What new thing do you want to accomplish in 2007.
I like Tink’s answer: a clean house, but I know myself and my kids therefore that won’t work. But it would be new and quite the accomplishment. Nah, why set myself up for failure? Plus it doesn’t sound like much fun.
I have always had a deep-seeded desire to be musical. The rest of my family is musical, yet this gene skipped me. They have played in bands, philharmonics, symphonies and both my grandmothers were opera singers. My dad was greatly disappointed in my lack of talent. I can appreciate all sorts of music, but just can’t participate in any. And that is what I would love to do; participate with my whole heart and soul poured into the music.
As a child, I tried valiantly to play the piano and not so valiantly the violin; they were both a disaster. I always wanted a guitar and begged for one throughout high school and college. Now my son owns one. I think that I would like to accomplish learning something about it in 2007. It may be that I try and fail, or try and fail but still have fun, but nothing is going to happen unless I pick the darn thing up and make the attempt in the first place. I have actually tried on several occasions; I can’t even make chords since I can’t get past the “ouch, my fingertips are wimps” phase. Maybe in 2007 I will stick to it, push past the pain and enter into some type of euphoria that deafens me to the actual sounds I make.
But for now, check this out: pachelbel's canon for electric guitar.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 30, 2006
for my brothers
Despite my being a cheerleader in high school, I am not a football fan and only a marginal basketball fan. In my family, we were born and raised die hard baseball fans. I learned to throw a ball like a boy (therefore I avoided the remark: “you throw like a girl” which is NOT a compliment); I played with the boys that surrounded us in the country. I was adequate and it was fun. However, this made me terrible at softball which was not remotely like throwing a baseball. I was the skinniest and the smallest in my class so wielding this large white orb was like lobbing a giant snowball with a toothpick. Not a good fit. I was always the last picked on my team for phys-ed. I looked longingly at the boys playing with the real stuff on the other field. I got to look at them a lot, seeing how I was always positioned in the netherworld of the center field.
My brothers wanted to grow up to be professional ball players so we had a large assortment of baseball equipment. To practice batting, my younger brother and I would hit endless pieces of gravel into the ‘back 40’, which considering this now, it is hard to believe the tractor blade failed to fling them back at the windows. We placed many dings in the wooden bats and just steered clear of the ‘black bat’ which belonged to my oldest brother.
One of the best presents I received was a small vinyl glove of my own. Never mind it wasn’t leather, it was mine. Of course, I quickly outgrew it and had my choice from a plethora of real ones (catchers’ mitts, first baseman gloves, pitcher’s mitts). The memory of slipping my hand into the cool worn leather, getting the stiffness out of it, and hoping no spider had made its home in the inner recesses is something I will always relish. Playing ‘catch’ was a simple yet remarkably fun thing to do. Could we sting each other’s hands with a particularly strong throw?
Then there were the teams. I grew up in Ohio, during the Big Red Machine era. But did we root for them? Nope. We were born in the Allegheny mountains in western Maryland and pledged allegiance to my father’s team, the Pittsburgh Pirates. My father’s father was also a Pirate fan. They were the nearest professional team to our town in western Maryland; nearly twice as close as Baltimore, and during my father’s childhood, were the only broadcasted game they could receive. (Although given my father’s illustrious prowess and love of antenna building and ham radio operating, I bet they could have listened to a transmission commencing in California).
I grew up hearing all the stories: their triumph over the Yankee’s in 1960 as well as the tragic loss of my brother’s hero, Roberto Clemente, the greatest right-fielder to play the game.
The men I followed were Willie Stargell ("Pops", who gave out gold stars to his team-mates to pin on their hats), Dave Parker, Omar Moreno, Bruce Kison, Phil Garner, Manny Sanguillen, the “Candy Man” John Candaleria. “Buc”king the trend in my school, I hung pirate banners in my room and on my locker. I was finally vindicated when the Pirates won the World Series in 1979 against the Orioles.
When we would make our yearly trek to the family reunion in Maryland, we would see the shrine and hold our breath as we passed the Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh. Riverfront? Pooey - one river; Pirates: three – the Allegheny River, the Monongahela River diverging to form the mighty Ohio River. It was even a more astounding sight on the way home, as we could see the glow of the lights of the stadium while listening to the actual game in the car, full of kids tired out by the frenzied day spent with cousins. We could imagine we heard the roar of the crowd as our heroes did their thing while we crossed the bridge once more into Ohio.
Much to my brother’s chagrin, I have lost my pitching arm but could probably accidentally throw like Kent Tekulve once in a while, and I still shock my boys when I hit a ball across the road into the woods. My almost dislocated shoulders and arms remind me of how old I am getting, but my love for the game will not diminish. Having married a Red’s fan, I left my long heritage of the Pirates behind and started anew. We can’t get cable out in the boonies and see very little broadcasted games; that doesn't matter, however, and the best summer nights are spent listening to the team of Marty and Joe on WLW describing men at work…
the candy man
My brothers wanted to grow up to be professional ball players so we had a large assortment of baseball equipment. To practice batting, my younger brother and I would hit endless pieces of gravel into the ‘back 40’, which considering this now, it is hard to believe the tractor blade failed to fling them back at the windows. We placed many dings in the wooden bats and just steered clear of the ‘black bat’ which belonged to my oldest brother.
One of the best presents I received was a small vinyl glove of my own. Never mind it wasn’t leather, it was mine. Of course, I quickly outgrew it and had my choice from a plethora of real ones (catchers’ mitts, first baseman gloves, pitcher’s mitts). The memory of slipping my hand into the cool worn leather, getting the stiffness out of it, and hoping no spider had made its home in the inner recesses is something I will always relish. Playing ‘catch’ was a simple yet remarkably fun thing to do. Could we sting each other’s hands with a particularly strong throw?
Then there were the teams. I grew up in Ohio, during the Big Red Machine era. But did we root for them? Nope. We were born in the Allegheny mountains in western Maryland and pledged allegiance to my father’s team, the Pittsburgh Pirates. My father’s father was also a Pirate fan. They were the nearest professional team to our town in western Maryland; nearly twice as close as Baltimore, and during my father’s childhood, were the only broadcasted game they could receive. (Although given my father’s illustrious prowess and love of antenna building and ham radio operating, I bet they could have listened to a transmission commencing in California).
I grew up hearing all the stories: their triumph over the Yankee’s in 1960 as well as the tragic loss of my brother’s hero, Roberto Clemente, the greatest right-fielder to play the game.
The men I followed were Willie Stargell ("Pops", who gave out gold stars to his team-mates to pin on their hats), Dave Parker, Omar Moreno, Bruce Kison, Phil Garner, Manny Sanguillen, the “Candy Man” John Candaleria. “Buc”king the trend in my school, I hung pirate banners in my room and on my locker. I was finally vindicated when the Pirates won the World Series in 1979 against the Orioles.
When we would make our yearly trek to the family reunion in Maryland, we would see the shrine and hold our breath as we passed the Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh. Riverfront? Pooey - one river; Pirates: three – the Allegheny River, the Monongahela River diverging to form the mighty Ohio River. It was even a more astounding sight on the way home, as we could see the glow of the lights of the stadium while listening to the actual game in the car, full of kids tired out by the frenzied day spent with cousins. We could imagine we heard the roar of the crowd as our heroes did their thing while we crossed the bridge once more into Ohio.
Much to my brother’s chagrin, I have lost my pitching arm but could probably accidentally throw like Kent Tekulve once in a while, and I still shock my boys when I hit a ball across the road into the woods. My almost dislocated shoulders and arms remind me of how old I am getting, but my love for the game will not diminish. Having married a Red’s fan, I left my long heritage of the Pirates behind and started anew. We can’t get cable out in the boonies and see very little broadcasted games; that doesn't matter, however, and the best summer nights are spent listening to the team of Marty and Joe on WLW describing men at work…
the candy man
Friday, December 29, 2006
painter of light...
We just got back from a great trip to see Rembrandt’s artwork among other Dutch masters of the same time period. What visual feast. The Painter of Light. I don’t mean to offend you Kinkade lovers out there (of which I don’t include myself – I am not a fan as his stuff all looks alike to me), but Rembrandt was brilliant in his use of light and Kinkade will never compare. Fantastic exhibition. Looking at these masterpieces that are 400 years old and have them evoke such wonderment was a tremendous pleasure.
It took three hours to go through the rooms. After a while, you get to know the people in the groups. The ones who are there on dates (hanging all over each other and sitting on the benches), the older married couples (cute in their familiar one-ness and their waiting on each other), the serious artists (“look at his use of negative space”), the ones with precocious children (“Now, Bobby, tell us who is in this picture!”), the ones with the crying babies (“Here, you try to hold her…”) and the ones who have teenagers wondering how long this is going to take (I would fall into that last category).
But there was one guy I had the onerous pleasure of following through one gallery of etchings. Tiny etchings that were matted and framed with explanations to the right side. We went left to right in a line around the room, and he would firmly plant himself at the left of the etching while to his right, the wife would read and move on. He did not. He wouldn’t move one inch; just stayed, feet apart, hands on hips for several minutes longer, while I tried desperately to read about and then observe the etchings. I was trying to maintain a decent amount of personal space but with so many people behind me pressing me on, I was on the edge of practically breathing down his neck. I think he enjoyed the power he held over me and the rest of the line. Next etching, same thing. Next room, I went the opposite way.
Which is what My Man did for most of the museum. I think it speaks of his personality type. He saw a line form one way and he automatically bucked the non-verbal rule and went the opposite way making great haste in his perusal of the artists. He ended up having to wait for me in each room - me who always follows rules. He considers rules simply as “suggestions for stupid people”.
The curators saved the best, hugest portraits and paintings for the last room, when everyone runs out of steam. By that time, the two teens were dragging and my hips and back (which have borne the brunt of seven pregnancies) were screaming at me. We went to the gift shop to pick up the traditional post cards of our favorite pieces, but basically, having waited until the last week to go, there were none…
Next we went to pick up some pizza. At this particular joint, it amuses me to watch the teenage boys make the pizza (we bake it at home). They all have their pants pulled down (just hanging on what, I don’t want to know), with the crotch at their knees. They shuffle a few steps and hike their pants up just a smidgen. All I can say is it is a good thing they all had aprons on and they never bent over.
Having just seen Walk the Line, My Man wore a new black shirt today and kept humming or singing just one line of the song. I told him I’d have to find him the lyrics as it is getting really old. “I keep a close watch on this heart of mine… because you’re mine, I walk the line…” We are about to watch a Marilyn Monroe movie tonight. I wonder if he will stand on any vents and sing “I wanna be loved by you…”
Heerrrrrrre’s Johnny!
walking the line or at least sitting on the couch
It took three hours to go through the rooms. After a while, you get to know the people in the groups. The ones who are there on dates (hanging all over each other and sitting on the benches), the older married couples (cute in their familiar one-ness and their waiting on each other), the serious artists (“look at his use of negative space”), the ones with precocious children (“Now, Bobby, tell us who is in this picture!”), the ones with the crying babies (“Here, you try to hold her…”) and the ones who have teenagers wondering how long this is going to take (I would fall into that last category).
But there was one guy I had the onerous pleasure of following through one gallery of etchings. Tiny etchings that were matted and framed with explanations to the right side. We went left to right in a line around the room, and he would firmly plant himself at the left of the etching while to his right, the wife would read and move on. He did not. He wouldn’t move one inch; just stayed, feet apart, hands on hips for several minutes longer, while I tried desperately to read about and then observe the etchings. I was trying to maintain a decent amount of personal space but with so many people behind me pressing me on, I was on the edge of practically breathing down his neck. I think he enjoyed the power he held over me and the rest of the line. Next etching, same thing. Next room, I went the opposite way.
Which is what My Man did for most of the museum. I think it speaks of his personality type. He saw a line form one way and he automatically bucked the non-verbal rule and went the opposite way making great haste in his perusal of the artists. He ended up having to wait for me in each room - me who always follows rules. He considers rules simply as “suggestions for stupid people”.
The curators saved the best, hugest portraits and paintings for the last room, when everyone runs out of steam. By that time, the two teens were dragging and my hips and back (which have borne the brunt of seven pregnancies) were screaming at me. We went to the gift shop to pick up the traditional post cards of our favorite pieces, but basically, having waited until the last week to go, there were none…
Next we went to pick up some pizza. At this particular joint, it amuses me to watch the teenage boys make the pizza (we bake it at home). They all have their pants pulled down (just hanging on what, I don’t want to know), with the crotch at their knees. They shuffle a few steps and hike their pants up just a smidgen. All I can say is it is a good thing they all had aprons on and they never bent over.
Having just seen Walk the Line, My Man wore a new black shirt today and kept humming or singing just one line of the song. I told him I’d have to find him the lyrics as it is getting really old. “I keep a close watch on this heart of mine… because you’re mine, I walk the line…” We are about to watch a Marilyn Monroe movie tonight. I wonder if he will stand on any vents and sing “I wanna be loved by you…”
Heerrrrrrre’s Johnny!
walking the line or at least sitting on the couch
Thursday, December 28, 2006
holiday diet tips?
Give us your best diet tips and ideas for healthy eating during the holidays. Meg, Meg, Meg…
Let’s first define the word Diet (this four letter word gets a bad reputation all the time)… Diet is simply the food someone consumes. So I say, “Consume it all!” How’s that for a tip? The holidays only come once a year. So what if they last for 5 weeks. That is part of the fun. Thanksgiving, Christmas parties, Christmas, New Years…Then come New Year resolutions to shed the 6-8 pounds we packed on our bodies….
Truthfully, I have never really had a weight problem. I usually gain 45-50 pounds with each pregnancy and I have always lost them all until this last baby. (hmmm that means I have lost close to 300 pounds during my life, Tink!) Now I have to ‘do’ something about this last 15 pounds. I like steps. I have 14 of them. So instead of bringing a pile of things down to the basement (my hangout, my schooling place) once a day, I only take one thing then run up again, taking the steps two at a time probably 50 times a day to retrieve even more things that need to go various places. I know that probably doesn’t count and my body is used to it, but I figure it helps maintain (but does it maintain the figure?). Also, as a recovering diabetic, I know some tricks.
You want that piece of apple pie? Go for it. Check out the label on your favorite breakfast cereal. Healthy Grape Nuts (or the generic version of them): ½ cup of the cereal plus ½ cup ‘skim’ milk (yuck) packs 250 calories and 53 grams of carbohydrates. Face it, who uses just ½ cup? My kids use maybe twice to three times as much. They fill our cereal bowls to the maximum content. They learned that from My Man. This is a diabetic nightmare. You are MUCH better off eating the apple pie, trust me…
Cinnamon raisin bagel: sounds nice and innocent. Slap some cream cheese in lieu of butter and you have a nice breakfast. 50 carbs… Bagels are high on the glycemic index and therefore quickly raise blood glucose levels. My choice: a nice bowl of ice cream. Or as the case this morning, some peppermint bark from my sister in Seattle. No brainer. Chased down with my coffee-that-must-not-taste-like coffee. It makes the chocolate melt on my tongue in quite a nice, luxurious way. And then to inhale the coolness of peppermint – smokin’…
How about your dinner. A roll or ice cream? Hmm the sweet roll is rather tempting… however 28 grams of carbs for one. Can I stop at one? Oh, wait, I will skip the rolls and bring out the ice cream. My Edy’s French silk has 20 carbs per ½ cup. If you can double cereal then I have no guilt to double my ice cream. I only will consume 40 carbs where you will be consuming over 100. Plus the rolls didn’t involve any chocolate.
Happy dieting! Meg, you’ve talked me into it; I’m off to eat another piece of bark. And then a run up the stairs for a drink of coffee…
breakfast
Let’s first define the word Diet (this four letter word gets a bad reputation all the time)… Diet is simply the food someone consumes. So I say, “Consume it all!” How’s that for a tip? The holidays only come once a year. So what if they last for 5 weeks. That is part of the fun. Thanksgiving, Christmas parties, Christmas, New Years…Then come New Year resolutions to shed the 6-8 pounds we packed on our bodies….
