I have been making "the list" since I was fourteen years old, so it only seemed right that I would make one for 2008. I did a little personal searching and reflecting over my twenty-something years of resolutions and what I have discovered is that I am a very shallow girl.
All of my resolutions seem to revolve around my personal attractiveness--I will lose weight or get braces or tint my hair or cut my hair or get a tan or wear a size four. My resolutions have a lot to do with losing weight, eating better, quiting a bad habit or doing something so fucking phenomenal that it runs on the CNN banner.
In other words, I have been making resolutions that never had a snowballs chance of being realized.
I read my resolutions for 2007 and I realized that there was not one single worth-while thing on that list. It seems to be written by a flippant woman who has no idea what her priorities should be; It seems to be penned by a person who hasn't taken a second to consider that really god-awful things can happen and surviving them is more important than the size of the muffin top.
I'm afraid that 2007 destroyed my annual resolution list. This year has kicked me in the teeth just enough times that I realize my paltry little yearly wish list doesn't even come close to giving me what I ultimately require.
Instead of a resolutions list I am going to write a prayer:
For 2008 I wish the yin to 2007's yang.
I desire to spend an hour of unmitigated joy for every 2007 hour
that was spent in abject desire.
I wish to spend an equal portion of 2008 laughing
for every moment of 2007 that was spent sobbing.
I wish that 2008 would enjoy a double portion of carefree hours
for every 30 minutes of anxiety in 2007.
I wish for the mundane to become common again
and for the horrible to become fantasy again.
I wish to spend a month of 2008 feeling competent, self-reliant and accomplished,
for every month of 2007 in which I felt inadequate, ill-prepared and illiterate.
Amen.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Thursday, December 27, 2007
~And A Happy New Year~
I gave my daughter the perfect shopping trip for Christmas: I took her and her best most favoritest most awesome friend to the mall. Kate had cash in hand, a watch on her wrist and a cellphone in her friend's pocket. Baby girl was beaming with joy when we left, and she happens to be a first rate shopper. She had fifty bucks and she brought home six shirts, a fleece vest and a pair of earrings.
This is a far cry from the Marilyn Monroe Fiasco and I am so glad that my daughter and I finally had a shopping trip that didn't end with one of us crying.
It could have begun with one of us crying because you see, tis the season for my driving phobia to check in. It has been snowing and blowing and the Idaho roads are exactly as bad as you would think Idaho roads would be. I ran off the road last week, but I did it ever-so-gracefully. And by ever-so-gracefully I would like for you to understand that I gave another driver a parade wave to let him know I was cool while I was sliding off the road.
My ever-so-graceful slide-off was just enough to remind me that driving is not my gig and death by highway is 100% possible.
Today when I jumped into the drivers seat with six kids I was {this} close to tears. I turned to the children and suggested that if they were smart they would hop out of the Durango and ride with the other parents. They chose to ride with me and I had no choice but to suck it up and drive to town.
When I was driving on the broken ice road I turned the radio up almost as loud as it would go--I did that because the shaking of the vehicle was causing me to hyperventilate and my eyes were starting to burn with tears. I kept checking my rear-view mirror to see the other parents behind me. The father is a professional driver and I considered that if he knew that I was white knuckled and red faced he would want me to pull over so that the children could get out of the vehicle and the proper people in white jackets could come for me.
And the Brina coughed. Gently. She coughed again. Ever so softly.
"Brina puked!" Ike screamed.
And then five other kids chimed in, "eww...argh...ooh..roll down the window, roll down the window...arghhh!"
And Brina apologized with a voice that sounded exactly like a twelve year old girl who has puked, "I'm sorry...I didn't know...I thought I could hold it..."
And the kids chimed up, "Ohhh! It's chunky...arghhh roll down the windows roll down the windows!"
And I replied, "It's okay Brina, we needed to hose the Durango anyway, did you know Martin brought home a dead deer in here? This truck smells like dirty socks, dead animal and Blue farts already."
The smell wasn't pleasant but my driving phobia was cured and this causes me to believe that I am a mentally unbalanced woman.
I used to love to drive. I used to drive just for the joy of driving--I drove with no destination in mind--just gas and cash and hours to kill. I went on road trips with my favorite people in which we filled the tank, drove til it was half full, and then turned around. I liked driving at night the best. I would turn up the radio and roll down the windows--before I was a mother driving was my most favorite thing to do.
I used to stand on the gas pedal of my TransAm when I was traveling from Boise to my parents house. I drove that car as if it were on rails. I climbed mountains and made hair-pins turns at the maximum speed I could generate. I didn't slow down for rain, or snow, or sleet, or ice. I liked whipping cookies and sliding sideways into parking spots and most of all I liked standing on the gas pedal when I was traveling through the Arco desert. I would bury the speedometer and watch the RPM gauge crawl higher and higher and I would wonder--how fast am I going if I am past 120 but the RPM gauge is still climbing?
And here I am thirteen years later; a woman who practically bursts into tears if I have to merge into traffic. I used to be cool and now I am a woman who views driving as a plague--unless someone pukes.
Because if someone pukes, then the anxiety is gone.
Dude, I need a pill that will turn me into the woman I was before I had kids. Do you know what that is called?
This is a far cry from the Marilyn Monroe Fiasco and I am so glad that my daughter and I finally had a shopping trip that didn't end with one of us crying.
It could have begun with one of us crying because you see, tis the season for my driving phobia to check in. It has been snowing and blowing and the Idaho roads are exactly as bad as you would think Idaho roads would be. I ran off the road last week, but I did it ever-so-gracefully. And by ever-so-gracefully I would like for you to understand that I gave another driver a parade wave to let him know I was cool while I was sliding off the road.
My ever-so-graceful slide-off was just enough to remind me that driving is not my gig and death by highway is 100% possible.
Today when I jumped into the drivers seat with six kids I was {this} close to tears. I turned to the children and suggested that if they were smart they would hop out of the Durango and ride with the other parents. They chose to ride with me and I had no choice but to suck it up and drive to town.
When I was driving on the broken ice road I turned the radio up almost as loud as it would go--I did that because the shaking of the vehicle was causing me to hyperventilate and my eyes were starting to burn with tears. I kept checking my rear-view mirror to see the other parents behind me. The father is a professional driver and I considered that if he knew that I was white knuckled and red faced he would want me to pull over so that the children could get out of the vehicle and the proper people in white jackets could come for me.
And the Brina coughed. Gently. She coughed again. Ever so softly.
"Brina puked!" Ike screamed.
And then five other kids chimed in, "eww...argh...ooh..roll down the window, roll down the window...arghhh!"
And Brina apologized with a voice that sounded exactly like a twelve year old girl who has puked, "I'm sorry...I didn't know...I thought I could hold it..."
And the kids chimed up, "Ohhh! It's chunky...arghhh roll down the windows roll down the windows!"
And I replied, "It's okay Brina, we needed to hose the Durango anyway, did you know Martin brought home a dead deer in here? This truck smells like dirty socks, dead animal and Blue farts already."
The smell wasn't pleasant but my driving phobia was cured and this causes me to believe that I am a mentally unbalanced woman.
I used to love to drive. I used to drive just for the joy of driving--I drove with no destination in mind--just gas and cash and hours to kill. I went on road trips with my favorite people in which we filled the tank, drove til it was half full, and then turned around. I liked driving at night the best. I would turn up the radio and roll down the windows--before I was a mother driving was my most favorite thing to do.
I used to stand on the gas pedal of my TransAm when I was traveling from Boise to my parents house. I drove that car as if it were on rails. I climbed mountains and made hair-pins turns at the maximum speed I could generate. I didn't slow down for rain, or snow, or sleet, or ice. I liked whipping cookies and sliding sideways into parking spots and most of all I liked standing on the gas pedal when I was traveling through the Arco desert. I would bury the speedometer and watch the RPM gauge crawl higher and higher and I would wonder--how fast am I going if I am past 120 but the RPM gauge is still climbing?
And here I am thirteen years later; a woman who practically bursts into tears if I have to merge into traffic. I used to be cool and now I am a woman who views driving as a plague--unless someone pukes.
Because if someone pukes, then the anxiety is gone.
Dude, I need a pill that will turn me into the woman I was before I had kids. Do you know what that is called?
