede flats with a little shiny black leather on the toes, and finished with a bow. I really wanted the leopard print ones but they didn't have my size. Boy those were cute.

And I found a darling little party purse. It's red.

And that right there is the problem.

I just bought my fourth red purse.

I know. I have issues.

My first red purse was a gift from my daughter. She was about 8 when I showed her this purse I liked, so she got it for me for Christmas. A week before Christmas she said "Mommy I can't tell you what I got you, but it's red and it hangs from your shoulder." Tricky, wasn't she?

Then there is the more-maroon-than-red, red purse. It's a great size and shape and just an all around great purse. Can't remember where or when I got it, but I love it.

Then there is THE red purse. From Herod's. Of London. It is a darling purse and oh-so-chic. But it is too big and...um...sporty... for a holiday party.

Thus, the new red purse today. It is entirely too small for me to carry to anything but an office party, because I like BIG purses. But it is exactly what I had in mind and will be a great accent to my all black outfit. Well, all black except for the bling on my sweater and my ears.

So there you have it.

I've been a naughty, naughty girl.

Don't tell Santa.

I CAN'T BELIEVE I SAID THAT....

I'm going to give you gentlemen a chance to leave the blog because you won't be interested in this. Or if you are, you won't be able to relate. Or you might be embarrassed. So why don't you head on over to espn.com, or cnn.com, or the sofa and put your feet up with the paper. Go on. Scoot. This is girl talk.

Any men left? Are they all gone?

Ok. Good.

Today was my annual checkup. Yeah. I know. We all love them. My doctor schedules them for 9:30 or 1:30 so that they are the first appointment of his morning; or the first one after lunch, so we ladies don't have to wait very long.

You know. For the fun to begin.

I think that's really nice of him, actually. This is a family doctor, so he is also seeing babies, elderly people, men, women. So he sets aside certain times of each week, just for women to have their annual exam.

I really didn't have to wait long. I had to wait for a couple of drug reps to get done with him. My apologies to drug reps, but this drives me crazy. I especially wasn't thrilled to step on the scale while the drug reps were lingering in the hall right beside it.

Then I had to wait for a sweet older lady to give the doctor a bucket of homemade Christmas treats. It's that time of year. He actually gave her a hug and kissed her cheek for it.

Other than that, not a bad wait.

I always go to my annual check-up with a list of questions. And my doctor knows this about me, and I think he appreciates that I come prepared. Some years the list has been quite long. Today, he looked at my little index card and said "That's it?" And I said "Yep, no legal pad this time..."

So we get through all my questions (only 6 this year) and while I'm getting ready to "assume the position" I ask him if the socks are still on the stirrups.

See, he used to keep these socks on the stirrups so they'd be warm for women who were barefoot. They were just white men's crew socks. I always thought they looked tacky, even though I commended him for his efforts.

Turns out the socks are gone because some drug company has made stirrup covers, advertising a drug of course. I think it was Boniva. These covers looked like those little mittens you put on newborn babies so they won't scratch themselves. Except they were bigger.

I looked at the nurse and said "Those are still not very pretty. He needs pink fuzzy socks. You know? Soft pastel things that women will enjoy."

And from somewhere at the end of the table, doctor B says "Ok. I have until next November to get pink fuzzy socks. But you better notice them if I do that for you."

So I said "Oh sure, Dr. B. whatever it takes to make this experience better for YOU."

And he started laughing so hard he had to scoot his stool away from the table to compose himself.

Yep. I bet he'll remember today's visit for a while.

Lucky me.

THE MRI...

Magnetic Resonance Imaging (or Mom's Really Irrational)

Ever have one?

I had one yesterday. My second in 10 years. On my brain.

I've been having terrible dizziness and light headedness for about 6 weeks. The last time this started, my family doctor referred me to a great neurologist and she started me on some medication that helped tremendously. A few years ago, we started tapering off the dosage, and I did fine, but now the dizziness is back. I hope, pray, we can just increase the medicine again, but Dr. S wants me to undergo a few tests to rule out some things. I tried to explain what my self diagnosis was and that increasing my dosage was all that was needed; but she insisted on having it her way. Something about all those years in medical school and having so much intricate knowledge about how my brain works, blah, blah, blah, evidently makes her think she is right about this.

Whatever.