Truthfully, I have never really had a weight problem. I usually gain 45-50 pounds with each pregnancy and I have always lost them all until this last baby. (hmmm that means I have lost close to 300 pounds during my life, Tink!) Now I have to ‘do’ something about this last 15 pounds. I like steps. I have 14 of them. So instead of bringing a pile of things down to the basement (my hangout, my schooling place) once a day, I only take one thing then run up again, taking the steps two at a time probably 50 times a day to retrieve even more things that need to go various places. I know that probably doesn’t count and my body is used to it, but I figure it helps maintain (but does it maintain the figure?). Also, as a recovering diabetic, I know some tricks.
You want that piece of apple pie? Go for it. Check out the label on your favorite breakfast cereal. Healthy Grape Nuts (or the generic version of them): ½ cup of the cereal plus ½ cup ‘skim’ milk (yuck) packs 250 calories and 53 grams of carbohydrates. Face it, who uses just ½ cup? My kids use maybe twice to three times as much. They fill our cereal bowls to the maximum content. They learned that from My Man. This is a diabetic nightmare. You are MUCH better off eating the apple pie, trust me…
Cinnamon raisin bagel: sounds nice and innocent. Slap some cream cheese in lieu of butter and you have a nice breakfast. 50 carbs… Bagels are high on the glycemic index and therefore quickly raise blood glucose levels. My choice: a nice bowl of ice cream. Or as the case this morning, some peppermint bark from my sister in Seattle. No brainer. Chased down with my coffee-that-must-not-taste-like coffee. It makes the chocolate melt on my tongue in quite a nice, luxurious way. And then to inhale the coolness of peppermint – smokin’…
How about your dinner. A roll or ice cream? Hmm the sweet roll is rather tempting… however 28 grams of carbs for one. Can I stop at one? Oh, wait, I will skip the rolls and bring out the ice cream. My Edy’s French silk has 20 carbs per ½ cup. If you can double cereal then I have no guilt to double my ice cream. I only will consume 40 carbs where you will be consuming over 100. Plus the rolls didn’t involve any chocolate.
Happy dieting! Meg, you’ve talked me into it; I’m off to eat another piece of bark. And then a run up the stairs for a drink of coffee…
breakfast
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Christmas 2006
What is my favorite new Christmas memory…
Again, I have such a difficult time narrowing it down to one. You are probably getting that idea by now. So the following are many terrific memories from this weekend.
We enjoyed our big dinner the night before, which was great! We had a ham dinner with all the fixin’s, plus Glynis’ cranberry ambrosia salad (which was a hit). My brother and Barb spent the night, Barb and I popped bubble wrap, had laptop bandwidth wars, we watched a Christmas Story, which they hadn’t seen in a long time, so it was fun and we laughed a lot, which I thoroughly enjoy doing.
the spread
Next came the big day with 7 children bursting with excitement. Usually it is my brother we have to wait on, but this time, it was his wife :) … The kids made it through the waiting process and it was time to pass things out. My Man decided he would be Santa, which was met with groans. He makes a better scrooge than santa. But much to our wondering eyes, he did a great job this year and only got carried away half the time. He made it fun, would take the label and say things like, “Whose name has an A in it!” That would include 6 of the children and they would shout, “ME!” and he would then narrow it down. One time, Mr J kept shouting “ME” and finally when My Man asked for the last letter that happened to be in Mr J’s name, Mr J said very sadly, ‘Oh darn it, I don’t have one of those letters.” Or something of that sort (can’t give away names here, now can I?)… too funny.
the tree
I dug out the story my three brothers, my sister and I wrote eons ago and we read it. “…I became lost in the vast world of her violet eyes, spellbound.” Barb proposed we submit it to some contest for horrible novels. We have no clue what she is suggesting. I pulled out cartoons that Theo (he wasn’t there) drew years ago which had us cracking up. “Bar-none, that is the BEST meatloaf you have ever cooked!” Pure genius, I say! No one but family would get it, though.
Theo's cartoons
I love the Beatles while My Man hates them, so I got to jam to them with my brother in the kitchen while we cleaned up things. That was really fun. Air guitars, weird lyrics, watching him boogie with his bum hip. Very funny. Very memorable. Should have had the camera.
Then some of My Man’s side of the family came at lunch time. So more fun. My Man regaled us with a Mexican vacation story of how his brother (J) got chosen on a boat (he always seems to be chosen for something like this, and since he must be the center of attention, it is perfect for him). The boat entertainers put on ACDC and J got to karaoke and scream, “She shook me all night long” for the rest of the 100 passengers. My Man re-enacted that three or four times for us. He likes the spotlight just as much as his brother. He was in a contest down there where he had to swivel his hips in order to get a ball in a basket that was tied around his waist. They figured he’d be a natural, having 7 kids. And indeed he was - he won.
J singing ACDC in Mexico
Outlaw #4 came with his lovely wife. They stayed and told us how they met through the internet and got to know each other through emails. (Sounds like the story I just put on here of my much older brother and Barb.) I had only heard pieces of it. They became friends first; he was done-for, head-over-heels only two months into it but restrained himself and popped the question 5 months later. A remarkable decision, since she is 8 years older (but looks younger) and he choose to take on the responsibility of becoming a step-dad to a delightful young lady. I have never seen My Man's sister happier. They still act like newly weds. Sickening… ;-) They now live only 30 minutes away, so it will be enjoyable seeing them more. She and my mother-in-law are trying their best to join the Outlaws, but I don’t think we will let them in. The wife, obviously is an in-law, and the Mom (as much as I love her) spawned all the in-laws. I had a mini-conference with Outlaw #4 and I think the rule is you can’t be a blood relative at all.
Outlaw #4 and wife aka wanna be renegade
I’ll leave you with a final picture of My Man getting 24 season three from me; he claims I really got it for myself… however, “with all due respect” I don’t think I’ll tell. (Hey, someone from China is reading my blog - do you think it is Jack???)
24 season three
Again, I have such a difficult time narrowing it down to one. You are probably getting that idea by now. So the following are many terrific memories from this weekend.
We enjoyed our big dinner the night before, which was great! We had a ham dinner with all the fixin’s, plus Glynis’ cranberry ambrosia salad (which was a hit). My brother and Barb spent the night, Barb and I popped bubble wrap, had laptop bandwidth wars, we watched a Christmas Story, which they hadn’t seen in a long time, so it was fun and we laughed a lot, which I thoroughly enjoy doing.
the spreadNext came the big day with 7 children bursting with excitement. Usually it is my brother we have to wait on, but this time, it was his wife :) … The kids made it through the waiting process and it was time to pass things out. My Man decided he would be Santa, which was met with groans. He makes a better scrooge than santa. But much to our wondering eyes, he did a great job this year and only got carried away half the time. He made it fun, would take the label and say things like, “Whose name has an A in it!” That would include 6 of the children and they would shout, “ME!” and he would then narrow it down. One time, Mr J kept shouting “ME” and finally when My Man asked for the last letter that happened to be in Mr J’s name, Mr J said very sadly, ‘Oh darn it, I don’t have one of those letters.” Or something of that sort (can’t give away names here, now can I?)… too funny.
the treeI dug out the story my three brothers, my sister and I wrote eons ago and we read it. “…I became lost in the vast world of her violet eyes, spellbound.” Barb proposed we submit it to some contest for horrible novels. We have no clue what she is suggesting. I pulled out cartoons that Theo (he wasn’t there) drew years ago which had us cracking up. “Bar-none, that is the BEST meatloaf you have ever cooked!” Pure genius, I say! No one but family would get it, though.
Theo's cartoonsI love the Beatles while My Man hates them, so I got to jam to them with my brother in the kitchen while we cleaned up things. That was really fun. Air guitars, weird lyrics, watching him boogie with his bum hip. Very funny. Very memorable. Should have had the camera.
Then some of My Man’s side of the family came at lunch time. So more fun. My Man regaled us with a Mexican vacation story of how his brother (J) got chosen on a boat (he always seems to be chosen for something like this, and since he must be the center of attention, it is perfect for him). The boat entertainers put on ACDC and J got to karaoke and scream, “She shook me all night long” for the rest of the 100 passengers. My Man re-enacted that three or four times for us. He likes the spotlight just as much as his brother. He was in a contest down there where he had to swivel his hips in order to get a ball in a basket that was tied around his waist. They figured he’d be a natural, having 7 kids. And indeed he was - he won.
J singing ACDC in MexicoOutlaw #4 came with his lovely wife. They stayed and told us how they met through the internet and got to know each other through emails. (Sounds like the story I just put on here of my much older brother and Barb.) I had only heard pieces of it. They became friends first; he was done-for, head-over-heels only two months into it but restrained himself and popped the question 5 months later. A remarkable decision, since she is 8 years older (but looks younger) and he choose to take on the responsibility of becoming a step-dad to a delightful young lady. I have never seen My Man's sister happier. They still act like newly weds. Sickening… ;-) They now live only 30 minutes away, so it will be enjoyable seeing them more. She and my mother-in-law are trying their best to join the Outlaws, but I don’t think we will let them in. The wife, obviously is an in-law, and the Mom (as much as I love her) spawned all the in-laws. I had a mini-conference with Outlaw #4 and I think the rule is you can’t be a blood relative at all.
Outlaw #4 and wife aka wanna be renegadeI’ll leave you with a final picture of My Man getting 24 season three from me; he claims I really got it for myself… however, “with all due respect” I don’t think I’ll tell. (Hey, someone from China is reading my blog - do you think it is Jack???)
24 season three
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
sunrise...sunset
Describe the most beautiful sunset or sunrise you've ever seen.
That is a toughie. I have loved so many rises and sets in my life. Pastel ones in the morning through stark trees, deep rich ones in the evening with the ball of fire sinking in seconds. The entire day can seem to last an eternity and yet I can watch the sun diminish in a fleeting amount of time. Neither the rising nor setting lasts long enough, yet is a spectacular reminder of the awesomeness of our Redeemer. He could have chosen to make it bland and boring, yet He didn’t. I also delight in thinking that the most favorite people in my life are seeing the same sun I am no matter where they are.
I was raised in the country and My Man has indulged my yearnings and kept me in the country for most of my married life. I can take pleasure in starry skies with nary a bright city light around. At my current house (called my forever house), the sunrises peek through my woods and set behind some other trees down the road; both views are somewhat obscured, but produce magnificent results anyway. I have also taken plenty of photos trying to capture the intensity of them, but the results are less than impressive. Some of them are sunsets, but a lot of them involve the sun playing with the clouds in extreme ways.
In the master bedroom four houses ago, I had My Man put window facing east and two facing west; in order for me to see both the sun rise and the sun set (that’s how much I love them!). It is funny how much I grew to care for a box-of-a-house which represented independence from renting once more, a frontier spirit (we had a barn-raising of sorts with the men from the church all pitching in to help set trusses), a place to call my own, and a home for my kids to grow up in. It was set on five acres with a woods and a stream to cross, a long driveway and bounty of land for the kids to play on. I pounded nails in the sheeting, helped make the stringer for the steps (even though it involved math), dry-walled, painted and put a front porch on. I had so much of ‘me’ in that house. I remember the day My Man said we had to move from it. I was so upset that we had to leave. I went from room to room taking photograph after photograph, and mourning the loss of what was going to be my children’s homestead where thousands of memories would have been created. I was particularly upset about the loss of being able to see the sun rise and set from my room. And then we moved everything to our new house, and I went back to clean the old one. It was empty and was haunted by the echoes of what used to be and would have been. However, a funny thing happened after I chased the dust bunnies from room to room. I began to yearn to be ‘home’. Where my family was. Where the warmth of my life was. I realized with shock and relief that this house was no longer home. Family is where home ultimately is; however with that said, please take note, My Man, that I still hope that this last house (the forever house) is my final house. And the sun sets are pretty splendid here.
Monday, December 25, 2006
My computer is still dead…. Video card? Motherboard? Hard drive? Error messages? It all sounds awful to me!
I shook things up this year by insisting the big dinner be held Christmas Eve so I could enjoy Christmas day better. So as I sit here, we are all full of wonderful edibles, the kitchen is clean, I have home-made sangria, a berry French toast casserole and quiche in the refrigerator for brunch tomorrow after Santa passes out the presents. Much more relaxing this way…
Now it is almost 1AM in the morning, I sent the traditional email burp to my brother, five of the kids are nestled all snug in their beds with visions of Nintendo games dancing in their heads; My Man is out as well. My brother, sis-in-law, Mr D, Miss J and I are watching A Christmas Story. The leg is just being set up in the window….
Well, Amazon didn’t come through this year. My presents ordered on 12/14 have yet to arrive, therefore several of my kiddos won’t be getting their presents until Tuesday. The gifts are in a truck somewhere sitting… since the 22nd!!
My brother’s present is in the same truck… so I am pulling out my gift I got him several years ago…. I read the following to my brother and his lovely wife (who are currently sitting beside me watching Ralphie getting into trouble by saying fudge… ) at their wedding reception. While I read this, a friend of mine wrapped Barb up with ribbon and put the most humongous bow I could find on top of her head.
And to all you blog readers, I triple-dog dare you to have a wonderful Christmas today!
I shook things up this year by insisting the big dinner be held Christmas Eve so I could enjoy Christmas day better. So as I sit here, we are all full of wonderful edibles, the kitchen is clean, I have home-made sangria, a berry French toast casserole and quiche in the refrigerator for brunch tomorrow after Santa passes out the presents. Much more relaxing this way…
Now it is almost 1AM in the morning, I sent the traditional email burp to my brother, five of the kids are nestled all snug in their beds with visions of Nintendo games dancing in their heads; My Man is out as well. My brother, sis-in-law, Mr D, Miss J and I are watching A Christmas Story. The leg is just being set up in the window….
Well, Amazon didn’t come through this year. My presents ordered on 12/14 have yet to arrive, therefore several of my kiddos won’t be getting their presents until Tuesday. The gifts are in a truck somewhere sitting… since the 22nd!!
My brother’s present is in the same truck… so I am pulling out my gift I got him several years ago…. I read the following to my brother and his lovely wife (who are currently sitting beside me watching Ralphie getting into trouble by saying fudge… ) at their wedding reception. While I read this, a friend of mine wrapped Barb up with ribbon and put the most humongous bow I could find on top of her head.
October 7, 2000
Once upon a time, there was a girl (ME – the sister), who had a MUCH Older Brother. Christmas was always a special time in their family, but people seemed to have problems thinking of gifts for each other. To make things easier, she provided a simple list of items she’d like to receive each year. She, in turn, would ask her MUCH Older Brother, what he would like as a gift. He would sigh and say, wistfully, “… make her 5’7”, blonde, and…” At this point, the sister would just roll her eyes and think, “oh brother.”
Year after year, the Much Older Brother, made the same request. It was getting old.
Then, one day, eleven years ago, the wonderful sister spied the perfect gift to give to her Much Older Brother. At the very church you were in today, the sister looked across the sanctuary and found Barb the Babe. The annoying thing about Christmas presents is that they come with tags. This one said, “Do not open until October 7, 2000.”
From then on, when the Much Older Brother, asked his sister for the same old gift, she’d say, “I found her, but you are not worthy of her.” Finally, she realized that maybe Barb the Babe should decide if he were worthy or not.
On New Year’s Day, 2000, the beginning of the new millennium, the sister decided It Was Time. She sat down with Barb the Babe and told her about her MUCH Older Brother. She even showed Barb the Babe a picture. Barb the Babe looked at the picture and said, “Hmmm… he’s … OLD.” The sister babbled on for hours, telling Barb the Babe EVERYTHING about the Much Older Brother, including The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Much to the sister’s surprise, Barb the Babe said, “Well, I’m game!” and even started calling the sister’s mother, “Mom.”
The sister then called up her MUCH Older Brother and told him she finally had found the perfect woman for him, although he wasn’t worthy of her. The sister told her MUCH Older Brother, everything she could think of about Barb the Babe – The Good, The Beautiful, and The Lovely! Her MUCH Older Brother, who lived in the glorious Pacific Northwest, land of rugged mountains, deep blue waters, and lots of coffee, sighed and said, “Well…… there’s just one thing. I’m NEVER going to move to Ohio! Ever.”
(Thank goodness, Ohio is known as “the heart of it all.” My MUCH Older Brother, Ohio welcomes you with open arms and forgives you for all the nasty things you said about it!)