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
~Why Don't You Just Roll In It?~
***I wrote this the day after Christmas but did not publish it out of respect for my sister-in-law Mary. The subject matter is dead animal carcass and I thought she might be offended. I am sticking it up now with this disclaimer::: Mary! Turn Away. The rest of this post is about dead swinging animals.***
Did you know that deer at the most dangerous animals (to man) in North America? True fact. When my husband suggests that he is practicing home land security by hunting he is telling a big fat lie, but a lie with a solid a basis in fact.
My beloved got his buck on the last day of deer season. He shot it with an arrow and brought the mighty man killer down. I appreciate the skill that it takes to get close enough to a big buck to kill it with an arrow. I understand that in the world of manly man type of things, poking something to death with a sharp stick has been a skill that people have applauded since the first time it happened.
The thing I hate about hunting season is the week in which the dead deer has to hang so that the blood can drip out and the meat does what ever it does when it hangs for a week. (Would that be, 'rot'?) I do not like to look at the face of my next meal--yes, the mighty buck is a man-killer and the man who can bring one down with an arrow is a stud--but I am not down with seeing the dead eyes of twenty meals for my family.
Perhaps this makes me a hypocrite. I eat meat so the logic seems to be that I should be able to look at a hanging carcass and think, "ummm...jerky!"
But is doesn't work that way for me. What I see is a dead animal and I feel sorry for it and then I get nauseated because it's tongue is hanging out of it's mouth and it's rib cage is flared open.
It doesn't bother the rest of my family. The children think it is cool to see what the inside of an animal looks like, they would like to have their picture taken by it, they want to hear the story that begins with, "I snuck up on him..." They are all pissed at me that I wouldn't cook the heart or the liver and they all think that it is hysterical that looking it at gives me the drive heaves.
I would be the only member of this family to have a bad reaction to the big Buck, except for Blue:
Blue looks like a dog that would like to get ahold of a giant piece of dead flesh doesn't he? He looks like the shifty type. At first glance at his half black, half white face you might think he was a prime candidate for the animal carcasses found in yards.
But nope.
Blue is much like me: he eats the meat but he prefers for it to arrive in a nice package. The sight of dead animal causes him to lose his shit. He barks, growls, howls and backs away. He will not approach the dangling dinner. He will not look at it, walk past it or sniff at it. In fact, when he catches sight on the carcass he gets the dry heaves.
Me and Blue, the two hypocrites who like a tasty steak, but don't want to see that steak wearing its face. We are the two people most happy on this day after Christmas--the carcass is now on it's way to the butcher shop and we no longer have to walk past the proof that Martin is the man.
Last years deer was delicious, when I cooked it the meat flew off the plates. I even enjoyed it and said things like, "Umm--this is a good one Martin, I am so glad you went hunting!" It is very possible that the reason I thought that deer tasted so good was that I never had to look at it's face, it showed up at my house just the way I like it; wrapped in white paper.
Did you know that deer at the most dangerous animals (to man) in North America? True fact. When my husband suggests that he is practicing home land security by hunting he is telling a big fat lie, but a lie with a solid a basis in fact.
My beloved got his buck on the last day of deer season. He shot it with an arrow and brought the mighty man killer down. I appreciate the skill that it takes to get close enough to a big buck to kill it with an arrow. I understand that in the world of manly man type of things, poking something to death with a sharp stick has been a skill that people have applauded since the first time it happened.
The thing I hate about hunting season is the week in which the dead deer has to hang so that the blood can drip out and the meat does what ever it does when it hangs for a week. (Would that be, 'rot'?) I do not like to look at the face of my next meal--yes, the mighty buck is a man-killer and the man who can bring one down with an arrow is a stud--but I am not down with seeing the dead eyes of twenty meals for my family.
Perhaps this makes me a hypocrite. I eat meat so the logic seems to be that I should be able to look at a hanging carcass and think, "ummm...jerky!"
But is doesn't work that way for me. What I see is a dead animal and I feel sorry for it and then I get nauseated because it's tongue is hanging out of it's mouth and it's rib cage is flared open.
It doesn't bother the rest of my family. The children think it is cool to see what the inside of an animal looks like, they would like to have their picture taken by it, they want to hear the story that begins with, "I snuck up on him..." They are all pissed at me that I wouldn't cook the heart or the liver and they all think that it is hysterical that looking it at gives me the drive heaves.
I would be the only member of this family to have a bad reaction to the big Buck, except for Blue:
Blue looks like a dog that would like to get ahold of a giant piece of dead flesh doesn't he? He looks like the shifty type. At first glance at his half black, half white face you might think he was a prime candidate for the animal carcasses found in yards.
But nope.
Blue is much like me: he eats the meat but he prefers for it to arrive in a nice package. The sight of dead animal causes him to lose his shit. He barks, growls, howls and backs away. He will not approach the dangling dinner. He will not look at it, walk past it or sniff at it. In fact, when he catches sight on the carcass he gets the dry heaves.
Me and Blue, the two hypocrites who like a tasty steak, but don't want to see that steak wearing its face. We are the two people most happy on this day after Christmas--the carcass is now on it's way to the butcher shop and we no longer have to walk past the proof that Martin is the man.
Last years deer was delicious, when I cooked it the meat flew off the plates. I even enjoyed it and said things like, "Umm--this is a good one Martin, I am so glad you went hunting!" It is very possible that the reason I thought that deer tasted so good was that I never had to look at it's face, it showed up at my house just the way I like it; wrapped in white paper.
Friday, December 21, 2007
~The 'Ol man's Entourage~
For as long as I have known him, my 'ol man has been surrounded by men. When he and I lived in the horse stables in Missouri, there was a group of Missouri guys with thick Missour accents and big Missouri laughs. Here in Idaho it is a different group of guys with thick Idaho accents and big Idaho laughs. When you see someone everyday for months on end, you tend to form a relationship; my relationship with Martin's enoutrage is that they come to the house and sometimes I feed them and I ask them uber-personal questions.
For as long as I have known my 'ol man he has been saying to me, "You gotta stop fucking with my friends." And he doesn't mean in the biblical sense, he means in the sense that I have to stop asking uber-personal questions. He has suggested that I make his buddies uncomfortable. I have suggested that if his buddies can't take the heat they should stay out of the kitchen.
Let me tell you about the first time I alineated myself from a member of the posse: We were in Missouri living in the stables and Martin had a bunch of guys working with him. Some of them would show up in the wee hours of the morning, I am talking in the 5:00am area of the day.
The situation was this: It was summer time. Martin and I lived in a horse stables at the end of a dead end road. Our neighbors were horses, and they would start pawing the floor before the sun came up. This sound woke me up every morning and it reminded me of two things: I had to go potty and I needed to put some clothes on before the entourage arrived.
Back in those early days, I slept nude because it was always sweaty hot and I was in bed with a sweaty hot man, and there was just no reason for clothing.
On the morning of the incident, I was walking from the bedroom to the bathroom, which was through the living room and kitchen. It was still dark outside and I was schleping my naked ass towards the bathroom. I am relatively sure I was yawning and scratching my scalp when I glanced towards the window on our back door.
And there he was. The fella. He had his hand up as if he were about to knock and his mouth was hanging open. I froze. We made eye contact. I turned to run to the bedroom, took a few steps then realized the bathroom was closer, so I turned around again and ran to the bathroom.
After relieving myself and digging through the dirty laundry to find suitable covering, I set on the toilet with my head in my hands for about fifteen minutes, utterly humiliated that I had been spotted naked and devasted at the fact that I had been spotted and I probably wasn't sucking in my gut or practicing good posture. When I deemed it safe to come out of the bathroom, I cracked the door open and found the apartment just as it had been, and Martin still sleeping.
The fella had gone back to his vehicle, where he stayed until Martin went outside to find him. And ya know what? That guy never made eye contact with me again.
For as long as I have known my 'ol man he has been saying to me, "You gotta stop fucking with my friends." And he doesn't mean in the biblical sense, he means in the sense that I have to stop asking uber-personal questions. He has suggested that I make his buddies uncomfortable. I have suggested that if his buddies can't take the heat they should stay out of the kitchen.
Let me tell you about the first time I alineated myself from a member of the posse: We were in Missouri living in the stables and Martin had a bunch of guys working with him. Some of them would show up in the wee hours of the morning, I am talking in the 5:00am area of the day.
The situation was this: It was summer time. Martin and I lived in a horse stables at the end of a dead end road. Our neighbors were horses, and they would start pawing the floor before the sun came up. This sound woke me up every morning and it reminded me of two things: I had to go potty and I needed to put some clothes on before the entourage arrived.
Back in those early days, I slept nude because it was always sweaty hot and I was in bed with a sweaty hot man, and there was just no reason for clothing.