So the MRI. When they scheduled it, the nurse asked if I'd need a sedative to help me, in case I was claustrophobic. I said no but that I was dreading the noise more than anything. I know. Weird. The nurse seemed to think so too. But I am VERY sensitive to loud noises, due to my migraines, and that is what I could remember from my previous MRI. That machine is VERY loud. Plus, if they medicated me, I would be loopy for a while and I'd need somebody to go with me and I didn't think that was necessary.

So I arrive at the Imaging Center "15 minutes early to fill out some forms" only to find I was answering the same questions on the form that they had asked me over the phone on my "pre-screening call." Seriously. What's that about?

I changed into a gown and scrub pants. Let me just say - those scrubs are very comfortable. Are you allowed to wear those if you aren't in the medical field? Cause I totally am thinking of getting some. I mean if there's not a law or something.

So then I walk into the Imaging Room and look at the machine and all my confidence melts away. Not only does the memory of the noise start flooding back, but I see the table I will be lying on. It is about as wide as our piano bench. When you are having dizziness and balance issues, you do not want to be lying on a piano bench that will then be raised even further off the groud so they can scoot you into the tube.

Then the tech says I had to have something for my ears - "radio, television, or ear plugs." When I said "ear plugs, please," She said "REALLY?" I don't bother to explain that the noise of radio or television mixed with the EXTREME noise of the machine would be just the thing to send me into a migraine. So I put my ear plugs in and lie down. Then she brings the face cage down and I start sweating and thinking "I don't remember THIS; this isn't going to work...I cannot do this." Seriously it was like that thing they put on Hannibal Lector -is it Lector or Lecter? Hannibal the Cannibal - in those horrible Silence of the Lambs movies. Then she sticks these little pads up under the cage over my ears. I don't know if that was to further protect my ears from the noise of if it was to prevent me from moving my head. But I suddenly start feeling very helpless.
All this time I'm lying on the piano bench grasping the edges because my dizziness and panic have made me feel like I'm going to fall off.

Then she gives me this little squeezie thing and says "squeeze this if you need to come out. Of course if you sqeeze it; it will scare me to death."

Nice.

I tell her "I don't mean to be any trouble, but I am just much more anxious about this than I thought I'd be." So she says to just try thinking of other things "Are you preparing Thanksgiving dinner at home?"

"No."

"Do you work?"

"No."

"Wow you do have an easy life."

Now that kind of ticks me off but I can't jump up and throttle her because I am restrained with the face mask thingee. But it did give me an idea for a blog post.

So in I scoot to the middle of the tube. Ironically I start to feel more comfortable in there because I do not have the sensation that I am going to fall off the table. Plus there was a little fan blowing all around in there and the cool air felt nice. Hot flashes and panic don't mix.

And then the noise.

Good Lord the noise. There were four basic noises: staticky radio on high volume, obnoxious buzzer, jackhammer, and what I called the cobbler's bench, because it made me think of the little wooden pounding board (cobbler's bench) my kids had when they were little. The noises came in patterns. For one portion there would be seven loud buzzes in my right ear, then seven poundings from the cobbler's bench in my left. Seven buzzes, seven pounds. That went on for awhile.

Then the static.

Then the buzzing.

Then the jackhammer.

Then the pounding.

Thirty minutes of that, then I was scotted out so they could inject me with some dye; then scooted me back in for another 15 minutes.

Static.
Buzz.
Jackhammer.
Pound.

Repeat.

All the while I'm in there I try to keep my mind busy, first by singing praise songs in my head, then by thinking of my Christmas shopping list, then by composing blog posts. I spent some time trying to figure out how to scratch my chin without moving. Finally I decided to play some word games and went through the alphabet and came up with a noun, verb and adjective for each letter. I tried to think of obtuse words. I know. Weird again. But you spend forty five minutes restrained in a tube and see where your mind goes. Also, tell my what you do when your chin starts to itch.

After it was all over, she showed me some of the pictures, especially of my inner ear, where she had been instructed to get several shots. I tried really hard to see if there were any suspicious spots on the screen but... well... what do I know?

As I was leaving the parking lot, my husband called to ask how it went and to ask "So did they find a brain?"

Um...I forgot to ask.

I AM WITHOUT WORDS...

But apparently my son isn't.

Each week or so, he has to write a paragraph for English. I do not see these paragraphs until I sit down at the computer to proof read them for him. I have been struck by his use of words, his apparent ease in putting his thoughts on paper. At 16, he is a man of few words much of the time. But apparently when asked to put words to paper, he just has a way.

This past weekend, he asked me once again to proof read his assignment. The assignment was to write about your greatest moment, and what you regret in life. I asked him, before he started, "Are you going to write about winning regionals in wrestling?" And he said, "No, because I don't think I've had my greatest moment yet."