Meanwhile, back to the story. Several months went by, as the MUCH Older Brother and Barb the Babe burned up the wires with cyber-dating and long distance phone calls. Finally, in May, the big day arrived. They journeyed to Canada, away from interfering family and friends, to meet each other. They were never quite the same after that visit, for they had fallen deeply in love with each other. The next month, lo and behold, the Much Older Brother came to Ohio. One day, when he was at the computer keyboard, and Barb the Babe was kneeling beside him, he asked her to marry him. Fortunately, she said yes!
And here we are today! My Much Older Brother, merry Christmas! You may open your present. And here is my toast for both of you:
May you have many, many merry Christmases to come!
And to all you blog readers, I triple-dog dare you to have a wonderful Christmas today!
Saturday, December 23, 2006
horrors
my computer is dead... so I most likely won't be blogging until we rescue it from its untimely demise. but I could surprise myself!
Friday, December 22, 2006
Happiness is…
Well it sure isn’t a warm puppy! She stinks today… She must have eaten the cat poo or the half of a mouse they left on the door step.
What is MY recipe for happiness?
So much of the world looks for happiness in external, materialistic things. “If I get this, then I will be happy…” the next day it takes something different to make them happy. The eyes of man are never satisfied. Nor are the eyes of kids with video game systems. It won’t end; there will be a “something” forevermore.
We will never be satisfied that way. Yet there is a yearning to be happy.
My happiness comes from my faith in and knowledge of my Creator. He is the one who has to satisfy me. I feel happy and enormously secure in knowing that He chose me (ME – for crying out loud!), from the foundation of the universe. I am a sinner… I sin everyday. I used to go to bed feeling immensely guilt-ridden over what I failed to do, how I failed my children and husband. I would turn these things over in my mind and feel terrible. I would wake up the next day determined to be better, but “life” got in the way, things would fall apart and again at night I would have to crawl into bed with the same guilt and be sad. How could God love someone who just can’t get things right day after day?
But I started to remember that the most pure, holy God sees me, the filthy sinner, through His Son’s eyes. The Son who died for me. The Son who intercedes on my behalf, pleading my case before His father. And gosh, darn-it, that is AWESOME. Just perks me up thinking of it! I am always going to fail and fall short, but Jesus has done it for me – He never failed and He never fell short.
And happiness is a choice. When My Man comes home from work, he is carrying a burden of caring for his family. The worries are written all over his face and in his mood. I found I started matching that mood and in doing so I brought him down even more. So several years ago, I chose to be happy. Some days it is hard, but other days it is easy to greet him with a big hug, kiss, pat on the fanny and smile (I must say it’s easier when he hasn’t been sweating all day, though!).
Happiness is having true and wonderful friends. My sister and I call it our vice presidency. We are the presidents and we have vice presidents (friends) that meet certain needs: crafting, listening, sharing, being…. Having various friends in my life makes me well-rounded and happy! I don’t have “the more, the merrier type of friend” philosophy, though. I only have a few precious “through thick and thin” friends. Fire and trials have honed the friendships and made them brighter than gold. They have seen me and my imperfections and love me anyway. They know who they are and how much I need them. And they better not go away.
Happiness for me involves creating (writing, photography, scrapbooking). Since I was made in the image of a Creator, it is an obvious extension of that. Creating fulfills my needs and makes me happy.
Happiness also involves not feeling sorry for myself and entails looking around to see how vastly blessed I really am. Each spring I am in charge of a mission’s presentation at my church and in doing so I come face-to-face with reality. We have a missions work in Uganda where the kids like to play soccer. They play this all the time and are incredibly happy to play with a ball made up of plastic grocery bags and strings. They roll car tires down the road and make things with soup cans. They live in dirt compounds created by individual circular family huts that are 10 feet in diameter and put together by cow dung. I look around at my sprawling ranch that is filled to capacity with ‘stuff’ that various people think will make them happy. That makes me feel hugely blessed and kind of sick at the same time!
Looking at a sleeping child makes me happy… Listening to music makes me happy… getting through the school day makes me happy… a clean kitchen makes me happy… Mr D ‘getting’ my jokes makes me happy…
And I try to find happiness in ordinary things: my kids being healthy, playing, singing, making messes, and I tend play with my food…
What is MY recipe for happiness?
So much of the world looks for happiness in external, materialistic things. “If I get this, then I will be happy…” the next day it takes something different to make them happy. The eyes of man are never satisfied. Nor are the eyes of kids with video game systems. It won’t end; there will be a “something” forevermore.
We will never be satisfied that way. Yet there is a yearning to be happy.
My happiness comes from my faith in and knowledge of my Creator. He is the one who has to satisfy me. I feel happy and enormously secure in knowing that He chose me (ME – for crying out loud!), from the foundation of the universe. I am a sinner… I sin everyday. I used to go to bed feeling immensely guilt-ridden over what I failed to do, how I failed my children and husband. I would turn these things over in my mind and feel terrible. I would wake up the next day determined to be better, but “life” got in the way, things would fall apart and again at night I would have to crawl into bed with the same guilt and be sad. How could God love someone who just can’t get things right day after day?
But I started to remember that the most pure, holy God sees me, the filthy sinner, through His Son’s eyes. The Son who died for me. The Son who intercedes on my behalf, pleading my case before His father. And gosh, darn-it, that is AWESOME. Just perks me up thinking of it! I am always going to fail and fall short, but Jesus has done it for me – He never failed and He never fell short.
And happiness is a choice. When My Man comes home from work, he is carrying a burden of caring for his family. The worries are written all over his face and in his mood. I found I started matching that mood and in doing so I brought him down even more. So several years ago, I chose to be happy. Some days it is hard, but other days it is easy to greet him with a big hug, kiss, pat on the fanny and smile (I must say it’s easier when he hasn’t been sweating all day, though!).
Happiness is having true and wonderful friends. My sister and I call it our vice presidency. We are the presidents and we have vice presidents (friends) that meet certain needs: crafting, listening, sharing, being…. Having various friends in my life makes me well-rounded and happy! I don’t have “the more, the merrier type of friend” philosophy, though. I only have a few precious “through thick and thin” friends. Fire and trials have honed the friendships and made them brighter than gold. They have seen me and my imperfections and love me anyway. They know who they are and how much I need them. And they better not go away.
Happiness for me involves creating (writing, photography, scrapbooking). Since I was made in the image of a Creator, it is an obvious extension of that. Creating fulfills my needs and makes me happy.
Happiness also involves not feeling sorry for myself and entails looking around to see how vastly blessed I really am. Each spring I am in charge of a mission’s presentation at my church and in doing so I come face-to-face with reality. We have a missions work in Uganda where the kids like to play soccer. They play this all the time and are incredibly happy to play with a ball made up of plastic grocery bags and strings. They roll car tires down the road and make things with soup cans. They live in dirt compounds created by individual circular family huts that are 10 feet in diameter and put together by cow dung. I look around at my sprawling ranch that is filled to capacity with ‘stuff’ that various people think will make them happy. That makes me feel hugely blessed and kind of sick at the same time!
Looking at a sleeping child makes me happy… Listening to music makes me happy… getting through the school day makes me happy… a clean kitchen makes me happy… Mr D ‘getting’ my jokes makes me happy…
And I try to find happiness in ordinary things: my kids being healthy, playing, singing, making messes, and I tend play with my food…
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
techie
Yeah – I did a layout! Mr D with his favorite toy! I have done this layout three different ways. (gotta love digital)... and came back to the simple design of Christine Smith's Fall Primaries and Suzanne Walker's Bracketed quick click. Easy. I would post it here but blogger isn't liking me today. I have resized the dickens out of this and still no go...
My mom has pointed out that I have stopped doing layouts since I started blogging. Well, actually, My Man stopped eating out about then, so I stopped buying the kits for the challenges. I even stopped going to most of the chats so I wouldn't be tempted. I am a procrastinator and the challenges always gave me the push to actually get several layouts per week done. I have a vast amount of kits sitting on my hard drive that I really truly could use. I just forget they are there. I should take this Christmas break and sort them. Sounds jolly doesn't it? blah. I need an elf.
Anyway, Mr D loves the computer. As does his mom. I am much more comfortable emailing than talking on the phone; I probably get into less trouble this way... maybe. And I absolutely love shopping on the internet. I hate real shopping with its crowds, traffic, rudeness. Am I the only one who thinks there is a certain unspoken, right-of-way protocol in stores? Last week I was on my Christmas mission (which isn’t finished fyi), list in hand, driving my cart down the main aisle, when a woman darted from the side out of the jeans racks heading directly towards me. Apparently she was on an opposite mission. She was not showing any signs of slowing down and we were on a crash course. I had to run to get out of her way. And all the while, I am thinking, "I get the right of way here, tootsie! Where do they put the horns on the carts, anyway?” That happened several times. I tried to explain the whole cart-traffic rule thing to My Man, but he just looked at me blankly. Maybe he just doesn't ever get messed with in stores.
And then there are those people who stop to talk on their cell phones. They are in an aisle, basket to their side and blocking the available space. They can't hear you since they are conversing with someone. People start lining up to get through the aisle and they still don't notice. They are too busy laughing, talking and gesturing with their hands to realize the real world still exists.... Maybe if I get close enough, they will hit me when they fling their hands out again and notice the traffic jam they've created. Nope, I just shove their cart out of the way, say excuse me and get glared at.
I had to battle traffic, park in the nether-regions with my van and go to three stores find what was on my list. And the only reason I went was because I waited a smidge too long to complete my internet shopping.
Ahh, internet shopping. Sit comfortably in your chair, listen to some music, stay in your jammies, sip some coffee, scrap while you’re surfing, push some buttons, use some plastic and have the big brown truck deliver them right to your door. Don’t the UPS guys have a great job? We all love to see them come. However, I do get a bit testy this time of year. I was expecting SIX boxes today and only got one. I told the guy I’d better see him later; he wasn’t the regular guy and looked a little scared when I said that. He leaves and the panic sets in: will the gifts come in time? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. That is part of the fun. UPS roulette.
So Glynis, five things to make a perfect winter day would currently be: no traffic, nice polite fellow customers, first store has what I need, dinner out with a friend, I go home with money in my pocket and my list crossed off (oh my UPS man has visited with my boxes while I am gone! I'm dreaming, aren't I?
My mom has pointed out that I have stopped doing layouts since I started blogging. Well, actually, My Man stopped eating out about then, so I stopped buying the kits for the challenges. I even stopped going to most of the chats so I wouldn't be tempted. I am a procrastinator and the challenges always gave me the push to actually get several layouts per week done. I have a vast amount of kits sitting on my hard drive that I really truly could use. I just forget they are there. I should take this Christmas break and sort them. Sounds jolly doesn't it? blah. I need an elf.
Anyway, Mr D loves the computer. As does his mom. I am much more comfortable emailing than talking on the phone; I probably get into less trouble this way... maybe. And I absolutely love shopping on the internet. I hate real shopping with its crowds, traffic, rudeness. Am I the only one who thinks there is a certain unspoken, right-of-way protocol in stores? Last week I was on my Christmas mission (which isn’t finished fyi), list in hand, driving my cart down the main aisle, when a woman darted from the side out of the jeans racks heading directly towards me. Apparently she was on an opposite mission. She was not showing any signs of slowing down and we were on a crash course. I had to run to get out of her way. And all the while, I am thinking, "I get the right of way here, tootsie! Where do they put the horns on the carts, anyway?” That happened several times. I tried to explain the whole cart-traffic rule thing to My Man, but he just looked at me blankly. Maybe he just doesn't ever get messed with in stores.
And then there are those people who stop to talk on their cell phones. They are in an aisle, basket to their side and blocking the available space. They can't hear you since they are conversing with someone. People start lining up to get through the aisle and they still don't notice. They are too busy laughing, talking and gesturing with their hands to realize the real world still exists.... Maybe if I get close enough, they will hit me when they fling their hands out again and notice the traffic jam they've created. Nope, I just shove their cart out of the way, say excuse me and get glared at.
I had to battle traffic, park in the nether-regions with my van and go to three stores find what was on my list. And the only reason I went was because I waited a smidge too long to complete my internet shopping.
Ahh, internet shopping. Sit comfortably in your chair, listen to some music, stay in your jammies, sip some coffee, scrap while you’re surfing, push some buttons, use some plastic and have the big brown truck deliver them right to your door. Don’t the UPS guys have a great job? We all love to see them come. However, I do get a bit testy this time of year. I was expecting SIX boxes today and only got one. I told the guy I’d better see him later; he wasn’t the regular guy and looked a little scared when I said that. He leaves and the panic sets in: will the gifts come in time? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. That is part of the fun. UPS roulette.
So Glynis, five things to make a perfect winter day would currently be: no traffic, nice polite fellow customers, first store has what I need, dinner out with a friend, I go home with money in my pocket and my list crossed off (oh my UPS man has visited with my boxes while I am gone! I'm dreaming, aren't I?
then and now
I enjoy ______ now, but if anyone had told me that years ago, I would never have believed them.
I’m going to change the wording a bit…. How about years ago I would have never dreamed that…
I have gotten up in front of hundreds of people to speak. Still a little nervous, but I have survived!!
I was growing a successful business that I walked away from in order to put my family first.
I design house plans. And people actually buy the houses!! These last three that have yet to sell I didn’t design.
That I got paid for being creative.
I scrapbook digitally.
I still don’t know how to use my camera to its fullest extent to get those wow photographs…bummer
That it took 20 years before My Man decided on a dog and it is a shih-tzu.
I drink coffee now. Ok, it can’t taste like coffee in the least, but I can now drink it.
I have seven children. Having been infertile, that bit of news would have blown me away!
I took algebra two years ago and aced it, which is a good thing, seeing how I have to teach it to 6 other children! I might even grow to like it, but that’s doubtful. Check back in 15 more years…
That staying home would be so fulfilling and the hardest job I have ever had.
I gave birth to a 10 ½ pound baby boy without any meds. Heck, I didn’t believe that at the time, either. It was a good thing they told me afterwards.
I have been a leader instead of a follower. In fact, here is an email I received from a good friend: “don’t cry...but this is soooo you! ‘A leader has the vision and conviction that a dream can be achieved. He inspires the power and energy to get it done.’ ~ Ralph Lauren” Really? She’s talking about me?? ME????
I don’t wear makeup 90% of the time - not to church, not out – and I feel comfortable in who I am to do that. Years ago, you wouldn’t have caught me dead without makeup on! In fact, dang it, I am going to post a totally unretouched photo that I took JUST now of me on the world wide web… sans makeup of any sort. Ok, I am have just put on moisturizer and am shiny, but that doesn't count!
Did that scare anyone away???
I’m going to change the wording a bit…. How about years ago I would have never dreamed that…
I have gotten up in front of hundreds of people to speak. Still a little nervous, but I have survived!!
I was growing a successful business that I walked away from in order to put my family first.
I design house plans. And people actually buy the houses!! These last three that have yet to sell I didn’t design.
That I got paid for being creative.
I scrapbook digitally.
I still don’t know how to use my camera to its fullest extent to get those wow photographs…bummer
That it took 20 years before My Man decided on a dog and it is a shih-tzu.
I drink coffee now. Ok, it can’t taste like coffee in the least, but I can now drink it.
I have seven children. Having been infertile, that bit of news would have blown me away!
I took algebra two years ago and aced it, which is a good thing, seeing how I have to teach it to 6 other children! I might even grow to like it, but that’s doubtful. Check back in 15 more years…
That staying home would be so fulfilling and the hardest job I have ever had.
I gave birth to a 10 ½ pound baby boy without any meds. Heck, I didn’t believe that at the time, either. It was a good thing they told me afterwards.
I have been a leader instead of a follower. In fact, here is an email I received from a good friend: “don’t cry...but this is soooo you! ‘A leader has the vision and conviction that a dream can be achieved. He inspires the power and energy to get it done.’ ~ Ralph Lauren” Really? She’s talking about me?? ME????
I don’t wear makeup 90% of the time - not to church, not out – and I feel comfortable in who I am to do that. Years ago, you wouldn’t have caught me dead without makeup on! In fact, dang it, I am going to post a totally unretouched photo that I took JUST now of me on the world wide web… sans makeup of any sort. Ok, I am have just put on moisturizer and am shiny, but that doesn't count!