On the morning of the incident, I was walking from the bedroom to the bathroom, which was through the living room and kitchen. It was still dark outside and I was schleping my naked ass towards the bathroom. I am relatively sure I was yawning and scratching my scalp when I glanced towards the window on our back door.
And there he was. The fella. He had his hand up as if he were about to knock and his mouth was hanging open. I froze. We made eye contact. I turned to run to the bedroom, took a few steps then realized the bathroom was closer, so I turned around again and ran to the bathroom.
After relieving myself and digging through the dirty laundry to find suitable covering, I set on the toilet with my head in my hands for about fifteen minutes, utterly humiliated that I had been spotted naked and devasted at the fact that I had been spotted and I probably wasn't sucking in my gut or practicing good posture. When I deemed it safe to come out of the bathroom, I cracked the door open and found the apartment just as it had been, and Martin still sleeping.
The fella had gone back to his vehicle, where he stayed until Martin went outside to find him. And ya know what? That guy never made eye contact with me again.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
~Culture Up The Wazoo~
It is probably my fault that my little girl likes the symphony. It might stem from her early baby days when I would prop her between the stereo speakers and play classical music. (I did that because I thought it would soothe the savage beast long enough for me to take a shower.)
Perhaps it is all about loving music that your mother hates, and since I like almost all music, the only direction she could go was the orchestra.
Maybe my big mistake was buying her a violin so she could play in the school orchestra.
Maybe it is my fault genetically. I spawned a daughter who will find a way to get exactly what she wants, and baby girl wants a string section next to her wood-wind section.
Whatever it is: my girl likes classical music and it gives me a headache.
In the past two years she has taken me to four symphony concerts, and by "she takes me" what I would like for you to understand is that each time she said, "Will you take me?" I have said, "We can't afford it" and she replied, "but if I get tickets?" and I was stupid enough to say, "Sure, you get free tickets, I will take you."
She always manages to get free tickets. She has achieved this many different ways; I think it just boils down to the fact that when she wants something badly enough it materializes. (Note to self: convince baby girl that she wants mama to win the lottery.)
Last night we took my sister and Kate's friend to dinner and we had a typical girls on the town conversation:
"They were making out on the playground--totally gross. He said she tasted like cherries with a hint of lemon. What kind of lip gloss do you think that is?"
I handed my daughter and her friend pearls of wisdom such as, "Boys don't taste like cherries with a hint of lemon. They taste like spit, so you should avoid kissing one for as long as possible."
Then we had to stop having fun so we could go to the concert.
The concert began like every other symphony event that I have attended: someone comes out to thank the sponsors and to talk about something uplifting like maybe cancer or a childhood disease. Then someone else talks about the featured artist and suggests we buy their cd, and we clap a whole bunch of times and laugh politely at commentator jokes and we clap some more, then the music starts.
I feel like a total heathen for saying this...but...when the music starts I get a headache and I start wondering how quickly we can leave.
During the violin solo last night I whispered to my daughter:
"Check out the guy playing the bells. He has a metal spike through his face."
"No way!"
"True dat, check him out."
"Ew! Why would he do that?"
"It's a tribal thing that is becoming very popular, sort of like tattoo's or earlobe stretching."
She whispered the info to her friend and for two minutes they stared at the man and I giggled. Then he took the stick out of his mouth and ran it across the chimes to make a tinker-bell sound.
My daughter scoffed and shushed me when I laughed.
As always, a lady sang, and she had a voice like an angel and it made me cry. Kate whispered to me, "Isn't that pretty--aren't you glad we came?" and I whispered back, "if we leave right now we will beat the traffic."
"The concert has only been going for ten minutes mom."
I tried to make a break at intermission, but she didn't believe me when I told her the concert was over.
I tried to bribe her with ice cream:
"If we leave right now, I will take you out for ice cream."
"I don't want ice cream."
"I am not talking regular ice cream, I am talking cold stone creamery ice cream--the place where they mix your ice cream on a cold stone and add your favorite treat."
"I don't want ice cream."
"They have gummy bears and chocolate bits and even bubble gum."
"I don't want ice cream."
I was trying really hard to be good a culture-loving-mother during the second half. I began to pretend to be loving it for my girl. Instead of whispering lies, I started counting men in black wool coats (because I think black wool coats are sexy). I tapped my toe and clapped to the beat. I displayed my cultural excellence by resisting the urge to pull off the damn girdle.
And then the girl with the angel voice sang again, and tears dribbled from my eyes. And the famous piano guy said he wanted to have one of the sponsors read "Twas the night before Christmas" and I was done.
"gotta go!" I whispered to my daughter.
"Not over!" she whispered back.
"Gotta get Missy home before 10:00!" I whispered, then walked out of the theatre.
The evening ended with my little girl crying because she wanted to stay longer and me cranking rock and roll in the vehicle loudly so that I couldn't hear her disappointed wails.
Listen, I appreciate the culture and I think it is grand that my baby girl can pull symphony tickets out of the thin air. It makes me proud that I gave birth to a person that appreciates the classics and has the ability to play the music on a number of different instruments--
But--
I don't want to go to another symphony performance. Not unless my girl is sitting on the stage. I know that classical music is supposed to be good for me, but much like brussel sprouts, sushi and duck liver paste--I have had my fill.
The next time baby girl has tickets for the symphony, I am going to allow her father to take her. Hell, he should take the boys too, let them all steep in some flute music. I am going to refuse to attend the next event.
Unless...
...Martin gets a black wool coat and some expensive cologne and he promises to meet me in the Durango during intermission.
Monday, December 17, 2007
~Dear Santa~
I am a little late getting my letter to you this year because I haven't been sure what to ask for, or how to editorialize my year so that it sounds like I was a good girl. It isn't that I was a bad girl, but I was naughty a few times. By 'naughty' I do not mean to suggest that I was bad bad girl and I need a spanking, what I mean to suggest is that I did some things that weren't super cool.
But since you are not the big JC I don't have to confess all of my sins, so let's just say I was a good-enough girl and get down to business.
Remember the year I asked for a vehicle and I got one? That was a sweet Christmas and I loved the vehicle--but I am still making monthly payments on it--so let's not have anymore of those types of gifts okay? What I mean is, if am going to have to write a check for my gift for the next thirty-six months, let's just skip it.
What I would really like for Christmas this year is a little peace. It's been a suck year and I would be most thankful if you could gift me with health and safety for all of my loved ones--I would like an entire year without a funeral. I am not sure how you can package that, probably a gift certificate would suffice.
I would also like to have some personal peace, perhaps the best way to achieve this would be a vacation to someplace warm where I could lay in the sun. I know I have been talking about the cabana boys for years and maybe you have always thought I was kidding. But I am not. I really do want a vacation with hot and cold running cabana boys and massages and drinks that contain rum and come in coconut shells and little tasty plates of food for whenst I hunger.
Earlier? When I said I was just good-enough girl, I was just being modoest, in fact I was a great girl this year.
I would also like to take a vacation with my family someplace that requires a passport. I am thinking Italy. Or Greece. Or Italy and Greece--you can surprise me with the exact location. I would like to stay in a villa for a month someplace in the country, but with metro access to Rome. This can actually count as a family gift, as I would want to look at the Sistine chapel and the Coliseum with my children in attendance. Perhaps I alone have not been good enough for this gift--but if you multiply my goodness by the goodness of each of my children and Martin? Well, it becomes a number of good with an exponent.
There is one more thing I would like to have for Christmas and that would be a cleaning person that came to my house--just once a week--to do all of those things that I never complete until company is coming over, things like dusting and mopping. I know that sometimes you like to pull out a surprise gift that is guaranteed to make my eyes roll back in my head--this the sort of gift that could do precisely that.
That's really all I want this year, just four things. I have enough jewelry, I don't want kitchen appliances and my clothing is fine--sure I could use some more socks and potty pants, but those two things are not very high priority on my list.
Alright, that's it for me.
Thanks in advance Santa!
XOXO
Deborah
P.S. If you should decide to go the sock and potty pant route, could you please make the socks toe socks and the potty pants cotton? You are a doll.
But since you are not the big JC I don't have to confess all of my sins, so let's just say I was a good-enough girl and get down to business.
Remember the year I asked for a vehicle and I got one? That was a sweet Christmas and I loved the vehicle--but I am still making monthly payments on it--so let's not have anymore of those types of gifts okay? What I mean is, if am going to have to write a check for my gift for the next thirty-six months, let's just skip it.