Below, is what I found, untouched by adult hands, when I pulled his paper up on the computer. I simply read it and sat silently for a moment and said to the empty room "I am without words." This is reprinted with Blake's permission.

Still waters run deep.





Blake W_ _ _
English 2

Persuasive Paper

11/17/07


In my short life I have experienced many highs and many lows. Has there been a moment or situation in my life that I would change or undo? Have I ever been so close to rock bottom that I would change a moment in my life? On a lighter note; what is my greatest moment? When have I been at my best? When have I been at the top?
American chess player and a grandmaster, Robert Byrne once said “The purpose of life is a life of purpose”. If we as a society truly live lives of purpose then why change something that has a purpose? I would not want to change one thing in my past nor would I omit any event, situation, or even second of my 16 year long life. Just imagine if everyone on this planet walked around regretting past events in there lives. Our planet would be a very unhappy place.
Today, the current average of years a human being will live is 67. I am 16 years old. With my calculations I have exactly 51 years of life remaining on my timer. That is a prolonged amount of time remaining on my clock. But, what is the best moment of my first 16 years? When was I closest to the clouds? Truthfully, I don’t believe I’ve had my greatest moment. I certainly hope that is the case. If one was to have a greatest moment what is there to look forward to? Why continue to strive to be the greatest? What is the motivation to be the best if you have already done your best? I feel that a human being cannot have one great moment. There is simply no way to choose that one great moment.
Overall, No one should go about their life regretting or second guessing every other move they have made. Why torment yourself with those negative thoughts? Also, why choose one great moment that defines your life on earth? Shouldn’t all of us want to make each new day our best and forget about the problems of yesterday? I feel we should.

LET'S TALK ABOUT "DOG"...

This morning while I fixed breakfast I was watching Fox News. Dog the Bounty Hunter was on it. My husband walked through and said "I can't believe THIS is what our news coverage is all about..."

Basically Dog the Bounty Hunter is in the news for using the N word. A despicable word, a word of hate. He used it several times in a phone conversation to his son; going into a rant about why his son should not date a Black woman "because we use the N word and I won't have our life's work destroyed by someone hearing that and turning it over to the National Enquirer." So his son taped the conversation and sold the tape to the National Enquirer.

Thanksgiving Dinner will be interesting at the Dog House.

There are many many things I would consider questionable about Dog the Bounty Hunter. And I admit I list these without knowing the man personally:

1. He obviously lacks common sense and common courtesy. He failed to jump to the obvious conclusion: STOP USING THE N WORD. Seems he had decided it would be easier to surround himself with other people who accept such vile language than it would be to clean up his act and enlighten himself.

2. He is self-centered. He had chosen to pressure his son to end a relationship that he perceived would impact negatively on his own career. Nice dad.

3. His name. Come on, folks. Where else would it be considered a positive thing to be called a dog?

4. His hair. I am nearly without words on this. Is it a mullet? Is it a mullet gone wrong? Is it a mullet...super sized? Is there NOBODY in his bounty hunter camp that loves him enough to pull him aside and say "Uhm... Dog? It's your hair. See....well...MAYBE if we tried a deep conditioning treatment? Perhaps take 2 inches off the back....or 10? Maybe we could get some publicity out of this and turn it into Locks of Love...? I'm just makin' suggestions, Man. You know, now that we're in a bit of a pickle with your image, maybe now's a good time to make a change toward the more clean cut look. Again, just a suggestion. I'm not lookin' for trouble."
You know, something like that. Maybe somebody could be lovingly honest with him about his hair.

So Dog has been deemed important enough to be on all the news casts for nearly a week.
I believe anybody can change and I will be hoping for that. And I am certain the news will be covering those changes.

I hope he starts on the inside and works his way out.

ANOTHER GLIMPSE...

A recent cell phone conversation between my daughter and myself:

Me: Hi Sweetie, are you with S?

Daughter: Yeah, we're at the mall.

( I mean where else would they be?)

Me (with a little bit of dread): Are you spending your money?

Daughter: Yeah, we picked a name off the angel tree and pooled our money to buy a present for a six year old girl. We bought her some "My Little Pony Stuff." We already turned it in to the angel tree people. I also picked up a tag for a 3-year-old boy that I thought our family could do.

Me: *gulp*

I don't remember the rest of that conversation.

I was listening to the sounds of my bursting heart.