Did that scare anyone away???
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
apart from the herd
Things that set me apart: I have 7 children, I home school, I enjoy staying put, I don’t like to shop, I am an optimist, I am generally happy, I don’t watch the news, I am an Orthodox Presbyterian. Basically, this became a shorter blog entry than I prefer, so I asked some of my family what they thought set me apart. thank you, guys - I love you!
My sister said: "you have the ‘family’ humor; your enjoyment to have your kids around you always; your contentment with being a hermit; your sparkle despite life’s heavy moments; your desire to create traditions; your addictive personality - books, craft stuff, etc. You don’t have any harmful addictions like smoking or drinking; your love for chocolate, ice cream; your passion for being godly; your dedication to church. I don't know - maybe it's just how a variety of more ordinary things combine to create a beautiful you!"
My sister-in-law (to whom I owe a big happy birthday!) said: "Perhaps it is that you find your identity, not in autonomy, but rather in your relationships with your God, your family, and your friends. Isn't that an unusual path for our culture in which being set apart from the crowd entails pursuing the primacy of self in some form or another?"
My Man says: 1. your looks 2. your kids 3. me 4. your life.
After I didn’t get a response from one of my brothers, I of course tried the manipulation method. Me: “Pooey… it’s that bad, is it????” My brother said: “no, of course not; i just don't/won't write anything for public consumption - you know that!”
My little brother said:
a) have the energy to home school 7 kids
b) maybe just be a MOM to 7 kids
c) write your feelings/thoughts out for people to see and not be negative
D) YOU'RE HAPPY.
That sets you apart from 99.9% of everyone I know
You seem truly happy in life. I cannot think of anything better to have.
My Mom said: "Well, to begin with, you are mine! You are very nice looking and usually neat. You converse well with others. You are a loving wife & mother. If your kids are around, people can see that."
Usually neat? Hmmm…
My sister said: "you have the ‘family’ humor; your enjoyment to have your kids around you always; your contentment with being a hermit; your sparkle despite life’s heavy moments; your desire to create traditions; your addictive personality - books, craft stuff, etc. You don’t have any harmful addictions like smoking or drinking; your love for chocolate, ice cream; your passion for being godly; your dedication to church. I don't know - maybe it's just how a variety of more ordinary things combine to create a beautiful you!"
My sister-in-law (to whom I owe a big happy birthday!) said: "Perhaps it is that you find your identity, not in autonomy, but rather in your relationships with your God, your family, and your friends. Isn't that an unusual path for our culture in which being set apart from the crowd entails pursuing the primacy of self in some form or another?"
My Man says: 1. your looks 2. your kids 3. me 4. your life.
After I didn’t get a response from one of my brothers, I of course tried the manipulation method. Me: “Pooey… it’s that bad, is it????” My brother said: “no, of course not; i just don't/won't write anything for public consumption - you know that!”
My little brother said:
a) have the energy to home school 7 kids
b) maybe just be a MOM to 7 kids
c) write your feelings/thoughts out for people to see and not be negative
D) YOU'RE HAPPY.
That sets you apart from 99.9% of everyone I know
You seem truly happy in life. I cannot think of anything better to have.
My Mom said: "Well, to begin with, you are mine! You are very nice looking and usually neat. You converse well with others. You are a loving wife & mother. If your kids are around, people can see that."
Usually neat? Hmmm…
Monday, December 18, 2006
calgon take me away...
Where do you go when you want to get away from the pressures of life, family, work, etc.?
Good question. I don’t have a clue. I guess I would say the computer to write or scrap, but the kids usually follow me down here, and I end up with kids playing at my feet or sitting in my lap. While a lot of projects may get started, not many get finished (and hence the stack of stuff on my desk grows ever bigger).
I did paint my bedroom a nice pale green that is very soothing and tranquil. Celadon green. I have a small ivory upholstered rocking chair in the corner by the window where I can just think and muse over things, but the kids come find me there, too. I like to look out the window at my trees to de-stress. I listen to music, but sometimes that gets so emotional, I get more stressed! I have a whirlpool, but again, I tend to get visitors. Really, do moms even get to go to the bathroom or take a shower without someone needing them? Ha-ha, I can hear my sister now, “Then stop having kids!”
Sometimes I take Lucy outside and just wander around the lot with her on her leash. But it seems like it would be better if I were walking with someone.
I talk to God a lot. That helps me become less stressed since I know He wants us to cast our burdens on Him. I talk to Him all the time. All day long.
Truly, I am not sure I have a deep-seeded need to get away from it all. I have always been around people, grew up in a large family and have never lived on my own. I like having the noises of the family unit around me. Frequently when I go on errands, I usually pick a kid to come along. Last time I had a baby, it was over five months before I actually got into a car and drove somewhere by myself, totally alone. And it was only down the road to vote. It lasted ten minutes. My friends were horrified.
I have an option to drive my daughter to an out-of-state church function this spring. I have no clue why, but I am terrified about doing this; as much as she wants me to do this, I can’t guarantee I will. It isn’t the long drive that would bother me. Is it because for a whole day I would be on my own in a strange city? By myself? Independent? Alone? Beats me, but it is something I am wrestling with and will try to overcome.
Ahh. My little guy just wanted to snuggle. And I held and rocked him for a bit and all my cares went away. So maybe that is my answer: holding someone I love.
Good question. I don’t have a clue. I guess I would say the computer to write or scrap, but the kids usually follow me down here, and I end up with kids playing at my feet or sitting in my lap. While a lot of projects may get started, not many get finished (and hence the stack of stuff on my desk grows ever bigger).
I did paint my bedroom a nice pale green that is very soothing and tranquil. Celadon green. I have a small ivory upholstered rocking chair in the corner by the window where I can just think and muse over things, but the kids come find me there, too. I like to look out the window at my trees to de-stress. I listen to music, but sometimes that gets so emotional, I get more stressed! I have a whirlpool, but again, I tend to get visitors. Really, do moms even get to go to the bathroom or take a shower without someone needing them? Ha-ha, I can hear my sister now, “Then stop having kids!”
Sometimes I take Lucy outside and just wander around the lot with her on her leash. But it seems like it would be better if I were walking with someone.
I talk to God a lot. That helps me become less stressed since I know He wants us to cast our burdens on Him. I talk to Him all the time. All day long.
Truly, I am not sure I have a deep-seeded need to get away from it all. I have always been around people, grew up in a large family and have never lived on my own. I like having the noises of the family unit around me. Frequently when I go on errands, I usually pick a kid to come along. Last time I had a baby, it was over five months before I actually got into a car and drove somewhere by myself, totally alone. And it was only down the road to vote. It lasted ten minutes. My friends were horrified.
I have an option to drive my daughter to an out-of-state church function this spring. I have no clue why, but I am terrified about doing this; as much as she wants me to do this, I can’t guarantee I will. It isn’t the long drive that would bother me. Is it because for a whole day I would be on my own in a strange city? By myself? Independent? Alone? Beats me, but it is something I am wrestling with and will try to overcome.
Ahh. My little guy just wanted to snuggle. And I held and rocked him for a bit and all my cares went away. So maybe that is my answer: holding someone I love.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
truckin' mama
My town is a truck town. You know you live in one when the largest population of vehicles is made up not of the ever fashionable SUV, but of pickup trucks. And if you get behind a man on the road past the dealerships, you better be prepared to slow down to a crawl while they rubber neck. The dealers here aren’t stupid; they put all the trucks in the front of the lot. My Man has done his share of looking. It’s definitely a guy thing to want to own a truck.
My Man owns most recently, a big, bad, black Chevy 4 door, extended bed, super duty truck. Men drool over it when they see it. No dooley wheels or we couldn’t get it in the garage. I would love it more if we had the snow plow package, but I don’t mind getting stuck in my home if we have food and a rick of wood.
I have never felt the need to name my cars except when we owned a Ford F-350 even huger truck. This one had so much power and kick, I felt I was in a wrestling match to keep it under 75 in a 55 mile zone. It really wore me out to drive it. I named it Epona.
Not that the newer truck is slow; it also likes to go fast but is more manageable and smooth. My Man gets a couple of tickets per year, and my deal with him is that I get the same amount as the fine to do with what I like. Personally I have never had a ticket. Not that I don’t deserve tons; I have just been extremely blessed to have never been caught. A few weeks ago, I called him from my cell phone to say, “I am in trouble – I can’t keep the truck under 70!” He laughed. I called back later and said, “I’m going to get a ticket!”
He responded, with much glee in his voice, “Really?” I hated to pour cold water on My Man’s joyful moment, but I was kidding. I meant at the rate/speed I was going, it wouldn’t surprise me if I did. You’ll hear all about it if (when) I finally get one, and you’ll probably hear him laughing, too.
I drove the truck yesterday for my day out with my girl friends. I live 20-30 minutes from everywhere and was looking forward to my drive in the truck. I got stuck behind someone going 40-45 on a windy country road. Darn it. So I passed them. You know how it goes. You have been following them for a while, finally the coast is clear and you end up having to go 75 to pass them. But it was fun.
Owning a large vehicle means I have to park in the outer regions of parking lots, where I can have room for my large turning radius. I take up two spaces and have to sometimes call ahead to see if I can park at certain establishments. I once was good at parallel parking. Now I am sitting up so high, I can’t even see the cars behind me. So in order to parallel park, I just pull up, on, over and off the curb – no problem.
I have to really work to climb into the seat, however. Trucks are not built for short people. My Man is on the tallish side, while I am lacking on the perpendicular. If my mom comes with us, we have to bring a stool for her to get in. But the drive is cool. I find I rather enjoy being higher than everyone on the road. I had to borrow my mom’s Buick last week for my doctor’s appointment since I can’t fit in the parking garage with my cars. I got in her car and could hardly see over the steering wheel. I think they make the seats lower on purpose. I felt like a little old lady. It had little old lady music on the stereo and little old lady rain hats in the passenger seat. My rear-end felt like it was dragging on the ground while I drove. But I could zip in any parking spot I wanted and I could park close. I liked that.
I know you are wondering why I don’t choose to drive my car instead of My Man’s big, bad, black gas-guzzlin' truck that costs a fortune to drive and is a pain to park? It’s an easy choice; my ‘car’ is a 15 passenger van. Oh there’s no doubt I still get looks when I drive it, especially when they see 7 kids piling out. It’s just a different kind of look.
My Man owns most recently, a big, bad, black Chevy 4 door, extended bed, super duty truck. Men drool over it when they see it. No dooley wheels or we couldn’t get it in the garage. I would love it more if we had the snow plow package, but I don’t mind getting stuck in my home if we have food and a rick of wood.
I have never felt the need to name my cars except when we owned a Ford F-350 even huger truck. This one had so much power and kick, I felt I was in a wrestling match to keep it under 75 in a 55 mile zone. It really wore me out to drive it. I named it Epona.
Not that the newer truck is slow; it also likes to go fast but is more manageable and smooth. My Man gets a couple of tickets per year, and my deal with him is that I get the same amount as the fine to do with what I like. Personally I have never had a ticket. Not that I don’t deserve tons; I have just been extremely blessed to have never been caught. A few weeks ago, I called him from my cell phone to say, “I am in trouble – I can’t keep the truck under 70!” He laughed. I called back later and said, “I’m going to get a ticket!”
He responded, with much glee in his voice, “Really?” I hated to pour cold water on My Man’s joyful moment, but I was kidding. I meant at the rate/speed I was going, it wouldn’t surprise me if I did. You’ll hear all about it if (when) I finally get one, and you’ll probably hear him laughing, too.
I drove the truck yesterday for my day out with my girl friends. I live 20-30 minutes from everywhere and was looking forward to my drive in the truck. I got stuck behind someone going 40-45 on a windy country road. Darn it. So I passed them. You know how it goes. You have been following them for a while, finally the coast is clear and you end up having to go 75 to pass them. But it was fun.
Owning a large vehicle means I have to park in the outer regions of parking lots, where I can have room for my large turning radius. I take up two spaces and have to sometimes call ahead to see if I can park at certain establishments. I once was good at parallel parking. Now I am sitting up so high, I can’t even see the cars behind me. So in order to parallel park, I just pull up, on, over and off the curb – no problem.
I have to really work to climb into the seat, however. Trucks are not built for short people. My Man is on the tallish side, while I am lacking on the perpendicular. If my mom comes with us, we have to bring a stool for her to get in. But the drive is cool. I find I rather enjoy being higher than everyone on the road. I had to borrow my mom’s Buick last week for my doctor’s appointment since I can’t fit in the parking garage with my cars. I got in her car and could hardly see over the steering wheel. I think they make the seats lower on purpose. I felt like a little old lady. It had little old lady music on the stereo and little old lady rain hats in the passenger seat. My rear-end felt like it was dragging on the ground while I drove. But I could zip in any parking spot I wanted and I could park close. I liked that.
I know you are wondering why I don’t choose to drive my car instead of My Man’s big, bad, black gas-guzzlin' truck that costs a fortune to drive and is a pain to park? It’s an easy choice; my ‘car’ is a 15 passenger van. Oh there’s no doubt I still get looks when I drive it, especially when they see 7 kids piling out. It’s just a different kind of look.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Christmas Questionnaire
1. Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate? Egg Nog, baby!! But only at Christmas time. I’ll take hot chocolate the rest of the winter. Especially if I can dip a candy bar into it.
2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree? Groan. I hate wrapping but I do it. I am not a fancy bow girl. My wrapping is pathetic. And My Man is Mr Clean and stresses out during the ‘opening the gifts’ part of Christmas. As fast as someone can rip off the paper, he snatches it up and burns it or stuffs it in a trash bag… So in order to restore his sanity, my mom and I made fabric gift bags. We shove the presents in, tie a ribbon around the top, thread a laminated gift tag on it and we are all good to go! He now snatches them, folds and stacks them. The easiest wrapping there is! The only problem is it’s extremely easy to sneak into these kinds of presents, so Christmas Eve they go under the tree after the kids are asleep.
3. Colored lights or white lights on tree/house? Colored.
4. Do you hang Mistletoe? Nope.
5. When do you put your decorations up? Usually Thanksgiving weekend.
6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)? Mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes (well, not mixed up - I just can't choose!).
7. Favorite Holiday memory as a child? I think we already discussed this…
8. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? We started last year, much to my chagrin. My Man indulges them. The trouble is, we only have two presents to give them so the next day lacks a little umph if we do this.
9. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? I saw my parents putting out the presents when I was little.
10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree? A mishmash of everything. We don’t have a theme tree – although they are lovely to look at, I think I am too sentimental to really do one.
11. Snow! Love it or Dread it? love it – all I need is a fire and a book. (When I worked, I dreaded it though.)
12. Can you ice skate? Have no clue now. Used to be able to though. I think the falls would be much harder…
13. Do you remember your favorite gift? Books. If I didn’t get books I was mad – but that rarely happened.
14. What’s the most important thing about the Holidays for you? Family enjoying themselves.
15. What tops your tree? A corn husk angel I made when I was first pregnant with Mr. D. I thought I was going to die of nausea and its creation took forever - I couldn't wait to finish the darn angel. I am waiting for the perfect topper to grab me and then it is ‘out of here, corn husk angel!’
16. What’s your favorite holiday tradition? Giving gifts to my children. Having one of them be Santa. Saving the stocking for after dinner. Watching movies, playing games and chilling. Opening the presents one at a time (which shocked My Man to no end. They grew up ripping the presents open all at once and it was over in minutes); the magic lasts longer and it is more fun!
17. Which do you prefer giving or receiving? Giving, although I would LOVE to receive. Hint hint.
18. What is your favorite holiday dessert? Pies.
19. What is your favorite Christmas song? We already went there.
20. Candy Canes! Yuck or Yum? YUM. Especially when chopped up in the blender with some chocolate ice cream and made into a milkshake
21. What is your favorite Christmas special/movie? A Christmas Story and Charlie Brown’s Christmas.
fun fun fun! Now you guys do it!