What I would really like for Christmas this year is a little peace. It's been a suck year and I would be most thankful if you could gift me with health and safety for all of my loved ones--I would like an entire year without a funeral. I am not sure how you can package that, probably a gift certificate would suffice.
I would also like to have some personal peace, perhaps the best way to achieve this would be a vacation to someplace warm where I could lay in the sun. I know I have been talking about the cabana boys for years and maybe you have always thought I was kidding. But I am not. I really do want a vacation with hot and cold running cabana boys and massages and drinks that contain rum and come in coconut shells and little tasty plates of food for whenst I hunger.
Earlier? When I said I was just good-enough girl, I was just being modoest, in fact I was a great girl this year.
I would also like to take a vacation with my family someplace that requires a passport. I am thinking Italy. Or Greece. Or Italy and Greece--you can surprise me with the exact location. I would like to stay in a villa for a month someplace in the country, but with metro access to Rome. This can actually count as a family gift, as I would want to look at the Sistine chapel and the Coliseum with my children in attendance. Perhaps I alone have not been good enough for this gift--but if you multiply my goodness by the goodness of each of my children and Martin? Well, it becomes a number of good with an exponent.
There is one more thing I would like to have for Christmas and that would be a cleaning person that came to my house--just once a week--to do all of those things that I never complete until company is coming over, things like dusting and mopping. I know that sometimes you like to pull out a surprise gift that is guaranteed to make my eyes roll back in my head--this the sort of gift that could do precisely that.
That's really all I want this year, just four things. I have enough jewelry, I don't want kitchen appliances and my clothing is fine--sure I could use some more socks and potty pants, but those two things are not very high priority on my list.
Alright, that's it for me.
Thanks in advance Santa!
XOXO
Deborah
P.S. If you should decide to go the sock and potty pant route, could you please make the socks toe socks and the potty pants cotton? You are a doll.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
~Name That Tune~
I have become very cynical when it comes to love songs. I am nauseated by love songs with sappy sentiments like, "I want to spend every second of every day just gazing at you...I want to devote my life to making sure you are happy every single second...I want to be close to you all the time, In fact, what I would like to do is shrink you down into a teeny man so I could carry you in the pocket of my skirt."
The weepy lovey ones, the kind you hear at weddings, just aren't working for me. In particular, I have a problem with Celine.
Celine! I know, how can I say such a horrible thing? There was a time when I sang, "I will always love you" at the top of my lungs with the car stereo--but the days of me singing the song that went with that movie in which the boy drowned are completely over. Two of my sisters would love nothing more than a trip to Vegas to see Celine in action and my thought on that is:
Are you crazy? Why would you willingly shell out cash for that torture?
The problem with it is that it goes on for hours. Mindy and Celine can easily spend five hours singing the same song. Over and Over. The volume on the head phones is maxxed, so I can hear the actual song--and sometimes? I think my parents are saints because they listen to it for eight hours everyday.
There are a number of things that can go wrong if the batteries die. Choice number 1 is that she decides to watch "dirty dancing" til mom and dad come get her--and that isn't going to happen for another twenty hours. During those twenty hours, Mindy will watch the part of the movie where they sing, "baby, woo-oh--whoa, my sweet bay-ay-bay..." for nine hours.
The second thing that could go wrong is she will decide she has had it with my house and she will begin calling my parents, sometimes she will call them on the phone, sometimes she will just stand in front of the window screaming, "I hate you name dad!" (What she means is that it pisses her off when she gets the answering machine in which my dad declares his name.)
Let's just say that the next level of bad hasn't truly been plumbed yet. There have been various degrees of bad, including the time she decided to walk home. It's rather hard to know what action to take when walking next to a handicapped woman who is screaming for her parents. But I am sure that she is working on something else, something extra special--something so loud and obnoxious that my parent's will never leave her alone with anyone else ever again. (This is her goal, you see--to make sure my parents are always in her sight.)
At this very moment the cd is playing and there are batteries to spare. It's a little nerve racking but it's better than any of the other options.
Now that I have made it sounds as though I do not enjoy my sister's company, let me tell you some of the things I like about her.
I like driving with her. She sits next to me in the front seat and she points to other cars on the road. "Don't hit that car Debbie." She says it about every car on the road. Once the game begins I start, "How about that house? Can I hit that house? What about that guy? Can I hit him?" Needless to say she is not impressed, she gasps each time I ask about another object in our range and when she has had enough of my hijinx she says, "I am telling mom." I always treat that as though it is grave information and then I say, "Well, I am telling mom you called me a rotten bitch." The reaction to that is sufficient that I can drive all the way to town without remembering that I hate to drive.
I like going to Walmart with her. There is always a nice parking spot close to the front.
It used to be that I was embarrassed when I was with my sister and people stared at us. I don't think it bothers Mindy, I think she believes people are checking her out because she is wearing a new coat. I have recently discovered that having people stare at you in Walmart comes with it's own benefits; people move their carts so that we can get through. And if they don't move fast enough Mindy will say, "excuse me? I am walking here?" Mindy also stops traffic. If I should stop the cart and then walk to the other side of the aisle Mindy stops the on coming carts, "My my my sister is right there--be careful!" When I am shopping with my sister, it is a liesurely expereince, there is no such thing as hurrying with Mindy, so I might as well relax and enjoy it.
It seems that Mindy soothes my two biggest phobia's, shopping and driving. That's a pretty sweet deal isn't it?
It's true that I have a long list of love song singing woman that I can no longer stomach, but who cares? Trading two phobia's for Celine seems a fair trade.
The weepy lovey ones, the kind you hear at weddings, just aren't working for me. In particular, I have a problem with Celine.
Celine! I know, how can I say such a horrible thing? There was a time when I sang, "I will always love you" at the top of my lungs with the car stereo--but the days of me singing the song that went with that movie in which the boy drowned are completely over. Two of my sisters would love nothing more than a trip to Vegas to see Celine in action and my thought on that is:
Are you crazy? Why would you willingly shell out cash for that torture?
The problem with it is that it goes on for hours. Mindy and Celine can easily spend five hours singing the same song. Over and Over. The volume on the head phones is maxxed, so I can hear the actual song--and sometimes? I think my parents are saints because they listen to it for eight hours everyday.
There are a number of things that can go wrong if the batteries die. Choice number 1 is that she decides to watch "dirty dancing" til mom and dad come get her--and that isn't going to happen for another twenty hours. During those twenty hours, Mindy will watch the part of the movie where they sing, "baby, woo-oh--whoa, my sweet bay-ay-bay..." for nine hours.
The second thing that could go wrong is she will decide she has had it with my house and she will begin calling my parents, sometimes she will call them on the phone, sometimes she will just stand in front of the window screaming, "I hate you name dad!" (What she means is that it pisses her off when she gets the answering machine in which my dad declares his name.)
Let's just say that the next level of bad hasn't truly been plumbed yet. There have been various degrees of bad, including the time she decided to walk home. It's rather hard to know what action to take when walking next to a handicapped woman who is screaming for her parents. But I am sure that she is working on something else, something extra special--something so loud and obnoxious that my parent's will never leave her alone with anyone else ever again. (This is her goal, you see--to make sure my parents are always in her sight.)
At this very moment the cd is playing and there are batteries to spare. It's a little nerve racking but it's better than any of the other options.
Now that I have made it sounds as though I do not enjoy my sister's company, let me tell you some of the things I like about her.
I like driving with her. She sits next to me in the front seat and she points to other cars on the road. "Don't hit that car Debbie." She says it about every car on the road. Once the game begins I start, "How about that house? Can I hit that house? What about that guy? Can I hit him?" Needless to say she is not impressed, she gasps each time I ask about another object in our range and when she has had enough of my hijinx she says, "I am telling mom." I always treat that as though it is grave information and then I say, "Well, I am telling mom you called me a rotten bitch." The reaction to that is sufficient that I can drive all the way to town without remembering that I hate to drive.
I like going to Walmart with her. There is always a nice parking spot close to the front.
It used to be that I was embarrassed when I was with my sister and people stared at us. I don't think it bothers Mindy, I think she believes people are checking her out because she is wearing a new coat. I have recently discovered that having people stare at you in Walmart comes with it's own benefits; people move their carts so that we can get through. And if they don't move fast enough Mindy will say, "excuse me? I am walking here?" Mindy also stops traffic. If I should stop the cart and then walk to the other side of the aisle Mindy stops the on coming carts, "My my my sister is right there--be careful!" When I am shopping with my sister, it is a liesurely expereince, there is no such thing as hurrying with Mindy, so I might as well relax and enjoy it.