2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree? Groan. I hate wrapping but I do it. I am not a fancy bow girl. My wrapping is pathetic. And My Man is Mr Clean and stresses out during the ‘opening the gifts’ part of Christmas. As fast as someone can rip off the paper, he snatches it up and burns it or stuffs it in a trash bag… So in order to restore his sanity, my mom and I made fabric gift bags. We shove the presents in, tie a ribbon around the top, thread a laminated gift tag on it and we are all good to go! He now snatches them, folds and stacks them. The easiest wrapping there is! The only problem is it’s extremely easy to sneak into these kinds of presents, so Christmas Eve they go under the tree after the kids are asleep.
3. Colored lights or white lights on tree/house? Colored.
4. Do you hang Mistletoe? Nope.
5. When do you put your decorations up? Usually Thanksgiving weekend.
6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)? Mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes (well, not mixed up - I just can't choose!).
7. Favorite Holiday memory as a child? I think we already discussed this…
8. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? We started last year, much to my chagrin. My Man indulges them. The trouble is, we only have two presents to give them so the next day lacks a little umph if we do this.
9. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? I saw my parents putting out the presents when I was little.
10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree? A mishmash of everything. We don’t have a theme tree – although they are lovely to look at, I think I am too sentimental to really do one.
11. Snow! Love it or Dread it? love it – all I need is a fire and a book. (When I worked, I dreaded it though.)
12. Can you ice skate? Have no clue now. Used to be able to though. I think the falls would be much harder…
13. Do you remember your favorite gift? Books. If I didn’t get books I was mad – but that rarely happened.
14. What’s the most important thing about the Holidays for you? Family enjoying themselves.
15. What tops your tree? A corn husk angel I made when I was first pregnant with Mr. D. I thought I was going to die of nausea and its creation took forever - I couldn't wait to finish the darn angel. I am waiting for the perfect topper to grab me and then it is ‘out of here, corn husk angel!’
16. What’s your favorite holiday tradition? Giving gifts to my children. Having one of them be Santa. Saving the stocking for after dinner. Watching movies, playing games and chilling. Opening the presents one at a time (which shocked My Man to no end. They grew up ripping the presents open all at once and it was over in minutes); the magic lasts longer and it is more fun!
17. Which do you prefer giving or receiving? Giving, although I would LOVE to receive. Hint hint.
18. What is your favorite holiday dessert? Pies.
19. What is your favorite Christmas song? We already went there.
20. Candy Canes! Yuck or Yum? YUM. Especially when chopped up in the blender with some chocolate ice cream and made into a milkshake
21. What is your favorite Christmas special/movie? A Christmas Story and Charlie Brown’s Christmas.
fun fun fun! Now you guys do it!
Friday, December 15, 2006
I sense that...
What are you experiencing with your five senses today?
For years My Man usually ate out for breakfast and lunch; the ladies at McDonald's know what he wants (in our town he is like Norm from Cheers – everyone knows his name). But before the trip to Mexico, he decided he wanted to lose some weight and get buff. So he started to make breakfast everyday with scrambled eggs and sausage or bacon. I wondered if he would continue that when he got home and I smell bacon, so it appears that he is! What I don’t smell is the coffee that I started. Apparently the coffee maker is not working.
I hear the sounds of Mr W and Miss L playing when they should be schooling, Miss J humming while doing her school, Mr M climbing on Mr P’s back (who is trying to school) and exclaiming, “I’m right here!” (as Mr P pretends to try to find Mr M but can’t since he is on his back). I hear Lucy barking that she wants either outside or with us. I want to hear the sounds of Christmas music, but Mr P claims he can’t work with “that noise” although he has no problem working with his music playing. I hear the sound of my fingers with too-long nails typing on my horrible dell keyboard that I detest.
Although I really truly just cleaned it two days ago, I see a pile on my desk of school papers to assess, materials for ornaments to make for an all-day stamping party on Saturday that My Man better not forget that I have, a schedule I have to redo for the kids, a stack of thought-provoking home school papers which list some books/music/etc that I want to include in the schedule. A bottle of glue that was just being dumped on Mr M’s head by Mr J that was left out my Miss L. Neglected Christmas cd’s, a now-broken Christmas figurine. On the other side is a pile of new scrapbook magazines to look through (admittedly they have been sitting there long enough to not even be new anymore), the Trinity Hymnal, my new external hard drive, a stack of index cards with Latin and Greek roots on them. The beads for the baby bracelet that I still have not made, the Christmas list that is almost completely crossed off. I see Mr D trying to put INTO the box a computer monitor we have to send back. We have no clue how to get it back in. No idea. We think we might have to take it apart, but we don’t remember having to assemble it when we got it.
PM: I wish I were tasting my French Silk Ice Cream melting on my tongue, but I am trying to lose weight via My Man’s starvation diet. So instead, I am snacking on stick pretzels. Rather bland. They would be much better dipped in melted chocolate chips. In fact, most things would.
I feel the soft, perfect skin of a young 2 year old on my lap. I feel his baby fine hair which is turning into the kind of weird coarse hair all my boys have and thankfully none of the girls have. I feel his hug and the way he lightly taps my back with his fingers whenever I hold him; I feel his unconditional love. I feel his sweet little kisses and hear his “I wuv you, Mom!” I smell his freshly washed body that smells like baby shampoo instead of the fruity stuff the rest of the kids use. And another odor. Hmmm… A not so pleasant odor is quickly taking over the delicate baby odor… In fact I would qualify this as a stench. Wait one darn minute. I smell a dirty diaper and see that the malodorous substance is threatening to break out of the constraints of the diaper! With that I will bid you farewell before I start getting it all over me – a sense I would rather not experience at the moment. Ta!
For years My Man usually ate out for breakfast and lunch; the ladies at McDonald's know what he wants (in our town he is like Norm from Cheers – everyone knows his name). But before the trip to Mexico, he decided he wanted to lose some weight and get buff. So he started to make breakfast everyday with scrambled eggs and sausage or bacon. I wondered if he would continue that when he got home and I smell bacon, so it appears that he is! What I don’t smell is the coffee that I started. Apparently the coffee maker is not working.
I hear the sounds of Mr W and Miss L playing when they should be schooling, Miss J humming while doing her school, Mr M climbing on Mr P’s back (who is trying to school) and exclaiming, “I’m right here!” (as Mr P pretends to try to find Mr M but can’t since he is on his back). I hear Lucy barking that she wants either outside or with us. I want to hear the sounds of Christmas music, but Mr P claims he can’t work with “that noise” although he has no problem working with his music playing. I hear the sound of my fingers with too-long nails typing on my horrible dell keyboard that I detest.
Although I really truly just cleaned it two days ago, I see a pile on my desk of school papers to assess, materials for ornaments to make for an all-day stamping party on Saturday that My Man better not forget that I have, a schedule I have to redo for the kids, a stack of thought-provoking home school papers which list some books/music/etc that I want to include in the schedule. A bottle of glue that was just being dumped on Mr M’s head by Mr J that was left out my Miss L. Neglected Christmas cd’s, a now-broken Christmas figurine. On the other side is a pile of new scrapbook magazines to look through (admittedly they have been sitting there long enough to not even be new anymore), the Trinity Hymnal, my new external hard drive, a stack of index cards with Latin and Greek roots on them. The beads for the baby bracelet that I still have not made, the Christmas list that is almost completely crossed off. I see Mr D trying to put INTO the box a computer monitor we have to send back. We have no clue how to get it back in. No idea. We think we might have to take it apart, but we don’t remember having to assemble it when we got it.
PM: I wish I were tasting my French Silk Ice Cream melting on my tongue, but I am trying to lose weight via My Man’s starvation diet. So instead, I am snacking on stick pretzels. Rather bland. They would be much better dipped in melted chocolate chips. In fact, most things would.
I feel the soft, perfect skin of a young 2 year old on my lap. I feel his baby fine hair which is turning into the kind of weird coarse hair all my boys have and thankfully none of the girls have. I feel his hug and the way he lightly taps my back with his fingers whenever I hold him; I feel his unconditional love. I feel his sweet little kisses and hear his “I wuv you, Mom!” I smell his freshly washed body that smells like baby shampoo instead of the fruity stuff the rest of the kids use. And another odor. Hmmm… A not so pleasant odor is quickly taking over the delicate baby odor… In fact I would qualify this as a stench. Wait one darn minute. I smell a dirty diaper and see that the malodorous substance is threatening to break out of the constraints of the diaper! With that I will bid you farewell before I start getting it all over me – a sense I would rather not experience at the moment. Ta!
Thursday, December 14, 2006
presents
What was the most peculiar present you ever got?
That would have to be the present from my brother: an empty Kleenex box. He said it was the thought that counted. This is second to my sister asking for a horse and a bunch of things and receiving a can of Alpo and a bunch of grapes, courtesy of another brother. That has to go down as the most peculiar ever.
The best present I gave was having Trace Adkins sign a pair of flip flops that I gave to a friend who was crazy about him and flip flops.
The biggest surprise was getting something totally unexpected from My Man for my 40th birthday. I will set this up by saying My Man doesn’t do gifts. He doesn’t like getting them, but I can’t convince that this doesn’t work the other way. He is very busy and tends to forget about my birthday. When it arrives and I don’t get anything, he usually says he hasn’t had the time. Therefore, I harass him early on in the year (or more specifically, the very next day) to remind him that my birthday is “X” months away. This goes down to “X” weeks, “X” days. I like to remind him at every opportunity. It is very helpful to point out that my birthday is also conveniently right around Mother’s day so that everything he would ever need to purchase for me is on sale!
Two years ago, at Easter (because he couldn’t wait until my birthday and because he had to sneak which was making him look suspicious), he gave me a box… it looked like a baby shoe box. I love looking at my kids’ baby shoes and one day hope to bronze them. Maybe he did it already? I opened it.
Inside were not shoes, but another box.
It looked like a perfume box. He could have gotten me perfume, but I think he has learned in the past that just because it smells good on some strange woman in a store, it won’t necessarily smell the same on me or that I will even try it. I opened that one.
Inside was a jewelry box.
My Man doesn’t do this, honestly! He is not a ring kind of man. I never received an engagement ring and a few weeks before we were married, we bought a $30 plain gold band that I wore either on my hand or on a chain (during my pregnancies). So I was extremely blown away to open it and find…
My dream ring. The one in the jewelry store flyer that months ago I left open in the bathroom floor with the ring circled for him to see. I was blown away. Like I said, he just doesn’t do these kinds of things.
It is Perfect. A ring of diamonds that encircled the entire band, all set so that I will not snag anything or scratch anyone; white and yellow gold since I like wearing silver and gold.
The hardest thing was that I couldn’t wear it. It was two sizes too big, and it was too risky to wear without it dropping off. I was also very pregnant and had an additional 40 pounds hanging on me. So the re-sizing process took months. It was worth it; I love looking at it. Bling! It is so sparkly, and did I mention it is perfect?
My Man just got home from Mexico and gave me a silver wedding band. He tried to stick it on the finger with the perfect ring on it. No way José!! It ain’t coming off!
That would have to be the present from my brother: an empty Kleenex box. He said it was the thought that counted. This is second to my sister asking for a horse and a bunch of things and receiving a can of Alpo and a bunch of grapes, courtesy of another brother. That has to go down as the most peculiar ever.
The best present I gave was having Trace Adkins sign a pair of flip flops that I gave to a friend who was crazy about him and flip flops.
The biggest surprise was getting something totally unexpected from My Man for my 40th birthday. I will set this up by saying My Man doesn’t do gifts. He doesn’t like getting them, but I can’t convince that this doesn’t work the other way. He is very busy and tends to forget about my birthday. When it arrives and I don’t get anything, he usually says he hasn’t had the time. Therefore, I harass him early on in the year (or more specifically, the very next day) to remind him that my birthday is “X” months away. This goes down to “X” weeks, “X” days. I like to remind him at every opportunity. It is very helpful to point out that my birthday is also conveniently right around Mother’s day so that everything he would ever need to purchase for me is on sale!
Two years ago, at Easter (because he couldn’t wait until my birthday and because he had to sneak which was making him look suspicious), he gave me a box… it looked like a baby shoe box. I love looking at my kids’ baby shoes and one day hope to bronze them. Maybe he did it already? I opened it.
Inside were not shoes, but another box.
It looked like a perfume box. He could have gotten me perfume, but I think he has learned in the past that just because it smells good on some strange woman in a store, it won’t necessarily smell the same on me or that I will even try it. I opened that one.
Inside was a jewelry box.
My Man doesn’t do this, honestly! He is not a ring kind of man. I never received an engagement ring and a few weeks before we were married, we bought a $30 plain gold band that I wore either on my hand or on a chain (during my pregnancies). So I was extremely blown away to open it and find…
My dream ring. The one in the jewelry store flyer that months ago I left open in the bathroom floor with the ring circled for him to see. I was blown away. Like I said, he just doesn’t do these kinds of things.
It is Perfect. A ring of diamonds that encircled the entire band, all set so that I will not snag anything or scratch anyone; white and yellow gold since I like wearing silver and gold.
The hardest thing was that I couldn’t wear it. It was two sizes too big, and it was too risky to wear without it dropping off. I was also very pregnant and had an additional 40 pounds hanging on me. So the re-sizing process took months. It was worth it; I love looking at it. Bling! It is so sparkly, and did I mention it is perfect?
My Man just got home from Mexico and gave me a silver wedding band. He tried to stick it on the finger with the perfect ring on it. No way José!! It ain’t coming off!
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Christmas music
Do you have a favorite holiday song? Which one(s) drive you crazy?
Wow, I don’t know if I could narrow it down. I like so many; in fact, the other day when we had to choose our favorite decoration, I was going to choose music.
I tend to prefer the selections that are religious over the ones that are just holiday. But that is what I grew up with. Vienna Choir boys, Gregorian chants, (I didn’t have any clue what either were even singing), Handel’s Messiah and Perry Como (except that ONE song) loom large in my memory.
Then there was the music in the holiday shows, which were eagerly anticipated: Charlie Brown’s jazz piano and Rudolph’s “Silver and Gold,” Frosty’s “Frosty,” the Grinch’s “He’s a Mean One” (or my favorite: “Baa-hooo Dor–Is”) and The Year without a Santa Clause’s heat and snow miser songs.
Music was also a big part of school life. I participated in tons of rehearsals for the big school-wide Christmas program where parents were forced to sit in bleachers for hours while one class after another performed with the finale being the high school band playing Sleigh Ride complete with cracking of the whip (which, unlike Arthur Fiedlers’ Boston Pops, ended up being a nonexistent whip). I remember those programs well. One year we did the endless 12 days of Christmas and the girls were princesses. We were to wear pointed princess hats and I convinced my fifth-grade teacher that instead of tulle, I had that way-cool Jeannie fabric which would work much better on mine. She was my favorite teacher of all time, with a soft spot in her heart for me. I brought the fabric that night and she had to make a huge cone to accommodate the material, put it on my head. It was so heavy that she had to use tons of bobby pins to make it stay on top. They pierced my skin and gave me a headache. I suddenly felt very conspicuous and unsure of my decision. I had to walk very slowly in order for my wondrous accoutrement not to topple off. I am sure that the people in the audience were expecting me to do something wonderful like a solo, seeing how my head gear was triple that of the other girls, but I just stood in line and sang. I am not fond of that song to this date.
When I was in high school, I sang in the French Choir during the program and still remember some of the songs – especially the one that was really a drinking tune.
After the program, we would stand in a long line, snaking throughout the gym floor in order to get a candy cane from Santa. K-12 did this, with the older kids claiming they were just trying to figure out which teacher was behind the beard.
When I married My Man I was initiated into the rockin’ around the Christmas tree type of music. Consequently, at our house we now have a combo going on with Christmas cd’s of country music artists, Mannheim steamroller, Celtic music, traditional, and classical.
There is one song that once in my head, won’t get out. I hate it. Two words: Feliz Navidad. If my sister is in a really evil mood, she will just call up, leave it as a message and ruin my whole day.
Wow, I don’t know if I could narrow it down. I like so many; in fact, the other day when we had to choose our favorite decoration, I was going to choose music.
I tend to prefer the selections that are religious over the ones that are just holiday. But that is what I grew up with. Vienna Choir boys, Gregorian chants, (I didn’t have any clue what either were even singing), Handel’s Messiah and Perry Como (except that ONE song) loom large in my memory.