It seems that Mindy soothes my two biggest phobia's, shopping and driving. That's a pretty sweet deal isn't it?
It's true that I have a long list of love song singing woman that I can no longer stomach, but who cares? Trading two phobia's for Celine seems a fair trade.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
~No, I do not have my Christmas shopping done, thanks for reminding me~
I hate the question, "Do you have your Christmas shopping done?" because it reminds me of how inadequately prepared I am for holidays.
It really chaps my ass when I hear it from men and they follow up with, "Yeah, I'm done--I was done two weeks ago..." and then they start naming the gifts they have purchased for the various people in their lives. I think it is particularly grating from men because I live with a man who does his Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. IF he is going shopping. There have been many Christmas's when he has purchased something expensive in November, like say a carburetor re-build kit, and he declares that my gift. I think I broke him of that habit the year I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed, "I can't believe you really didn't get me a present--and no a fucking carburetor re-build kit DOES NOT COUNT!"
For the last few years he has gone shopping on Christmas Eve, and he makes a display out of it, "Here I am---going shopping--for YOU--I know that you want a pair of camouflage coveralls, in my size--and I am going to the Sportsman's Warehouse to get them!"
I laugh at him, like I think it is funny that he is jerking my chain and tripping out of the house on Christmas Eve. Like there is nothing to be done at the hacienda before Christmas day. It's pretty convenient that while I am cooking and wrapping and cleaning--he is going shopping.
But at least it's for me. SO I pretend he is funny, and then I tell him to take Kate. You can be assured that Kate and I have set down together and I have held a picture of jewelry up to her face, "memorize it. Remember the name of the store, practice saying, 'oh daddio! I think mom would love this one, and it's on sale!"
Martin will not be shopping at all this year, he ponied up the gift card to buy me a coat and in his mind that counts as his Christmas shopping. See, it was something new that came into the house and it counts, so he is off the hook. He probably won't even 'get' to go to Walmart with me this year, as he will have so much work to do.
But me? Am I off the hook? No! No I am not! Christmas comes careening around the corner with demands of "decorate! Give me a party! Buy me gifts! More gifts! more gifts!" and it doesn't take into consideration that December is not a 'free' month. The bills still need to be paid, and the extra money for the celebrating of the expensive holiday doesn't usually drop from heaven.
I've done some stupid money related things this year such as this: I started writing for the paper and I thought, "I will not get any of my checks til Christmas, and then I will have moolah for presents!" That sounds like a cool plan doesn't it(?), all grown up and responsible, exercising my delayed gratification organ. The problem is, I didn't fill out the paperwork, so I wasn't on the payroll. But I didn't know that--until November when I breezed into the office to pick up my handful of checks.
SO the Christmas money that I have been saving might be saved until next semester.
So no, I am not finished Christmas shopping, I've barely even begun, and when you ask me if I am finished with my Christmas shopping it just reminds me of all of the things that I need to do in the next few weeks AND that I worked at a job for an entire semester without bothering to check my payment status. "I wonder how much I am making? Won't this be a great surprise in December!"
So stop asking about my shopping status, that question just brings up a whole mess of problems I would rather not think about, not the least of which is this question:
Would it be wrong of me to suggest to my family that we become Jehovah's Wintesses during the holidays?
Would it be wrong of me to suggest to my family that we become Jehovah's Wintesses during the holidays?
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
~The Center Of The Universe~
I wore my black thong to school today and let me tell you what--I have lucky black underwear. Maybe they are lucky because they have pink stitching, maybe it is because they have a pink jewel hanging under a pink ribbon. I am not sure what makes them lucky, but I now believe in the power of the lucky undies.
Behold the power of the lucky black thong:
I needed a 75% to pass Math 025 and I received a 75.9%. (Boo-yah baby! I can do math like your average 7th grader!)
In astro-physics we played a game called "Science or Consequences." We could earn up to 50 points--and me and my black panties earned 75. I only get 50 of those points but who cares! The 50 points mean I could make an A in astro-freaking-physics. I have been a little sad that astro-physics is almost over and I can't say I am taking the class; but ya know--I could brag for the next fifty years if I make an A in astro-freaking-physics.
Sigh.
The best part of astro-freaking-physics was obviously the name. But the second best thing was the lecture in which the professor proved I was the center of the universe. My notes for that day say, "There is no center of the Universe. I am the center of the Uinverse." The logic goes a little something like this:
The universe is perpetually expanding in all directions. Therefore, the person measuring the expansion of the universe is in the center. I know this to be true because we spent two days in astro-lab plotting crap and tapping on our calculators and drawing diagrams and the end result was--I am the center.
To be honest, I always thought that I was. Oh sure, I have had some arguments with persons who have said, "You are not the center of the universe" and I replied with intelligent sounding stuff such as, "fuck you!" But now?
Now I have a scientific calculator and I can tap on it just enough to create a giant number that ends with an "E" and that empirically proves that I am the center of the freaking universe.
And now I am off to bait my husband. I am not exactly sure how I can create an argument in which he declares I am not the center of the universe, but I have faith in my lucky thong and I am confident that I can either prove to him mathematically that I am the center of the universe...
Or...I can use the lucky thong for evil and make him moan the words. Either way, before the clock strikes midnight my beloved will say that I am the center of the universe.
(BTW, you are also the center of the universe--lucky thong or no lucky thong. You can prove it to yourself by getting out the calculator and doing random mathematical things til you get an E. I highly suggest you get a lucky thong though--so you can be the center of the universe with a cute jewel hanging in the crack of your ass.)
Behold the power of the lucky black thong:
I needed a 75% to pass Math 025 and I received a 75.9%. (Boo-yah baby! I can do math like your average 7th grader!)
In astro-physics we played a game called "Science or Consequences." We could earn up to 50 points--and me and my black panties earned 75. I only get 50 of those points but who cares! The 50 points mean I could make an A in astro-freaking-physics. I have been a little sad that astro-physics is almost over and I can't say I am taking the class; but ya know--I could brag for the next fifty years if I make an A in astro-freaking-physics.
Sigh.
The best part of astro-freaking-physics was obviously the name. But the second best thing was the lecture in which the professor proved I was the center of the universe. My notes for that day say, "There is no center of the Universe. I am the center of the Uinverse." The logic goes a little something like this:
The universe is perpetually expanding in all directions. Therefore, the person measuring the expansion of the universe is in the center. I know this to be true because we spent two days in astro-lab plotting crap and tapping on our calculators and drawing diagrams and the end result was--I am the center.
To be honest, I always thought that I was. Oh sure, I have had some arguments with persons who have said, "You are not the center of the universe" and I replied with intelligent sounding stuff such as, "fuck you!" But now?
Now I have a scientific calculator and I can tap on it just enough to create a giant number that ends with an "E" and that empirically proves that I am the center of the freaking universe.
And now I am off to bait my husband. I am not exactly sure how I can create an argument in which he declares I am not the center of the universe, but I have faith in my lucky thong and I am confident that I can either prove to him mathematically that I am the center of the universe...
Or...I can use the lucky thong for evil and make him moan the words. Either way, before the clock strikes midnight my beloved will say that I am the center of the universe.
(BTW, you are also the center of the universe--lucky thong or no lucky thong. You can prove it to yourself by getting out the calculator and doing random mathematical things til you get an E. I highly suggest you get a lucky thong though--so you can be the center of the universe with a cute jewel hanging in the crack of your ass.)
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
~Well Now, That Explains It~
So it is dead week and that means that some of my grades are coming in. I scored a B+ in my astro-physics lab (yes, astro-physics is just astronomy--but doesn't it sound like I am much more intelligent when I say, "Astro-Physics"?)Today I find out if I passed algebra. The algebra class that is a repeat of the first half of the semester--the class I failed and I am retaking.
This is the first Tuesday morning in many weeks that I haven't had a butt load of homework to complete before I go to class. In fact, I have no homework to complete. I do have a buttload of housework though. It's almost Christmas and I should clean carpets and mop and remove my laundry pile--right?
For the last two years I have gotten ill around the end of the semester: migraines, nausea diarrhea--the whole ball of phlegm. I have resigned myself to the awful fact that finals stress me out so badly that I become physically ill. I have begun to wonder if I can hack an academic life--what about after I graduate and I have a dead-line? Will I be forty something and puking because I have a job to complete?
This morning I realized it isn't the academic stress that gives me the icks--it is the end of academic work that gives me the icks.
Check it, after next week I will have a couple weeks off from school, and this means I have no excuse for my laundry pile or my dirty floors or my streaky mirrors. Currently I can justify the fact that I haven't mopped the floor in way to long; "I don't have time to mop. I have a final paper to write."
Besides the house work that I avoid because I am studying, there are also the other tasks. Can I help out with the kindergarten Christmas project? Gosh, I would love to--but I have a test. Can I babysit the infant of a friend two days a week? Sure wish I could--but I have to write a paper. Would I be willing to help build a float? Shoot--I love building floats, but unfortunately--I have school.
It isn't the school work that makes me ill, it is the other work. I am not pooping water because of a test in Astro-physics, I am pooping water because the tests are over, and now I am going to have to cook meals--from scratch!
So it seems the reason I get sick during the final weeks of school is: I am basically lazy.
The up-side of the final weeks of school and the sickness is that I drop the pounds. Remember when I wrote about my quest to fit into the pants with the cute appliqued pockets? Those pockets fit perfectly right now. In fact (and I hate to brag) I could make a meal out of cheesecake and copper camels for an entire week, and I might still be able to slip into those suckers.
And now I am off to my final algebra class. This means I only have one more day of school this week, and only one day of school next week. *urp*
This is the first Tuesday morning in many weeks that I haven't had a butt load of homework to complete before I go to class. In fact, I have no homework to complete. I do have a buttload of housework though. It's almost Christmas and I should clean carpets and mop and remove my laundry pile--right?
For the last two years I have gotten ill around the end of the semester: migraines, nausea diarrhea--the whole ball of phlegm. I have resigned myself to the awful fact that finals stress me out so badly that I become physically ill. I have begun to wonder if I can hack an academic life--what about after I graduate and I have a dead-line? Will I be forty something and puking because I have a job to complete?
This morning I realized it isn't the academic stress that gives me the icks--it is the end of academic work that gives me the icks.
Check it, after next week I will have a couple weeks off from school, and this means I have no excuse for my laundry pile or my dirty floors or my streaky mirrors. Currently I can justify the fact that I haven't mopped the floor in way to long; "I don't have time to mop. I have a final paper to write."
Besides the house work that I avoid because I am studying, there are also the other tasks. Can I help out with the kindergarten Christmas project? Gosh, I would love to--but I have a test. Can I babysit the infant of a friend two days a week? Sure wish I could--but I have to write a paper. Would I be willing to help build a float? Shoot--I love building floats, but unfortunately--I have school.
It isn't the school work that makes me ill, it is the other work. I am not pooping water because of a test in Astro-physics, I am pooping water because the tests are over, and now I am going to have to cook meals--from scratch!
So it seems the reason I get sick during the final weeks of school is: I am basically lazy.
The up-side of the final weeks of school and the sickness is that I drop the pounds. Remember when I wrote about my quest to fit into the pants with the cute appliqued pockets? Those pockets fit perfectly right now. In fact (and I hate to brag) I could make a meal out of cheesecake and copper camels for an entire week, and I might still be able to slip into those suckers.
And now I am off to my final algebra class. This means I only have one more day of school this week, and only one day of school next week. *urp*
Saturday, December 08, 2007
~No, I haven't been crying~
There is this new thing going on with the aging process and my eyes. I come from a long line of women who have bags above and below their eyes; because of that excellent genetic trait, I have always had an extra bit o' flesh around my eyes. I am one of those people that smiles, and their eyes disappear into the folds of flesh.
In the last few months Martin has stared at me for a few seconds and then he gently asks, "Have you been crying?"
"No? Why? Are you saying I have puffy eyes?"
And indeed, I do.
It seems I am growing an entire pound of flesh in the crease of my eyelid and the effect is that my eyes are puffy. I look like I have either been crying or that I need a really good long sleep.
The jokes on me though, because it is genetic--the bags, they are a-coming.
I am not sure how to handle this situation with my old man. I could shatter his illusions and simply say, "Get used to it baby, I am getting old and I am developing my eye bags. Give me a few years and I will look like I am smuggling cherry tomatoes."
Or I could say, "Yes, I have been crying. And it's something you did."
I am thinking that I could drop the yes I have been crying line a few times and I then I could say, "I have been crying because I am exhausted. I need a good rest. Perhaps the only way to relieve my baggy eyes is to let me have a vacation--send me somewhere that I can lay in the sunshine, get some massages and have cabana boys bringing me beverages and little platters of tasty food each time I look as though I am thirsty or hungry."
Ya know, even if the second excuse only worked once it would be totally worth it. Sure, he would realize that I had exxaggerated after the vacation was over--but who cares? Letting him send me on a eye bag removing vacation would be good a nice chance for him to feel as if he were doing something to renew his baggy eyed wife--
Shit, the man is married to me for life, I should let him have the illusion that my baggy eyes are a temporary situation and not just foreshadowing for the way his bride is going to age.
In the last few months Martin has stared at me for a few seconds and then he gently asks, "Have you been crying?"
"No? Why? Are you saying I have puffy eyes?"
And indeed, I do.
It seems I am growing an entire pound of flesh in the crease of my eyelid and the effect is that my eyes are puffy. I look like I have either been crying or that I need a really good long sleep.
The jokes on me though, because it is genetic--the bags, they are a-coming.
I am not sure how to handle this situation with my old man. I could shatter his illusions and simply say, "Get used to it baby, I am getting old and I am developing my eye bags. Give me a few years and I will look like I am smuggling cherry tomatoes."
Or I could say, "Yes, I have been crying. And it's something you did."
I am thinking that I could drop the yes I have been crying line a few times and I then I could say, "I have been crying because I am exhausted. I need a good rest. Perhaps the only way to relieve my baggy eyes is to let me have a vacation--send me somewhere that I can lay in the sunshine, get some massages and have cabana boys bringing me beverages and little platters of tasty food each time I look as though I am thirsty or hungry."
Ya know, even if the second excuse only worked once it would be totally worth it. Sure, he would realize that I had exxaggerated after the vacation was over--but who cares? Letting him send me on a eye bag removing vacation would be good a nice chance for him to feel as if he were doing something to renew his baggy eyed wife--
Shit, the man is married to me for life, I should let him have the illusion that my baggy eyes are a temporary situation and not just foreshadowing for the way his bride is going to age.
Friday, December 07, 2007
~Goodbye Baby~
Many years ago I was a first time mother with an infant child who cooed herself to sleep. Every evening I would put her in her crib and then her father and I would listen to the delicious dove coo's that came from her room until she had fallen asleep.
"We should record the sound of Katie putting herself to sleep" I said to my husband countless nights.
"Yeah, we should." He would reply.
But we never did, because we were brand new parents and we thought there would always be another chance to catch the sound.
Now it is twelve years later and I have sent my youngest child to Kindergarten. It is his first experience riding the bus, and he was over-joyed with the idea.
On his first day I walked him to the bus so that I could meet the driver. I kissed him goodbye at the stairs and stood by the side of the road waving til the bus disappeared from my view. The months went on, I stopped walking him to the stairs and sending him with a kiss.
Instead, I stood in the doorway and waved to him as he ran to the bus. Everyday for the last four months I have stood in the door waving to my son and blowing him kisses.
The Ikeman waves back. He blows me kisses and jumps into the air to catch the kisses that I blow to him. He shapes his fingers into a gun, then kisses his thumb and says, "pshew!" as he shoots the kisses at me. I clutch my heart, then make a gun with my fingers, kiss my thumb and shoot a kiss back.
"I need to record the goodbye on video, because he won't do this forever" I have thought many times this year.
Yesterday I got out the camera and taped the long goodbye. I recorded the my tiny boy getting on the bus, but taking time to blow his mother kisses before he left my view.
Today my little boy said, "Mom, I can't wave at you outside anymore, I have to wait until I get on the bus."
Apparently the few seconds that he takes to shoot kisses at his mother are a transportation problem. Maybe it is the couple seconds it takes for him to jump into the air to catch the kisses I have blown at him. Those seconds probably create a time constraint.
As of today, my son no longer pauses to blow me kisses, instead he gets on the bus and (I assume) waves and blows kisses to me from behind windows that are tinted just enough that the students inside can't be seen.
But that's okay.
Twelve years ago I didn't tape my daughters cooing voice because I thought it would last forever. Yesterday I taped my son's big goodbye because I am aware that my little boy will eventually stop blowing me kisses before he gets on the bus.