Then there was the music in the holiday shows, which were eagerly anticipated: Charlie Brown’s jazz piano and Rudolph’s “Silver and Gold,” Frosty’s “Frosty,” the Grinch’s “He’s a Mean One” (or my favorite: “Baa-hooo Dor–Is”) and The Year without a Santa Clause’s heat and snow miser songs.
Music was also a big part of school life. I participated in tons of rehearsals for the big school-wide Christmas program where parents were forced to sit in bleachers for hours while one class after another performed with the finale being the high school band playing Sleigh Ride complete with cracking of the whip (which, unlike Arthur Fiedlers’ Boston Pops, ended up being a nonexistent whip). I remember those programs well. One year we did the endless 12 days of Christmas and the girls were princesses. We were to wear pointed princess hats and I convinced my fifth-grade teacher that instead of tulle, I had that way-cool Jeannie fabric which would work much better on mine. She was my favorite teacher of all time, with a soft spot in her heart for me. I brought the fabric that night and she had to make a huge cone to accommodate the material, put it on my head. It was so heavy that she had to use tons of bobby pins to make it stay on top. They pierced my skin and gave me a headache. I suddenly felt very conspicuous and unsure of my decision. I had to walk very slowly in order for my wondrous accoutrement not to topple off. I am sure that the people in the audience were expecting me to do something wonderful like a solo, seeing how my head gear was triple that of the other girls, but I just stood in line and sang. I am not fond of that song to this date.
When I was in high school, I sang in the French Choir during the program and still remember some of the songs – especially the one that was really a drinking tune.
After the program, we would stand in a long line, snaking throughout the gym floor in order to get a candy cane from Santa. K-12 did this, with the older kids claiming they were just trying to figure out which teacher was behind the beard.
When I married My Man I was initiated into the rockin’ around the Christmas tree type of music. Consequently, at our house we now have a combo going on with Christmas cd’s of country music artists, Mannheim steamroller, Celtic music, traditional, and classical.
There is one song that once in my head, won’t get out. I hate it. Two words: Feliz Navidad. If my sister is in a really evil mood, she will just call up, leave it as a message and ruin my whole day.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Not for the faint of heart.
When I hear my kids cough in the middle of the night, it is a sound that makes my heart stop, blood curdle and toes curl at the same time. Is it a normal cough or is it that dreaded retching cough that is followed by emptying the contents of their stomach all over their bedding?
I'd rather them all be miserable and have colds for two weeks, than run them to the toilet and hope they make it. Yuck.
My kids go through various stages of vomiting dependant on age. There is the early toddler stage where they are somewhat fascinated with what just happened. At this age, they tend to ignore all attempts to control their food intake. It is business as usual, and as much as I try to convince them that eating just yet is a bad thing, they do it anyway. Magically and immediately, the food comes up again mostly just the way it went down. Not bad. I can handle this.
The late toddler stage into the early elementary years entails “I will not puke no matter what,” with them trying to swallow it as it is coming up. I hate this stage. Just let it come up already, kids! You’ll feel better. And they ask, “When will I stop puking?” every ten minutes all day long. They become afraid of eating and of drinking which makes them acquire a higher temp and feel worse. They fear even looking at the bucket, as they perceive it as ‘the thing’ that makes them vomit. When I hear them moaning, I run over with the bucket. They turn their head at the last minute and miss. “I wouldn’t have had to vomit if you hadn’t have brought the bucket over.” Yeah, right. Like I said, I hate this stage.
The late elementary years are much better, with the “Oh, I remember – use the bucket, get it out, sip some sugar water, I’ll feel much better tomorrow” phase. I just have to be there during the process, hold their heads, give them a Kleenex, gum, water, ginger ale, dump the bucket, rinse and spray with disinfectant. Lysol. Crisp Linen. I spray it liberally, because I don’t want to puke. It would ruin my record.
My Man falls into the last elementary stage although he uses the toilet (never the bucket), brushes his teeth and feels so much better that he wants a kiss afterward.
The high school years are best. Mr D does everything in his power (like his mom) to avoid the deed altogether, even if it means having it come out the other end later on and feeling just as miserable. I was remarkably scrawny during high school and my aunts were always wondering if I were anorexic. They had nothing to worry about. I refused to vomit, even if it would have helped. Will power and control. Vast amounts. Unlike some others I know.
Remember the smell of the disinfectant that the school janitors used? As soon as it hit your nostrils, you KNEW someone had hurled. Not that the smell was bad; it was probably once a pleasant smell. But we all feared what it represented: the terror of tossing your cookies in school, in front of your friends. Or that you would see the janitor sweep the pile up while on the way to lunch. Therefore, the smell turned into a terrible stench.
Don’t worry, everyone here is fine. No one is throwing up. I just had to unclog the toilet and sprayed the plunger with Lysol. Crisp Linen. Now they are yelling, “It smells like throw-up in here!”
I'd rather them all be miserable and have colds for two weeks, than run them to the toilet and hope they make it. Yuck.
My kids go through various stages of vomiting dependant on age. There is the early toddler stage where they are somewhat fascinated with what just happened. At this age, they tend to ignore all attempts to control their food intake. It is business as usual, and as much as I try to convince them that eating just yet is a bad thing, they do it anyway. Magically and immediately, the food comes up again mostly just the way it went down. Not bad. I can handle this.
The late toddler stage into the early elementary years entails “I will not puke no matter what,” with them trying to swallow it as it is coming up. I hate this stage. Just let it come up already, kids! You’ll feel better. And they ask, “When will I stop puking?” every ten minutes all day long. They become afraid of eating and of drinking which makes them acquire a higher temp and feel worse. They fear even looking at the bucket, as they perceive it as ‘the thing’ that makes them vomit. When I hear them moaning, I run over with the bucket. They turn their head at the last minute and miss. “I wouldn’t have had to vomit if you hadn’t have brought the bucket over.” Yeah, right. Like I said, I hate this stage.
The late elementary years are much better, with the “Oh, I remember – use the bucket, get it out, sip some sugar water, I’ll feel much better tomorrow” phase. I just have to be there during the process, hold their heads, give them a Kleenex, gum, water, ginger ale, dump the bucket, rinse and spray with disinfectant. Lysol. Crisp Linen. I spray it liberally, because I don’t want to puke. It would ruin my record.
My Man falls into the last elementary stage although he uses the toilet (never the bucket), brushes his teeth and feels so much better that he wants a kiss afterward.
The high school years are best. Mr D does everything in his power (like his mom) to avoid the deed altogether, even if it means having it come out the other end later on and feeling just as miserable. I was remarkably scrawny during high school and my aunts were always wondering if I were anorexic. They had nothing to worry about. I refused to vomit, even if it would have helped. Will power and control. Vast amounts. Unlike some others I know.
Remember the smell of the disinfectant that the school janitors used? As soon as it hit your nostrils, you KNEW someone had hurled. Not that the smell was bad; it was probably once a pleasant smell. But we all feared what it represented: the terror of tossing your cookies in school, in front of your friends. Or that you would see the janitor sweep the pile up while on the way to lunch. Therefore, the smell turned into a terrible stench.
Don’t worry, everyone here is fine. No one is throwing up. I just had to unclog the toilet and sprayed the plunger with Lysol. Crisp Linen. Now they are yelling, “It smells like throw-up in here!”
Monday, December 11, 2006
view out back
darn it, I wish I knew more about my camera. There is an amazing autumn sky; dark and wonderful, which is making the barren trees just pop out (especially the cool birches).
bloggin'
At what time do you normally write your blog entries? Does it make a difference in what you write?
I normally sneak downstairs first thing in the morning right after I have yelled, “It’s time to get up!” I check my email and the blog prompt for the day. I mull it over to see if I have anything of interest to write on the topic at hand. I try to see if I can make the blog entry one word document page length (I am sure you have noticed this as well as the fact that I also loosely interpret the prompt most days and take it on trails that weren’t intended!) as my children are supposed to see their parents enjoy writing (they are also supposed to see their parents enjoy math, but that I will pass on that). I go on back upstairs to get ready for the day.
I am an even-keeled woman, so it doesn’t make any difference what time I write. Although I start to lose steam after one-on-one teaching with the kids, it is a refreshing change of pace to write and my mood actually lightens a bit. (I have also restricted myself to not go to my dark-side on my blog.) Throughout the day usually in-between working with the kids, I pop back on my document and add/delete/edit until I get sick of looking at it. Then I publish, usually see some more mistakes and either ignore them or fix them.
I have always taken pleasure in writing. It has come in handy plenty of times. In my youth, I was forced to participate in a talent show and there was no way in the world that I would ever get on the stage and sing or dance. Instead I wrote a story and then read it in front of my peers. It was like pulling teeth to get me up there, and I was greatly relieved to just survive the experience. I remember getting some sort of ribbon; it wasn’t blue. Later in the evening, a judge told me they all thought I was reading a published story. That was better than winning.
I co-wrote a story with my siblings that made its rounds between four of us during one Christmas. It involved teens, espionage, romance and ginsu knives. All done on a typewriter. “It was another boring day at Beverly Hills High….” We would pass it around and write a paragraph, leave the room and let the next person take over.
Writing has always been the best method of expressing myself. In my early marriage when I was mad at My Man, I used to pen my feelings rather than tell him. That way I wasn’t swept along by emotion or gotten off-track or be misunderstood. He would get “the envelope” – poor guy. I learned that not everyone appreciates this form of communication.
When the computer age made its debut and my office finally got one, I was enthralled and thrilled beyond words. My Man used to get home late, and since I hate being alone, I would stay at work and type stories on the computer. That carried over to today, where I will just type away and then, delete them all!
I also HAVE to write. If something happens to me, I must write about it. It is a compulsion. I remember giving birth to my first child and not having slept for five straight days, which the doctor said was a common after-effect. I even started hallucinating at that point; everyone was worrying and wanting me to stay in bed and sleep. I remember asking my mom to leave me alone in front of the computer and trying to convince her this was something I had to do more than take a nap. I gave her the baby and wrote about the whole experience of becoming a mom - poof, I could sleep.
Writing is magical, it is healing and it is fun. It is highly therapeutic and a gigantic part of who I am. Yesterday, you learned “I blabbed - therefore things happened”; but really, “I write, therefore I am.” Or at least I feel a lot better!
I normally sneak downstairs first thing in the morning right after I have yelled, “It’s time to get up!” I check my email and the blog prompt for the day. I mull it over to see if I have anything of interest to write on the topic at hand. I try to see if I can make the blog entry one word document page length (I am sure you have noticed this as well as the fact that I also loosely interpret the prompt most days and take it on trails that weren’t intended!) as my children are supposed to see their parents enjoy writing (they are also supposed to see their parents enjoy math, but that I will pass on that). I go on back upstairs to get ready for the day.
I am an even-keeled woman, so it doesn’t make any difference what time I write. Although I start to lose steam after one-on-one teaching with the kids, it is a refreshing change of pace to write and my mood actually lightens a bit. (I have also restricted myself to not go to my dark-side on my blog.) Throughout the day usually in-between working with the kids, I pop back on my document and add/delete/edit until I get sick of looking at it. Then I publish, usually see some more mistakes and either ignore them or fix them.
I have always taken pleasure in writing. It has come in handy plenty of times. In my youth, I was forced to participate in a talent show and there was no way in the world that I would ever get on the stage and sing or dance. Instead I wrote a story and then read it in front of my peers. It was like pulling teeth to get me up there, and I was greatly relieved to just survive the experience. I remember getting some sort of ribbon; it wasn’t blue. Later in the evening, a judge told me they all thought I was reading a published story. That was better than winning.
I co-wrote a story with my siblings that made its rounds between four of us during one Christmas. It involved teens, espionage, romance and ginsu knives. All done on a typewriter. “It was another boring day at Beverly Hills High….” We would pass it around and write a paragraph, leave the room and let the next person take over.
Writing has always been the best method of expressing myself. In my early marriage when I was mad at My Man, I used to pen my feelings rather than tell him. That way I wasn’t swept along by emotion or gotten off-track or be misunderstood. He would get “the envelope” – poor guy. I learned that not everyone appreciates this form of communication.
When the computer age made its debut and my office finally got one, I was enthralled and thrilled beyond words. My Man used to get home late, and since I hate being alone, I would stay at work and type stories on the computer. That carried over to today, where I will just type away and then, delete them all!
I also HAVE to write. If something happens to me, I must write about it. It is a compulsion. I remember giving birth to my first child and not having slept for five straight days, which the doctor said was a common after-effect. I even started hallucinating at that point; everyone was worrying and wanting me to stay in bed and sleep. I remember asking my mom to leave me alone in front of the computer and trying to convince her this was something I had to do more than take a nap. I gave her the baby and wrote about the whole experience of becoming a mom - poof, I could sleep.
Writing is magical, it is healing and it is fun. It is highly therapeutic and a gigantic part of who I am. Yesterday, you learned “I blabbed - therefore things happened”; but really, “I write, therefore I am.” Or at least I feel a lot better!
Sunday, December 10, 2006
If a tree falls in a forest…
I talk to my sister. A lot. I am surrounded by children all day long so I call and blab. She listens. And it validates the stupid little things in my life. She and I have a theory - If I tell her, they have happened. They have meaning. If I alone know about them, they become ridiculous minutia, falling in the cracks of life.
My Man comes home and sees that his house is still standing and the kids are all alive. The simple things in life please him. He now just wants to relax. However, since I haven’t seen an adult all day, he is prey. He realizes the danger at once and retreats. I follow him to the bathroom, stand by the door and trap him. It is a compromise we both can live with. Well at least I can. He could still be ignoring me for all I know. But at least I can blab. I just need an uh-huh every now and then from the opposite side of the door.
My Man is in Mexico having a blast with his brother. People are calling me to make sure I am “ok” with 7 kids. That tickles me. I am always alone with 7 children! I am used to it. But I must admit that I like it when My Man comes home at night. It just makes things easier. I can blame him for not watching Mr. M eat the baby lotion, even if he and I are in the same room talking. “I’m off duty!” I proclaim. Not really; I am never off duty. I have mom ears and mom-ometer that he doesn’t have. I basically have an internal radar system that lets me know where each child is. Right now, Mr P is upstairs in the bonus room; Mr W in the family room adjacent to me, Mr J and Mr M are right here banging on the walls and saying “Come in!” Mr D, Miss L and Miss J are watching cartoons in the living room. Not that I have seen this; I just ‘know’. Scary, huh?
I have to watch out for the ‘too quiet’ times. Like yesterday when Mr M did indeed digest the baby lotion. He also washed his hands and feet in the sink, got the whole towel in there along with toothpaste while putting deodorant in his hair and checking out my beauty supplies. He found the splenda in the pantry and left a trail of packets everywhere. He got into the child-proof vitamins. He took off his diaper and came upstairs where I was making dinner. It was not the type of diaper to take off. It was my screaming “OH NO” at the top of the lungs kind of diaper. I cleaned him up and had Mr D find the diaper. He brought it up at arms length, holding his nose. Mr M went bopping down the steps and stopped when he found a nice brown lump on the stairs and trust me, it is not a lump of brownie. “DROP IT!” I yell. He realized his mistake and drops it. He tried to wipe off the foul browness all over his belly. I washed him yet again and got the lump before the dog can. I smelled it all day long. I washed my hands a lot, but apparently the stench got trapped in my nose.
Then Mr J came up to me with a pen and notebook while I was schooling Mr. W. Mr J has been into writing his name now. All over the place. On walls, his bedsheets and play mat. This time it was on his notebook, much to my relief. It is so cute.
“Ahhhh, look at that! You are practicing your letters! Great job!” I encouraged him.
“Mom, how do you spell ‘I hate Miss L?’” he asks me with his bright blue eyes and happy smile.
Uh. What? My kids are taught they can never ever say that word to each other. EVER.
“We don’t say that kind of thing in this house,” I remind him.
“But Mom, she hit me!” I look on his body for ‘the red mark’. All my kids MUST have a red mark on their bodies for it to be an official tattle-tale experience. Just touching someone doesn’t count even if it includes blood curdling screams. The older kids know about the red mark rule and I suspect that sometimes they make it themselves before coming to tell on the offender. Mr J is too young for that type of sneakiness. He has a real red mark. But we moms are smart.