I am glad that I taped the final kiss blowing event so that someday he can watch it and see what he cute kid he was. I didn't tape it because I was afraid I would forget. I am sure that twelve years from now his goodbye kisses will be as memorable to me as the sound of my infant daughter cooing herself to sleep.
"We should record the sound of Katie putting herself to sleep" I said to my husband countless nights.
"Yeah, we should." He would reply.
But we never did, because we were brand new parents and we thought there would always be another chance to catch the sound.
Now it is twelve years later and I have sent my youngest child to Kindergarten. It is his first experience riding the bus, and he was over-joyed with the idea.
On his first day I walked him to the bus so that I could meet the driver. I kissed him goodbye at the stairs and stood by the side of the road waving til the bus disappeared from my view. The months went on, I stopped walking him to the stairs and sending him with a kiss.
Instead, I stood in the doorway and waved to him as he ran to the bus. Everyday for the last four months I have stood in the door waving to my son and blowing him kisses.
The Ikeman waves back. He blows me kisses and jumps into the air to catch the kisses that I blow to him. He shapes his fingers into a gun, then kisses his thumb and says, "pshew!" as he shoots the kisses at me. I clutch my heart, then make a gun with my fingers, kiss my thumb and shoot a kiss back.
"I need to record the goodbye on video, because he won't do this forever" I have thought many times this year.
Yesterday I got out the camera and taped the long goodbye. I recorded the my tiny boy getting on the bus, but taking time to blow his mother kisses before he left my view.
Today my little boy said, "Mom, I can't wave at you outside anymore, I have to wait until I get on the bus."
Apparently the few seconds that he takes to shoot kisses at his mother are a transportation problem. Maybe it is the couple seconds it takes for him to jump into the air to catch the kisses I have blown at him. Those seconds probably create a time constraint.
As of today, my son no longer pauses to blow me kisses, instead he gets on the bus and (I assume) waves and blows kisses to me from behind windows that are tinted just enough that the students inside can't be seen.
But that's okay.
Twelve years ago I didn't tape my daughters cooing voice because I thought it would last forever. Yesterday I taped my son's big goodbye because I am aware that my little boy will eventually stop blowing me kisses before he gets on the bus.
I am glad that I taped the final kiss blowing event so that someday he can watch it and see what he cute kid he was. I didn't tape it because I was afraid I would forget. I am sure that twelve years from now his goodbye kisses will be as memorable to me as the sound of my infant daughter cooing herself to sleep.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
~Rated R For Graphic Content~
(That title means if you know me personally and want to continue having a relationship in which you can look me in the eyes without blushing--stop reading now.)
Now that I have my new rated R website, I have decided to fess up with some rated R information. I am confessing because I am hoping to hear that I am not abnormal, this happens to other women.
So.
The Fall semester is wrapping down and that means there are final tests to take. The final test are not to be confused with "The Final"--that is two weeks away. But this is the final exam in which I get to see how well I am doing. I am doing so well that I have diarrhea and a migraine and...
...and? I have sexy dreams about my professors.
They are weird sexy dreams because the professors are not exactly sex dream material. And sometimes? It's a female professor.
It happens to me every semester: The professor that I am most intimidated by shows up in my dreams.
Let us say, just for example, that I was going to take an astronomy test that has me anxious. I need a good grade because good grades fill a void in my heart, sort of like the Grinch's heart was filled when he gave the presents back to the villagers. (Except not like that because the Grinch's heart grew by giving back the presents. But my heart isn't going to grow, because it is already a great big size. But it has pockets that need to be filled with good grades. )
In pursuit of the good grades, I study and try to memorize random facts in a rhymy fashion (I have a great song for the planets in the solar system). I crawl into bed still thinking random facts and I drift off to sleep.
But I get to just that spot of sleep where I am not sure if I am asleep or awake, and then Martin rolls into my back and curls his arms around my mid-section. He nuzzles my shoulder with his unshaved chin and breathes in my ear.
He says something like, "HII regions have temperatures of around 10,000K."
And that is when I swoon.
I wiggle the back of myself closer to the front of hisself and he whispers in my ear, " HII regions are generally found in the spiral arms of the galaxy."
I pull his hand off my rib-cage and bring it to my lips so that I can taste his fingers and he continues giving me facts that cause me to twine my legs around his and to arch my head so that his lips can get closer to my throat.
Then he starts talking about dark nebulas and interstellar dust matter, in my professors voice. It's hits my erotic spot and I roll over. And he rolls over; he presents me with his back: The back I have been rubbing for fifteen years, I know the mole pattern and the muscularity. I know the texture and the scent of his skin. I run my hands over him and then lean over him so that I can let my hair trail over his skin. I swirl my head around so that my hair caresses his side, neck, back, stomach.
"Nebulosity provides the seed material for new stars."
And now I am ready for the take down. I reach my hand towards the front of him and he says, "blah blah (sexy professor voice) blah blah...creating a zone of avoidance."
That's when I realize that it is my professor in my bed. It isn't an awkward situation (as you might think it would be). I simply dismount and lay my head down on my pillow and look into the eyes of my professor who goes on, "Dust clouds hide our view of regions beyond the Milky Way." I listen to him/her lecture for awhile. Then I turn over and nestle my back into the curves of Martin's body.
I haven't taken many psychology classes, but I think my dreams means that I find education HUGELY satisfying.
It also means that after having such a dream it is hard not to blush when the professor says the word, "bulge" or "a non-zero chance for penetration."
Now that I have my new rated R website, I have decided to fess up with some rated R information. I am confessing because I am hoping to hear that I am not abnormal, this happens to other women.
So.
The Fall semester is wrapping down and that means there are final tests to take. The final test are not to be confused with "The Final"--that is two weeks away. But this is the final exam in which I get to see how well I am doing. I am doing so well that I have diarrhea and a migraine and...
...and? I have sexy dreams about my professors.
They are weird sexy dreams because the professors are not exactly sex dream material. And sometimes? It's a female professor.
It happens to me every semester: The professor that I am most intimidated by shows up in my dreams.
Let us say, just for example, that I was going to take an astronomy test that has me anxious. I need a good grade because good grades fill a void in my heart, sort of like the Grinch's heart was filled when he gave the presents back to the villagers. (Except not like that because the Grinch's heart grew by giving back the presents. But my heart isn't going to grow, because it is already a great big size. But it has pockets that need to be filled with good grades. )
In pursuit of the good grades, I study and try to memorize random facts in a rhymy fashion (I have a great song for the planets in the solar system). I crawl into bed still thinking random facts and I drift off to sleep.
But I get to just that spot of sleep where I am not sure if I am asleep or awake, and then Martin rolls into my back and curls his arms around my mid-section. He nuzzles my shoulder with his unshaved chin and breathes in my ear.
He says something like, "HII regions have temperatures of around 10,000K."
And that is when I swoon.
I wiggle the back of myself closer to the front of hisself and he whispers in my ear, " HII regions are generally found in the spiral arms of the galaxy."
I pull his hand off my rib-cage and bring it to my lips so that I can taste his fingers and he continues giving me facts that cause me to twine my legs around his and to arch my head so that his lips can get closer to my throat.
Then he starts talking about dark nebulas and interstellar dust matter, in my professors voice. It's hits my erotic spot and I roll over. And he rolls over; he presents me with his back: The back I have been rubbing for fifteen years, I know the mole pattern and the muscularity. I know the texture and the scent of his skin. I run my hands over him and then lean over him so that I can let my hair trail over his skin. I swirl my head around so that my hair caresses his side, neck, back, stomach.
"Nebulosity provides the seed material for new stars."
And now I am ready for the take down. I reach my hand towards the front of him and he says, "blah blah (sexy professor voice) blah blah...creating a zone of avoidance."
That's when I realize that it is my professor in my bed. It isn't an awkward situation (as you might think it would be). I simply dismount and lay my head down on my pillow and look into the eyes of my professor who goes on, "Dust clouds hide our view of regions beyond the Milky Way." I listen to him/her lecture for awhile. Then I turn over and nestle my back into the curves of Martin's body.
I haven't taken many psychology classes, but I think my dreams means that I find education HUGELY satisfying.
It also means that after having such a dream it is hard not to blush when the professor says the word, "bulge" or "a non-zero chance for penetration."
Monday, December 03, 2007
~Temporary Man Syndrome~
I have recently decided that I do not suffer from PMS. I suffer from TMS--temporary man syndrome. For four days of the month I am pissed off. If you were to ask me what I was pissed off about a good answer would be, "yes."