“Why did she hit you?” I ask.
“Because I hit her.”
I take the opportunity to go through my sermon on how we are to love our enemies and that Jesus not only got hit, but also died for us and that Mr J should love his sister, too. “Understand?” I ask him.
“Yes,”he says, squirming off my lap. He turns around, pen in hand and asks, “How do you spell, ‘I hate Miss L?’” sigh… and that is just two of the kids.
Since My Man is in Mexico and my sister isn’t at home, I am blabbing to you. And therefore, it all happened. (yep, I know, I’m weird!!)
"conversation with self"
credits: dsp stacey jewell stahl (paper, flowers), tina chambers (word art), lisa carter (stitches) and scrapartist michelle coleman _flourish
My Man comes home and sees that his house is still standing and the kids are all alive. The simple things in life please him. He now just wants to relax. However, since I haven’t seen an adult all day, he is prey. He realizes the danger at once and retreats. I follow him to the bathroom, stand by the door and trap him. It is a compromise we both can live with. Well at least I can. He could still be ignoring me for all I know. But at least I can blab. I just need an uh-huh every now and then from the opposite side of the door.
My Man is in Mexico having a blast with his brother. People are calling me to make sure I am “ok” with 7 kids. That tickles me. I am always alone with 7 children! I am used to it. But I must admit that I like it when My Man comes home at night. It just makes things easier. I can blame him for not watching Mr. M eat the baby lotion, even if he and I are in the same room talking. “I’m off duty!” I proclaim. Not really; I am never off duty. I have mom ears and mom-ometer that he doesn’t have. I basically have an internal radar system that lets me know where each child is. Right now, Mr P is upstairs in the bonus room; Mr W in the family room adjacent to me, Mr J and Mr M are right here banging on the walls and saying “Come in!” Mr D, Miss L and Miss J are watching cartoons in the living room. Not that I have seen this; I just ‘know’. Scary, huh?
I have to watch out for the ‘too quiet’ times. Like yesterday when Mr M did indeed digest the baby lotion. He also washed his hands and feet in the sink, got the whole towel in there along with toothpaste while putting deodorant in his hair and checking out my beauty supplies. He found the splenda in the pantry and left a trail of packets everywhere. He got into the child-proof vitamins. He took off his diaper and came upstairs where I was making dinner. It was not the type of diaper to take off. It was my screaming “OH NO” at the top of the lungs kind of diaper. I cleaned him up and had Mr D find the diaper. He brought it up at arms length, holding his nose. Mr M went bopping down the steps and stopped when he found a nice brown lump on the stairs and trust me, it is not a lump of brownie. “DROP IT!” I yell. He realized his mistake and drops it. He tried to wipe off the foul browness all over his belly. I washed him yet again and got the lump before the dog can. I smelled it all day long. I washed my hands a lot, but apparently the stench got trapped in my nose.
Then Mr J came up to me with a pen and notebook while I was schooling Mr. W. Mr J has been into writing his name now. All over the place. On walls, his bedsheets and play mat. This time it was on his notebook, much to my relief. It is so cute.
“Ahhhh, look at that! You are practicing your letters! Great job!” I encouraged him.
“Mom, how do you spell ‘I hate Miss L?’” he asks me with his bright blue eyes and happy smile.
Uh. What? My kids are taught they can never ever say that word to each other. EVER.
“We don’t say that kind of thing in this house,” I remind him.
“But Mom, she hit me!” I look on his body for ‘the red mark’. All my kids MUST have a red mark on their bodies for it to be an official tattle-tale experience. Just touching someone doesn’t count even if it includes blood curdling screams. The older kids know about the red mark rule and I suspect that sometimes they make it themselves before coming to tell on the offender. Mr J is too young for that type of sneakiness. He has a real red mark. But we moms are smart.
“Why did she hit you?” I ask.
“Because I hit her.”
I take the opportunity to go through my sermon on how we are to love our enemies and that Jesus not only got hit, but also died for us and that Mr J should love his sister, too. “Understand?” I ask him.
“Yes,”he says, squirming off my lap. He turns around, pen in hand and asks, “How do you spell, ‘I hate Miss L?’” sigh… and that is just two of the kids.
Since My Man is in Mexico and my sister isn’t at home, I am blabbing to you. And therefore, it all happened. (yep, I know, I’m weird!!)
"conversation with self" credits: dsp stacey jewell stahl (paper, flowers), tina chambers (word art), lisa carter (stitches) and scrapartist michelle coleman _flourish
Saturday, December 9, 2006
favorite ornament
Do you have a favorite ornament or decoration that you display at this time of year? Tell us its story!
I don’t have a special decoration. I would like to say I decorate the entire house, but funding has always been limited to necessities. We only have a tree which I loathe – I want a real, smell like Christmas, plant-in-the-ground-when-you’re-done-with-it tree.
Today I have looked and looked at the tree to see if there could be a favorite ornament. I can’t narrow it down at all. I have a ton of ornaments, and they all have history. There are the ones I bought as a newlywed only to find out My Man isn’t a Christmassy kind of guy. So I packed them away for several years until we finally got a tree. These included a lot of blown glass ornaments. The ones that have survived the kids are at the top of the tree. I just looked. Seems I am down to a solitary bear with a broken arm.
There are the ones my sister has given me throughout the years. One of my favorites is a star made from beach glass from Orcas Island. It reminds me of my many trips to the beautiful Pacific Northwest.
There is my vast collection of ornaments that my mom has hand-made for me over the years. They remind me of her and her unwavering love for me.
The ones I have made myself remind me of how creatively-challenged I am. My mom would give my sister and me the same craft kits – she was good, I wasn’t.
Guess which one is mine? It is so ugly it makes me laugh, therefore I keep it in a plastic bag of broken, but sentimental ornaments. The kids actually put it on the tree this year. It has to be cradled in the branches of the tree since the hanger fell off. Since I am the one who made it, my younger children think it is beautiful. The teens no longer wear their rose-tinted mommy glasses and see it for what it really is. I couldn’t find it just now and asked Miss J where it could be. “Oh, Mom. You mean that really ugly pink one that was falling apart? Didn’t we throw that thing in the trash?” No – I would have never done that – it is quintessentially me!
Then there are the ones I made for my brother. I had no money and was in college. I asked him what he wanted from me. He said, “Make me some ornaments!” I slowly plodded along and made him several. He died before I could give them to him. When I look at them, they bring back a rush of bittersweet memories. But on the other hand, they make me laugh, too, since they are just as ugly as that pink one.
I don’t have a special decoration. I would like to say I decorate the entire house, but funding has always been limited to necessities. We only have a tree which I loathe – I want a real, smell like Christmas, plant-in-the-ground-when-you’re-done-with-it tree.
Today I have looked and looked at the tree to see if there could be a favorite ornament. I can’t narrow it down at all. I have a ton of ornaments, and they all have history. There are the ones I bought as a newlywed only to find out My Man isn’t a Christmassy kind of guy. So I packed them away for several years until we finally got a tree. These included a lot of blown glass ornaments. The ones that have survived the kids are at the top of the tree. I just looked. Seems I am down to a solitary bear with a broken arm.
There are the ones my sister has given me throughout the years. One of my favorites is a star made from beach glass from Orcas Island. It reminds me of my many trips to the beautiful Pacific Northwest.
There is my vast collection of ornaments that my mom has hand-made for me over the years. They remind me of her and her unwavering love for me.
The ones I have made myself remind me of how creatively-challenged I am. My mom would give my sister and me the same craft kits – she was good, I wasn’t.
Guess which one is mine? It is so ugly it makes me laugh, therefore I keep it in a plastic bag of broken, but sentimental ornaments. The kids actually put it on the tree this year. It has to be cradled in the branches of the tree since the hanger fell off. Since I am the one who made it, my younger children think it is beautiful. The teens no longer wear their rose-tinted mommy glasses and see it for what it really is. I couldn’t find it just now and asked Miss J where it could be. “Oh, Mom. You mean that really ugly pink one that was falling apart? Didn’t we throw that thing in the trash?” No – I would have never done that – it is quintessentially me!
Then there are the ones I made for my brother. I had no money and was in college. I asked him what he wanted from me. He said, “Make me some ornaments!” I slowly plodded along and made him several. He died before I could give them to him. When I look at them, they bring back a rush of bittersweet memories. But on the other hand, they make me laugh, too, since they are just as ugly as that pink one.
Friday, December 8, 2006
cooking up something
Not fair. Someone is finding out where I get my blog prompts and seeing which ones I am skipping – and I was going to skip this one…. Playing dirty, aren’t we?
Describe your cooking skills as a newlywed. I had none. The end of blog entry. See why I skipped it? It is going to be boring.
Details, details. I have no details. I simply can’t remember those first weeks of cooking. Maybe they were too traumatic and I blacked them out!!
Well, not to offend my mom, but she wouldn’t let us in her kitchen. “Get out of my kitchen nook!” was frequently heard. So it is not my fault that I went off into the world unprepared! I knew how to make cookies and other things (like spaghetti, pizza) that weren’t very hard.
I could say it was Trial by Fire, but I never actually flat out burnt anything except a pot holder that was stuck to the bottom of a pan. And I will admit that electric stoves and I have never gotten along - I overcooked many items after turning the darn burner off (hence my total devotion to gas stoves).
But I really learned how to cook when I moved in with my in-laws two months after being married. My Man is so practical that when his student loan bill came due while he was still a student, he didn’t fight it. He never called them to say, "Hey - I am still going to school! I don't have to pay this!" Instead, he called me at work, explained the situation and had an option all figured out. He said, “Let’s move in with my parents and start paying the student loan off early!” Grrrr.
I learned to cook by watching his mom; the best comfort-food cook I know. She let me help her and even would call home ahead from work to have me start things. Now that is trust! Her secret ingredient for making anything taste better was at least a half stick of butter. In every pot going on the stove. Yum.
I am very visual, so for me to cook something, I must have a photo of it. Just the way I am. I am not one to casually flip through recipe books, read the ingredients and say, “Hey, now the proportional amount of thyme and oregano mixed with the subtle flavor of red bell pepper with a dash of red wine vinegar sure sounds appealing!”
Early years....I know I tore out endless recipes from magazines (only the ones with photos). I put them in a pile or two. I transferred them into a file folder and then a box prior to one of our 14 moves. I unpacked them and put them in a binder. But I never made them. I compare these to a collection, and most collections are just to be looked at and not touched, right?
I have never really enjoyed cooking since it also tends to involve cleaning. The time spent cooking and cleaning never compares to the time spent eating. The ratio is all off. Also, the fact that we never have been rolling in the dough means that cooking has to transpire every night (unless I double the batch) as well as has to be liked by a 2/3's majority. It becomes tedious.
Most of the time My Man has eaten anything I have tossed his way as long as it is ‘tasty’. Salt does wonders to hide a multitude of sins. However, I have learned the past years how to get out of cooking if I am desperate (aka 7 kids are driving me crazy and I am pulling my hair out kind of day). When I know good and well he has been working construction in 90 degree weather, I’ll call him and say, “How does chili sound tonight?” It never fails – he brings us home dinner every time.
Describe your cooking skills as a newlywed. I had none. The end of blog entry. See why I skipped it? It is going to be boring.
Details, details. I have no details. I simply can’t remember those first weeks of cooking. Maybe they were too traumatic and I blacked them out!!
Well, not to offend my mom, but she wouldn’t let us in her kitchen. “Get out of my kitchen nook!” was frequently heard. So it is not my fault that I went off into the world unprepared! I knew how to make cookies and other things (like spaghetti, pizza) that weren’t very hard.
I could say it was Trial by Fire, but I never actually flat out burnt anything except a pot holder that was stuck to the bottom of a pan. And I will admit that electric stoves and I have never gotten along - I overcooked many items after turning the darn burner off (hence my total devotion to gas stoves).
But I really learned how to cook when I moved in with my in-laws two months after being married. My Man is so practical that when his student loan bill came due while he was still a student, he didn’t fight it. He never called them to say, "Hey - I am still going to school! I don't have to pay this!" Instead, he called me at work, explained the situation and had an option all figured out. He said, “Let’s move in with my parents and start paying the student loan off early!” Grrrr.
I learned to cook by watching his mom; the best comfort-food cook I know. She let me help her and even would call home ahead from work to have me start things. Now that is trust! Her secret ingredient for making anything taste better was at least a half stick of butter. In every pot going on the stove. Yum.
I am very visual, so for me to cook something, I must have a photo of it. Just the way I am. I am not one to casually flip through recipe books, read the ingredients and say, “Hey, now the proportional amount of thyme and oregano mixed with the subtle flavor of red bell pepper with a dash of red wine vinegar sure sounds appealing!”
Early years....I know I tore out endless recipes from magazines (only the ones with photos). I put them in a pile or two. I transferred them into a file folder and then a box prior to one of our 14 moves. I unpacked them and put them in a binder. But I never made them. I compare these to a collection, and most collections are just to be looked at and not touched, right?
I have never really enjoyed cooking since it also tends to involve cleaning. The time spent cooking and cleaning never compares to the time spent eating. The ratio is all off. Also, the fact that we never have been rolling in the dough means that cooking has to transpire every night (unless I double the batch) as well as has to be liked by a 2/3's majority. It becomes tedious.
Most of the time My Man has eaten anything I have tossed his way as long as it is ‘tasty’. Salt does wonders to hide a multitude of sins. However, I have learned the past years how to get out of cooking if I am desperate (aka 7 kids are driving me crazy and I am pulling my hair out kind of day). When I know good and well he has been working construction in 90 degree weather, I’ll call him and say, “How does chili sound tonight?” It never fails – he brings us home dinner every time.
Thursday, December 7, 2006
let me count the ways...
My man and I are worlds apart on many things and it shone mightily in the way he approached packing for Mexico. I couldn’t watch; it was too painful. “What - you are leaving again?” he’d ask me as I exited the room once more.
#1 No list. It was bothering me. How did he know what to pack if he didn’t make a list? He would say such things, “Hey, I need to take aloe vera gel.” My mind flies a million miles a minute, so when I am going to travel and think of something I need to bring, I write it on my list and get it out of my brain (which is needed to remember more important things, like my kids’ names).
“Write it down on your list!” I would retort, but he merely smiled and tapped his skull. Bah - him and his internal list system.
#2 He packed a ton of clothes. I have gotten so good at traveling that if I spend the week at my sisters, I only bring two outfits (plus the one I am wearing on the plane). I do laundry. I wear things more than one day. He must have packed 20 shirts (I’d ask him right now so he could straighten me out, but since he is gone, I’ll embellish – but a part of me thinks this number may be right!). His suitcase had a huge mound of clothing piling up. “Uh, can’t you do laundry?” I suggested, while wondering how he would be able to shut the suitcase.
“No, laundry service is expensive!”
“That’s not what I meant – you can actually do laundry in the hotel laundromat.”
“Oh. Well, no, I am just going to take enough clothes to change three times a day.”
“Three times a day?”
“I plan to sweat a lot. You know, tennis, golfing, parasailing, weight-lifting.”
Difference #3 No sweating on vacation. My vacation to Mexico would be: enjoy the view, read a lot, eat a lot, dance a little, buy some trinkets, walk and explore, take photos, read some more, write a little. Activities involving sweat would be last on my list. If I did them, I would be so sore I couldn’t enjoy my vacation. But he builds houses and is used to moving, lifting, so maybe it would be different for him.
#4 He crammed everything into one suitcase. “Uh, don’t you need to take two suitcases?” I suggested. “Weren’t you going to take a bunch of things to the Mexican orphanage?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know. I think I can take a box instead of another piece of luggage.”
“That's a thought, but if you had another piece of luggage, you can fit the things you buy for us in it for the return flight!” hint hint hint.
“Buy things? I’m not buying things! No, things would be outrageously priced – you know we are staying in a resort area - a tourist trap.”
When I go on vacation, I need extra room in my luggage. I know I am going to buy things. That is part of the fun. My Man isn’t the least bit tempted - ever. So practical. I told him I heard silver was cheap and consoled myself with the thought that he really could fit an endless supply of that into the nooks and crannies of his suitcase.