My beloved discovered this trait many years ago and during these four days he says things such as, "You are going to have to forgive me, but I turn into an idiot every twenty-eight days." And it's true. He does.
I have just recently transitioned from TMS to the next stage in which I am weepy and ever so sorry that I was such an asshole last week. I carry my bloated body around and think that I could be a little nicer. I could share my stuff and furthermore, if I wasn't such a crappy mother my kids would eat a hot breakfast with some sort of breakfast meat every morning. It is usually shortly after I cry because of the lack of breakfast meat in the lives of my children that I also begin to wonder if I have ever made a good decision in my life.
Let me tell you what, for two days of every month I want to hug a bottle of whine, listen to Norah Jones and write apology letters to every person I have ever had a social interaction with, but I don't do that because I am lazy. Somewhere in the midst of the pity party I develop a migraine AND I get diarrhea and nausea. I am never really sure if the migraine and nausea are psychosomatic symptoms cleverly devised by my body so that I can declare I am sick and I must sleep all day long.
This means that in the midst of feeling sorry for myself and feeling crappy, I also begin to wonder if I am making myself ill because I am actually a very crazy woman who should be institutionalized.
Preferably in an institute that has daily massages and nap time.
So! I am currently rotating through the, "I suck and I am sick and tired and probably crazy" phase of my life just before finals.
Which is typical, I mean-why would they schedule finals for another week, like say the five days of the month when my pants fit, my skin looks good, my hairy is a glossy mane and my sex life is hitting on all eight cylinders?
The upside is that finals make me sick anyway--no matter which way the hormones are blowing. I look back over blogs from years passed and I see that finals happened, and I was sick. I am like a spiritual healer that can heal based on the feeling of the spirit, except I am nothing like a spiritual healer. I can, however, make myself physically ill with the slightest bit of academic pressure.
What I am is a woman. And the whole hormone cycle is enough of a good thing already. I am looking forward to menopause, when I can have TMS all year long.
My beloved discovered this trait many years ago and during these four days he says things such as, "You are going to have to forgive me, but I turn into an idiot every twenty-eight days." And it's true. He does.
I have just recently transitioned from TMS to the next stage in which I am weepy and ever so sorry that I was such an asshole last week. I carry my bloated body around and think that I could be a little nicer. I could share my stuff and furthermore, if I wasn't such a crappy mother my kids would eat a hot breakfast with some sort of breakfast meat every morning. It is usually shortly after I cry because of the lack of breakfast meat in the lives of my children that I also begin to wonder if I have ever made a good decision in my life.
Let me tell you what, for two days of every month I want to hug a bottle of whine, listen to Norah Jones and write apology letters to every person I have ever had a social interaction with, but I don't do that because I am lazy. Somewhere in the midst of the pity party I develop a migraine AND I get diarrhea and nausea. I am never really sure if the migraine and nausea are psychosomatic symptoms cleverly devised by my body so that I can declare I am sick and I must sleep all day long.
This means that in the midst of feeling sorry for myself and feeling crappy, I also begin to wonder if I am making myself ill because I am actually a very crazy woman who should be institutionalized.
Preferably in an institute that has daily massages and nap time.
So! I am currently rotating through the, "I suck and I am sick and tired and probably crazy" phase of my life just before finals.
Which is typical, I mean-why would they schedule finals for another week, like say the five days of the month when my pants fit, my skin looks good, my hairy is a glossy mane and my sex life is hitting on all eight cylinders?
The upside is that finals make me sick anyway--no matter which way the hormones are blowing. I look back over blogs from years passed and I see that finals happened, and I was sick. I am like a spiritual healer that can heal based on the feeling of the spirit, except I am nothing like a spiritual healer. I can, however, make myself physically ill with the slightest bit of academic pressure.
What I am is a woman. And the whole hormone cycle is enough of a good thing already. I am looking forward to menopause, when I can have TMS all year long.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
~X-mas Picture Time~
Today the family and I drove to Mesa Falls to have our Christmas picture taken. It was my idea. I have lived in Idaho since I was four years old, and it didn't really occur to me that the road might be impassible. It didn't occur to me because I am not very smart.
You see, it is December 2nd in Idaho and Mesa Falls is on top of a mountain. I wasn't thinking about winter and a mountain--I was thinking about Mesa Falls and pictures such as this:
Okay. It mattered some. It mattered a whole lot to the little boy looking out the window. He had a commentary running: "And then the father did a hoopy-de-hoo and the whole family slid down the hill to meet a bloody death on the rocks below."
The kids weren't loving the winter creek as much as they loved the summer creek, and when I say they weren't loving it I mean they were all crying, "but mom...our tiny little hands and miniscule fingers, we can no longer feel them...please mommy dearest, may we go back to the warm vehicle?"
Kids. That don't get the import of the Christmas card picture do they?
Anyway. Which of these shots would you chose for your card?
Numero Uno: (the one which baby girl loves because she looks adorable and her parent's look like they ride the short bus):
Numero dos: The one in which the parents look good enough to be invited to your next swapper party.
Uno or dos. You tell me, and I will make the cards.
If you would like to receive an official Chessey family card, leave your address in the comments and I will put you on my list. If you are concerned about giving your address to a random internet person, consider this: if you give me your address that means my mother will have your address and she may send you a stylish sweater set. (and when I say "may" I mean: not a chance in hell. But I will send you a card.)
You see, it is December 2nd in Idaho and Mesa Falls is on top of a mountain. I wasn't thinking about winter and a mountain--I was thinking about Mesa Falls and pictures such as this:
Seriously, wouldn't it be cool to take a Christmas photo in such a scenic spot as that? There is a waterfall. Do you have a waterfall in your photo? I bet you don't.
So we loaded into the Durango and headed up the mountain. I am not going to lie to you--it wasn't fun. We passed people on snowmobiles who gave us disapproving looks and shook their heads. We trudged on because we were committed; the fact that we were driving on a snowmobile trail up a mountain road with no guard rails mattered naught.
Okay. It mattered some. It mattered a whole lot to the little boy looking out the window. He had a commentary running: "And then the father did a hoopy-de-hoo and the whole family slid down the hill to meet a bloody death on the rocks below."
(He is overly dramatic. I blame me.)
The father did not do a hoopy-de-hoo and we did not meet a bloody death on the rocks below. Instead we wallowed in two feet of snow down a path snow covered path.
There was some griping about the shoes and some kvetching about the stairs, but when we got to the falls,it was a pretty spectacular view. I wish I had pictures to show you, but unfortunately we only had two batteries, and they came from the "Leap Frog' and we weren't sure how much juice they had. (they had enough juice for one picture).
You might wonder why we risked our lives to take pictures at a waterfall and we only brought two cheap batteries. But then you would be a nay sayer, and we aren't nay sayers. We are yes sayers who got two pictures. The first one could be titled, "Is that a pistol in your pocket or are you incredibly pissed off to see me?
The second is my daughter's favorite. Probably because she looks cute. My only problem with the picture is Martin and I look like dumb and dumber:
After that picture our batteries died. We spent the next hour climbing back up the mountain. The kids all complained about being cold. They suggested their cloth shoes weren't fit for the excursion, and I suggested they shut-up and make sure they don't mess up their hair.
What can I say, I am good mom.
We drove back through: "Do not cross this line: if you do prepare to freeze to death because we will not find you until spring " snow. It was a hassle. there was some crying (me) and some suggesting that we would die (Jake )But we made it.
We went to Pond's Lodge. I bought new batteries and suggested we try to make it to the cabin. The kids loved the idea, and when I say 'loved" I mean they would agree to anything for hot chocolate:
The road looked like this:
We took two pictures at the creek:
The kids weren't loving the winter creek as much as they loved the summer creek, and when I say they weren't loving it I mean they were all crying, "but mom...our tiny little hands and miniscule fingers, we can no longer feel them...please mommy dearest, may we go back to the warm vehicle?"
Kids. That don't get the import of the Christmas card picture do they?
Anyway. Which of these shots would you chose for your card?
Numero Uno: (the one which baby girl loves because she looks adorable and her parent's look like they ride the short bus):
Numero dos: The one in which the parents look good enough to be invited to your next swapper party.
Uno or dos. You tell me, and I will make the cards.
If you would like to receive an official Chessey family card, leave your address in the comments and I will put you on my list. If you are concerned about giving your address to a random internet person, consider this: if you give me your address that means my mother will have your address and she may send you a stylish sweater set. (and when I say "may" I mean: not a chance in hell. But I will send you a card.)
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