I see the one suitcase. I see the carryon of the video camera. He finally takes a backpack filled with toys for the orphanage. But WHERE O WHERE is the BOOK BAG???????
#5 When I travel, I have a separate black bag (called ‘the’ black bag) filled to the brim with reading material. I can scarcely zip it and the seams always threaten to burst at any moment. “Aren’t you taking any books to read?”
He looks at me perplexed. “Read?”
I am stupendously horrified. “Yes, read.” He knows about my black bag, as it is heavier than my suitcase and he has had to tote it for me on several occasions. “What about the tradition of grabbing a magazine in the airport to read on the plane?” I asked hopefully.
“I plan to be looking out the window or talking or sleeping. Besides that isn’t my tradition, that is your tradition.” Got me there. It isn’t his tradition. It is my sister’s and mine. We buy a People magazine before boarding, read it on the plane along with a novel and then give it to each other when we land. Our guilty pleasure. He’s right. I’ll let him off the hook.
At last he looks around at the bed and sees that most of the items previously laid out are now safely tucked away in the suitcase. He looks up and asks me, “Do you think I have everything? What have I forgotten?”
Ah, he is maddening. “It’s very simple. Look on your list – what haven’t you crossed off?”
#1 He doesn’t make a list.
#1 No list. It was bothering me. How did he know what to pack if he didn’t make a list? He would say such things, “Hey, I need to take aloe vera gel.” My mind flies a million miles a minute, so when I am going to travel and think of something I need to bring, I write it on my list and get it out of my brain (which is needed to remember more important things, like my kids’ names).
“Write it down on your list!” I would retort, but he merely smiled and tapped his skull. Bah - him and his internal list system.
#2 He packed a ton of clothes. I have gotten so good at traveling that if I spend the week at my sisters, I only bring two outfits (plus the one I am wearing on the plane). I do laundry. I wear things more than one day. He must have packed 20 shirts (I’d ask him right now so he could straighten me out, but since he is gone, I’ll embellish – but a part of me thinks this number may be right!). His suitcase had a huge mound of clothing piling up. “Uh, can’t you do laundry?” I suggested, while wondering how he would be able to shut the suitcase.
“No, laundry service is expensive!”
“That’s not what I meant – you can actually do laundry in the hotel laundromat.”
“Oh. Well, no, I am just going to take enough clothes to change three times a day.”
“Three times a day?”
“I plan to sweat a lot. You know, tennis, golfing, parasailing, weight-lifting.”
Difference #3 No sweating on vacation. My vacation to Mexico would be: enjoy the view, read a lot, eat a lot, dance a little, buy some trinkets, walk and explore, take photos, read some more, write a little. Activities involving sweat would be last on my list. If I did them, I would be so sore I couldn’t enjoy my vacation. But he builds houses and is used to moving, lifting, so maybe it would be different for him.
#4 He crammed everything into one suitcase. “Uh, don’t you need to take two suitcases?” I suggested. “Weren’t you going to take a bunch of things to the Mexican orphanage?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know. I think I can take a box instead of another piece of luggage.”
“That's a thought, but if you had another piece of luggage, you can fit the things you buy for us in it for the return flight!” hint hint hint.
“Buy things? I’m not buying things! No, things would be outrageously priced – you know we are staying in a resort area - a tourist trap.”
When I go on vacation, I need extra room in my luggage. I know I am going to buy things. That is part of the fun. My Man isn’t the least bit tempted - ever. So practical. I told him I heard silver was cheap and consoled myself with the thought that he really could fit an endless supply of that into the nooks and crannies of his suitcase.
I see the one suitcase. I see the carryon of the video camera. He finally takes a backpack filled with toys for the orphanage. But WHERE O WHERE is the BOOK BAG???????
#5 When I travel, I have a separate black bag (called ‘the’ black bag) filled to the brim with reading material. I can scarcely zip it and the seams always threaten to burst at any moment. “Aren’t you taking any books to read?”
He looks at me perplexed. “Read?”
I am stupendously horrified. “Yes, read.” He knows about my black bag, as it is heavier than my suitcase and he has had to tote it for me on several occasions. “What about the tradition of grabbing a magazine in the airport to read on the plane?” I asked hopefully.
“I plan to be looking out the window or talking or sleeping. Besides that isn’t my tradition, that is your tradition.” Got me there. It isn’t his tradition. It is my sister’s and mine. We buy a People magazine before boarding, read it on the plane along with a novel and then give it to each other when we land. Our guilty pleasure. He’s right. I’ll let him off the hook.
At last he looks around at the bed and sees that most of the items previously laid out are now safely tucked away in the suitcase. He looks up and asks me, “Do you think I have everything? What have I forgotten?”
Ah, he is maddening. “It’s very simple. Look on your list – what haven’t you crossed off?”
#1 He doesn’t make a list.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
let it snow...
What is your favorite winter memory?
I would have to go back to my childhood for that. Other than Christmas, I would say that snow would be my favorite memory of winter. Whether it was watching it gently fall, listening to school closings on the radio or playing in it, the white stuff made life in winter exciting!
Recently, the first snow we had here barely stayed until noon and some of my kids were hounding me to go out and buy them snow boots, pants and gloves. I pushed them out the door with just their jackets and tennis shoes on. Or nothing:
Actually, he did that on his own.
I never had such nice winter, insulated and water-proof amenities when I was a child (unless you count bread bags). We just gathered every pair of socks we could find, put them on under and over two pairs of tights, several pairs of pants, shoved our feet into our shoes, put rubbers on over that. Next came the wool coat, wool itchy scarf, wool hat and ten mittens with the top mitten being an old sock with holes for our fingers to go through. My mom would violently pull the leg of the sock over the sleeves of the coat, but it would always later fall down. We would play outside for hours, barely able to bend and losing the feeling in our toes.
And what kind of snow was it? Was it sledding snow? Snowball snow? Snow cream snow? Or was it that dreaded drifting snow which meant continually shoveling out the driveway.
The coolest snow was the kind that made the big hill behind our house super slick. Sometimes we would slide and the next day, a thin sheet of ice would form and we could go even faster. Then we would lie at the bottom of the hill and dream of a contraption that would take us up without walking (a sled lift). After the respite up the hill we would huff and puff in our abundance of clothes, itching our foreheads until our hats became soggy and our hair had snow caked in it. We stayed out until we could no longer ignore the biting red ring the ice made on our wrists and ankles. Then we would trudge in and blindly unpeel all the damp layers, trying to find places to dry them out because little is worse than putting on wet wool the next day.
My dad had shown me photos of a big storm that hit Maryland when my older brothers were young. The snow drifted to up to the gutters and they got to build tunnels. I always dreamed of that and wondered when ‘the big snow’ was going to happen. When it did in 1977, no tunnels were built as the snow kept blowing on to the next field. I was supposed to go to a sleep-over at my next door neighbors. If I couldn’t live in a tunnel, I at least wanted to be like Mary or Laura and use a rope to get to the sleep-over. Much to my dismay, I couldn’t talk my mom into that. I just walked up my long driveway, across the road to her house. I didn’t even get remotely lost.
I still do love snow, but now I like it best when I am inside with the fire going, a good book to keep me company and absolutely no way to get out my drive. Heaven…
My outside dealings with snow is now limited to when I am dashing out in just my clothes and slippers to photograph the children and then running back in to make them all hot chocolate while avoiding being pummeled with snowballs. Or trudging around my lot taking photos. Or just taking the whiteness in. I own no snow pants, snow coat, boots and I am much too old to play until I get the tell tale red ice mark on my wrist. Making the chocolate sounds much better to this girl.
I would have to go back to my childhood for that. Other than Christmas, I would say that snow would be my favorite memory of winter. Whether it was watching it gently fall, listening to school closings on the radio or playing in it, the white stuff made life in winter exciting!
Recently, the first snow we had here barely stayed until noon and some of my kids were hounding me to go out and buy them snow boots, pants and gloves. I pushed them out the door with just their jackets and tennis shoes on. Or nothing:
Actually, he did that on his own.
I never had such nice winter, insulated and water-proof amenities when I was a child (unless you count bread bags). We just gathered every pair of socks we could find, put them on under and over two pairs of tights, several pairs of pants, shoved our feet into our shoes, put rubbers on over that. Next came the wool coat, wool itchy scarf, wool hat and ten mittens with the top mitten being an old sock with holes for our fingers to go through. My mom would violently pull the leg of the sock over the sleeves of the coat, but it would always later fall down. We would play outside for hours, barely able to bend and losing the feeling in our toes.
And what kind of snow was it? Was it sledding snow? Snowball snow? Snow cream snow? Or was it that dreaded drifting snow which meant continually shoveling out the driveway.
The coolest snow was the kind that made the big hill behind our house super slick. Sometimes we would slide and the next day, a thin sheet of ice would form and we could go even faster. Then we would lie at the bottom of the hill and dream of a contraption that would take us up without walking (a sled lift). After the respite up the hill we would huff and puff in our abundance of clothes, itching our foreheads until our hats became soggy and our hair had snow caked in it. We stayed out until we could no longer ignore the biting red ring the ice made on our wrists and ankles. Then we would trudge in and blindly unpeel all the damp layers, trying to find places to dry them out because little is worse than putting on wet wool the next day.
My dad had shown me photos of a big storm that hit Maryland when my older brothers were young. The snow drifted to up to the gutters and they got to build tunnels. I always dreamed of that and wondered when ‘the big snow’ was going to happen. When it did in 1977, no tunnels were built as the snow kept blowing on to the next field. I was supposed to go to a sleep-over at my next door neighbors. If I couldn’t live in a tunnel, I at least wanted to be like Mary or Laura and use a rope to get to the sleep-over. Much to my dismay, I couldn’t talk my mom into that. I just walked up my long driveway, across the road to her house. I didn’t even get remotely lost.
I still do love snow, but now I like it best when I am inside with the fire going, a good book to keep me company and absolutely no way to get out my drive. Heaven…
My outside dealings with snow is now limited to when I am dashing out in just my clothes and slippers to photograph the children and then running back in to make them all hot chocolate while avoiding being pummeled with snowballs. Or trudging around my lot taking photos. Or just taking the whiteness in. I own no snow pants, snow coat, boots and I am much too old to play until I get the tell tale red ice mark on my wrist. Making the chocolate sounds much better to this girl.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
another appointment
I have a doctors’ appointment today - my ‘annual’ female appointment. I never got one of those friendly reminder cards in the mail and I know I am four months past due. Last week I finally called them and told the receptionist I needed to schedule. She let me know that Dr. A is six months out. “Six months? If I were pregnant you would get me in now.” I know this because it has happened several times.
“Six months,” she replied. “Let me look at the next available appointment in May.” Although I am not looking forward to this appointment at all and postponing it sounds like a good idea, I am wise enough not to.
Therefore, I decided to throw my weight, which is unusual for me. “You don’t know who I am. She has delivered all seven of my kids.” I shouldn’t have said that. It distracted her.
“Seven? You have seven kids?”
“More importantly I am on her A list. You walk to her office and tell her who is on the phone and she will tell you to get me in.”
“How about next week Dec 5 3:30?” fine…. Sheesh. I miss the good old days when doctors/receptionists knew who you were. Maybe I am not sick enough for them to remember.
I have been on both sides of the fertility issue; I have been poked, pricked and prodded in more orifices than I care to remember. I have absolutely no sympathy for those men who whine about their proctology exam. None. They are wimps. You won’t hear about my exam so I shall leave you with this: Dr. A’s brother is a psychiatrist; her dad is a proctologist. She likes to call them Odds and Ends…
“Six months,” she replied. “Let me look at the next available appointment in May.” Although I am not looking forward to this appointment at all and postponing it sounds like a good idea, I am wise enough not to.
Therefore, I decided to throw my weight, which is unusual for me. “You don’t know who I am. She has delivered all seven of my kids.” I shouldn’t have said that. It distracted her.
“Seven? You have seven kids?”
“More importantly I am on her A list. You walk to her office and tell her who is on the phone and she will tell you to get me in.”
“How about next week Dec 5 3:30?” fine…. Sheesh. I miss the good old days when doctors/receptionists knew who you were. Maybe I am not sick enough for them to remember.
I have been on both sides of the fertility issue; I have been poked, pricked and prodded in more orifices than I care to remember. I have absolutely no sympathy for those men who whine about their proctology exam. None. They are wimps. You won’t hear about my exam so I shall leave you with this: Dr. A’s brother is a psychiatrist; her dad is a proctologist. She likes to call them Odds and Ends…
Monday, December 4, 2006
thanksgiving and trees
I finally took some time this weekend to work on my Thanksgiving photos. I used a grid from dsp (from the freebie section, I think), sketch by DDE, A Day at the Gallery papers by Happy Robyn at scrap artist and felt flowers by Corina Neilsen.
Had I known that Lucy was going to be on the front porch, I wouldn’t have shaved her. Poor dog (I admit even I felt sorry for her). She was shivering every time I looked at her. But she piddled anytime she made it inside. To make matters worse, there was a cat in the house that she wanted.
The guys did help this year (well, some of them) so the clean-up went really fast. Outlaw #4 was on a roll. He hand-washed 1000 dishes. I tried to convince him that we could shove some things in the dishwasher (another one of my favorite appliances), but he wanted it done. I wonder how he is with laundry? I hate washing dishes. I think it goes back to when my dad would spit out food he couldn’t chew with his dentures in. Somehow that plate would contaminate all the plates, the water, my hands and obviously did contaminate my brain. I can gladly give up the microwave over the dishwasher. One year I convinced my mil to use plastic/paper so we could just throw everything away. Even I had to admit, it didn’t have the same effect, but it sure was easy!
We also participated in a science fair project for my niece. She blindfolded us, then stuck a cup of vinegar under our nose that we had to continuously inhale. She would stick a lifesaver on our tongue for two seconds and we had to decide what it was. Your mind goes completely blank. Mr D had the greatest response: “This tastes… Yellow!” It ranks up there in my book with the baby shower diaper game: melt various chocolate bars in diapers and guess which ones they are.
Ok, the blog prompt for today is what kind of tree would you be?
I love trees. My first real memory of loving them was when I could climb a tall tree in the front yard of our current home. I was 5. I could only go ‘so far’ until I grew more. My sister would be several branches over me gloating like the good older sister she was. I was about to turn 7 and about to be able to climb several more branches when we had to move away. I remember crying about the leaving the tree. And Horrors - no trees at the new place - only an empty farm lot.
I planted hundred of trees in my life on that lot and been attacked by several (a Russian olive with wicked hands comes to mind). I loved hiding in the canopy of the willows. However, when mowing with our tractor, I accidentally ran over a few trees and that was akin to murder in my dad’s eyes. I also grew up idealistically wanting to find the perfect tree limb and reading the day away. It never did occur. Trees sure do take their time growing.
I have always been blessed to be near an abundance of trees and this house is no exception. The front faces a state park woods. My only concern with it is during deer season. I have been outside with bullets flying by my head and I assure you, it is a terrifying experience. The back has woods and stream. I enjoy viewing the various sides of my yard all the seasons of the year. Right now the trees are bare and I eagerly look forward to the snow or ice transforming them in to a majestic display of twinkling magic.
Which one to pick. I have a fondness for birch trees – they are lovely and make magnificent photos. An eagle recently perched on one behind my house. I would like to have an eagle perch on me.
On the other hand, I like pine trees. Especially a live Christmas tree. It would be awesome to be a part of such wonderful festivities and then planted and enjoyed outside as well.
But there remains with me the most wonderful tree I have ever seen. It was a towering maple. It was astounding in its beauty and was planted in the middle of my neighbor’s field. He never knocked it down, although I am sure it would have been much easier to farm with it gone. During the fall, it was ablaze with orange and red. When it was bare, I would stand outside and watch the most majestic sun sets I have ever seen through its branches. It made my heart stop to see this glorious vision. I never took a photo. I wish I had. I will be that tree.
Speaking of photos, I encourage you to always take a photos exactly when you are thinking, “I should take a picture of that!” When I am sitting on my porcelain throne and thinking great thoughts, I have the view of my back woods. And I have always found this one particular tree worth observing. The branches made a heart. I should have taken a picture, as during the last wind storm, the heart broke. So here is the lesson learned and the photo.
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